A Thousand Roads Home

by Carmel Harrington

  Copyright

  Published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

  1 London Bridge Street

  London SE1 9GF

  www.harpercollins.co.uk

  First published in Great Britain by HarperCollins Publishers 2018

  Copyright © Carmel Harrington 2018

  Cover illustrations © Shutterstock.com

  Cover design by Ellie Game © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2018

  Carmel Harrington asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

  A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

  Source ISBN: 9780008276584

  Ebook Edition © October 2018 ISBN: 9780008276591

  Version: 2018-08-31

  Dedication

  For Ann Murphy, my person. You’ve been making my life better for nearly thirty years. Thank you.

  Epigraph

  There are a thousand ways to kneel and kiss the ground;

  there are a thousand ways to go home again.

  Rumi

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Prologue

  Chapter 1. RUTH

  Chapter 2. RUTH

  Chapter 3. RUTH

  Chapter 4. TOM

  Chapter 5. RUTH

  Chapter 6. RUTH

  Chapter 7. RUTH

  Chapter 8. TOM

  Chapter 9. RUTH

  Chapter 10. RUTH

  Chapter 11. RUTH

  Chapter 12. TOM

  Chapter 13. TOM

  Chapter 14. RUTH

  Chapter 15. RUTH

  Chapter 16. TOM

  Chapter 17. TOM

  Chapter 18. TOM

  Chapter 19. RUTH

  Chapter 20. TOM

  Chapter 21. RUTH

  Chapter 22. TOM

  Chapter 23. RUTH

  Chapter 24. RUTH

  Chapter 25. TOM

  Chapter 26. TOM

  Chapter 27. RUTH

  Chapter 28. TOM

  Chapter 29. TOM

  Chapter 30. RUTH

  Chapter 31. TOM

  Chapter 32. RUTH

  Chapter 33. RUTH

  Chapter 34. RUTH

  Chapter 35. RUTH

  Chapter 36. RUTH

  Chapter 37. TOM

  Chapter 38. TOM

  Chapter 39. RUTH

  Chapter 40. TOM

  Chapter 41. TOM

  Chapter 42. RUTH

  Chapter 43. TOM

  Chapter 44. RUTH

  Chapter 45. TOM

  Chapter 46. TOM

  Chapter 47. TOM

  Chapter 48. RUTH

  Chapter 49. RUTH

  Chapter 50. TOM

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52. TOM

  Chapter 53. TOM

  Chapter 54. TOM

  Chapter 55. TOM

  Chapter 56. TOM

  Chapter 57. TOM

  Chapter 58. RUTH

  Epilogue

  A Note from the Author

  Book Club Questions

  If you loved A Thousand Roads Home, then why not dip into some other books by Carmel Harrington …

  About the Author

  Also by Carmel Harrington

  About the Publisher

  PROLOGUE

  Then

  Ruth fastened the seat belt around her newborn son’s car seat. She tugged it twice to double-check it was secure. Little DJ puckered his lips and smiled as he chased his dreams, the way babies do.

  She switched the engine on and drove away from the only world she knew. But she was not sorry. It was just her and her son now. Whilst there was fear, there was excitement, too. It was time for a new beginning. She looked in the rear-view mirror to ensure her sleeping son was as he should be. She would do this many times until they arrived at their new flat in Dublin.

  Ruth Wilde had always been a person with obsessions: Odd Thomas, who was both her imaginary best friend and the main character from her favourite book written by Dean Koontz (she would soon finish this book for the hundred and fourth time); Westlife, her number-one favourite band, whose song ‘Flying without Wings’ helped her drown out the white noise and anxiety whenever it threatened to overcome her; mashed potatoes, white sliced loaf, bananas, ice cream – in fact any food that was white in colour; counting steps, always even.

  Yes, Ruth Wilde did obsessions very well.

  And now she had a new one. The most important one of all.

  Her son.

  She would be a good mother. She would fight for DJ when he could not fight for himself. She would keep him safe from the dangers that lurked in the dark shadows. She would make him laugh at least once a day. And she would love him as she had never been loved herself.

  Yes, it was time. Ruth was ready to leave Wexford to make a new home for her family.

  ‘Just the two of us against the world, DJ,’ she whispered. She hit play on her CD player, letting Shane from Westlife’s voice fill the car. The words from, ‘Flying Without Wings’ had never felt more apt. For as long as Ruth had thought, she too had been looking for that something. Something to make her complete. She glanced at DJ again in the rear-view mirror and felt joyful satisfaction bubble its way up inside her.

  If she had not chosen that exact second to do this, she might have noticed instead the man she’d just passed, walking with a rucksack on his back. And she might have stopped.

  Tom did not notice the red car pass by him either, as he walked along the Estuary Road towards the N11. His head was full of the warnings his friend Ben had made earlier. They nipped and taunted him, whirling around in his brain, tangling everything up, until he could no longer make sense of anything.

  ‘If you don’t find something to light up the darkness, Tom, you’ll get lost in the shadows.’

  But what if that was what he wanted? Tom didn’t believe he would ever feel peace again. He was bone tired from weeks of sleepless nights. Despite this, he kept on walking, putting one foot in front of the other. His pace was steady and a few hours later he arrived in the town of Enniscorthy. Tom’s feet were beginning to protest about the long walk. A throb in his right little toe and left heel set up residence. He welcomed the pain.

  He walked over the Seamus Rafter Bridge, leaving the banks of the River Slaney behind him. He glanced at Enniscorthy Castle on his right then made his way towards Main Street.

  It was late, the last of the daylight now swallowed up by the night. He didn’t plan to end up here, but somehow he’d found himself in the grounds of St Aidan’s Cathedral. He walked to a small clearing in the shadow of the big church and sat down, his back against the cold stone wall.

  For in that sleep of death what dreams will come. That’s what Shakespeare had written. Tom hoped he was right. Because if so, Cathy was living the life they had dreamed they would have. The life that had been cruelly snatched from them. Wouldn’t that
be something?

  Close your eyes.

  – Cathy?

  Yes, my love.

  – Are you here?

  Remember what I told you. If you close your eyes, the dreams will come.

  – I don’t know how.

  Yes, you do. We’re waiting for you, Tom. Come home to us.

  Tom didn’t make a conscious decision to sleep outdoors. The night just crept up on him. To his surprise, on the hard, concrete ground with the cold brick of the Cathedral to his back, he finally found a different kind of peace and the sleep that had eluded him for weeks.

  And in that sleep the dreams did come.

  Cathy stood a few feet away from him, carrying Mikey. He ran towards them and pulled them both into his arms.

  Daddy’s home. I’ll never leave you again.

  1

  RUTH

  Now

  ‘Err, what’s it supposed to be, Mam?’ DJ asked.

  Ruth flicked on her tablet and pointed to an image on Pinterest. Their eyes flicked back and forth between the green chequered fondant perfectly encasing the square Minecraft cake on screen, and the mound of brown, black and green smudged squares that covered Ruth’s cake in front of them. Four hours of baking, dyeing fondant, cutting, moulding. And for all that effort she had what looked like a patchwork quilt made by a four-year-old. Ten candles leaned to the left, perilously close to a sugary grave.

  It was DJ’s tenth birthday. A milestone that deserved celebrating. And not with a big mess of a cake. Was he cross with her? She peered at her son’s face, trying to determine his mood, as he contemplated the cake in front of him. His face broke into a big grin and he pointed to the tablet screen, then back to Ruth’s cake, and said, ‘Nailed it!’

  Ruth repeated his words with relief and then they both said it together, ‘Nailed it!’, each time making them snort a little louder. This went on until they clutched their sides, the pain from a laughter stitch doubling them over.

  ‘Thanks for trying, Mam. It probably tastes all right. But don’t give up the day job!’

  Ruth felt a rush of emotion for the boy DJ was now and the man he was on his way to becoming. The past ten years had gone too quickly. One moment a baby in her arms. Now, on the brink of opening a door to adulthood.

  ‘You have to blow out the candles,’ Ruth said.

  ‘Aren’t I too old for that?’

  ‘Never too old for candles and wishes.’ Ruth lit the wonky wax sticks one by one.

  His nose scrunched up as it always did when he was thinking. His father had done the same too. She remembered that much, even if some things had become a bit faded with time. A shared mannerism between father and son despite the fact that they had never met.

  ‘Make a wish, DJ,’ Ruth whispered.

  With one big puff, DJ blew out the ten candles all at once, as Ruth sang ‘Happy Birthday To You’.

  She reached under the kitchen table and pulled out a basket of gifts all wrapped prettily in blue paper with a perfectly formed red bow tied on top. DJ quickly counted them. Ten. His mam always bought him a gift for each year, even though he always told her she shouldn’t.

  ‘Thanks, Mam,’ he said, ripping the paper from the first parcel.

  Ruth’s eyes never left him, drinking in his every reaction as he opened the gifts one by one. A football jersey, a journal, a Rubik’s Cube, a book, artist’s pencils, a sketch pad, a bar of Galaxy, a new T-shirt, and a pair of bright, stripy socks.

  ‘I know what this one is,’ DJ said, as he pulled the paper off the last gift. He nodded in satisfaction when it revealed a book of raffle tickets. A sticker, with a message written in Ruth’s neat handwriting, covered the front of the book: One strip can be redeemed for a hug at any time. He didn’t have a birthday memory that didn’t include a version of this gift. He had never spoken about this arrangement with his friends in school, suspecting, correctly, that they would find it strange. It was just the way it was with him and his mam.

  DJ felt her eyes on him, as he picked up his new football shirt, and a lump jumped into his throat. His mam must have been saving for ages to get him that jersey. It was the real deal. Not a cheap copy from the market. He pulled a strip out of the book and handed it to her.

  Ruth folded it in two, then placed it in her jeans pocket. She opened her arms to her son and held him close in her embrace, breathing in his unique smell. Mud, milk, bananas and tonight, because of his earlier treat, pepperoni pizza.

  Ruth knew that there would come a day when raffle tickets would no longer be needed. Previous years she had to buy new books halfway through the year, such was the demand for her cuddles. But when she had checked her son’s bedside locker last week, she realised that a quarter of his ninth birthday book was unused. She closed her mind to that. Because right now in this moment, she was his and he was hers.

  ‘Hey! How did you do that?’ DJ asked when the lights in the flat went out.

  Ruth’s stomach sank. Not again. She stood up and counted her steps to the kitchen. She continued counting until she got to eight, then pulled open a drawer, reaching for her torch. She flicked it on and investigated the ESB box. Please let it be a trip switch. Her silent pleas fell on deaf ears. All switches were upright and correct. ‘We have been cut off.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ DJ said by her side, reaching for her hands that had begun to fly in frustration at this turn of events. ‘We can watch the movie another time.’

  ‘I get paid tomorrow. I was going to pay the bill then.’ Ruth popped her knuckles in frustration. Her phone pinged to let her know she had a text message, its blue light flashing on the kitchen table. It was from Seamus Kearns, her landlord.

  I will be calling at the flat next Friday at 6pm.

  She turned her phone upside down.

  ‘All OK?’

  Ruth nodded and pushed aside a niggling feeling of unease. This was DJ’s night. Ruth would deal with the landlord tomorrow.

  ‘We can still eat cake, even in the dark!’ DJ said, pulling two plates from the cabinet.

  Ruth held the torch over her son as he cut a large wedge of the cake. Then he reached up into the larder press and felt his way until he found his target. Rice cakes. He took two out and put them on the second plate. Ruth grabbed a bag of tea lights and lit a dozen of them, placing them around the sitting room. They sat side by side on the small sofa, balancing their treats on their knees. With a mouthful of the cake, DJ said, ‘Knew it. Tastes great.’

  Ruth shuddered just thinking about putting a mouthful of that green mess into her mouth. Knowing how hard it must have been for his mother to touch food that wasn’t white, DJ said, ‘I can’t believe you made this cake for me, Mam.’

  ‘I would do anything for you, DJ. Always remember that.’ And they inched a little closer to each other.

  His eyes, now accustomed to the near darkness, took in the birthday banners that hung from each corner of the room. The multi-coloured balloons that seemed to dance in the candlelight. The empty pizza box. The gifts. His mam. And while he didn’t know it yet, this birthday was the one that, for the rest of his life, he would look back on as his best.

  2

  RUTH

  The day Ruth Wilde and her son, DJ, became homeless was just an ordinary day in Dublin. The sun poked its head through the grey clouds of an autumnal sky. Cars drove by at a snail’s pace, bumper to bumper in their early morning commute.

  One, two, three … Ruth began counting steps to herself as she walked down the driveway in front of her flat.

  For most, it was just another thank-crunchie-it’s-Friday morning in the suburbs. For Ruth it was a day of despair. Her world, her normal, was falling apart. She was not prepared for the unknown future that lay ahead. With every change that was flung at her, she felt like she was moving closer to the edge of an abyss.

  … ten, eleven, twelve …

  And for Ruth, who lived her life in quiet, isolated order with her son, the abyss looked impossible to cross. Taking a leap of
faith was not in her psyche. Ruth needed to prepare, to understand, to know before she undertook anything new. That way she had time to build a bridge, if you like, that would take her safely to the other side.

  … nineteen, twenty, twenty-one …

  She looked up and down the road, seeing it with new eyes that told her danger lay ahead.

  … twenty-five, twenty-six, twenty-seven …

  The end of the driveway. She took one more step, then breathed the last number with relief.

  Twenty-eight. As it should be; as it had been for four years now.

  Ruth placed two black sacks beside the ugly but serviceable suitcases she’d left there moments before. Not much to show for her thirty years in this world. Running her hands over the cases, she felt a moment of sympathy for them. When it came to the luggage lottery they lucked out. While other suitcases got to travel the world, hers were used only to transport meagre possessions from rented house to rented house. So many moves over the past ten years since they arrived in Dublin. The plan had been to stay here until they were given a council house. Now there was a new plan. She just did not know what it was yet.

  Ruth felt her son’s presence before she saw him. He had this weird energy lately that filled the air between them: a mixture of disappointment, anger and, she supposed, fear. None of which she knew how to alleviate.

  ‘You should be in school,’ Ruth said, watching the patterns of the cracks in the pavement. She had dropped him there earlier this morning, then went for her usual early morning run. She never needed the escapism running gave her more than she did today.

  His response was to kick the concrete path with the toe of his scuffed runners. He’d had another growth spurt over the past couple of weeks. School tracksuit bottoms were almost at the point of embarrassment for him, barely grazing the tops of his shoes. She would have to get to Penneys at some point to pick up a pair. And then a thought hit her hard. How will I clean his uniform if we have no home of our own, no washing machine?

  She felt guilt flood over her again. She had let him down just as her mother had predicted she would. A spectacular failure of a parent. She cracked the knuckle on her ring finger and felt tension release as she heard a familiar pop, pop, pop.