“Page turning suspense, Seán writes with an ease of pen rarely seen. The most beautifully terrifying birth you’ve ever read. It haunted me for days.”
Bo Sejer
Author of To Those Who Are Asleep
“A truly gripping tale, Seán sets up an enthralling series of events that will bring out the fear in anyone with a heartbeat. This story will pull you along on a gruelling ride as a young pregnant woman is pitted against all the odds. You won’t want to put this book down.”
Barry Keegan
Author of The Bog Road
THE
MONGREL
Seán O’Connor
Copyright © 2018 Seán O’Connor
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
www.seanoconnor.org
Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.
Matador
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ISBN 978 1789012 422
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
Matador is an imprint of Troubador Publishing Ltd
For Orla
“No one but a woman can help a man when he is in trouble of the heart.”
Bram Stoker
Contents
PART ONE
ONE
TWO
THREE
PART TWO
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
PART THREE
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
PART ONE
ONE
Under a full moon, man can be driven to lunacy and lovers swoon with lust, but for those who breathe beneath the celestial body, menacing unease and worry can pollute the mind. This can lead to the smallest detail being missed, which, in turn, can create the world’s biggest problems, sometimes out of nothing. But maybe the problem was there all along, just waiting to happen. This was the harsh life-lesson Erin Greene would soon come to learn, as the small rural town of Lusk, off to the north of Dublin, prepared itself for yet another cold winter.
The met office had issued a status-orange national weather warning, with a possible upgrade to red and a heavy snow from the east predicted before nightfall, but Erin refused to believe this as she gazed out from the balcony of her apartment. She lifted her face to the warmth of an Indian summer’s breeze, its gentle caress a sharp contrast to the burning anxiety prickling her gut. Something deep inside had been niggling at her all morning, but she couldn’t grasp its significance, which worried her even more.
She chewed at a nail, a habit she’d taken to in times of stress, and one her father had always given out to her about. And these were stressful times. Her reflection in the balcony window confirmed this, and she hated what she saw. Her big blue eyes, still edged by yesterday’s make-up, were beyond tired, sunken behind shadowed bags. She’d have to do something with her hair, too, stuck for too long in a messy bun, neglected and unwashed. Never one for keeping up a glamorous appearance, she did, however, like to maintain a certain standard—which usually resembled an alternative, rocker look.
Her father would go ballistic if he saw the state of her, wandering around and chewing away on her fingers, wearing a pair of dark-blue maternity jeans and an oversized and over-washed black hoodie. It wasn’t her fault, though, and she wasn’t always like this. When her mind was clear, she excelled in everything she focused on—both productivity in work and creativity in her hobbies would be high, and her drive to succeed fuelled a sense of positive self-worth and pride. However, the waves that moved her thoughts had a habit of shifting in violent swells, and sometimes it got so bad she was like a passenger on a rudderless ship caught in a storm. At its worst, she was stranded under the weight of worry, often drifting in and out of a zombie-like daydream. Sometimes, it was the escape she needed, but not always.
She smiled up as the afternoon sun peeked out from behind a cream-colored cloud meandering across an otherwise clear-blue sky. Hard to believe winter was bearing down on them, but at least the skies were mostly clear for the full moon tonight. The town had a small but growing population—many locals debated whether it was a town or simply a large village. Either way, it was miles from her family home back on the Southside of Dublin. At first, she’d enjoyed the slower pace of life and the quiet surroundings, but it didn’t take long for the isolation to creep in, and once it did, she struggled to adapt.
Something smashing inside snapped her away from her temporary bliss. Hopefully it wasn’t one of her mother’s vintage plates—there weren’t too many left, and she feared for the remainder now that Philip’s rage was in full swing again.
“I’m sick and tired of it, Erin!” he screamed out at her, his thick voice booming. “What the fuck are we even doing in this shit place? We’re miles away from everything.”
She clasped her hands and closed her eyes. He knew the reason they chose Lusk, just as well as she did. Money, and their lack of it. Rents in the city had spiralled so high, they’d been priced out of all desirable areas, and with their baby due in almost a month, they needed an affordable place to live at short notice, and so they’d settled on the small two-bed apartment off to the north of Dublin.
The interior was a boring magnolia and, much to her dismay, the landlord had insisted that it couldn’t be changed. The furniture had seen better days, but at the same time carried a certain old-world charm. The wooden floors were worn and full of scratches, and tenants were only allowed hang pictures in designated places. Along with their personal belongings, the cutlery in the kitchen and the television were the only items that didn’t belong to the owner.
“Shut up, Phil, will you?” she snapped back at him, his groans getting right into her head. “Please.” That came as a frightened whimper when she realised she’d actually spoken aloud. She cradled her large bump in an attempt to shield the baby from witnessing the unfolding argument, but she was in no doubt the poor thing could sense the tension, what with it kicking like a mad thing against her ribs.
While he ranted away inside, she turned and looked over the balcony rail, happy to give out to him out of earshot. “You’ve done nothing but complain since we moved here. If we could afford to stay in the city, then we would have.”
Silence. Did he hear her? She coughed out the lump of fearful apprehension. They’d fought worse than ever since the move—so much she didn’t have the energy to fight anymore.
“Fuck it, Erin, I should’ve took that job-offer in Canada. We could be well set up by now and I’d be earning some real money. Just like Geoff.” The whine had increased in his voice, the French hues colouring his Southside brogue
, as always happened when he was about to lose it. She glanced inside to see where he was, glimpsing him pacing through their small kitchen.
She was used to him losing it. Her man, Philip Montague, tall and handsome. He enjoyed exploiting his height, towering over her five-feet-two. It had attracted her at first, before she learned that he thought it gave him the right to dominate anyone smaller than him. He kept his hair short and neat, especially now that he was pretty much bald on top, making up for it by way of a fully-grown beard. His friends in Dublin sometimes called him Monti the Monster, as he cut an intimidating figure and would often be the one to settle physical altercations when out on the rip.
He could always be found in a black skin-tight t-shirt, the short sleeves hugging his biceps. His wardrobe didn’t feature much other than black jeans, t-shirts, and leather jackets. She knew he missed his friends and the social scene in Dublin, especially his best friend—and doppelganger—Geoff Baron, who’d emigrated to Canada a few months ago and by all accounts was doing very well for himself, though it rankled Phil bigtime that he’d stopped phoning him and seemed to have just slipped off the grid. He was a jealous man, which he made no secret about, and harboured a deep resentment towards her for making them move out of the city—something that made her father nervous.
She stepped in off the balcony. He was still going on about moving to Canada, throwing things around, and blaming her for their desperate situation. She’d had enough. “Canada? Really? And never see my dad? Not going to happen, Phil. We actually need him. Don’t you get that? All we have to do is get in touch.”
“No!” he roared.
She wasn’t having it. Fuck it, she’d listened to enough of his ranting. “If you want your precious city life back with your mates, all we have to do is get in touch with him. He’d have us moved in with him in a blink. And you know it.” The venom in her tone surprised her, almost as much as gesturing inverted commas for mates. The baby wouldn’t stop kicking, and Phil’s voice had been grating at her all morning. Couldn’t he see what he was doing to her?
Of course, she should have known better than to rise to him—it always ended in him flipping the lid. Her words had stung him, it was obvious in his silence, though his glare was louder than anything so far—a sure sign that he saw nothing now but the red mist descending over his mind. His words were gone, and she knew from experience that he only had one way to go.
He stormed towards her, closing the space between them—his eyes almost glowing with rage—and grabbed her by the throat, her breath bursting from her when he slammed her against the wall, lifting her tiny frame so she only had her tippy toes to stand on. She tried to call his name, but his vice-like grip prevented anything more than a panicked croak as his brown eyes glazed over, his teeth grinding in a snot-smeared snarl. Her lungs screamed for air, and the baby kicked everything within reach, so hard she couldn’t stop herself pissing, the warmth a slight relief from the building pressure in her head.
“Don’t ever say that again! You hear me?”
Though her vision was hazy from the lack of air, she noticed how his eyes narrowed and his pupils shrank back into two black beads.
“I’m the man of this house,” he snapped, his spit bouncing off her face. “I’ll fucking provide! I don’t need help from your cunt of a father. The great fucking Joseph Greene.”
And as quick as it had begun, it was over. He released his grip and backed off, and she dropped to her knees, coughing and hacking, touching the burning flesh he’d almost pushed through in his manic attack. She didn’t miss the change in his eyes as she gasped for air, her lungs screaming to be filled.
The room spun, and bile rose in her throat. Phil knelt beside her and wrapped his arms around her. At first, she attempted to fight him off, but at the same time she wanted the loving embrace. It could have been anyone’s, but it was his. And he was all she had these days now her relationship with her father had become cold and distant.
“I’m sorry, babe,” he whispered into her ear. ‘I’m so sorry.”
She couldn’t bring herself to look at him, but acknowledged his sentiment with a grunt, figuring that beneath all the rage he was just a frustrated man—a man under pressure—a lonely man. She remembered and tried to understand how hard it must have been for him to come all the way out here with her. Back in the city, he’d been a top chef for a respected restaurant, while now he was just a part-timer struggling to get the hours in the kitchen in the local pub. His passion was obvious, and he had so much of it for his work, but now that desire was all but dead, and he hated it, and it showed in his constant resentment. But she lived with the hope that, once the baby came, he’d start appreciating what he had instead of lusting after impossible aspirations. Most of his close friends had moved on with their lives and started to settle down, leaving Phil behind to hang around with some random acquaintances who only cared about drinking and fucking around.
“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” he continued, stroking her head, the French seeping into his accent again. “It’s just the pressure of it all. The changes. The baby. Sometimes I can’t take it and it gets to me.” He shuddered as a loud sob escaped. “And the money. We’ve no fucking money.”
His vulnerability pained her heart—she wasn’t used to seeing him so weak. It was his brutish side that attracted her when they’d met five years ago, soon after her mother departed, when she’d worked in the restaurant with him. She’d always had a thing for hard men, and Phil had lived up to that, pursuing her aggressively until he won her over, but not without warning off all her male friends in the process. Even so, she didn’t mind this too much if it meant she got to settle down and gain some stability in her life by starting a family with her Alpha male.
“It’s okay,” she said, patting his back. “It’s okay. I know how hard it’s been on you.”
She hugged him then and they sat silent against the wall, staring through the open balcony doors. The sun had slithered behind clouds, and a cool breeze brought an unwanted chill into the apartment—maybe a sign of more wintery things to come.
The baby was active again, kicking away at her insides, so she nudged Phil aside to caress her bump. She couldn’t help but smile at the impact of every elbow and kick against her hands.
“What’s he doing?” Phil asked, his face expressionless, his eyes shadowed.
“It’s little Monti saying hello. I think someone wants out.” She rubbed her swollen abdomen.
“Monti?” His eyebrows raised. “As in, Montague? Not Greene, like you wanted?”
“Nah… We’ll get through this rough patch, babe. We’re a family. I just want us all to be happy. Anyway, who says it’s a boy?” She smiled and looked away, then bit down on her nail, dragged her teeth underneath in an effort to get to the itch. It was always the case—no matter how much she dug, she could never get to it.
She caught his nod, taking it to be one of approval, and breathed a sigh of relief that his pride was somewhat restored. It hadn’t been her choice to keep the Greene family name attached. Her dad, as expected, had applied so much pressure on her—subtle and direct. Legacy meant everything to Joseph Greene, and without ever having a son of his own, he’d pinned all his hopes on this grandson to continue his lineage.
Phil bent so his ear was against her bump. “Hmm, I think you’re right about someone wanting to get out.” He sat up and looked at her. “Let’s bring him for a spin. We’re cracking up in this place, stuck in day after day. Fancy going for a drive?”
When you suffer from cabin fever, sometimes the simplest ideas sound like the best ones. Erin perked up with a childish excitement. “Eh, yeah. Can we go somewhere to watch the sunset? Maybe View Point?” Her eyes brimmed with a watery eagerness. Being cooped up all day wasn’t her style. She loved the outdoors. Getting out and about in the fresh air always eased her anxiety. She wasn’t one for isolation, often fearing her thoughts, and the way they
tended to plague her mind. Her father knew this and took her trekking up the Wicklow Mountains when she was younger as often as he could.
Lusk sat alone in the flat farmlands of Fingal County, and while it possessed a beauty of its own, hiking around here just wasn’t the same. She loved what the mountains had to offer: forests, history, ruins and legends, and hoped to instil that same love in her child.
“Yeah, of course,” Phil answered, jumping up, full now of a new sense of confidence. “Believe it or not, I was actually going to suggest that today. There’s snow forecast for later, but we’ll be back well before that hits. And I know you love it up there, so it’s the perfect place to go on such a nice afternoon.” He helped her to her feet, then pulled out his set of keys and gave them a jingle. “It’s going on three o’clock now, and we’ve a bit of a drive. Let’s get moving, yeah?”
The key to his old beat-up Ford Mondeo was on display for Erin to see. They hated the car, mostly because it was a big financial burden on them. “I’ll be right there, just going to change out of these clothes really quick.”
She slipped into their room to change into fresh underwear and a clean pair of maternity jeans. The smell of urine as she peeled away her soiled pants had her gagging, and when she looked at herself in the mirror, she couldn’t help but shiver with the shame of soiling herself. She swallowed it back. He hadn’t meant it. His red mist blinded him to everything—she’d seen it often enough, and how regretful he was after.
With slow deep breaths, she regained her composure. The last thing she needed was for Phil to become even more stressed out. He shouted in to her again, his voice growing more impatient with every call. With a final glance in the mirror, she turned and left the room, knowing it would be unwise to keep him waiting any longer.
The Mongrel Page 1
