by Simon Bourke
“ – he’s just a little protective – don’t worry about it – I’ll speak to him later.”
That was his mammy’s voice. Seán couldn’t believe it; she didn’t even sound cross. Daryl had gone in there and told on him and now she was taking his side. Seán was going to get into trouble, even though he’d done nothing wrong. Well, feck them; feck the whole lot of them.
He ran back to his bedroom and quickly pulled on his clothes. He didn’t know where he was going but he was getting out of here, away from them. He emptied his piggy bank onto the bed and swept up the array of coppers and loose change. I’ll show them! I can manage well and good on my own, just you wait and see. With that he eased open the window, clambered through it and headed out into the early autumn morning.
2
He’d never run away before, so he wasn’t sure where to go. His first instinct had been to go to his nanny’s, but that would be no good; they’d just ring his mother and before he knew it, he’d be back home again. He might ask Patrick if he could live in his car for a while. But although Patrick would probably agree, and allow him to live there for as long as he liked, it would only be a matter of time before his mother found out, so that idea was ruled out too. He couldn’t rely on anyone else. He had to do this alone. And, now that he was alone, he was his own boss. That meant he could go anywhere he liked. So, Dooncurra Woods it was.
The woods had long been a source of fascination for Seán. They loomed over Dooncurra on three sides, stretching into the nearby mountains and beyond – he called them mountains, but really they were little more than hills. Sometimes when he couldn’t sleep Seán would gaze out his bedroom window at the dark, forbidding woods and wonder what happened there when night fell. He imagined great beasts emerging from their dens in search of food, snarling ferociously as they began their hunt. They were huge, unlike anything else in the wild; taller than horses, more vicious than wolves and stronger than the biggest of bears. Covered in long black hair, they were almost invisible at night, their bright red eyes the only thing giving them away. All the smaller animals hated them and scurried to the safety of their homes as soon as the sun dipped below the horizon. But you were never safe when the beasts were around. The foxes, deer, hedgehogs and all the other friendly animals peered out in terror as the beasts sprang into life, bounding across the forest floor, sending firs tumbling from their branches and the few remaining animals back to their hideouts. But there was always one unfortunate mite who hadn’t noticed the evening light beginning to fade, who hadn’t realised that it was time to take refuge, and by the time they did it was too late. The poor little rabbit or squirrel stood frozen in the middle of the forest, an acorn in their tiny little hands, as the monsters descended upon them. The other animals covered their eyes as the beasts enveloped the defenceless creature, tearing it to shreds, showing no mercy; and when they’d finished it started all over again. It carried on right through the night, the forest’s inhabitants hiding in their little houses, willing the sun to come up so that the beasts would disappear back to their murky lairs. But the nights were long, and these great beasts never seemed to get full. They hunted, and hunted, killing and maiming until finally, mercifully, the sun peeped through the trees and they lumbered back to whence they had come. The inhabitants of the forest breathed a collective sigh of relief; they had survived another night, and for that they were grateful.
Seán loved the woods but he’d decided that he never wanted to be there at night. He was very brave when it came to tackling burglars and unwanted house-guests, but great beasts with fiery red eyes were another matter entirely. So he contented himself with walks with his grandfather in the safety of daylight. Sometimes as they walked he would peer into the forest’s dark recesses and wonder if the beasts were in there, sleeping, sparing themselves for the night ahead. The thought sent a shudder down his spine. He never told his granddad about the beasts, though; he had enough to be worrying about. Instead Seán pestered him with question after question about other things that interested him. “How many squirrels do you think live here, Granddad? How high is the tallest tree in the forest, Granddad? Could you beat a deer in a fight, Granddad?” This would go on and on until his granddad, exasperated, sent him off on a wild goose chase in the hope of getting a minute’s peace and quiet. These missions included, among others, locating the pot of gold at the end of a rainbow, finding the unicorn that lived in the trees behind the picnic area, and staying silent long enough for a friendly fox called Charlie to come out and talk to them. None of these challenges kept Seán occupied for very long, so after a brief hiatus Noel was back fielding a barrage of unanswerable questions from his beloved grandson. There would be no granddad to answer his queries today, though; if Seán had any more questions they would have to wait until he’d finished running away.
Having decided on his destination, all that was left to do was purchase some provisions. He couldn’t hope to survive life on the road without some food in his belly. It was just as well he’d remembered to bring some money, then. Seán dug into his pockets and carefully extracted his life savings: a couple of twenties, a few tens, and ooh, a big fifty! A grand total of £1.29. He was loaded. Bartley’s newsagents was nearby; he’d stock up there and then set off for the woods. He regularly went to the shop on his own, getting fags and milk for his mammy, so they wouldn’t suspect a thing when they saw he wasn’t accompanied by an adult. He marched confidently into the small, musky shop, the jingle of the bell signalling his arrival. The hope had been that Mrs. Bartley would be working today. She was lovely, and didn’t seem to mind when he took ages to decide which colour Bonbons he wanted. But she wasn’t there. Instead of her welcoming smile he was greeted by her husband, Bulldog Bartley, the grumpiest man in all Ireland.
“Hello, Mr. Bartley. How are you today?” he enquired cheerily.
“Hmmph,” came the response from behind the counter. Mr. Bartley was propped up on a high stool with the morning papers laid out in front of him. He was wearing his glasses and had a little pen in his hand. Seán knew what he was doing; he’d seen this before.
“Any tips for me, Mr. Bartley?”
Mr. Bartley glared at him from over the top of his glasses, his jaw jutting out, jowls hanging limply beneath; just like a bulldog.
“What tips do you want, boy?”
“For the horses.”
Bulldog stared at him intently for a couple of moments, and then wordlessly returned to his paper. That was that, then; he didn’t have any tips.
Seán returned to the matter at hand: getting provisions. What was it to be: a first-aid kit? Some bottled water? Or those cheap noodles his mother got when they were broke? These were all fine suggestions but boring ones. He never got to spend this amount of money in one go, so he wasn’t going to waste it on noodles and bottles of water. He scanned the wall behind Bulldog which housed the jars of sweets. There was so much to choose from: Pear Drops, Strawberry Sherbets, Bullseyes, Chocolate Mice, and then the Bonbons, which came in pink, white, yellow and green. This was going to take some time.
“Hey, young fella, if you’re not buying anything get the fuck outa here.”
“I’ve got money, Mr. Bartley. See?” He held out his hand, displaying his riches. That seemed to satisfy the shopkeeper. He returned to his paper, keeping a watchful on his young customer.
Seán continued his ruminations: Jelly Babies, Flogs, Milk Teeth, Kola Cubes, Clove Rock – ugh, not Clove Rock, that was disgusting – Watermelon Twist Kisses, Fried Eggs, Dolly Mixture. He knew all their names off by heart. But that didn’t make it any easier to decide what to get. Finally, though, after ten more minutes of perusing and increasingly complex mental calculations, he came to a decision.
“Mr. Bartley?”
Bulldog shifted the paper ever so slightly to the right and fixed Seán with a glare. Seán took this as a response and forged ahead.
“Could I have 129 penny sweets,
please?”
Bulldog’s expression didn’t change one iota. He simply shifted the paper back and continued reading. Was that a ‘yes’? Seán stood there a second, waiting for Bulldog to get his fat arse off the stool, but he didn’t budge. Maybe he hadn’t heard.
“Mr. Bartley?”
No response. He didn’t even move.
“Could I ...”
Still no response. How was he going to get provisions if this fecker wouldn’t even serve him?
But then Bulldog came to life, slamming down his pen and leaning out over the counter.
“C’mere,” he said gruffly, motioning for Seán to come close.
Seán obliged and walked expectantly towards Bulldog. At last, a bit of service!
He stood in front of the stout, bald man with the pudgy nose and the jowly face, and waited for the sweets to be dished out. But instead of filling up a bag with Black Jacks, Jelly Babies and Fizzy Cola Bottles, Bulldog remained where he was; hung over the counter with a big red head on him. At this rate, Seán would have to go elsewhere for his provisions. Bulldog jabbed his stubby finger into Seán’s chest.
“What kind of a fuckin’ eejit do ya think I am?”
Seán pondered this for a second. Was he expected to answer? What would he say – an awful eejit, a big, fuckin’ eejit or just a regular, normal eejit? None of these sounded right so he played it safe.
“I dunno, Mr. Bartley. What kind of an eejit are ya?”
This seemed to anger him. His face grew even redder as he repeatedly jabbed his thick, sausage-like finger into Seán’s chest.
“You think you’re so clever, you and your little mates, comin’ in here robbin’ my sweets and upsetting Vera. Well, no more. No fuckin’ more!”
These last few words were delivered with an extra hard jab to his chest and Seán recoiled in pain.
“But I’ve never robbed sweets from you, Mr. Bartley; honest.” And this was true, mostly. There had been that one time after Mass when he’d stolen a Bounty after being dared by Mattie O’Halloran. But even then he’d thrown it away. Not because of guilt, but because he didn’t like Bounties; he didn’t like anything with coconuts in them.
“Go in and ask Mrs. Bartley; go on, she’ll tell ya,” he continued, indignant now.
“Oh, yeah, you’d love that, ya little bollix. I go inside and by the time I come back there’s not a sweet left in the fuckin’ shop. Ya must think I’m an awful eejit.”
Again with the eejit questions, thought Sean, this fella is obsessed with being an eejit. Enough of this messing around. He had some running away to do and he couldn’t waste any more time here talking to this, well, eejit.
“Lookit, Mr. Bartley, I have £1.29 here. All I want is 129 penny sweets and I’ll be on me way.” He plonked the money down on the counter and stepped away from his tormentor.
Bulldog looked at him once more before scooping up the money and popping it in the till. For a second, Seán thought he was going to sit back down with his paper. Instead he ripped a little plastic bag from the wall and went over to the penny sweets.
Seán followed him over, ready to count along as every sweet went into the bag. He needn’t have bothered. Bulldog put one of his big, fat paws into the Milk Teeth box and threw a few dozen into the bag, repeating this with several of the other sweets before tossing the bag on the counter.
“Now,” he growled, “fuck off.”
Seán didn’t need to be told twice. He was out the door and halfway up the road before Bulldog was back in his seat. Once he’d reached a safe distance, Seán took a look inside the bag. He could scarcely believe his luck; there had to be at least three hundred sweets inside. Aboy, Bulldog, ya big feckin’ eejit! And with that he skipped merrily up the hill towards Dooncurra Woods.
3
The road leading to the woods would be busy on a Saturday. Every weekend cars weaved up and down its narrow, potholed expanse before depositing picnicking families, mobs of feral children and outdoor enthusiasts into the parking area. From there the crowds made their way into the woods, sticking to the approved paths and trails, the hubbub dying down as they gradually dispersed into smaller groups. Seán wanted to avoid these crowds. The last thing he needed was some nosy parker asking him where his mam and dad were. His plan was to take a different route, one which involved several short cuts and a couple of detours through muddy fields; once he’d reached his destination he’d be far away from the masses, from interfering adults and their stupid questions. Stuffing the bag of sweets into his pocket, he took a quick look around. No one was watching and there were no cars in sight. He vaulted over a wall, landing in a field populated by a few dozy cows. The grass was sopping wet and almost up to his knees. If only he’d brought his wellies, but instead he had his brand-new runners on, the ones his mother had told him were for good wear only. She’d kill him if she knew, but she would never know because he was on the run now and she’d never find him.
He carried on across the field, his feet squelching beneath him as he made his way past the inquisitive glances of the grazing cattle. Hello, cows, don’t mind me; just out for a stroll is all. Enjoy your grass. On reaching the edge of the field, he looked for a way into the adjoining one. There should have been a gate, but if there was he couldn’t see it, so he had to navigate his way through a cluster of briars and large thorny bushes. By the time he’d squeezed through to the other side he was sporting several cuts and grazes on his face, and his jacket had been torn in several places. It didn’t matter, though; he only had himself to answer to now. He carried on through another couple of fields, hiding from a tractor on one occasion, until he reached the one which would take him to the edge of the woods. He’d learned about this route while out rambling with Patrick. It had been an amazing day. They’d taken Hughie, Patrick’s Irish Setter, and spent the day roaming through the fields, the woods and loads of other cool places Seán had never seen before. They’d even found a quarry. He would have loved to have gone back there but he couldn’t remember where it was. He wasn’t even sure if he was going the same way as they had that day. But the woods were there in the distance, so he must be on the right track.
Finally, after more fields and more scrambling through ditches and undergrowth, he made it to the outskirts of the forest. A few thin, bare trees signalled the beginning of Dooncurra Woods. He was there. He had made it. He hurried on until he reached a point where all he could see were trees. Now he was free, in the middle of the woods, far away from everyone; out on his own. This was great. His instinct was to run around a bit, climb some trees and just revel in his freedom. But first he had to do something about his clothes. His jeans were stuck to his skin and his runners were completely soaked. If Huckleberry Finn were in this kind of pickle, he would simply have stripped off and hung out his clothes to dry in the hot Missouri sun. But Seán wasn’t in Missouri, he was in Ireland, and it was the middle of October.
Even now, at its highest point, the sun offered little warmth and very few beams of light penetrated the forest’s canopy. It wasn’t great drying weather; even Seán could see that. Anyway, what was he supposed to do? Amble around the woods in his underpants while his jeans dried on a branch? No, thanks. Instead, he compromised. He took off his runners and socks, pulled his jeans up to his knees and continued on his way. The damp, cloying earth was cold on his exposed feet, but he’d get used to it. Things like this were just part of life on the road. His next task was finding somewhere to sit so he could eat his sweets. He found the perfect spot beneath a large oak. Its thick, gnarled roots stretched out across the forest floor, providing him with a suitable nook in which to sit. He even had armrests on both sides.
“Ah, this is the life,” he said, a shaft of light warming his bare feet. He was hungry; starving, in fact. That whole thing with Daryl had completely ruined his routine. He’d had no breakfast; no bowl of Frosties. And no lunch, no soldiers or eggs to dip them int
o. He should have had two meals under his belt by now but he’d had none. Just as well he’d come prepared. Pulling the bag of sweets out of his pocket, he marvelled again at the sheer volume of delights within and settled down for his first meal of the day. This was definitely the best thing about life on the road: he could have sweets for breakfast, lunch and dinner, and there was no one around to tell him he couldn’t.
He munched away on the sweets, tackling them with gusto, sometimes putting three or four into his mouth at the same time. This was great, this was the life: out on his own, doing whatever he wanted, and no stupid adults bossing him around. After a few minutes of sitting and eating, however, he began to feel lonely. It was no fun being free if you had no one to share it with. Why hadn’t he brought Millie, his own dog, a black Labrador cross? She was his best friend in the entire world – well, her or Mikey Nolan who lived in number 25. Either of them would have done him. But he hadn’t had time to plan any of this. If he had he would have brought wellies, and Millie, and Mikey Nolan. Mikey was probably still watching cartoons, and Millie was most likely asleep in the shed. He worried about her now that he was gone. Who would feed her? And who would rub her belly, making her hind legs jerk in excitement? Certainly not Daryl. He probably didn’t even like dogs. Maybe Millie would come looking for Seán. She would notice his absence and, worried out of her mind, hurdle the five-foot wall that surrounded their back garden. Then she would press her nose to the ground and seek out her master, following the exact same path he had taken until they were back together and Seán had someone to accompany him on the road. He really missed Millie, and Mikey.