‘The thing is, Ellen, at the end of the day, you didn’t kill anyone. No one is upset at you. It’s just in your head.’ Trinny took a firm bite out of her sandwich to emphasise her point.
‘You don’t know what it’s like. They look at me, but they see him. Mam and Dad can’t exactly disown him so it’s like we’re all on his side, like we don’t care or something.’
Trinny chewed thoughtfully before swallowing. ‘For now. These things blow over. People will forget soon enough.’
Ellen stared at her friend.
‘Blow over? Trinny, people are dead! Families are in mourning. Is there anyone in Mullinmore whose heart doesn’t break when they see little Mrs Hegarty shuffling up the town all alone in the world?’
‘God forgive me, but I’d say that one is half cracked. I wouldn’t be worrying about her.’
‘Trinny!’ Ellen exclaimed, genuinely shocked. Her friend looked a little sheepish.
‘Well, you know what I mean. That carry-on at the funeral. Pure mental.’ She bent down to her sandwich and ripped out another bite. Ellen gazed across the yard at a seagull as it marched up and down a rusty oil tank. Trinny tugged at her sleeve to regain her attention.
‘Here, do you know who’s after getting engaged?’
It seemed the conversation had moved on.
No one understood. How could they? Even Ellen struggled with it. She knew that this drama wasn’t about her and yet she could feel her life slipping away, all her assumptions about who she was and what people thought of her upended through no fault of her own. She accepted she had no right to ask for sympathy. She had been at the funerals and seen what real grief looked like, but just because others had lost more than her didn’t mean that she had not lost anything, either. At school she had sometimes bristled at the injustice of her status, constantly outshone by girls who were prettier, smarter, or better at sports than her, but the harsh spotlight that the crash had shone on her and her family was much, much worse. The attention made her feel almost physically sick as she walked around the town. After work she had taken to hiding at the back of the town library leafing through the big photography books, taking solace in images of people with lives that looked harder than her own.
In the past she would probably have confided in her mother, but her parents were dealing with their own problems. Connor’s court date was looming. He had been charged with dangerous driving causing death. Ellen wasn’t sure how serious that was, but she assumed it meant that he could go to jail. She wanted to ask somebody but there never seemed to be the right person or opportunity. A dark thought formed at the back of her mind like hair caught in a plughole. Maybe he should go to jail. It might help. Perhaps people could forgive her family if Connor was seen to suffer. But then she thought of her parents and how they would feel if their son went to prison. No, she couldn’t wish for that. It was too awful. She had to accept that there were no solutions, only different ways for her life to be worse.
VI.
The weather had changed to match the mood of the town. The long warm evenings of late summer had vanished, and now, without pausing for autumn, the heavy grey skies of winter had rolled in. If it wasn’t actually raining, then it promised to do so very soon. The roofs and roads wore the constant dark sheen of damp.
On the day of the court case Ellen got back from work to find the pub unopened and no lights in the windows above it. She sat in the kitchen still wearing her coat, waiting for the others to return. She hadn’t turned on any of the lights so that the room was lit only by reflections from the street. Long shadows moved across the wall opposite while she waited for the sound of a key in the lock. Something must have gone wrong. They weren’t meant to be this late. She chewed anxiously at a clump of her hair.
She couldn’t imagine how she had managed to fall asleep and yet she must have, for the next thing Ellen was aware of was sitting up with a jolt, the neon strip above her flooding the kitchen with light. Connor was standing in front of her, dressed, she imagined, how he might have been at any of the funerals: one of his father’s ties, grey school trousers, and a jacket that their mother had bought especially for the occasion.
‘Well?’ she asked.
‘Two years suspended.’ He didn’t seem pleased or upset.
‘A big fine?’ she asked, trying to get more of a sense of his mood.
‘No. No fine,’ her brother told the linoleum. Just then their father came into the room and placed his arm around Connor’s hunched shoulders.
‘Your brother is a very lucky boy. No actual jail time.’ He patted the boy on the back and smiled at Ellen.
‘That’s great!’ she replied, but even as she said it she wondered if it was. How could you be driving a car when three people died and then just walk away? It might be the law, but she found it hard to believe that anyone in Mullinmore would think justice had been served.
‘Very lucky,’ her father continued. ‘Young Martin Coulter gave evidence and spoke very well. Described him as a responsible man. The judge seemed to believe him and of course he wasn’t over the limit, so.’ Dan stopped speaking as if he had reached a conclusion. Ellen struggled to understand what might be considered good news or what was bad.
Chrissie walked in dabbing at her eyes. Clearly, she had been crying.
‘Are you OK, Mammy?’
‘You’ve not heard?’
‘Two years suspended sentence?’
Her mother waved her hankie dismissively. ‘No prison time, it’s true. But Connor has other news, haven’t you?’ The two women looked at him but his gaze didn’t leave the floor. Instead it was Dan who cleared his throat.
‘Connor is going to be leaving us. The Brennans have a cousin who runs a couple of building sites over in Liverpool, and a fresh start is what this man needs.’ He punctuated the end of his little speech by patting Connor’s shoulder twice. Chrissie pushed her hankie against her mouth and rushed back out of the room.
For years afterwards Ellen would try to forgive herself for her first thought at hearing the news. She was glad. Elated to hear that her brother was leaving and the rest of them might have a chance of getting on with their lives. Perhaps now the blight would be lifted.
VII.
It wasn’t as bad as Connor had expected. He had thought the work would defeat him, but it appeared he was stronger than he believed, or perhaps it was that the barrows of blocks or hods of cement weren’t as heavy as he’d feared. Half the time it was just guttering or pipes for plumbing and they were plastic. He enjoyed being told what to do, liked to be given a time and a place to be. Going to bed tired and having dreamless sleep was a welcome change from the previous few weeks in Mullinmore.
Leaving, however, had been worse than he’d anticipated. The sight of his mother huddled inside the door at the bottom of the stairs so people on the street couldn’t see the state of her. The crying. One arm raised against the wall to support herself. He thought of Carmel, Bernie, David and their parents. Their children were gone forever, never to be seen or heard again. He was just going to Liverpool and yet he didn’t see how his mother was going to cope. His father had driven him up to Cork and dropped him at the bus station. Dan couldn’t find anywhere to park, so his farewell to his son was an awkward hug across the gear stick before pressing an envelope with an English tenner and four five-pound notes into his hands. Cars behind had started to sound their horns. Dan didn’t even get to wave goodbye, just drove on, hoping that Connor hadn’t seen his face crumple into tears.
As he travelled through the night, the journey had seemed endless, though now he found he could scarcely remember any of it. A small girl running up and down the aisle of the bus singing the few lines she knew of ‘Molly Malone’. The man with the flat cap sitting in front of him in a fog of stale piss. The loud clanking echoes that rang out across the port in Dublin. The big arc lights that made it look like a movie set. Looking down at the dark thick rolls of water between the ferry and the wall of the dock he imagined how cold it must be. On board he
moved from seat to seat out of boredom. The occasional yell from a small group of drinkers at the bar. Feeling drunk himself as he tried to make his way to the gents’ toilet, staggering from wall to wall with the swell of the ocean. A Spanish-looking man on the windswept deck – a lorry driver from the continent, Connor imagined – smiled at him and held out a packet of cigarettes. Was he just being friendly, or was it something more? Connor had panicked and rushed back inside, the wind snatching the door from his hand.
The lights of Liverpool had seemed exotic and full of promise when they first threaded themselves along the horizon but by dawn when they actually docked, everything took on a strangely familiar air that made Connor feel even more exhausted than he was. This didn’t look so very different from the place he had left. A light drizzle washed his face as he and his fellow foot passengers made their way down the long gangway. Young, old, families or alone, he wondered what awaited these people. What had brought them here? Some struggled with heavy cases, while others, like Connor, walked with a stuffed backpack towering above their heads.
Once inside the terminal building, a youngish man with dark hair flecked with premature grey approached him and immediately Connor felt flustered and nervous.
‘Connor Hayes?’ The man had a strong Dublin accent.
‘Yes.’ A handshake. Connor was struck by how rough and cold the man’s hand seemed. He assumed his own would feel that way before too long.
‘Ciaran. I have the van outside. Is that you?’ he asked, indicating Connor’s backpack.
‘Yes. That’s me. Nothing else.’
‘Grand.’
Ciaran turned and walked away.
The van looked like it was intended for deliveries but inside it had been fitted out with rows of seats like a minibus. Connor sat up front with Ciaran. Everything was covered in dust or smeared with bits of mud. A Daily Mirror was rolled up and shoved between the dashboard and the windscreen.
‘Did you sleep?’
‘Not really, no.’ Connor pulled at the sleeves of his jacket. He knew he didn’t look right. Ciaran was just so comfortable and correct somehow. He looked like he had always been meant to be wearing his old denim jacket over a brown wool jumper and driving this van. Connor in his school duffle coat and a pair of pristine Doc Marten boots felt it must be obvious to Ciaran that this newcomer had been hopelessly miscast.
‘Too bad. I’m just bringing you in to Huskisson Street to drop your stuff and then straight out to the site. The first day is always brutal.’
Huskisson Street. Connor remembered that was the address he had been given for where he would be living. The Brennans’ cousin shipped Irish lads over and not only gave them work but also collected rent by providing them with somewhere to live. He was operating a full economy.
As the van slowed to a stop, Connor looked around. This wasn’t what he had been expecting. A terrace of large redbrick buildings with fanlights perched above wide front doors. It reminded him of the Georgian terraces he had seen when he had gone to Dublin for the weekend. As if reading his mind Ciaran clarified, ‘It’s not as fancy as it looks. At least our gaff isn’t!’
He was right. The once-splendid front door had peeling red paint and the railings on either side of the stone steps were splattered with patches of rust.
‘I’ll get you your own key later today,’ Ciaran said as he opened the door. The entrance hall was wide, with a couple of bikes piled against one wall while the opposite one contained a long narrow table covered with piles of unopened mail, free newspapers and glossy takeaway menus. Ciaran headed to the back of the hall and disappeared down some stairs. Unsure of what to do, Connor followed him.
The basement kitchen was enormous and filled with a gloom that even the brightest midday sun wouldn’t reach. A large table covered in a red and white checked oilcloth dominated the centre of the room. It was littered with debris, pizza boxes, crushed lager cans, mountainous ashtrays. The smell reminded Connor of coming down to clean the bar in the morning. Mullinmore. They’d be having breakfast now. The sound of his mother scraping butter across hot toast. Ellen trying to put together her packed lunch. The tinny chatter from the radio. The weight of his backpack suddenly seemed immense.
‘You’ve time for a tea if you want one.’
Connor hesitated. ‘Are you having one?’
‘If you’re making it I will.’ Ciaran smiled and his friendly face caught Connor by surprise. He felt himself blushing. He turned away to hide his face and simultaneously unburdened himself of his luggage, letting it slip to the ground.
‘I will so,’ he said and risked a small smile in return.
‘Good man yourself.’ Ciaran sat down and took a packet of cigarettes out of his jacket. ‘Smoke?’
Connor shook his head. ‘No thanks.’
He took the kettle from the gas cooker that looked far too small for the room. The sink was so full of used plates and mugs Connor had to remove some just to get the kettle under the tap.
A rumble of footsteps on the stairs announced the arrival of a tall young man with long loose limbs. He looked even weaker than Connor felt, which reassured him about the day’s work ahead.
‘Gents!’
‘Knacker!’ Ciaran replied. ‘This is the new fella. Connor was it?’
He nodded.
‘Do you want tea, Knacker?’
‘I will.’
‘Rinse another mug there like a good man.’
‘Welcome, Connor! My name is actually Brian.’
‘But everyone calls him Knacker.’
‘Knacker?’ Connor asked.
‘He let slip one night that his parents have a caravan in Courtown and the lads have been ripping the piss ever since.’
Connor smiled and lifted his chin to indicate he got the joke.
‘Really really funny. Bunch of wankers,’ Brian said, taking one of Ciaran’s cigarettes. ‘And tell me this, Connor, were you working on the buildings back home?’
‘I wasn’t, no. Pub work, mostly.’ He hoped that might be the end of questions.
‘And what’s the story? You know old Brennan is it?’
‘No,’ Connor replied quickly, knowing that he should distance himself from any personal connection to the boss. ‘My father knows his cousins or something.’
‘Father!’ Brian said, mimicking Connor’s accent. ‘Aren’t you a fancy whore for a big freckly fucker.’
Ciaran laughed. ‘He is mad freckly all right.’ He turned to Connor. ‘In fairness you are.’
‘It was a good summer back home. They start to fade now thank God.’
He put mugs of tea in front of his new workmates.
‘There should be milk in the fridge over there.’
Connor turned obediently.
Another figure appeared at the door.
‘My head!’ A northern Irish accent. He seemed older than the others, with a high forehead and dark bags under his eyes.
‘Late one was it?’ Ciaran enquired.
‘Robbo got out the cards and you know what he’s like.’
‘Connor, this is Frank.’
Frank greeted him with a half-hearted salute.
‘Jesus but you’re freckly!’
‘I just said the very same thing!’ Brian crowed and the two men high-fived each other.
Connor tried to smile. All this attention was making him feel nervous.
Soon the kitchen was full of young men, eight or nine, all moving around the room slurping up bowls of cereal or tearing at jam-covered slices of bread. Ciaran had stopped introducing them to Connor, who was warming his hands on his mug of tea while trying not to look too awkward standing to the side of the sink. As if there had been a secret signal, Ciaran suddenly stood, adding another cigarette butt to the ashy mountain, and clapped his hands.
‘Let’s hit the road, lads!’
Various groans and sighs greeted this announcement, but mugs were put down and everyone shuffled back up the stairs.
The packed van now sme
lled of men and sweat of various vintages. Connor was reminded of the changing rooms at school and that familiar feeling of awkwardness. An alien trying to pass as human. Connor was squeezed in beside a stocky young man who he guessed was in his mid-twenties. He was unshaven and his dark hair sliced his forehead with a severe fringe. He showed no interest in Connor. They rode in silence past unassuming streets and small arcades of shops until they reached stretches of hedgerows and trees. Beside him he could hear his travelling companion breathing heavily through his nose. Their silence had begun to feel awkward, so Connor put out his hand and introduced himself. ‘Robbo,’ was the reply and then he shook Connor’s hand as if he was doing him a favour.
‘You were playing cards last night.’
‘I was. What’s it to you?’
Connor immediately regretted his attempt at familiarity. ‘One of the guys was just saying …’ His voice trailed away and he gave a vague indication with his left hand towards where he thought the man from Northern Ireland was sitting. Robbo just stared at him, his dark brows pressed low. Had the gesture been too girly? His wrist swivelled too much?
‘Prick,’ Robbo muttered and turned his attention to the window.
Connor’s face felt hot and he knew that he was close to tears but that couldn’t happen. That would be the end of everything. He thought again of being in the car going around Barry’s roundabout. One moment, one random moment, just a wheel hitting the kerb at the wrong angle. If things had just been fractionally different then he wouldn’t be sitting here heading to work on a building site with these strangers he didn’t want to know. But there was no going back, no changing what had happened, and so his whole life was ruined. He bit down hard on the inside of his cheek.
The van came to a halt and everyone stepped out onto a wide muddy strip that one day would be a street leading to the houses that littered the horizon half built.
VIII.
A Christmas card had arrived with an English stamp on it. Ellen recognised the writing and sighed as she picked it up. She dreaded seeing how her mother was going to react.
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