by Simon Bourke
If Mikey were here now, they’d be having the best time ever. Mikey was a year older than Seán and really strong and brave. When they climbed trees together, Mikey would always go higher than Seán. He’d nimbly traverse the uppermost branches until he found himself at the very top, at which point he would yell out loud: “Mikey Nolan, the best tree-climber in the whole world.” Seán would nod his agreement from further down the tree; Mikey was a brilliant tree-climber. If he were here, he’d have loads of ideas about how to survive in the wilderness. He’d try to take charge but that would be okay – he was a year older, after all. Mikey could be the leader and Seán his trusted companion. Together they’d build a camp deep in the woods with a treehouse to sleep in at night. Then they’d hunt rabbits, collect berries and build a huge fire to warm them while they ate. The beasts were afraid of fire so they wouldn’t have to worry about being attacked while they stuffed themselves. But Seán wasn’t sure how long Mikey would stick it out. He had loads of brilliant toys and his father drove a car, so chances were he’d get homesick after a couple of days. He’d start whinging and Seán would have no choice but to banish him from the camp and continue on alone. He didn’t need that kind of drama. This was serious business. He was running away, and he had no intention of ever returning home.
4
It had been after two by the time Sinéad had ushered out the last of the drinkers. She’d practically had to shove them out the door. Thankfully Nigel had offered to close up, allowing her to head home at something approaching a godly hour. Usually she’d get a taxi, but Daryl Cassidy had offered her a lift. He was probably over the limit, but it wasn’t far. I guess you could say Daryl was her boyfriend now. They had been seeing each other for the past three months and things were going well. She hadn’t allowed him to sleep over yet, though. She didn’t want to expose Seán to this new coupling until it was unavoidable. But last night she’d been too tired to argue when he asked if he and his brother could come in for a nightcap. She’d stayed up with them for a while, but after a couple of glasses of wine she could barely keep her eyes open and had retired to bed. Daryl had wanted to come with her but she’d flatly refused. They could stay and finish whatever drink they had, but they were to be gone by morning. That was the last thing she remembered until she found herself being rudely awakened some hours later.
“Sinéad, wake up! Wake up, Sinéad, will ya!”
She resisted with all her might, trying her utmost to cling on to sleep’s warm embrace, but whoever was trying to wake her wasn’t about to give up easily. Reluctantly she opened her eyes, resigned to her fate. How many times had she told Seán never to wake her on a Saturday? But it wasn’t Seán; it was Daryl.
“Wake up, Sinéad. That child of yours has gone mad!”
She propped herself up on one elbow and surveyed the scene. It was daylight. What the hell was Daryl still doing here? What was he saying about Seán? And why did he have a dirty fag butt in his hair?
“What are you doing still here? I told you to be gone by the morning.”
Daryl opened his mouth to speak but was interrupted by Sinéad, now wide awake and ready for battle.
“And what are you saying about Seán? He’s not ready to meet you yet. I told you that!”
“Meself and Chezz fell asleep in the living-room. We’d had a skinful.”
Sinéad looked at him doubtfully. “Then what?”
“Yer young fella came down and told us to get out ’cos he wanted to watch his cartoons.”
Sinéad smiled as she imagined her indignant son tackling the two Cassidy boys.
“So why didn’t ye go?” she asked.
“We were going to but then he just went nuts, started firing drink all around the place and tipped the fuckin’ ashtray over me head.”
Sinéad giggled as she plucked the fag butt from Daryl’s hair. “He can be fiery all right; gets that from his mother.”
“Well I know it,” said Daryl, smiling.
“Look, ye’d better go,” she continued. “I’ll deal with him; he’s just a little protective, that’s all. I’ll speak to him later and maybe we can arrange a proper meeting for ye two, eh?”
“All right. I’ll call you later, okay?”
She kissed him on the cheek and shooed him out of the bedroom. Moments later she heard the front door close. They could at least have tidied up a bit before leaving. The thought of the mess awaiting her sent her crawling back to bed. She’d get up in a few minutes, clear away the cans and bottles and the empty pizza boxes, and go talk to her son. But first she’d just close her eyes for a second; it was early yet.
*
Sinéad awoke with a start, feeling guilty but not sure why. She checked the clock on the bedside locker: 12.45. Fuck’s sake. Why hadn’t he woken her up? Probably too engrossed in his cartoons; but no, they would be over by now. He always woke her at eleven on a Saturday; as soon as the credits rolled on He-man, he was up like a rocket. With a growing sense of unease, she slid out of bed and wrapped a dressing-gown around her. In the living-room she called, “Seán? Seány? What are you up to?”
No answer. He must be in his room, sulking probably. Nothing that a few runny eggs and toasted soldiers wouldn’t solve. But before she could even think about making Seán’s lunch, she had to tackle the mess left by her guests. Daryl had actually made an effort to clean up. A token effort. The living-room wasn’t too bad – save for the cigarette butts littered on the couch and a couple of errant bottles lying on the floor. But they’d just moved everything into the kitchen and left it there. Empty beer cans lined the worktop, the sink was full of dirty glasses and the two pizza boxes were attracting attention from a handful of meandering flies. It wasn’t the biggest mess she’d ever seen, but she hated seeing her little house like this. It was supposed to be a home for her and her boy, not a den of iniquity. She resolved to spend the day on her hands and knees scrubbing the smell of alcohol out of the house. Maybe Seán could tidy his room while she did it. She opened the back door to let in some air and noticed that the shed door was still locked. Why hadn’t Millie been let out? Seán always let her out first thing on a Saturday morning.
She tiptoed across the wet concrete and released the latch on the shed door. Millie came bolting out, almost knocking her over. Once she’d relieved herself the dog returned to Sinéad and looked at her questioningly. Where was Seán? And why had she been left in the shed till this hour? But Sinéad was too busy filling up the bin to deal with the dog’s queries. She returned to the kitchen, closing the door behind her. Already the place looked better. Putting the kettle on to boil, she went to check on Seán. Perhaps this would be a good time to explain about herself and Daryl. She tapped quietly on his door before entering.
“Seán?”
He wasn’t there. The bed was unmade and the room was a mess. That was normal, but a few anomalies set the alarm bells ringing. His runners were gone, the ones she’d got him for ‘good wear’, only to be worn on Sundays. And the clothes he’d had on yesterday weren’t lying on the floor like they should have been; they were nowhere to be seen. Strangest of all, the window was open. He never opened the window, he was always complaining about the cold. For reasons unknown to herself she stuck her head out of it, as if he might be sitting beneath looking up at her. All she saw was Millie running around the backyard like a lunatic. Where the fuck had he got to?
She tried to remain calm. He’d probably just gone to the shop, or over to Mikey Nolan’s house. At a stretch, he might have set out for his grandmother’s without her; punishment for inviting those strange men into their house. But he never went anywhere without asking her. He wouldn’t even go out to the ice cream van without permission. He could be a cheeky little scamp when he wanted to be, but there were certain rules he never broke. The more she thought about it, the more she feared his disappearance was related to the incident with Daryl. If only she hadn’t gone back to sleep;
if only she’d checked on him straight away. Cursing herself, she dressed and went out the front door. With any luck, he’d be over at the Nolan’s’ house. She’d knock on the door and there he’d be, bold as brass, wondering what all the fuss was about. As she walked up the drive she scanned their house for signs of life, signs of Seán; screams coming from inside, injured children, fleeing parents, emergency services outside: all the things you’d expect from a house containing Seán McLoughlin. But it was eerily quiet. As she stood at the porch waiting for someone to answer her knock, she already knew he wasn’t there. It was Mikey who came to the door.
“Howya, Mrs. McLoughlin.”
“Mikey, is Seán here with you?”
“No, I haven’t seen him since yesterday, Mrs. McLoughlin. I was gonna call over for him, actually, but – ”
But Sinéad was already gone, hurrying back down the drive towards her own house. Now she was getting worried.
5
There were only a couple of houses in the entire estate that had phones, and Sinéad’s wasn’t one of them. The Glovers a few doors down had one, but they were weird and a bit creepy. She’d had to go over there once to take a call from Patrick, who’d been pissed drunk and stranded in some faraway location. As she’d tentatively followed Mrs. Glover into their house, she’d thought of all the horror films she’d seen and how gullible most of the victims were. This was how killers enticed strangers into their homes, with stuff like this. A phantom phone call. Something so simple. And once she was inside, that’d be the end of her; she’d be down into the cellar with the rest of the Glovers’ victims. Despite her paranoia, she had got out unscathed. The conversation with her younger brother had been a brief one (ring Mammy and stop being such a baby) and she was back home safe and sound within minutes. The Glovers hadn’t murdered her that time, but who was to say they wouldn’t the second time around? The thought of making an outgoing call from their home terrified her. Would Mr. Glover have her on the clock? That’ll be two pounds fifty, please, Sinéad – or maybe you’d like to pay me another way?
There was a young couple who had only moved into the estate the previous summer; they also had a phone. But she barely knew them, and she only knew they had a phone because Maeve Nolan had told her. How Maeve knew such things was beyond her, but she was a reliable source and if she said they had a phone then it was true. It would be just as quick to walk the couple of miles to her mother’s house and see if Seán had turned up there, but she didn’t want to involve her parents if she could avoid it. She didn’t want them to see how she’d failed. How she’d managed to lose the one child she had. Classic Sinéad. Another vintage piece of parenting from the worst mother ever to breathe air.
There was a phone box just down the road, but she’d have to ring and then get her mother to call back; read out the number to her, get Patricia to jot it down, and then wait an interminable length of time for her to dial it. No, she’d just go there; all this pissing about with phones would only slow things down. Trying to ignore the calamitous scenarios playing out in her head, she wrote a little note for Seán, stuck it on the fridge and began the walk to her parents’ house.
Gone to Nanny’s. Come up when you read this.
She’d never had to leave out a note for him before – he was only seven, after all. This was probably the first time since he’d been born that she didn’t know his exact location and what he was doing; but he was almost certainly at her parent’s house. He had to be.
As she hurried up the road she scanned her surroundings, looking for something, anything, which might point to his presence. There were a couple of old ladies at the bus stop near their house, but they hadn’t seen him. Neither had Mr. Talbot, who seemed a bit put out when she carried on before he could tell her how his fuchsias were coming along. She ducked into the local newsagent’s, Bartley’s, to see if anyone in there had seen him. Mr. Bartley was serving, or ‘Bulldog’ Bartley as they’d called him when they were young.
“Hello, Mr. Bartley. You haven’t seen my Seán at all today, have you?”
As usual he barely registered her presence, never mind answered her question. Unabashed, she continued. “About this high, dirty blond hair, cheeky little smile? Ring any bells?”
Bulldog shuffled his paper, cleared his throat and continued to ignore her. What was wrong with him, seriously? Losing patience, she approached the counter and stood directly in front of the seated shopkeeper.
“HELLO, MR. BARTLEY. I’M TALKING TO YOU.”
This seemed to do the trick. He slowly lowered his newspaper and looked at her for the first time.
“No need to shout; I can hear you well enough,” he said calmly.
“Well, why didn’t you answer me then?”
If he wanted an argument he’d bloody well get one.
Bulldog got up from his seat and walked over to a section of the shop which apparently needed urgent attention.
“We get lots of little boys in here. How can you expect me to remember all of them?” he muttered, straightening out some magazines.
“I’m not asking you to remember them all, just mine. Come on, you must know him by now; he’s always in here.”
“Is he one of those bold boys, the ones that give my wife guff every time they’re in here?”
“No, he is not. He’s seven years old and he loves sweets, especially penny sweets.”
“Ah,” replied Bulldog. “The ‘penny sweet’ boy.”
“So you do know him,” said Sinéad, relieved to be getting somewhere. “Was he in here today?”
“Oh, he was, the little shite; gave me an awful time, so he did,” moaned Bulldog.
“How long ago? Which way did he go?”
“Wanted me to hand-pick sweets for him, and me with my back so bad,” he continued, warming to his theme.
He shuffled back behind the counter, ignoring the distressed woman who was now affixing him with a deadly stare. As he took his seat, he noticed the deranged look in her eyes and decided to be forthright while he still could.
“It was a couple of hours ago. I think he went up the hill.”
Sinéad turned on her heels and left without a word.
Bulldog winced as the door slammed shut. He rubbed his back and returned to his paper with a dismissive grunt.
Sinéad carried on up the hill as Bulldog had suggested. At least the trail was getting warm now. He must have gone to her parent’s house; he had no other business coming up this way. She jogged the final few metres past the turn-off to the woods and into the estate she’d lived in for most of her life. Their house was at the very end of the avenue, right where the cul-de-sac bottomed out into a wide, circular space where her father usually parked his car. His red Nissan was the first thing she looked for whenever she walked into the estate, but today it was nowhere to be seen. He rarely drove anywhere on his own, so if he was out then her mother was gone with him. Seán must have called here and they’d gone off somewhere together. That was it. Panic over. But they wouldn’t have gone anywhere without telling her, they knew better – didn’t they?
She carried on to the house and around to the back garden, half hoping to find him kicking a ball against the side of the house, or hidden beneath some bushes firing shots at an unseen foe, but it was deserted. Sinéad tried the back door, it opened; there was someone here at least.
“Seán?”
A used cereal bowl sat on the kitchen table, a carton of milk beside it.
“Seán?”
She opened the living-room door. Patrick lay on the couch, he appeared to be nursing a hangover.
“Is Seán here?”
“Huh?”
“Is Seán here?”
“No.”
“Where are Mam and Dad?”
“Dunno.”
“Did they bring him somewhere?”
“Who?”
“Sean!”
“What are you on about, Nades?”
Sineád pulled the cushion from beneath her brother’s head, causing his head to bump against the arm-rest.
“Ow, fuck’s sake, Sineád!”
“I don’t know where Seán is, Patrick. I can’t find him.”
Her younger brother sat up straight, “Seán’s missing?”
Sineád nodded, tears welling in her eyes.
“When did you last see him?”
“Not since last night. I was just in the shop and Bulldog said he came up this way.”
Patrick stared at her a moment, rubbing the spot where his head had hit the arm-rest.
“Why did you leave him out on his own, he’s only seven for fuck’s sake!”
“I didn’t leave him, he ran off,” Sinéad protested.
“Ran off?”
“Yeah. I’ll explain later,” she said, picking up Patrick’s runners and dropping them at his feet.
He put them on without complaint, already guessing where they were going. It was obvious. Bulldog had told he’d carried on up the hill. He wasn’t here, and he fuckin’ loved those woods, so that was where he’d gone. Simple; elementary, my dear McLoughlin. Knowing he was in the woods and actually finding him, however, were two different things entirely.
6
Seán dug his hand into the bag of sweets. Nothing. Empty. They couldn’t be all gone already, he’d only been getting going. He peered into the bag; all gone. Feck. His entire rations depleted within the first hour. This wasn’t good. And he was thirsty now, too. He really wanted a cup of tea, a cup of his nanny’s tea. Her house wasn’t far from here; if he wanted, he could just trek back through the fields and be there drinking tea in less than an hour. But no, he was running away from home. He didn’t need them, or their tea. There was probably a pond or a lake nearby that he could drink from. That was what you did when you were in the wild; you improvised. He’d find a watering-hole, drink his fill and then set out some traps. The traps were for the rabbits. He didn’t really want to kill the rabbits. He liked rabbits. But he had no choice, really; he had to eat something. So he would capture some rabbits, maybe a hare or two, skin them and then cook them over the fire he planned to light later. Once he’d eaten, he’d retire to the hammock he’d have built from leaves and branches and settle in for a good night’s kip. The fire would have to be tended to a couple of times overnight, though, to keep the beasts away. But all that could wait; he wanted to do some exploring first. He made a mental note of his location, and set off into the woods, barefoot and full of sugar.