Seeds of Tyrone Box Set

by Debbie McGowan

  For a second, he considered the moral and philosophical implications involved.

  Was it all right to be a snoop if you were snooping for decent purposes? He decided—for the fifty-second time that day—yes. Yes, this was good. This was necessary.

  If he’d asked Dee directly for the information he needed, it would ruin the surprise, and if he asked Chancey, well… Michael shuddered like someone had just walked over his grave.

  He really was trying with Chancey. Truly he was. Like last night, when Chancey came into the living room after dinner, Michael offered him the remote, and Chancey took it.

  He hadn’t really wanted to give up the television, but he thought it might be a nice gesture. But other than a thick, “Thanks, kid,” Michael got nothing.

  He sighed as he reached Dee’s desk.

  She’d taken her phone, of course. That would have been the easiest way to figure out what he needed. But there was her laptop. Cringing, he opened the lavender-purple lid.

  Not chickening out now are you, Snoop?

  He’d rather be doing anything else in the world right now. Anything at all. Shovelling shite? Yep. Confessing his wet dreams to Father O’Neill? Yep. Even sitting down to tea with his stepdad. Anything other than being in Dee’s room, looking at her computer.

  The laptop chimed as the screen came to life and… Password. Password? Password? He looked around at her posters and the fancy framed drawings of horses he and Seamus had hung when preparing her room. She’d decorated for Christmas, wrapping multicoloured tinsel around the legs of her desk and hanging twinkle lights from the ceiling.

  He started typing in everything he could think of relating to the holidays, horses, and the names of famous people. He knew the ones she liked, because many of them he liked too. When they were on good terms, he and Dee had long talks about which boy from 1D was sexiest. Why these talks were so long was confusing, as they both agreed it was Liam. Rugged.

  He went through each name, then the members of Five Seconds of Summer. But with each new attempt, the computer just pinged at him in annoyance.

  Worse, his guilt at touching her laptop was making him jumpy, and he found himself repeating passwords.

  Had he tried Justin Bieber?

  Oh, shite! A noise made him freeze. Was that the house settling? Or had someone come in?

  He stilled and listened, his heart pounding heavily. The stairs creaked. He definitely heard that. Michael snapped the laptop closed and turned, ready to bolt, when Tess, who had evidently been creeping low, poked her nose around the open doorway, saw him, and bounded into the room. She leapt on the bed.

  “You terror!” he hissed at her.

  She bounded playfully on the covers, turning and turning.

  “Get out of here! You can’t be in Dee’s room!”

  Tess barked and jumped off the bed and lunged at him playfully, putting her paws up on him.

  “Down, girl,” he begged. “Oh, you’ve messed up her bed.” He gently pushed the excitable collie to the floor and went to Dee’s bed, straightening the duvet and the pillows. How had Tess done so much damage in so little time?

  Michael stepped back and scratched his head. He thought that was how Dee had it. His relief was short-lived, though, because in the time it took him to fix the bedding, Tess had…

  Oh, God…

  Oh, God, oh no, oh no…

  He dived on the open box. Tess had a bag of crisps in her mouth, and she wagged her tail, hopping back as he grabbed at them.

  “Please no, Tess, don’t eat those. They’re probably super special limited edition American crisps that the president gave to Dee’s mum.”

  But Tess didn’t care about presidential crisps. She cared about games that ended with treats. Michael took another swipe at the bag, but Tess easily avoided him and swung the bag back and forth in her teeth.

  Finally getting his hand on the bag, it became a horrible tug-of-war between him and the dog.

  He should have known.

  He should have let go.

  He should have let Tess have the crisps. He’d let Connor have the crisps. All fecking twelve packs.

  But Michael never thought these things through.

  The bag—straining between his grip and the determined jaws of a dog that hadn’t eaten in two whole hours—held as long as it could. But the Great Crisp Explosion was inevitable.

  They flew across the room, and Michael watched in horror as Tess caught a few mid-air. The others landed on the carpet. Even as Tess greedily lapped them up, she was crushing others into the carpet, spreading cheese powder everywhere.

  “Feck,” Michael muttered helplessly.

  <<< >>>

  “MICHAEL!” Dee screeched, her voice rising above ‘Carol of the Bells’, which was playing on TV. He’d been waiting for her to get home, had watched her go upstairs. His plan was to follow her and confess everything. He was going to beg her forgiveness.

  But as soon as he heard her on the landing, he chickened out.

  Michael was off the couch as if the fabric had suddenly caught fire. He could hear her running down the stairs and knew his head was in very real danger of being parted from his neck. A man hunted, he headed straight for the front door and slipped outside.

  <<< >>>

  Michael wandered aimlessly through the streets of Omagh, ultimately ending up in the small shopping centre festively decorated for the season. His long stride slowed so that he could look in the windows at the happy little displays. He used to love coming down here with his mum.

  Now, he wasn’t as comforted by the town. It was too small for him. He knew everyone, and everyone knew him. Knew his mistakes from childhood, knew his not-so-secret secrets as an adult. He and Seamus had once talked—a good while back now—about Michael’s longing for a friend. Seamus was concerned that Michael spent all his time talking to Harrison.

  “D’you like him?” Seamus had asked.

  “As a friend, aye.”

  “I’ve nothin’ against Harrison, but how ’bout we get you out of that cyber world and find you some better friends?”

  “In Omagh?” Michael had asked doubtfully.

  Seamus had grinned. “Depends. Are you looking for a friend? Or more than a friend? There’s friends to be had here. But maybe going out of town might be better if you’re lookin’ to meet someone special.”

  “D’you think there’s no one else here like us?”

  “I’m sure there is, but findin’ him might be a challenge. Why d’you think my boyfriend lives thousands of miles away?”

  It was meant as a joke, but it had made Michael feel a bit hopeless.

  Friends…

  He’d considered the lads friends once. He’d known they wouldn’t be throwing him a coming-out party, but he’d never expected their bullying. Tom, though…

  Michael blushed remembering it.

  Tom had told them off, hadn’t he?

  He wondered if Tom would have been so kind if he’d known that Michael had once had a massive crush on him, if he knew that his simple words on Facebook—You cruel gobshites! Stop sending me these messages. While you’re at it, leave the damn kid alone—had fired that crush up all over again.

  When they’d worked together, he and Tom rarely spoke. Michael was far too shy. But Michael stole quite a few glances. Usually when Tom was bending down to cut free a particularly stubborn cabbage or sprout stalk. It could take a while, and Michael wished there were more of the stubborn ones.

  Michael groaned. Frustrated, miserable…

  Christ, he wished Harrison were around—even if Seamus was concerned about Michael’s online friendships. But it wasn’t strictly online. They had met the once, when Seamus helped Michael fulfil his dream of visiting America. It was in Pennsylvania he met Harrison.

  “So, Michael, this is Harrison Miller. He’s offered to show you around the city while you’re here.”

  They became fast friends, talking about anything and everything. Michael was insanely curious ab
out American life, and Harrison was an easy conversationalist and really good tour guide.

  For about half a second, Michael had thought he might have a crush on Harrison. After all, the unassuming and quiet blond with the glasses had a really wonderful smile. But even though Michael blushed when Harrison smiled, he never felt like he did on those very rare occasions when Tom had looked his way.

  Tom’s smile was less friendly, less gentle, more mischievous. It was a wicked grin that took Michael’s heart and kicked it all to hell and back. The first time he saw it, Michael felt his heart go crash, and he thought, Oh feck. He’s already broken it.

  From that moment forward, it was a nonstop struggle to remember not to cry out, “Tom, I like you!” whenever they were near each other.

  Almost always, the words were there, right behind his lips.

  Michael thought his crush would get easier, probably even fade away like all his other crushes. Michael might be a little bit…boy crazy. For as long as he could remember, he’d had some imaginary boyfriend or another, usually based on a lad in books or on TV. When he moved on to imagining holding hands with the next hottie, he forgot the one before.

  But Tom…hadn’t exactly faded. He’d been purposely locked away in the back of Michael’s mind when his former co-workers had become so cruel. That way, if Tom ever joined their taunts, it would be easier to take.

  But Tom hadn’t joined their taunts.

  He’d told them to stop.

  Michael smiled at the thought. It didn’t mean anything really, but it was kind.

  Michael sighed and turned away from the elegantly decorated shop window. Eventually he was going to have to go back to the farm and face Dee’s wrath about the crisp dust in her carpet.

  Chapter Four:

  Accused

  It was no use sitting on Facebook all night. As far as Tom could tell, Michael generally finished work sometime mid-afternoon, and he’d be in the full throes of his daily social networking fiesta by the time Tom and the lads clocked off. Add to that another hour before Tom got home, and there was a huge window of opportunity for Connor and his mates to really grind their heels in.

  Tom still hadn’t spoken to O’Grady, because…what the hell was he supposed to say? Connor could have bought those crisps at the supermarket—Tom was a hundred percent sure he hadn’t, but he had no evidence. If he challenged him, Connor would no doubt claim he threw the receipt away, which left only the online bullying. It was verbal abuse, intent to cause harm—a criminal offence—but as Grandad was always saying, The Troubles had slowed the advancement of human rights in the North of Ireland. So Tom could report it to the police, but would they even bother following it up? They’d probably just give Michael a leaflet about internet safety and be on their way.

  There was nothing more he could do, and it felt horrible. So much guilt—for not realising what was going on sooner, for anything he might have done to aggravate the situation, for never getting to know Michael well enough in the past that he could befriend him now. They’d known each other a long time—as much as eighteen years—but only in passing, first through church and then more recently through working for O’Grady’s agency. And while they’d spoken to each other on occasion, they’d never had a real conversation, which meant direct contact was out of the question. Unless it proved absolutely necessary. Tom really hoped it didn’t come to that.

  Satisfied that for the time being Michael McFerran—early night for me—and Connor McQuaid—at the Studios Multiscreen—were in different parts of the world, Tom locked his phone and went downstairs for food and advice. Not in that order, it turned out, as both parents were in the kitchen.

  “Is this a private party?” Tom asked, watching his dad pour sparkling wine into two glasses and hand one to his mum.

  “Not at all. Did you want some?”

  “No, you’re all right, thanks. I’ve got to get up early for work.” Tom cringed as the words left his mouth. “Sorry. I didn’t mean that the way it came out.”

  His dad smiled and patted him on the shoulder. “I didn’t think you did.”

  In spite of the reassurance, Tom still regretted his tactlessness. It was now over a year since his dad had been made redundant, and he must have applied for well over a thousand jobs, but his age and lack of qualifications rarely got him even as far as an interview. It meant Tom’s mum working as many hours as she could, and Tom paid more keep than his parents asked for. He’d have given them more still if he didn’t have the car to pay for. Another reason to feel guilty. Confession again this week, then…

  “We are celebrating, though,” Tom’s dad said.

  “Celebrating what?” Tom asked, racking his brains and hoping he hadn’t forgotten a birthday or anniversary. He was so distracted by what was going on with Michael, he’d lost track of everything else, but he was almost sure it wasn’t anyone’s birthday.

  “Stop winding him up, Nick,” Tom’s mum said, nudging her husband in the side.

  “I’m not!”

  Tom narrowed his eyes, and his dad laughed.

  “God, no mistakin’ whose son you are.”

  Tom glanced at his mum, and they both joined in with the laughter. People had always told Tom he looked like his mum, and by extension like his grandad, which was no bad thing—even now he was in his seventies, Grandad was still a good-looking fella, and women adored him.

  “We finished our Christmas shopping today, Thomas,” his mum explained and then scowled at his dad for clanging his glass against hers in a toast that excited the wine and sent it fizzing over the rim.

  “Ah, well, that is worth celebrating,” Tom said.

  “You done yours?”

  “Mostly. Listen, before yous get too sozzled, can I talk to yous about something?”

  “Sure.” His mum pulled a chair from under the kitchen table and sat. His dad remained on his feet, but leaned against the counter and crossed his ankles to indicate he was staying put.

  Tom took that as his prompt and told them everything that had happened in the past few days, although he suspected it had begun a month ago, after Michael’s stepdad put Michael on the prayer roll. Father O’Neill had said something to the effect of ‘I didn’t know Michael was sick’, and Peter—Michael’s stepdad—had answered along the lines of ‘it’s a sickness, all right’ and then gone on to tell the priest while everyone else queued to leave church. God only knew how many people had overheard Peter out his stepson as gay, and it had filtered through their community in a matter of days.

  “He needs taking in hand,” Tom’s dad said when Tom had finished explaining.

  “I was gonna go and see O’Grady, but—”

  “About Peter?”

  Tom frowned in puzzlement. “No. Connor.”

  “Oh, right.” His dad nodded thoughtfully but didn’t comment, and Tom felt he needed to justify his position.

  “There’s a few of the lads involved, but Connor’s the ringleader. Peter was only after Father O’Neill saying a prayer for Michael. That’s madness, admittedly, but he’s doing it for Michael’s sake.”

  Tom’s dad raised an eyebrow.

  “Isn’t he?”

  “Peter sees it that way, I’m sure. But you know he’s the reason Michael moved in with Seamus Williams?”

  “No, I didn’t know that.”

  “Kicked him out last year, so he did, and he’s been going on and on about it ever since. It’s got to where we all avoid him at the meetings, the Fathers included. He’s a bloody menace—must’ve been reading up online or something, because he’s got it into his head Michael can be cured.”

  Tom’s hair bristled. “He’s not sick!”

  As always, his mum intervened to keep the peace. “What your dad’s saying is Peter thinks it’s a sickness.”

  “So, what? He’s wanting Michael to have treatment for it?”

  His dad nodded. “It’s called conversion therapy. It’s quite a big thing in America, apparently.”

  “Conversion?
You mean to turn him straight? How the hell does that work?”

  “You don’t want to know, son, believe me.”

  “Christ.” Tom pulled out the chair next to his mum’s and sat down heavily. He pinched the corners of his eyes, exhausted, but his mind was reeling. “This is awful. Poor Michael. And I want to help him, but I don’t know how.”

  Tom’s mum reached over and took his hand in hers. “Maybe just be his friend? Let him know you’re not like the rest of them.”

  “I suppose. But I wouldn’t blame him if he didn’t believe me. I just wish I could do more, you know?”

  “I know, but right now it’s probably the best thing you could give him.”

  Be his friend. It sounded so easy, but it was going to take a bit more than ‘Hey, Mike, how’s it going?’ on Facebook. A peace offering? Not that Tom had anything to make up for, but he felt like he did.

  “Think I might get him a wee Christmas present,” he thought aloud. His parents both nodded ambiguously; they were leaving the decision to him, like they’d always done. “I’m gonna eat and sleep on it. Thanks, Mum—” he hugged her “—Dad.” He got up and hugged him, too, made a cheese sandwich, and went to bed.

  <<<>>>

  With his knife, Tom flicked the sprouts, one by one, into the box, so deeply absorbed in his thoughts that he didn’t hear the pickup truck, but it was there when he turned to see who had roared his name.

  “Tom! A word, please.”

  Seamus? One glance in the big man’s direction confirmed it: Seamus knew what was going on. Tom dropped his knife into the box and trampled across the muddy field to the road. “All right?” he asked.

  “You got a death wish?” Seamus squared his shoulders.

  Tom backed off slightly, even though he was riled himself. He didn’t want a fight—not least because Seamus was a good six inches taller and more heavily built. He could flatten Tom without trying. Keeping his voice as steady as he could, he asked, “What’s the problem?”

  “Don’t bullshit me, Donnan. You know why I’m here.”