“Aye, I do, Seamus. But—”
Seamus stepped closer and poked a finger in Tom’s chest. “I’m telling ye now. If you do anything else to Mike, so help me—”
“Hang on!” Tom stood his ground. “You’ve got this so wrong.”
“Really? Is that right?”
“Dead on, it’s fucking right.” Tom realised he was shouting and stopped, taking a moment to calm down before he said anything further. “I promise you, I’ve got nothing to do with what’s happening to Michael. Now, remove your finger from my chest, or I’ll do it for ye.”
Seamus lowered his hand, still snarling, but Tom didn’t feel threatened by him now. He was so angry at the accusation, it was taking all his self-control not to shove Seamus Williams in the midriff and knock him off-balance.
“You do know who, though, don’t ye?” Seamus asked.
Tom clenched his fists and took deep breaths. He would gladly have grassed on the lot of them, let Seamus beat them to a pulp, but it wasn’t up to him. “I’m sorry, I can’t say.”
Seamus stepped back onto the road. “Fine. I’ll just have to get it straight from the horse’s mouth, then.”
Tom watched Seamus stride angrily towards the pickup. When he reached it, he yanked the door open and turned back, pointing with his key. “If I find out you’ve lied to me…”
Tom shook his head. “We’re on the same side, Seamus. Go easy on him, will ye?”
With one final glare, Seamus folded himself into the pickup, revved the engine and spun off down the lane, splattering mud in his wake.
Tom turned and walked back to his crew, who had all downed tools to watch the fracas. “Come on, lads. Let’s crack on.” As he bent to pick up his knife from the box, he noticed Connor’s smug expression and met it head on. “Problem, Connor?”
“Nope.”
“Goodo.” Tom gave Connor his best beaming smile and got back to work. Maybe I should’ve left him to Seamus Williams after all.
Chapter Five:
Blocking the Bullies
“And that’s the end of that.” Seamus hit ‘Block’ on Connor’s profile.
Michael sat on his bed, watching Seamus and becoming increasingly despondent. It hadn’t been the world’s longest list to begin with, but now it was downright stubby. His whole newsfeed seemed to be taken up with pictures his mum had posted. Well, that was a good thing, maybe. No more harassment. At least not online.
Michael flinched as Seamus turned and gave him a deeply disapproving look. His stomach, which had been delicate since tea, cramped with nerves.
“I’m sorry, Shay.”
The look did not change.
“You are sorry?” Seamus repeated, and Michael grabbed his curls in frustration. His mum had always said he had a head like a lamb’s coat. Dark curls poked out every which way. Now he tugged at them, trying to make the guilty feelings subside.
They’d just spent the last forty-five minutes poring over his friends list, with Seamus leading the charge.
“What about this one? Is he giving you hell?”
“Well…only a little. Not much, really. It’s OK.”
“Is he or isn’t he?”
“He is.”
“I shoulda told ye.”
“Aye,” Seamus said heavily. “I’d have preferred you come to me first, rather than hearing it from Marie.”
“I’m sor—”
“Jaysus, will ye stop sayin’ you’re sorry, ye eejit,” he chided. “And let go of your hair, for Christ’s sake. You’re gonna snatch yourself bald. I only meant I could’ve helped you before now, Michael. Why didn’t you say the lads were on your back?”
Michael dropped his hands and shrugged helplessly. “You’re…always helping me, Shay. Like, you taking me in when Peter kicked me out? And even with Chancey and Dee here, you probably want to be a family, just the three of yous, but you haven’t asked me to leave. You’re workin’ so many hours, too, and I just didn’t want to put you to any more bother.”
Seamus stood up and stretched. “You think that constitutes bother, I’d like to see what happens when you get into a real scrape. But listen, Mike. Seriously, any one of them gives you trouble again, online or offline, you tell me immediately. I don’t want to hear these things from Marie. Got Chancey right worried.”
“Chancey’s…?” Michael shook his head. If Chancey was worried about anything, it was the trouble Michael was causing.
“If they think they can call you names, they can say the same to me.”
Not one of them would. They’d be saints around him.
Seamus wasn’t known to be a violent man, but he did have a temper, and he was a big guy. Plus, he had earned the respect of the lads when he was their…foreman? Cabbage Overlord? Whatever. That was something Michael never had, even before they all found out about his sexuality.
“I think it’s best you stay off Facebook for a while, don’t you?”
Michael nodded uncomfortably.
“Why don’t you go see if Dee has plans?”
He still hadn’t been able to replace the food he ate from her care package, and now the crisps were ruined too. His plans to find her mum’s number and phone had all gone to hell, and the only person he could think of who might be able to help him get American goods—Harrison—had disappeared off the face of the Earth.
“Might not be such a good time,” he mumbled.
“Gotta stop eating her food, Mike.”
“Well, technically it was Tess last time.”
“Either way, it’s time to make up with the girl, don’t you think?”
What Seamus really meant was, you’re right hopeless at making friends, and this fourteen-year-old girl, who’s like a little sis, is probably your best bet.
<<< >>>
Michael knocked on her doorframe and waited to see which Dee would greet him. The one everyone else got: Miss Big Smile With Braces? Or the accusatory You Are Always In The Way, Michael!
“Oh, hey, Mike.”
At least she wasn’t throwing a pillow at his head this time. That had to be a good sign.
She sat in her window seat, framed by the growing darkness, reading what looked to be the horse encyclopaedia Chancey brought home for her last week. Since all of her allowance went to help atone for her bottle-breaking sins, she’d been without pocket money for that sort of thing.
“Dee, er, I was wonderin’ if you…wanted to hang out?”
“Hang out?” She didn’t look up from her book.
“Maybe you’re needin’ company? Or—someone to come to your Christmas party with you?”
“Christmas party?” she repeated, finally pulling her attention away from the page.
“The do with your rodeo club.”
“It was yesterday. It’s on the big family calendar in the kitchen.”
“Oh, but it’s early days, and Seamus only told me—”
“Yesterday. Calendar.”
Yes, that was when Seamus had told him. Yesterday. Now if only Michael had asked Dee yesterday. He let out a sigh, turned to go, but stopped. “You don't like me much, do you, Dee?”
“Wow, that was totally weird and random.”
“But it’s true, isn’t it? You’re always upset with me.”
“Well, you are like a little brother who keeps touching all my shit and eating my food.”
“Um…” He had six years on her, but he bit down on the reply.
“So it’s kinda mandatory for ‘brothers’ and ‘sisters’, right?” she continued. “That I not like you much.”
Michael smiled. He couldn’t help himself. She’d given him such an in-road, even if she didn’t know it. “But if that’s true, then it follows you also have to love me.”
Dee’s cheeks pinked, and she looked away.
“All right then…little sis—”
“Don’t push your luck.”
They grinned awkwardly at each other, a bit of the tension breaking away.
“Listen…about com
ing into your room. I had a good reason.”
Dee crinkled her nose. “There’s not a reason on the planet good enough for you to be in my room when I’m not here, Mikey. Got it?”
He nodded dutifully. “It’s just… I was trying to find your mum’s number.”
“Mom?” Her shoulders went stiff, and she snapped her book shut. “Listen, Michael, I don’t know what you think, but if Kaylee Starr doesn’t have time for me, she doesn’t have time for some total rando’ creeper calling her up. Don’t go through my shit again.”
“It’s not like that!”
He knew she’d been having some trouble at her school. It wasn’t that the music of Kaylee Starr was wildly popular in Ireland, but Kaylee Starr herself had become something of a novelty. With a very public divorce, a drunken acceptance speech at the CMAs, and a new reality show, more than one of Dee’s classmates knew who Kaylee was.
And they all, quite suddenly, wanted to cosy up to the American girl with the famous mum.
He’d heard her moan about it endlessly over tea.
“It'll die down, darlin’,” Chancey had promised. So far, no go.
Michael hated that Dee thought he wanted to sniff out fame.
“I needed the number coz I can’t find anywhere to buy your special treats. There’s no Christmas version of the good Cap’n anywhere.”
Her chin wrinkled as she pulled an astonishingly disbelieving face.
“It's true! I thought I could get her to send another care package.”
Simultaneously, they looked at the empty care package. It sat open in the corner of the room, and he couldn’t help but wonder why she’d kept it. It was just cardboard and wrapping paper.
She shrugged. “I haven’t been out to the trash yet.”
“Right,” he said quietly.
Slumping just a little, Dee let out a long sigh. “Wouldn’t have done you any good if you’d found Momma’s number anyway. She’s not the one who sent the care package. Her ex-husband did.”
Michael nodded slowly, not really understanding. His ditziness must have shown on his face, because she explained without being asked.
“Mom married Isaac for like two minutes before she divorced him. But he’s still her producer, and he’s still…” She picked at little balls of lint on her sweater, plucking them free and rolling them between her fingers before letting them drop to the ground. It had gone dark outside. So quickly. “He’s nice to me. I dunno why. Maybe he just knows Mom…”
Doesn’t given you the attention you deserve.
“The card says it’s from her, but it isn’t. I know her handwriting, and I know his. So if you’re going to call someone and ask them to replace my Cap’n Christmas Crunch, you’re gonna have to call Isaac.”
“D’you mind giving me his number?”
“Don’t worry about it.”
“I am worried about it, though, Dee.”
“I don’t care about the cereal. And it’s really weird with you standing in the doorway.”
Michael obediently entered the room, lowering himself into the lilac-coloured beanbag chair near the bed. He’d made the mistake of plopping in it before, and he’d torn the seam and sent beans—really just little foam pieces—flying everywhere. That was their first fight. Or rather, the first time he’d sent Dee shrieking and the dog running. He wasn’t about to make that mistake again.
His knees were almost to his chin, and he had to swim against the beans to right himself.
“Do you like it here, Michael?”
“Where? Your room?”
“Omagh. Ireland. The UK.”
“Oh, well, it’s home, isn’t it? Don’t know much else. Though…” He warmed at the thought of his all-too-short trip to Pennsylvania. “I really did enjoy America. I hope I can go back sometime.”
Letting her hands fall away from her sweater, Dee looked up at Michael and smiled. “You wanna know my dream? If you laugh, though, I will fuckin’ punch you in the gut.”
“Wow, I haven’t even agreed, and you’re already—”
“D’ya wanna hear or not?”
“Yes.”
“I want to start my own rodeo.”
“What? Where?”
“On the farm.”
“This farm. Here?”
“Why not here?”
“Just seems like a tall order.”
“Well, you could help me.” She said this as if it were the most logical conclusion in the world. “We could teach the events to kids, or something.”
Michael didn’t say what he was thinking—that they might only be able to get family and friends to come.
“Unless you’re gonna go to America?”
Michael sighed. “Maybe sometime in the future. I can’t afford to right now. Though it would be nice to get away from all the bul—” He quickly pressed his lips together.
“All the what?” Dee asked flatly. She was scrutinising him, her eyes narrowed in suspicion.
“Oh, nothing,” he lied. Such a lie it was, too, when really everything had happened. It wasn’t as if he and Dee never talked. Well, mostly Dee chattered, and he kept pace with what interested her, but it was about music, and pop stars, or his latest crime against her things. And for all he needed to tell someone what was going on, it wasn’t right to burden her. She had enough on her plate, with her mum being who she was, and losing her pocket money. She had dreams for the future. “You still owe me riding lessons,” he said.
“So?”
Back to You Are Always In The Way, Michael! Dee, then. “So…” Michael tried to sit up, but the bean bag appeared to be in the process of swallowing him whole.
Dee watched him struggle for a good half a minute before she huffed loudly, held out her hand and demanded, “Get up!”
Michael grabbed her hand, and she effortlessly pulled him to his feet. “Jeez, you’re strong.”
“You’re not gonna tell me, are you?”
“I…” Michael fidgeted, hating how much he wanted to tell her when he knew he shouldn’t. If she told her dad… “I’ll help you,” he said. “With your rodeo. I won’t be much use.”
Dee flopped down on her bed and stared at the ceiling. “You know what we need?” He didn’t ask ‘what’ but she told him anyway. “Boyfriends, Michael. We need boyfriends.”
“Er, right. OK. I’m just gonna—” he edged towards the door “—see you later.”
<<<>>>
“Go on then son.” The priest’s voice was unfamiliar to Michael. Definitely not Father O’Neill and his warm and kindly brogue. And not Father McDowell, either.
“Um…” Michael started, fumbling with the fabric of the curtain in front of him. He could remember his mother getting on at him as a boy for fussing with the curtain. Looks like you’re dancin’ in the confessional, Mikey. You gotta sit still when you’re confessin’ yer sins. Aye, Mum. He let the fabric fall away from his hand. “Where’s Father O’Neill?”
There was a momentary pause, and then the priest said, “Drunk, I suppose.”
Drunk? But Father O’Neill—
“But don’t worry, son. Your lips to God’s ears, I'm jus’ the intermediary, am I right?”
Michael nodded uncertainly. He wanted to get up and walk away, but after having finally decided to confess his troubles, he didn’t want to chicken out. “Well, OK…forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. It’s been a month since my last confession.”
“That long, eh? Better get to it then.”
Odd man, this visiting priest.
“Er… All right, well, I broke into someone’s room the other day. I didn’t mean any mischief by it, but I needed to find something so I could surprise her.”
“Her?”
“This girl I’m living with. It’s about her Christmas present and—”
“Oh, you’re livin’ with a girl, are you? Out of wedlock?”
“No…it’s not like that. She’s only fourteen and like a little sister to me, so she is. But even if she wasn’t—”
/>
“You like bummin’, though.”
Michael flushed. Father O’Neill never spoke to him like this, and he much preferred his normal priest’s passive method of conducting confession.
“I'm… Well, I wouldn't say it like that…”
“You been with a fella, Michael?”
Michael’s cheeks began to burn. He wanted to bolt.
“C’mon—you have to be honest. God’s listenin’, remember.”
“Well…no… But—”
“But you’ve touched yourself inappropriately, haven’t you, Michael? When you’re looking at pictures of lads? Probably turns you on that you’re living with a couple of poofs.”
It was then that Michael heard the laughter. Not from the ‘priest’ but outside in the church. More than one laugh—decidedly male. He popped off the bench and practically pressed his face to the mesh screen that separated one side of the confessional from the other. It was hard to see, but there he was. Connor, grinning wickedly up at Michael.
“Do they let you play with them too, Mike?” he shouted as Michael burst from the booth. A group of the lads were waiting for him in the centre aisle, all whooping and leering. They shouted at him as he quickly dodged right, taking the side aisle. Oh, it had been a while since he’d run like this.
Chapter Six:
Sins of the Ignorant
He wasn’t sure why he’d driven home from town this way. Maybe nothing more than that he was feeling dispirited, a little less forgiving than usual. Whatever the reason, when Tom reached the T-junction, instead of turning left to go home, he’d turned right, towards the church. He glanced ahead, disappointed by the absence of Christmas lights—they were Father McDowell’s doing. Father O’Neill was worse than Scrooge—although the church wasn’t in total darkness. Tom checked the dashboard clock: 19:05—that would explain it. Thursday night confessions. He’d been two weeks ago, and he had nothing to confess. Or, rather, he always had something—didn’t everyone?—but nothing new.
Turning into the near empty car park—it was usually so full for Mass he had to park on the road—Tom reversed into the space in the far corner, switched off the engine and sat back. Above the diffuse blue-green glow of the transept window, the light on the cross nestled gently in the dark blanket of the starless sky, and for a few moments, Tom forgot how horrible the day had been and just enjoyed the peace.
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