She slips her warm, sticky hand into mine, which feels disgusting but it seems mean to shrug it off. ‘OK,’ she says.
The door of their house is still wide open from when they came crying out into the street. I’ve never been in Stacey’s house. I suppose I imagined it would be a bit of a dive, like ours during Mum’s vodka years. But it’s not. It’s still got some old-lady wallpaper from when Seaneen’s granny lived here, but other than that it’s quite clean and modern and pink. Very pink. Fluffy cushions and rugs and the same bits of plastic tat that are in Seaneen’s house. Loads of photos of the kids everywhere – mainly the girls. A purple plastic castle takes up half the sofa.
‘We were playing princesses,’ Courtney says. ‘And Cian said we could have hot chocolate. But then he never came back.’
‘Where did he go?’
‘To the shop. He said we could have hot chocolate and he would get us Flakes to put on top. But he’d have to go out and get them in the shop. Only he never came back. So Madison started crying and I said I knew how to make hot chocolate, but then she went and lifted the kettle down herself. I told her she wasn’t allowed, only she wouldn’t listen. She was trying to h-h-help.’ And she bursts into fresh blubbery sobs.
‘Ah come on, now, sure it’ll be OK.’ I move the purple castle from the sofa, hoping this might encourage her to sit down. ‘Tell you what – if you stop crying, I’ll make you hot chocolate. How’s that?’
She stares at me from under her long yellowy fringe and sniffs wetly. Her face is all snottery and blotched. I wonder if she’s old enough to be told to blow her nose. I definitely can’t do it for her. I wish Seaneen was here. This is her kind of thing.
I go into the kitchen. The kettle’s still lying on the floor where it must have fallen, in a pool of cooling water. It doesn’t look like much to have caused all that damage. I lift it up and check that the element isn’t wet, and then blot the floor with kitchen roll.
Courtney stands in the middle of the kitchen and watches me with her hands on her hips. She’s dressed like a baby prostitute in a tight black T-shirt with a glittery pink face printed on it, and pink leggings with laces up the sides.
‘Is my mummy going to be cross?’ she asks again.
‘Maybe with Cian,’ I say since she obviously isn’t going to stop nagging till she gets an answer. I put the kettle on and find the hot chocolate powder sitting out on the table.
Courtney wags her head. ‘She’s always cross with Cian. That’s cause he’s a bad boy. He smokes in his room, only nobody’s meant to know, but I do.’ She snorts up more of the snot. ‘I’m in P2,’ she says. ‘I’m in Mrs O’Malley’s class. What P are you in?’
‘I’m not in P-anything. I’m grown up.’
‘Madison’s not in P-anything yet. She goes to nursery school. Cian goes to the big school but he got s’pended. I’ll be six in three more weeks. I’m getting a Baby Annabel.’
‘Are you?’ I spoon the hot chocolate into a Barbie mug and then fetch a Hello Kitty mug for myself. I haven’t had hot chocolate for years. I glance at my watch. I’ve only been here for ten minutes. Why are small kids so boring? How can Seaneen spend all day looking after them?
‘Can I have toast and Nutella?’ Courtney asks while I pour the hot water into the cups.
‘If it keeps you quiet.’
She looks at me with her head tilted, as if she’s trying to work out if this is a joke. ‘Are you babysitting me?’ she asks.
‘I suppose. Look, if you sit down carefully at the table with that and don’t spill, I’ll make you some toast and Nutella.’ I sound like Seaneen. Maybe if I pretend to be Seaneen I’ll be able to manage. Only where the hell is Stacey?
‘OK.’ She sits up at the table and slurps her hot chocolate. I make the toast and soon she adds streaks of Nutella to the smeared snot and tears on her face. ‘You’ll need to wash your face before you go to bed,’ I say, still being Seaneen, as I slide Courtney’s toast crusts off the plate into the bin.
She folds her arms. ‘I’m not going to bed,’ she says firmly. She gets down from the table and springs into the living room. ‘Not till my mummy comes home.’
‘If you go to bed and go to sleep your mummy’ll be home when you wake up.’
‘But I’m allowed to stay up.’ She flashes a gappy chocolatey grin at me. ‘Look what I can do.’ She checks that I’m looking then bounces up and down on the sofa, her stringy blonde hair bouncing in wisps on her narrow shoulders. God, this is going to go on for hours. I can’t make her go to bed. At least she isn’t crying any more. I phone Mum’s mobile but it goes straight to voicemail which I suppose means she’s in the hospital and can’t use it.
At last Courtney flops down on the sofa.
‘Why don’t you watch some TV?’ I suggest.
‘Yeah!’ She grabs the remote and flicks through the channels faster than I’ve ever seen. I think she’ll go for a cartoon or something but her face lights up when she hits on some American X-Factorish thing. She knows all the judges, though I’ve never heard of them, and she sings along with half the songs, standing on the sofa, looking round to see if I’m admiring her and shaking her skinny little six-year-old body in time to the music. It’s repulsive. I feel like a pervert just for being in the same room.
Mum rings in the middle of this and says they’ve taken Madison in to get her burns assessed and dressed. ‘They’re quite worried about the deep one on her chest,’ she says. ‘But I can’t get hold of Stacey. She never goes anywhere without her phone, so I can’t understand it.’
‘The reunion must be going well,’ I say in a low voice, with an eye on Courtney, who’s too busy dancing and singing to listen.
Mum sighs. ‘Everything OK there?’
‘Yeah. I’ve given her her supper and all.’
‘Good for you. God love her. It wasn’t her fault.’
‘Ah, she’s cheered up, she’s grand.’
By midnight, Courtney is conked out on the sofa, her yellow hair streeling over her face, legs sprawled. I don’t want to touch her but she looks too exposed like that so I put the pink fleece from the back of the sofa over her.
I fight to keep awake with TV and coffee. I look at the photos of the kids on the white unit and big ones on the walls. There’s loads of baby pictures of the girls, always in pink, but the only ones of Cian are when he’s older. I wonder where he is, and if Emmet McCann’s caught up with him yet. I don’t want Emmet to hurt Cian. But maybe he needs a bit of a scare if he’s ever going to wise up.
The front door bangs. Stacey bursts in, her face blurred like Mum’s used to be when she had just been with a man she really liked. But when she sees me all her features snap suddenly into place. She throws her huge purple and silver handbag onto the armchair.
‘What the … Where’s Madison? What are you doing here?’
I tell her as quickly as I can. ‘We’ve been trying to phone you all night.’
‘My phone’s disappeared. Haven’t seen it since this morning.’ She runs her hands through her hair, which I notice for the first time is all done in loose curls. ‘And where the hell’s our Cian?’ Her eyes are huge with fear and make-up.
‘I don’t know.’
‘He was grounded!’ Her voice is about one second away from bursting into tears. ‘The wee bastard wasn’t allowed over the door. See when I get hold of him …’
‘Look, I’ll ring you a taxi,’ I say, taking out my phone. ‘And then – is there somebody who can come and stay with Courtney? Only I have to get up for work in the morning, and …’
She turns on me as if I’ve suggested leaving Courtney up at the traffic lights.
‘No, there bloody isn’t. You stay here,’ she orders like I’m one of her kids. ‘Oh God! This’ll have social services sniffing round again. You can bet. That wee bastard. I wish I’d never had him.’ She speaks as if I’m not here.
Courtney stirs and mutters something, then rolls over and buries her face deep in the sofa cushion.
I ri
ng the taxi and, thank God, it comes quickly. Stacey grabs her handbag. She turns to me before she leaves. ‘See if he comes back … tell him I’ll kill him. I mean it.’
She doesn’t thank me. I decide to get a kip in the armchair. I don’t actually have to be awake.
* * *
I wake up in bright light but I know from the heaviness of my eyes that it’s still the middle of the night. I haven’t a clue where I am but the sound that woke me is familiar – the scraping and missing of a key in a lock.
Good. I can go and finish the night in my own bed.
But the person who stumbles through the door isn’t Stacey. It’s Cian. He’s totally loaded. Drink, by the smell of him. He sways in the doorway. It takes him a long time to focus on me. It’s just like the first time I saw him.
‘What the fuck?’ His voice is slurred.
‘What the fuck is right.’ I keep my voice down in case Courtney wakes up. ‘Thought you were babysitting?’
‘I had some business to see to.’
‘Business! Look at the state of you.’
‘I was trying to get some money together – you know why. Nobody’d help me!’ His voice rises to a selfpitying yelp. ‘You wouldn’t! What was I meant to do?’
‘Well, your Madison pulled a kettle of boiling water over herself. She’s in hospital. It’s very serious.’
I don’t know why I say that. I think I want to shock him. It works. The colour bleeds out of his face and for a second I think he might pass out. I remember the shock Mum got three years ago when she found the bloodstains after Barry McCann had thrown me down some steps. She always says that was the turning point for her – when she knew she had to do something about the drink. So maybe this will be the turning point for Cian. I lay it on thick. ‘She looked terrible.’
Cian’s breath comes in jagged gasps. ‘Ah shit. Ah shit. Did my ma – what did my ma say?’
‘She said she was going to kill you.’
Cian sits down hard in the middle of the floor and hugs himself. Sudddenly he’s crying as hard as Courtney was. He bends over and rocks himself like somebody mental. For a second I feel sorry for him. He’s only a kid, and I know what it feels like to be responsible for a horrible accident. Part of me wants to tell him that, and tell him to make sure he apologises sooner rather than later and doesn’t let the guilt gnaw at him for weeks. Make him realise that when something like this happens it’s a chance. You messed up but you can make things better.
But that’s not the kind of thing I could ever say. And Cian’s not the kind of person who’d listen.
And it’s nearly two o’clock on a Monday morning and I have to be up for work in five hours. And I just want to go home, away from this pink house which has nothing to do with me and well away from this strange, desperate kid. So I leave him crying in the middle of the pink living room.
8.
Cam’s campaign to keep me working like a slave continues the next day.
‘This is around the time of year the BHS inspector usually comes,’ she says when I groan at being told to wash all the grooming brushes. ‘We need to be ready.’
I don’t have much time to think about Cian, except to wonder if his ma has killed him yet.
I’m far more bothered by Folly. The vague thoughts I had last night of taking off somewhere, turning up in some horsey area and looking for work, are taking hold of my imagination – you have to have something to think about when you’re filling wheelbarrows with horse shit. But I’m kidding myself about taking her with me. The whole point would be to take off on my own with nothing holding me back. The thought of just plodding through all winter, the endless rounds of mucking out and carrying haylage to wet fields, and the long cycles through biting winds with no shows to brighten it up, is so depressing. Spirit’s going brilliantly and the beautiful and perfect Promise is obviously going to do the job she was bought for, so Cam and Lara will be going out jumping every week. I can go with them but it will be to watch. To be the groom. Not really part of it.
I look round the yard I’ve always loved. At the whitewashed stone buildings with their red-painted doors, and the green hills behind that have always made me feel so free and safe. Why isn’t it enough any more? I dump the umpteenth wheelbarrow on to the muck heap and check my phone. Just about knocking-off time, so I’d better go down and get Folly in. I lean on the gate and look at her. She’s not grazing for once; just standing looking up the field, as if she can see something that nobody else can. I have one foot on the gate ready to climb over when I realise that Lara’s above us in the school, cantering perfect circles on her perfect horse. I can’t bear the thought of her watching while Folly gives me the run-around again. I don’t need to catch her. I can see she’s fine from here.
What’s she looking at? Does she see me? Does she hate me? Does she wish I’d just left her there in that death barn?
I’m being stupid. I grab my bike and cycle home.
* * *
Mum’s all bizz about the situation over the street. She starts talking about it before I’ve even sat down.
‘One of the burns is quite deep,’ she says. ‘She may need a skin graft.’
Emmet McCann’s da stubbed out a fag on the back of my hand when I was fourteen. That was quite deep too. Mum didn’t notice.
‘Oh,’ I say. I yawn. At least not having a girlfriend or any friends means I can go to bed straight after dinner – that’s if Mum intends to make any dinner.
‘So they’re keeping her in to see how she goes. She’s running a temperature too. Only Stacey thinks they’re only using that as an excuse because they won’t let her go home until social services have been to check up on her.’
That gets my interest. ‘What’s it got to do with social services?’
‘Och, probably nothing. She’s just panicking.’
‘What about Cian?’
Mum purses up her mouth. ‘She’s not speaking to him. She says she can’t trust herself. Oh, he was all apologies last night – I went in with her, it was near three, and he was sitting there blurting and gurning and looking for sympathy, but she just said she couldn’t listen to him.’
‘I think he is sorry.’
‘You’re not taking his part, are you? Leaving a six-year-old to look after a three-year-old!’
‘Yeah, but would you leave him to babysit? He’s off his head half the time. Seriously, Mum, the kid’s got real problems. What did Stacey expect? It’s partly her own fault.’
‘Och, Declan, that’s not fair.’
Maybe it’s not. I don’t know; I don’t really care. I’m fed up with the subject. I’m fed up with every subject. And tomorrow is just going to be more of the same. Only worse.
* * *
I have to catch Folly today; it’s time to stop being so feeble. She needs her hooves picked out, and if I bring her in and give her a feed and a groom then maybe I can try getting back whatever bit of trust she used to have in me. After all, she is my horse. It’s only a couple of weeks since it gave me a thrill to say that, instead of a prickly chill. I take a carrot and hide the headcollar round my back. The ponies are too busy grazing at the bottom of the field to take any notice of me. Folly’s in her favourite place under the tree. I walk over slowly, remembering for the first time in ages the time I spent with her at Doris’s, before I messed up. She walks towards me. I think she smells the carrot. She stretches out her head to it and lifts her top lip. I slip the headcollar round from behind my back, but quick as a flash she lunges at me with her teeth, then strikes out with a front hoof. I catch it on the knee.
It’s over so quickly that Folly’s down the other end of the field with the ponies before I realise what’s happened.
It could be worse. The bite on my arm hasn’t broken the skin – luckily I have my coat on. It’s just a deep purplish nip. The kick hurts more. I roll up the leg of my jeans and explore my kneecap. It’s turning pink, and it’s raw to the touch, but everything moves the way it’s meant to.
/> The carrot and headcollar are lying on the ground. I pick up the headcollar and leave the carrot. I head back up the field towards the gate, headcollar over my shoulder, ignoring the swelling in my throat and the pain in my knee. I try to whistle.
‘Hiya!’ It’s Sally, on her way up from the bottom field with Nudge. She glances at the headcollar. ‘Have you just turned Folly out? I haven’t seen her for ages – or you. Is your head OK again? You look a bit pale.’
‘I’m fine, thanks.’
‘How’s Folly getting on?’
‘Fine.’ I can’t admit to Sally that Folly hates me, that I’ve done something to her that I can’t remember and she won’t forget, that under my clothes bruises are darkening as proof of this hatred.
Could do with a bullet, that thing.
* * *
‘Declan,’ says Mum. ‘Run over to Stacey’s with this, love, would you? I don’t want to miss the start of EastEnders.’
I sigh but take the Tesco’s bag.
‘It’s just a few wee things I got her when I was doing the messages. Sure God love her.’
It’s not so long since Mum couldn’t even manage to do her own shopping, let alone anybody else’s.
I ring the bell on Stacey’s door and nearly die when it’s opened by Seaneen. She looks mortified too. Her cheeks flame and she swallows before she speaks; I can see her throat move.
‘Oh,’ she says. ‘Hello.’ She stands with her hand on her belly.
‘Um.’ I hold out the bag. My voice comes out funny. ‘Mum sent this.’
Courtney prances up the hall. She’s dressed for clubbing. ‘Declan!’ she shrieks. ‘Me and Seaneen’s watching Hannah Montana. Do you want to watch it with us?’
Seaneen looks away.
‘Uh, no, I have to go, Courtney. Sorry.’
‘Awwww!’ She hangs on to Seaneen’s jumper and looks up at her. ‘Declan’s my friend. He minded me.’
‘That’s nice,’ says Seaneen. She looks at me properly for the first time. Her eyes are huge. ‘Stacey’s at the hospital,’ she says. ‘She asked me to babysit. Courtney, go on in and keep watching – you can tell me what I’ve missed when I get back.’
Grounded Page 18
