Seeds of Tyrone Box Set

by Debbie McGowan

  “You do that.”

  At the sound of the door opening, Father McDowell quickly took his laptop back and closed it. Tom bit his lip to stop himself from laughing and giving the game away.

  “Evening, Tom.”

  “Hello, Father O’Neill.”

  “Thanks for coming back.”

  “No problem, although I have no idea what your message meant.”

  Father O’Neill peered past Tom. “Did you not invite the lad to sit down, Jonah?”

  “Er…no…”

  “I only just got here, Father,” Tom said on Father McDowell’s behalf.

  “Ah, right, so. Sit yourself down.”

  Tom sat, but Father O’Neill remained standing.

  “I’ll never get out of the chair again,” he explained, holding his lower back with one hand and gesturing towards the coffee table with the other. “It’s in the dish, there.”

  Tom hadn’t noticed anything other than the laptop on the table, but on a second glance, he saw it right away. Michael’s guardian angel. He picked it up. “It’s not mine, it’s Michael’s.”

  “I know. I saw it around his neck when he came up for communion, but I’m glad I found it, because I wanted to talk to you on your own.”

  Tom frowned up at the priest. He was getting worried now. Why did he want to talk to him on his own? And why had Michael left his guardian angel here? Or maybe he hadn’t. Maybe the clasp had come undone and it had fallen off, although it was strong clasp.

  “I wanted to reassure you, Tom, that Father McDowell and myself have the matter in hand.”

  “With what happened in the confessional?”

  “That, and the rest of it. We know what Peter’s up to, and while his intentions are good, his methods are not. I have at least persuaded him that trying to change Michael isn’t going to work. However, his biggest problem is with where Michael is living.”

  “He’s blaming Seamus?” Tom asked incredulously. Father O’Neill didn’t pass comment. “Michael only went to Seamus because Peter kicked him out.”

  “I’m not necessarily in agreement with Peter, Tom. But I can appreciate how it seems to him. Michael told his mum he thought he was homosexual after he started working with Seamus.”

  “With all due respect, Father, it’s ridiculous. You can’t turn someone gay. And Michael doesn’t ‘think’ he is. He knows!” Tom was trying, but only partly succeeding, to keep his voice at a normal volume. His anger was threatening to get the better of him.

  “Look,” Father O’Neill said peaceably. “Let’s not get into a debate about it. I’m aware you’ve been looking out for Michael for a while now, and you’ve done a grand job of it. I merely wanted you to know you’re not on your own, Tom. All right?”

  Tom nodded and took a good long breath before he said, “Thank you, Father.”

  “No thanks needed at all. If there’s anything else I can do to help, just say the word.”

  Tom closed his hand around the guardian angel. “I will.”

  <<<>>>

  He used to love the drive to work. It hadn’t mattered if it was Monday or Friday, a gorgeous sunny morning or one of those grim, wet mornings heralding a day that never quite reached full daylight. So long as Tom had his car and his music and a few hours of banter with the lads ahead of him, he’d been happy enough. It had given him time to think, to write poetry, to fantasise a life where he was discussing philosophy or politics with other scholars, rather than how much a pint had gone up in the budget, or whether Omagh would ever have a football team again.

  This morning, he drove in silence, with the guardian angel in his pocket and the weight of foreboding heavy in his stomach. He was hungry, but he couldn’t eat. He was tired, because he’d barely slept. He was in no rush to reach O’Grady’s office, and yet he was having to keep a constant check on his speed. This journey, he was fairly certain, was the beginning of the end.

  It had all changed the second Tom saw the messages from Connor and the others. He’d had no idea they’d been bullying Michael, or for how long, and he was angry. More than that, he was disappointed. He’d always got on well with the lads—been one of them before his promotion—and they’d understood and accepted sometimes he had to give them a talking to. Sure, they’d mouth off about him bossing them around. But they’d still get the job done, and he’d thought they were better than that.

  Just the cyber-bullying would have been bad enough, but they’d taken it into the real world, and that was when Tom realised how bad it had become for Michael since Peter outed him in church. So began Tom’s vigil, of trying to be everywhere Michael was, watching him laugh and joke with people he had known all his life and feeling his gut wrench when Michael’s smile faded as those people turned their backs on him and let him walk away with his head bowed in shame. He hadn’t changed. He was still the happy-go-lucky gangly lad with crazy curls. But now they all knew his secret, and it had turned them all into bullies.

  It would be easy for Tom to blame Connor. He was the ringleader, dragging his little crew all over the place ‘for the craic’. He had money and status, and he was an idiot, victimising Michael for the power trip. He probably didn’t even care that Michael was gay. And he’d realise that, if only he could think for himself—or if Tom could contain the urge to smash his face in long enough to explain it to him in simple terms.

  No. It would be easy to blame Connor, but the real culprit was Peter Brannigan, and it wasn’t even with malicious intent. He’d outed Michael in the hope that the community would pull together and help save his stepson’s soul. It had backfired horribly. If Michael had denied it, or kept quiet, it would have been very different. But why should he lie about who he is? Why should he try to be anyone but Michael McFerran?

  Last night, when Tom got home, he’d joined the LGBT Catholic Facebook group, and he’d found a support group in Omagh. He wasn’t sure anymore if he was doing it for Michael, for himself, or for them both. His head was battered, and he was trying to contain the confusion, the anger, the hurt…the love…so he could face his boss and not lose it.

  He’d arrived at O’Grady’s office, and it looked like he was on his own today. Or rather, Shannon and Jen weren’t in, but there were two cars parked outside: O’Grady’s four-by-four and Connor’s Mini—no surprise there. Tom pulled up next to it and fought the urge to slam his door into the side of the Mini. But then he’d damage the Astra, too.

  Shoving his hands in his pockets, Tom’s fingers grazed Michael’s guardian angel. He was still trying to figure out if Michael had deliberately left it at the priests’ house, or if he’d dropped it. He planned to stop by after work and give it back to him, but if he had left it on purpose… Tom thought he’d rather not know.

  “Morning, Tom,” Martin O’Grady greeted him curtly. “Come through.”

  Tom followed him into the office, where Connor was sitting with a smug grin on his face.

  “All right?” Tom said.

  “Yep,” Connor replied.

  “This won’t take long,” O’Grady said. “I decided over Christmas it was time for a little reorganisation. You’re all back on mushroom picking today.”

  Tom already knew that. This was his fourth year in the job, and the pattern was the same every year. But that wasn’t what O’Grady had hauled him in to tell him.

  “Connor here has expressed an interest in management, but he needs more experience.”

  Tom shifted his eyes only to glance at Connor. If he hadn’t been the boss’s nephew, he’d have been fired a long time ago. He was a waster. A manager. Ha-ha.

  O’Grady continued, “Therefore, as of today, Connor is going to be taking over as supervisor.”

  “Right.” Tom’s pulse felt like it had just hit double-time. “And my job?”

  “You’ll go back to working as one of the crew.”

  “But I applied for the post of supervisor. I had to undergo training. Got my NVQ-four.”

  “Yes, you did.”

  “So
you’re demoting me?”

  O’Grady shrugged. “If that’s how you see it, Tom.”

  “What about my pay? Will it go down?”

  “Obviously.” O’Grady laughed out the word. It slithered over Tom’s skin, making him shudder.

  “Do I get a right of appeal?” he asked.

  “What are you appealing? I’m not firing you.”

  Tom clamped his teeth together. Only when he was sure he wasn’t going to swear did he ask, “Anything else, Mr. O’Grady?”

  “No. That’s all for now. You have a good day.”

  <<<>>>

  “Is that all you’ve managed?” Connor peered into the crate at Tom’s side, which for the fourth time that morning had not-so-mysteriously been replaced with an empty one. “Christ, you’re slow today. We’re only waiting on you to hit your quota and we can get our dinner.”

  “Go on without me,” Tom said. He was shaking so violently with rage he could barely hold the knife steady. He needed Connor and the others to leave before he did something more than cut mushroom stems with it.

  “All right then, Tom. See you later.” Connor slapped him hard on the back. “Come on, lads. There’s a pint waiting with my name on it.”

  Tom kept picking and trimming and filling the crate, listening to the lads make their way to the door. When he could no longer hear their smarmy laughing and joking, he kicked the crate to the other end of the mushroom shed, swapped his overalls for his coat, and walked out.

  <<<>>>

  The echo of a heavy th-thunk resounded off the buildings as Tom walked across the yard of old Barry’s farm. Th-thunk. Seamus brought the rubber mallet down on the fence post. Th-thunk.

  “All right, Shay?”

  Seamus paused and wiped his forehead with his sleeve. “All right, Tom? Are you not back at work today?”

  “I was, but…something came up. Is Mike around?”

  Seamus nodded towards the house. “They want to talk to you as well, do they?”

  “Who?”

  “The police.”

  “The police are here?” Tom glanced back at the lane; sure enough, there was a police car. How had he not noticed?

  “Aye. Mike’s with them now. Something about him witnessing an incident at church? That’s all they said.”

  Tom wasn’t sure if he should go in or not. If Michael was giving a statement, he might not want anyone else hearing. Or he might appreciate the moral support. “Is he on his own, Shay?”

  “No. Dee’s with him.”

  “That’s good.” Tom was lost. He didn’t know what the hell to do for the best. The th-thunk, th-thunk resumed. It was strangely comforting, a solid thump with power behind it. Tom watched Seamus lift the mallet and drop it down onto the post over and again, each strike driving the wood an inch deeper into the ground.

  “That’ll do. Time for a cup of tea, I reckon, Thomas.” Seamus slung his arm around Tom’s shoulders and effortlessly steered him across the yard. “And a bit of a conflab about how life’s treating ye.”

  When they reached the house, Seamus released Tom to stamp the earth from his boots and open the door. Heat swelled from the kitchen, engulfing Tom in a warm cloud still mildly aromatic with the smell of alcohol, fruit and roast bird. Muffled voices could be heard coming from the living room; they had a definite question–answer rhythm.

  “Take a pew, mate,” Seamus invited, pulling a chair out from under the table.

  Obediently, Tom sat, which put him with his back to Seamus. He listened to him fill the kettle, set out mugs, kick off his boots…

  “So what’s going on, then?” Seamus asked.

  Tom turned sideways. “With what?”

  “With the police. You know why they’re here.” It wasn’t a question.

  Tom nodded.

  “Connor?” Seamus guessed, although it wasn’t exactly a long shot, and Seamus only knew the half of it. “What’s he done this time?”

  Tom shook his head in despair. “I can’t tell you, Shay. I’m sorry.”

  “Fair dos.”

  Tom turned away and waited for more, but nothing else was said. His phone vibrated in his pocket. It would be O’Grady again, no doubt calling to tell him he was fired. Right now he didn’t give a damn. A mug appeared in front of him. “Cheers,” he said.

  Seamus sat down at the other side of the table and popped the button on his jeans. “Sorry. I’ve eaten way too much over Christmas.” He sagged, but with the size of him it made little difference. “He needs to leave Omagh.”

  “Who? Michael?”

  “Aye. It’s getting him down, so it is.”

  “I know. But it’s his home. He doesn’t want to leave. Maybe if he just got away from time to time… Has he finished work for the day?”

  Seamus shrugged. “He can do. Did you have something in mind?”

  “Nothing planned. I thought maybe once he’s finished with the police, I’d suggest we went for a drive. Go up to Derry again, or—”

  It was one of those lightbulb moments. Suddenly, all these new possibilities were unfurling in Tom’s mind. What was it Father O’Neill had said? Only God knows what the future holds. But sometimes He dropped a few hints, didn’t he? Like with Moses and the burning bush. OK, that was a bit blasphemous, but still.

  There was movement in the living room; a second later, the advance party arrived in the form of a very sleepy-looking border collie, followed by a police officer, then Michael, then Dee. The police officer gave Tom and Seamus a courteous nod as he passed by.

  Michael saw him out, sighing loudly in relief as soon as the door was shut. His gaze settled on Tom, and for a moment he smiled, but the smile morphed into a frown of concern. “What happened?”

  “Right, Dee. Let’s go and find that grumpy al fella of yours, shall we?” Seamus took a quick glug of his tea and headed for the door.

  “Uh, I am never talking to him again.”

  Seamus backtracked and, in much the same way as he’d steered Tom into the house, he led Dee out of it while she grumbled the whole time.

  “What’s that about?” Tom asked.

  “Apparently, Dee drove the pickup back from Marie’s on Christmas Eve. Chancey only found out this morning, and he’s grounded her ’til Easter.”

  “Easter?” Tom laughed. “Oh, God. Poor kid.”

  “Aye. Especially as Seamus gave her permission. So… It looks like you want to talk to me about something.”

  “I do, yes. But first…” Tom stood so he could fish the guardian angel from his pocket and kept it concealed in his hand. “Did you lose something last night?”

  “Like what?” Michael asked.

  Tom raised his balled fist, waiting for Michael to hold out his hand. Tom dropped the angel onto Michael’s upturned palm and then sandwiched it with his own palm.

  Michael smiled. “Did he look after you?” Tom didn’t understand. “The angel?”

  “I don’t get you. You left him at the priests’ house.”

  “No, I didn’t. I put him in your coat pocket when we were in church. I thought you might need him today. Looks like I was right.”

  “You…” Tom was lost for words. The angel hadn’t helped him much with O’Grady and Connor, admittedly, but then he’d had his idea. He looked up above and smiled. Thank You, for Your mysterious ways. Still smiling, Tom looked Michael straight in the eyes. They were so deep a brown it was hard sometimes to see his pupils, and Tom could lose himself in those innocent yet philosophical fathoms. Michael blinked and made himself go cross-eyed. Tom’s smile broadened. “You know it’s Epiphany, don’t you, Mike?”

  “Aye.”

  Tom picked up the angel from Michael’s palm. Unfastening the clasp, he reached around Michael’s neck to fasten it. Michael’s hair tickled softly against Tom’s skin, and he delayed, just a moment, so he could savour the sensation. “How do you fancy a drive over to Belfast with me?”

  “When?”

  “Now. I want to have a look at the university.”r />
  “Won’t it be closed?”

  “It will.”

  “Um…” Michael shrugged in puzzlement.

  Tom raised an eyebrow and then laughed when both of Michael’s went up in response. “Please just say yes.”

  “Yes…then. I suppose.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three:

  All Academic

  The ninety-minute journey to Belfast was a quiet one, and Michael realised it was because it was usually he who did all the talking. He wasn’t sure what to make of Tom’s sudden enthusiasm for university, or why he wasn’t in work, but he didn’t like to ask. If Tom’s lost his job because of me…

  “So this going to university malarkey,” he said, as they entered the city and followed the satnav’s directions; there didn’t seem to be many signs for Queen’s University. “What’ll you study?”

  “English literature. I know that bit for certain. I’m not sure if I want to do it with creative writing or politics.”

  “Is that what your grandad studied?”

  “No, his degree’s just politics. He’s got a natural knack with words. Unlike me.”

  “You’re good at talking.”

  Tom laughed. “Thanks, I think.”

  “I meant it as a good thing. You’re well spoken, and you know all the right words.”

  “I know I’m not stupid. But I messed up school big time, and I’m disappointed with myself, because I’m going to have to do my A Levels to get into Queen’s.”

  “My mum did a course for mature students that got her into university without A Levels.”

  “Did she?” Tom chewed his lip in thought. “Do you think she’d mind me asking her some questions?”

  “Not at all. Although…” Peter might. “You never did show me any of your poems.” Michael glanced Tom’s way to see if he’d noticed the rapid change of subject and instead got to watch him turn pink. “I really would like to read them.”

  “OK. We need somewhere to park.” Tom scoured the road ahead for a parking space. “I wrote one for you. In the book you gave me.”