A Thousand Roads Home

by Carmel Harrington

  ‘Don’t mind me,’ Tom said.

  Hoody paused then shook the can with vigour, moving closer to the grey wall, ready to make his first mark.

  ‘Before you do that, do you want to smile for the camera?’ Tom asked.

  Hoody spun round. ‘What camera?’

  ‘The CCTV. Well, there’s actually four cameras on this street, by my reckoning. It’s one of the reasons why I chose this spot to sleep tonight. It’s safe.’ Tom pointed to where the cameras lay.

  ‘Cameras don’t bother me,’ Hoody responded, but Tom noted that he’d not raised his spray-paint can again.

  ‘You’re right not to care. Banksy never did. A political activist, sure he never worried what anyone thought about his street art.’

  Hoody looked at Tom a little closer. ‘What kind of stuff does this Banksy do?’

  ‘He uses stencilling. Strong images, but always coupled with even stronger messages. There’s a lot about his work to learn from. Like, for instance, his ape with a sign on him, that says, “Laugh now, but one day we’ll be in charge.” To me, that’s all about respect.’

  ‘For who?’

  ‘For everyone and everything. It’s telling us to be kind to each other and our environment. And really another way to say what my mam always used to preach: be careful who you step over on your way to the top, because you might need them, when you stumble back down again.’

  The boy laughed. ‘I like that.’ Then his face changed and anger contorted his features into a grimace. ‘There’s someone I know who I’d like to see stumble on his way down.’

  Tom wondered what had happened to the lad to cause him so much upset. ‘What message are you planning on sharing with the world today?’

  Hoody shifted from one foot to the other. ‘Seamus Kearns is a fucking tool.’

  ‘Ah. That’s disappointing.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘It’s lazy just shouting expletives, without giving any context to back them up.’

  ‘I never said I was a political activist!’ Hoody shouted.

  ‘No. That’s true, you didn’t. I’ll probably regret asking, but what did this Mr Kearns do to you?’

  ‘That used to be my bedroom.’ Hoody pointed to the upstairs window.

  ‘Used to be?’

  ‘Seamus Kearns was our landlord. He evicted me and Mam. And we couldn’t find anywhere else to live, so now we’re homeless.’

  Tom felt his heart sink at this news. ‘And you want to graffiti his flat because he evicted you?’

  Hoody nodded. ‘My mam, she’s scared, but she’s trying so hard to be brave. We’re in this hotel, which is a joke because it’s nothing like the hotels I’ve seen on TV. They have more rules than I have in school. And I have to share a room with my mam.’

  Ten years on the streets of Dublin and Tom had watched more families than he could count go through exactly what this kid was going through right now. Emergency housing was not the Ritz, that was for sure.

  ‘Listen, I don’t know anything about your life, but I do know that getting arrested won’t do either of you any good. You said your mam was scared. Well, if you do this, it will make things worse for her.’

  ‘I have to do something,’ Hoody said.

  Tom nodded. ‘I get that. You want to be the hero. But real heroes know when to walk away. And trust me, this is not the way.’ He nodded towards the CCTV cameras again. ‘It’s late. I suspect your mother is worried sick.’

  ‘I told her I was going to a mate’s this afternoon.’ He looked at his watch and frowned.

  ‘And did you go to your friend’s?’

  ‘For a bit. But he kept asking me when he could call over to my flat to watch YouTube. Over and over, banging on about it being my turn to have him come to my home. So I bailed.’

  ‘You didn’t tell him about your current situation?’

  ‘What do you think?’ The kid pulled a face. ‘I don’t want anyone to know.’

  ‘A good friend would understand,’ Tom said.

  ‘Maybe he’s not that good a friend,’ the kid said. He looked at his watch again. His mam would be looking for him. He said he would be home by seven o’clock and it was past that now.

  He sighed then placed his paint can back into his rucksack. He turned to walk away, then stopped for a moment. ‘Thanks, mister. For the heads up about Big Brother watching. I owe you one.’

  ‘Do you know any Take That songs?’ Tom asked.

  ‘Nope. Mam likes all that golden oldie stuff, but not me.’

  ‘It’s going to annoy me until I think of that bloody song Cathy was singing,’ Tom muttered. ‘You’re going home?’ He realised he cared that this kid got back to his mother in one piece.

  ‘I don’t have a home. Not any more.’

  ‘Ah, but you do. Home isn’t a place. It’s a feeling. It’s what is up here and in here.’ He pointed to his head and heart. ‘Promise me you’ll try to remember that.’

  The kid pulled his hoody up over his head and moved off into the night.

  14

  RUTH

  As Erica had boasted, the hot buffet at The Silver Sands Lodge was substantial. DJ had been on a mission to try everything on offer each morning. Sausages, bacon, scrambled eggs, mushrooms and tomatoes were in large silver hot dishes, with steam rising from them into the dining room.

  Today was a big change for them both. DJ’s usual five-minute stroll to school was to be replaced with a one-hour, two-bus commute. Things were strained between them still. She was not happy that DJ had stayed out too late after a play date at a friend’s house on Saturday.

  Ruth went to the porridge station and filled a bowl full of the steaming gloopy cereal from the black pot that stood at the end of the buffet.

  They had just taken their seats when Aisling and her daughter, Anna, walked into the dining room. They sat down at the table beside Ruth and DJ and began working on their bowls of cereal.

  ‘I am glad to see your daughter is feeling better,’ Ruth said.

  ‘Thank you! That’s the gas thing about asthma. You can be in a heap one minute, unable to breathe, and then jumping around, not a bother, the next day,’ Aisling replied.

  ‘When I was a baby, I was very sick,’ Anna said, joining in the conversation. She was small for her age, Ruth noted. She looked no more than seven or eight years old. ‘My chest hurt so bad.’

  Aisling reached over to caress the top of her daughter’s blonde curls. ‘But you are all good now.’

  ‘Yep, and guess what – I’m hungry,’ Anna said.

  ‘She’s always hungry,’ Aisling replied with a laugh. ‘Or at least she is when she’s well. She went right off her food last week.’

  ‘DJ is the same. At home, when he was hungry, he would just jump up and make himself something. I do not feel comfortable with him doing that here in the communal kitchen.’ Ruth was a little scared of Kian. He seemed to be angry all the time.

  Aisling leaned in and whispered, ‘I have a little portable fridge in our room. Technically it’s against the rules. I got it for nothing in the “Free to a good home” Facebook page last week. It’s bloody brilliant.’

  Ice-cold milk and vanilla yoghurts at her disposal twenty-four seven. That sounded blissful. ‘I might look into that myself. Thank you for the tip.’

  ‘I’ve loads more of them. We’ve been here for four months so I’m all, been there, done that, wore the T-shirt. You know yourself. I’m trying to make sure we eat healthier. We’ve both put on weight since we lost our home. Too many takeaways and sandwiches. Sometimes it’s easier than queuing for hours to use that cooker in the shared kitchen. I was overweight to start with, but Anna, she was just a slip of a thing.’

  DJ arrived back to his table with a plate piled high with the full Irish. Anna and DJ eyed each other up silently, trying to decide if they liked each other.

  ‘Make sure you grab some fruit and yoghurts before you go. I stick them in with Anna’s lunch. I make her sandwich here too before we go,�
� Aisling said.

  ‘Is that allowed?’ Ruth asked.

  ‘Well, it’s not on their list of rules, and goodness knows, there’s enough of those!’ Aisling said.

  ‘Can I take a muffin for school break later?’ DJ asked.

  Ruth nodded her consent. Once DJ had finished his cooked breakfast he went back to the pastry section. Ruth marvelled at where he put all the food he ate.

  The only plus DJ could see about their situation was the breakfast. The pastries were his favourite: sticky, sweet and unlike anything his mam usually let him eat.

  As he piled his plate he shivered, feeling eyes on him. Then he heard a voice behind him: ‘He’s one of those homeless kids. Look at him, filling his plate like he’s never had a decent meal in his life.’ A second voice chimed in, ‘I blame the parents. I mean, how could they let themselves end up here?’

  For a moment DJ forgot that he was homeless. That it was him that the voices were talking about. But only for a moment. With his face flaming red in shame he turned round to face the two women who had been talking about him. He wanted to tell them to shut up, to go away, to stop being so bloody horrible. But he couldn’t find the words. Ruth was on her feet, walking towards him, angry and ready to take on the two women. She too had heard their loud commentary.

  Aisling stood up and grabbed her arm, ‘It’s not worth a row.’

  ‘I want to go,’ DJ said, his head low, red cheeks telling tales on his embarrassment. He placed his plate filled with pastries onto the table. He no longer had the appetite to eat a thing.

  ‘How did they know?’ Ruth asked.

  ‘The uniforms are a dead giveaway. It’s well known this hotel is used for social housing. Been in the papers a few times,’ Aisling said. ‘You get used to it.’

  In silence they went back to their room, taking turns to brush their teeth, grabbing their bags and leaving through the side entrance. ‘I don’t want to go to school.’ DJ was the first to speak. They stood a few feet apart at the bus stop. Their first bus was due in five minutes.

  ‘It is not negotiable,’ Ruth said.

  He moved a few feet away from her.

  ‘You need to tell me how you are feeling,’ Ruth said.

  ‘I don’t want people to know I’m homeless. But they do. There’s no hiding it,’ DJ replied. Then he turned his back to her, waiting for the bus to arrive.

  How did she deal with that? Embarrassment she understood. She had spent a large part of her life feeling like that. Before she had a further chance to discuss it, their bus came into view. DJ’s issue had to wait because Ruth’s stomach was a spiralling mass of nerves. She normally avoided public transport. They were a hotbed of germs and bacteria. They smelled bad. Usually of stale body odour and farts. People never followed the rules about personal space. And they were noisy. She pulled on her headphones, allowing Westlife to block out the sounds of commuters as they began their day. She opened up Odd Thomas and continued with Chapter Eighteen. With every word, she soothed herself as her mind roamed the streets of Pico Mundo, alongside her best friend, Odd. It was when they had to change buses for the second part of their journey that her anxiety levels began to spike out of control. Ruth tried her best to ignore the hustle and shoves of fellow commuters around her. DJ continued to sulk in silence, occasionally moaning that he wanted to go back to the hotel. Ruth was tempted to say yes, let’s get off this bus, turn round and go back to our hotel room.

  When the bus braked suddenly, Ruth was jostled forward. Her book fell to the ground, lost between a sea of feet. Time slowed down for Ruth and she felt the all-too-familiar trickle of fear take over all rational thought. The bus was too crowded. People pushed into her, invading her space, her imaginary circle that she placed around herself, that nobody was meant to enter, except for DJ. If one more person was allowed on the bus, the strain would be too much. The wheels would buckle. What if they crashed? None of them had seat belts on. They would all die. And over and over her mind spiralled into fearful chaos until she could not think straight.

  ‘I’ve got to go, I’ve got to go, go, go, go, go …’ Ruth shouted from the floor of the bus as she tried to retrieve her book.

  ‘Shit,’ DJ said, realising what was happening. He should have copped this sooner. He jumped up to push the bell, alerting the driver that they wanted to get off.

  ‘Mam, come on, get up. People are looking. Please.’ DJ tried to pull his mother up but Ruth remained on the floor, kneeling down, repeating over and over, ‘… go, go, go, go …’ DJ watched strangers around them back away and judge his mother for the millionth time in his life.

  ‘What are you looking at?’ he confronted a man in a suit who was rubber necking. DJ hated his life. He hated this bus. He hated the women in the restaurant who whispered and judged. And as the last cruel thought jumped into his head – that most of all, right now he hated his mother – the bus shuddered to a halt.

  DJ grabbed Ruth by her arms, pulling her upright, and pushed the doors open so that they could get off. Once they were on the pavement, Ruth gasped in long breaths of air.

  DJ stood back and watched his mother wrap her arms around herself. Then flap her arms like a bird trying to fly away, before popping her knuckles one by one. He felt tears prick the back of his eyes, making him want to cry in a way he hadn’t done since he was little.

  ‘Mam,’ he whispered. ‘It’s OK. You’re OK now.’ I don’t hate you. I’m sorry I thought that. I take it back. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.

  ‘No. No more bus,’ Ruth said, gradually calming down. She was safe. She was on the pavement. The pavement was good.

  ‘No more bus, Mam,’ DJ agreed. ‘We can walk the rest of the way.’

  It took them twenty minutes to reach the school gates. They were fifteen minutes late.

  ‘I’d better go in,’ DJ said, but he was looking worriedly at Ruth. ‘Maybe I should stay. Walk back to the hotel with you.’

  You will do the right thing for your baby. Because that’s what mothers do. Ruth clung to words her kind doctor had told her before DJ was born. She had to do the right thing.

  ‘I will explain to your teacher what happened,’ Ruth said. She could not let DJ get into trouble for something that was outside of his control. Her fear slipped away but in its place was ugly, ugly shame. The shame of letting her son down. The shame of being Ruth, someone who got things wrong. Over and over again.

  ‘No!’ he said, a fraction too loudly. ‘I don’t want anyone in school to know about this.’

  ‘About what part?’ Ruth asked.

  ‘That we’re homeless. That we had to take two buses to get to school. That you had a meltdown in one. That we live in a hotel now that doesn’t let us use the front door. That you don’t know my father’s surname.’ DJ blurted every hurt, angry feeling in one long tirade. He could no longer hold it all in.

  ‘I can make them understand,’ Ruth replied, feeling her guts churn at every word he uttered. She had done this to him. This was all on her.

  ‘No! Promise me, Mam. You are not to say anything,’ DJ begged, tears in his eyes.

  ‘Yes, I promise,’ Ruth said, knowing she was defeated. She could not add anything else to his obvious distress. ‘I will be here to pick you up again at 3 p.m. OK?’

  She watched him leave and began her long walk back to the hotel. The luxury of a taxi was not hers to take. She ran into the hotel lobby, her mind full of commutes to school. They would have to leave every morning by seven o’clock, before it got too busy. She would practise. Make it normal. Make it right. Yes. That’s what she would do.

  ‘Rule number seven,’ Erica’s voice called out, stalling her. ‘Remember, Ms Wilde, you have your own entrance.’

  Ruth turned to her and said, ‘Laws and rules should be recognised as only an approximate guide to actions by the people. They are never meant to enslave us. Just a guide.’

  A ruffle of newspaper behind Ruth made her start. Kian revealed himself from behind the palm tree where h
e was hiding. ‘Yes, sister! Preach. At last someone else who understands!’

  ‘Rule number fifteen, Mr Furey!’ Erica shouted out. ‘You are not allowed in the hotel public areas during the day. That newspaper is for the sole use of our normal guests, as well you know!’

  ‘Arbitrary rules are meant to be broken,’ Kian replied with a wink. He sauntered out of the lobby, almost kicking his heels in delight.

  ‘Let’s be complete rebels and use the lift for the normal guests,’ Kian said to Ruth.

  Ruth backed herself into a corner of the small lift. Seconds went by until Kian spoke. Softly. His words falling onto the floor of the lift between them. ‘I received my fourth Dear John today. “We’re sorry but the position has been filled by another. We wish you well in your search for a new job, blah, blah, blah.”’

  She peeked up at him but this time it was he who was looking at the floor. His shoulders hunched.

  Say something, anything, tell him you are sorry.

  No words came out. It had been a horrible morning and she was hanging on by a thread.

  ‘If I can’t get a job, how can I afford to get us out of this hell? I’ve tried. I really have. But the rents are jacked up so much. The landlords blame the government. The government blames the landlords and the builders. Meanwhile, poor fuckers like me and you are left here in limbo, or on the streets, if we don’t like it. And don’t get me started on the fact that even if we can find a landlord who is happy to take a tenant who is on the council’s long-term rent supplement list or the new Housing Assistant Payment scheme, then it’s like finding a needle in a haystack to find a flat or house we can afford!’

  Two thoughts struck Ruth at once, causing a flush to run through her from her head to her toes. One, she had misjudged Kian. Her assumption that he was a lasagne-robbing layabout shattered into pieces. Two, she had a job and she was supposed to be online by 10 a.m. With the episode on the bus she had forgotten completely about it. She should have taken a taxi home, no matter the cost.

  As the doors to the lift opened, Ruth said to Kian as she ran out the door, ‘I would like to offer my sympathies on your current situation, but I do not have time right now. But I will revisit this conversation with you at a later time. I have to go.’