‘Where’ve ye bin?’ he growled.
‘Out.’ Pauley pushed on to the kitchen.
‘Jesus, I know you were out. I’m asking what you were doing? Where’ve ye bin the last couple of weeks? On holiday?’ He leered, smelling of spirits, his stubble rough and the rims of his eyes reddened. He trailed after his son, persisting. ‘Who are these ladeens?’ he slurred, attempting to push Pauley against the wall. Shane stepped back; Torin cowered. ‘And who, may I ask, is this fella?’ The thin, bedraggled face looked down. ‘Don’t I know you from some place?’ He smiled with dull yellow teeth. ‘What’s yer name? D’you have one or are ye always like this, without a tongue in yer head?’
‘Torin.’
Pauley cut in, taking his father by the arm and leading him to a chair in the kitchen. Torin hung back. Empties littered the floor along with stacks of old newspapers and two black bin liners which had collapsed, the openings falling away to reveal a load of clothes. Pauley led them to the room at the front. It was cold. A long whitewood room divider took up most of the space. Shelving displayed photographs, and plates with lavish red flowers. A leather sofa which had once been white was stained and scuffed. The television was on and two women with stiff blonde hair gabbled in front of a display which showed parts of a word beginning with ‘B’.
‘Let’s see what’s on the other side.’ Shane leant across to get the remote.
Torin sank back in the sofa. The flat screen, which took up a good bit of the room, was one good reason for being there.
‘This film’s started,’ Pauley said.
‘It’s old, man. Black and white. I can’t watch that.’ Shane slumped down.
‘There’s nothing else.’ Pauley skimmed through the channels. ‘It’s all kids’ stuff.’
Torin didn’t care what they saw. If they kept watching something they might forget about Pauley’s dad. He might forget about when he had first seen him.
‘Hasn’t he got Sky?’ Shane asked.
‘Course not. He wouldn’t pay for it,’ Pauley said.
‘Then it’ll be rubbish.’ Shane pointed to a man on the left of the screen. ‘Look. It’s a Western. Really old.’
A man in a cowboy hat rode into town. Two mean-looking men were at the station with a ticket collector who looked terrified. The land was bare and open; scrubland with a couple of stark trees.
‘You all right, Pauley?’ Torin asked.
‘Yes. But I wish I knew what he was up to.’ He glanced to the door edgily and fidgeted on the sofa. ‘It’s too bloody quiet.’
‘Don’t worry. He might be drunk, or sleeping,’ Shane said.
‘Or dead,’ Pauley laughed.
‘Yes, well. Hey, Torin,’ Shane said. ‘She looks like your mum.’
‘Does she?’ Torin frowned at the screen.
‘Kinda oval face,’ Shane said.
The woman on the screen, riding in a carriage, was slim with a quiet, pale face. His mum was chunkier. Not fat, but not as slim as this woman. She placed her hands neatly in her lap. Everything about her was trim. The cowboy looked great with his big hat and holster. The woman sat up straight. Shane was right. The woman was prettier than his mum, but otherwise was like his mum in the way she held herself. He leaned back in the sofa. A guitar rested in the far corner, its slim body curved and gleaming.
‘This yours?’ Torin asked Pauley.
‘Yes.’
‘Why don’t you have it down at the house? Can you play it?’
‘A bit.’
‘He’s pretty good,’ Shane said.
‘I’ve never seen anyone play the guitar. Not close up in real life. Can I hear?’ Torin asked.
‘All right.’ Pauley stretched to turn down the television. He picked up the guitar, holding it as if it was a baby.
‘You still here? Having a wee bit of a sing-song?’ Sheridan thundered into the room. ‘You’re going to give us a song, lad. Good. Give us “The Parting Glass”.’ He sank to the sofa, crushing in.
Pauley was pale and frozen. Torin hoped he would play, that he would not think they were too demanding. Pauley leaned into the guitar. The notes came swimmingly as his voice coiled into the empty corners of the room.
‘… her rosy cheeks and ruby lips, I own she has my heart in thrall…’
Caitlin. The shape of her cheeks, her ears. The sweep of her neck. He wanted to hear more but Pauley turned away and rested the guitar leaning against the wall.
Sheridan slumped in his own darkness. His face was scraggy and wasted as if he had barely been listening.
‘Have you any money?’ He leant into Pauley.
‘No.’
‘You’ve a bit hid somewhere?’ he bellowed, his face tight with irritation.
‘I haven’t got any money.’
‘I don’t believe you. You’ve something, ye bugger.’
Pauley twisted away his arm, freed himself from the grasp.
‘What are ye doin’ here?’ Sheridan turned and glared at Shane and Torin.
Torin wished he had the nerve to smack him, give a jab in the gob and scarper, but Sheridan kept his eyes fixed on Pauley. Shane got between them. Sheridan turned. Torin was sure he would go for Shane. Instead, Sheridan gave a last thrust at his son and turned away.
‘You’re no good, the lot of you. Annoy the dead you would, gathering up every kind of person on earth and bringing them along here to be pestering me. And this one the worse, for I’ve met him before and he’s not the sociable type.’ He slurred and swung a jacket over his shoulder as he stumbled out, up the stairs.
‘Let’s push off.’ Shane edged to the front door and Torin followed.
‘You go on. I’ll collect my stuff. I won’t be long. He’ll soon be off out for the night,’ Pauley said.
On the thin road out of the estate, when Torin looked over his shoulder, the house was small and dark in the fading day but a light shone from a window upstairs. Pauley watching, looking down.
‘He’s a bastard. How’d he get like that?’ Torin asked.
‘Pauley says it was drink. And his wife going off. Pauley says he was never the same after. He drank when she was around, but he drank more afterwards when she wasn’t.’
At least Pauley had a dad. And knew where he was. His mum had not given much away about his own.
They walked down the main street and passed the internet café. Torin slowed down.
‘What’s wrong?’ Shane asked.
‘Think I’ll go in for a bit,’ Torin said. ‘Catch up. See what’s going on.’
Shane glanced towards the greasy glass and the cramped tables with screens. In the back, a man was serving at a counter.
‘Okay. See you later.’
‘I won’t be long. Shit. My money’s in my other trousers.’
‘Want a few euros?’ Shane pulled a scraggy ten euro note from his pocket. ‘Here.’
‘Thanks. See you.’
The café was full and he had to wait for a girl to finish on a computer. He logged on, clicked onto ripthestreets.
Firecracker – What’s the scene?
Babyface – Nothing doing.
Firecracker – Quiet round here, ain’t it?
Babyface – More than used to be.
Big Ian must still be around. The police had not got to him. He was liable to do more damage. Torin searched through back pages but there was no reference to the night of the stabbing. His stomach lurched. He clicked and let images of the park and street parties, someone’s rave and a skate-boarding competition run away.
He looked for what was on in Islington and Hammersmith. He crawled to a site for Arsenal. The shop had shirts, mugs, scarves. New gear for the season. Stuff that cost, that he could never wear unless some of it got lifted. Harjit used to go with his dad. Lucky bugger. If Torin could not have his dad physically he wou
ld trawl him, trace him, track him down on sites. The least he could do was chase after him and try to find him.
He keyed in ‘John Taylor’. All his mum had given him and the fact he had come from the west of Scotland. The screen opened to a roll call of names. Mostly people in America. Estate agents, lawyers, an actor. Some living in Australia. He ran through the links. Too many people in too many different places not giving him what he wanted. He should not have started this. He should be satisfied with the bare facts. Ten minutes left. Photos spilt onto the screen. Unspoilt beaches. Hills. Fields climbing mountains. He pressed on, racing. Images streamed. Sand dunes, wide plains of light, men on bicycles leaning into a wind. It was similar to where he was, the same but different. Expanses of land. A wavering line of hills. This was where he belonged, what he was meant for, but his hour was up.
At the old house, he and Shane took down the tent Shane’d got from his old man. It had seemed a good idea, a couple of weeks back, but they had not used it. Falls of rain had found a tear which leaked. Shane cut the lip off a can and while they waited for Pauley he opened a packet of fags he had nicked and offered Torin one. They smoked outside until a light shower sent them in. A thin net across the dirty windows, torn in places, gave a drizzling light and the shimmering side of a mountain with a sprawl of bog.
Sitting on a box, Shane hugged his knees. They smoked. Sounds of the evening rose: long moans of a car in the distance; a lonely dog; children’s fading cries as they came in from play.
‘I’ll wear this tonight to keep out the cold.’ Shane pulled a big coat from a nail by the door.
As he spread it on top of the mattress, Pauley crashed in, his face pinched white and bruised around his left eye. Someone had left their mark.
‘You all right? Sit down. Have some of this,’ Shane offered a can and produced a sandwich of limp bread with a sliver of cheese falling down the sides, a squeal of tomatoes dangling.
Pauley took a slug of beer.
‘I shouldn’t’ve stayed. He kept going on about money. I won’t go back. Not ever. I’ve got all my stuff, shirts, trousers, jackets. He’s full of shit.’
A cut above his eye looked sore. A streak of dead blood stuck. His cheek had the impress of fingers. Sheridan had done a good job of doing him in.
‘He hit you,’ Torin said.
Pauley nodded. ‘And smashed my guitar.’
‘Why?’
‘Cos he’s mental. He threw a bottle at me. It missed but got the guitar and broke it.’
‘Fucking awful.’ Shane put down his can.
‘I’ve thought about getting a gun. It’d be easy. But afterwards…’ Pauley said.
‘It’d be prison. Life.’ Shane stabbed the ground with his toe.
‘How long’s life?’ Torin asked.
‘Twenty, twenty-five years.’ Shane wiped the top of the can with his cuff and sipped.
‘Could I bear it? I’d say I could.’
‘A friend of my dad’s, years ago, did some woman in and was lucky to get eighteen years. He went to Mountjoy. Said it was a terrible place. That’s the trouble. Killing screws up the rest of your life,’ Shane said.
‘It’s no good then. Not worth it.’ Pauley sank back against the wall and pulled his jacket around him. When the rain stopped, he went outside and walked to the edge of the field.
A shiver ran through Torin and he followed after. He wanted to ask Pauley about Caitlin, but Shane was around. She was probably working. He would like to step into the bar but he wanted to be on his own when he next saw her.
‘Will your dad come here?’ he asked.
‘He wouldn’t dare. Doesn’t know where I am, anyways.’
‘What’ll he do?’ Torin asked.
‘I couldn’t give a shite. He can do what he likes. There’s nothing for me to go back for. Nothing he can give me. Soon as I can get out of here, I’m off.’
‘Where’ll you go?’
‘I’d love to go to London,’ Pauley answered starkly. ‘Be a hairdresser.’ He smiled. ‘Good money. Get in with a fancy salon. Do an apprenticeship. Soon have women chatting, becoming regulars.’
Yes. Women customers would go back to him. He would chat and make them feel good, his slim fingers wafting around their hair.
They went in and Pauley lay down on a bed of old coats and blankets. Shane got out a pack of cards, greasy with wear. Shane dealt. Torin’s King and Knave looked up. A low throb of a techno beat pulsed. Shane had more stuff than they did, though it was really his elder brother’s, who had headed off to Dublin. Torin shifted to get comfortable on the scratchy blanket. At least with his mum he could get round her, and she worked to get what she wanted, even if half the time she did not know what it was she was after. You needed someone to stick up for you. He should go and see her, not for the food but to see how she was. A week before, his granddad had said she had to go to hospital to have tests. He had not known what for but said she was a fighter, whatever was wrong, adding that there were all kinds of medicines doing great things nowadays.
Night came down. Empty lager cans piled in the corner. Newspaper spread on a battered case for a table and dusty rags of lace curtain covered the windows. The other two were sleeping. Torin went out for a piss. His phone pulsed and he scrabbled to get it from his trouser pocket.
‘How you doing?’ Marcus.
‘Okay. Any news?’
‘The court case’s been adjourned.’
‘Why?’
‘Some technical thing. They have to get more evidence.’
‘Anyone go to it?’
‘No. Keep away’s what I say. News’ll get out soon enough. Thought I’d let you know. It’s not good. But it’s not bad neither.’
‘It’s all we’ve got then? They question any more people?’
‘Not sure. No one’s saying much. I’d better go, now. S’long mate.’
‘Thanks.’
He sank back to the mattress and lay down, trying to settle, pulling up the worn blanket over his shoulders. He stretched out his legs. He turned, shifting to get comfortable. Marcus’s voice took him back. Torin saw him slinking around the streets they both knew, kicking a ball around, hiding out in the park, meeting someone who had grass in the cemetery. Going by the canal. He didn’t know if it was any easier being at a distance. If it made him safe. But what was going on over there was huge and encompassing so he was best out of it.
4
Caitlin led Torin out of town, past newsagents, small pubs, the two supermarkets both proclaiming good value, the used car garage and the church. Early morning rain had ceased and the air was fresh, showing up the fields in the distance. He felt naked with the gang but this was different. She seemed to fill the land and sky, his whole view. The angle of her head when she spoke, the run of her voice and her burnished skin. They reached a road of new bungalows, with double garages and well-laid lawns showing an easy wealth. This side of the town was new, with identical houses in rows.
‘I used to wish I lived in a new house with everything shiny and in its place, but then I’d see the people who lived in those kind of houses and realise I’d never last.’ She pushed a strand of hair behind her ear.
In her baggy trousers and boots scuffed with mud, he could not see her living in one. Her tight curls of hair had sprung loose, revealing the whisper of a scar, a crescent moon on her left temple. The skin was lighter, where it tried to heal. Sheridan might have done it but Torin was too scared to ask.
The road eased to fields and scrubby, dry land, then a row of bland white warehouses and superstores. In the distance, the shriek of a police siren tore through and he paused, shivering.
‘You okay?’ she asked.
‘Yes, fine.’
They were coming to get him. It was over. He couldn’t go on pretending. The air had fallen quiet. Caitlin stood in front of him, frowning. A bee humme
d. The air sank in its own weight of silence.
‘You sure?’
‘Course.’ He edged a smile. ‘I’m fine.’ They crossed a ditch and pasture with nettles and dock leaves. ‘It’s so open and bare. Nowhere to hide. Looks like no one bothers with it.’
She laughed. ‘This may not look much but it’s worth something. Each plot is identifiable and handed down through families.’
The bog was flat, with rolling differences in the level of grass or soil. Inconspicuous land but worth something and whatever it was, was passed on through the generations. Is that how it was with everything? Being outside was disorientating. He had thought he was getting used to it but he was tipped off centre. Nothing was what it seemed and he was not part of it. Deep tracks cut the earth. Brown turves piled like the slabs of chocolate cake his mum used to buy from Shepherd’s Bush market. She used to arrive when the stall holders were clearing up and they got to know her. How she loved sweet things. Maybe that was what was doing her in. He didn’t know. Sometimes he didn’t know anything about her.
A breeze lifted. A rough, bleak field had long grass and trees whose branches were frenzied in the distance. Pastel-shaded mountains rose on the horizon. A slide of a silvery river, catching the light.
‘You haven’t been out this way before?’ She led on.
‘No.’
‘I’ll have to make sure I show you around, then.’
‘What’s that?’ He raised his hand to shade his eyes and pointed to the sliver of river on a hilly outcrop.
‘The Argideen. It flows down the other side. Breathtaking views.’
Caravan of the Lost and Left Behind Page 9