I’ve never thrown a pity party about it all. I know there are plenty of kids who have it rougher than we did. But I also know it’s why when Shay got older and started taking care of himself, I got restless. I was worn down by being the only one to hold it all together. By the time I was sixteen, I was depressed. It was then that those “voices” sunk their hooks into me. It was the vocalization of what my parents had shown me all my life—that I had no value. I internalized those feelings, despite the good relationship I had with Shay, and began to believe that’s how everyone saw me.
Then, some friends of mine said heroin gave them a lighter-than-air sensation like being able to float out of your body. Imagine how that sounded to a kid like me. I didn’t resist the temptation very long. And when it gave me exactly what I hoped for—an escape—I never looked back.
I reveled in it. It was my fucking due. I made a conscious decision to disappear into addiction just so I could relinquish the responsibility and control that had defined my early life. I’ve only ever found comfort in chaos since then.
When Shay was only thirteen, I made the mistake of assuming he was damaged in the same way I was. I hassled him a ton, trying to get him to do heroin with me. When he finally agreed, I extolled the ways in which he would feel relief from all that negativity in his head like I did. But he didn’t understand what I meant, and it clicked that though we had the same parents and neglectful home environment, he hadn’t experienced it the same way I had. I should have let him off the hook and told him I wouldn’t stand for him doing drugs with me. But I was too far gone. Too much in that place of selfish need. I wanted him with me on this path because we had always been together.
On the night we were to go to my mate’s party to score and shoot up, Gavin McManus came around. The kid was already a legend around school. It was obvious he was going to be some sort of entertainer. He’d come full of his usual bravado and high spirits, oblivious to our intent. His own mission was to take Shay away with him to nick cars for joy riding, which was about as close to the line as my brother ever played. In the end, Gavin won.
Shay choosing Gavin hit me hard. Not because I was jealous, but because it forced me to see the cruelty and selfishness of what I had been trying to do. Going with Gavin was exactly what Shay should be doing—well, maybe not the illegal bit, but the part where he was off having a good time with his mates. He shouldn’t be throwing his life away with drugs like me. I was disgusted with myself. After spending my whole life taking care of him, of trying to make sure he had a chance in life, I nearly pushed him into destroying it all.
After that night, my instinct to take care of Shay reasserted itself. I knew the only way I could protect him like I once had, though, was to leave. Because I also knew I wasn’t going to stop doing heroin. It was the only thing that gave me the relief from the voices in my head that I so desperately needed.
So, I went on my way, setting into motion the pattern I’d follow for the next twenty years of getting lost to heroin, finding patches of sobriety, then sinking back into that sweet oblivion again. The longest I was sober was eight months, but even then, I didn’t go home to Dublin. Staying away was my self-prescribed penance for having almost turned Shay into an addict. I only went home when I was desperate and needed to lean on Shay for money or needed help detoxing. Then I disappeared again, always knowing that it was better that I not be in Shay’s life.
But now I’ve been clean about nine months and have spent a ton of that time with Shay. We don’t have that closeness we had when we were kids, but the loyalty we share has never wavered. I’ve enjoyed being around him and I think he’s enjoyed it, too—even if I have made things difficult for him with the odd acting out.
In addition to feeling like I have a brother again, my life includes a dog named Roscoe and a therapist named Ms. Patterson. I’ve also got an unfamiliar, but welcome, instinct to resist those fucking voices that even in the dead of night pull me back to the reasons why I ever succumbed to them in the first place.
4
My brother has the most ridiculous car. It’s a metallic silver 918 Spyder Porsche hybrid with a 900-horsepower engine. It rockets from zero mph to sixty in three seconds. In other words, it’s a sports car that’ll make your dick hard. If that’s the kind of thing that turns you on, that is. Which, given the million-dollar price tag, is exactly what my kid brother is into. With him being in the States, I’ve commandeered it as my own for the odd trip to the shops, my regular therapy and NA meetings, and most importantly, my mission to find the perfect park for Roscoe.
Dublin, for all its charms, can be an insufferable place when it comes to having your dog off the lead. So many rules about when and where he has to be controlled. The thing is, Roscoe doesn’t need a noose around his neck. He and I can communicate what needs to go on without me having to yank him here or there, so I refuse to tie him up like that. That’s all well and good except for the fact that I’ve been chased out of more parks than I’d like by nosy wardens full of an inflated sense of their own importance.
We left the house early this morning to give St. Anne's Park in Raheny on the northside of Dublin a try. Word has it that before eleven, letting your dog off the leash is actually allowed.
As soon as we’re out of the Porsche, Roscoe bolts for freedom. Even though this is the second largest park in Dublin proper, I’m not worried. We’ll find our way back together.
The sky is mercifully clear, and the sun is gorgeous shining down on the tree-lined paths. Following Roscoe’s ever shrinking form, I head left, away from the playground and red brick stables. It’s a lovely, long walk during which I spy the Naniken River and a number of late nineteenth century stone towers, most covered in ivy and in disrepair. Roscoe runs back to me several times before continuing to lead the way past Rock Garden and along Chestnut Path toward a small duck pond. I don’t see very many other people, just the odd jogger or pair of mothers and their little ones in prams as they power-walk and talk. So far, seems a grand place for my Roscoe, even if I do have to drive us to the other side of town.
I find Roscoe running anxiously from side to side as he tries to sort out how he can get at the dozen or so ducks floating on the pond. Confident in the security of their position, the ducks ignore his agitated yelps and growls.
“They’re just for the admiring, Roscoe,” I tell him. “No poultry breakfast for you today.”
After a time, Roscoe joins me where I sit on a flat rock nearby and we watch the birds together.
“Jesus, no! You eejit!”
It’s a woman’s voice calling out. The reason for it is obvious in a flash as a yellow Labrador comes racing past us and goes straight into the water after the ducks who have scattered to safety.
“Don’t you dare,” I tell Roscoe as he moves to join the other dog. I’m not much for rules or convention, but even I know I can’t have a wet, dirty dog in my brother’s million-dollar car. That’d be a disaster. Thankfully, Roscoe groans but stays put.
The woman who lost her dog to the pond has rightfully given up shouting for him to come back. It wouldn’t do any good. The lab is having a wonderful time of it, splashing through the water and muck as if just seeing the ducks inch farther out of reach was his motive to begin with.
The dog’s owner is slim with wavy auburn hair cut to just below her jawline. Her jeans, oxblood Doc Martens boots, and paint-splattered, long-sleeve top, suggest she doesn’t care much for appearances.
Not that I radiate any effort to make myself all that attractive, I have to admit. My standard is jeans with red and black suspenders and whatever tee shirt smells clean enough. I’ve got dirty-blond hair in need of a trim, and gray eyes people seem to be drawn to. I know, though, that I clean up pretty well. I’ve never had a problem getting laid. In fact, I’m damn good in that department—one of the few things I have a talent for, actually. But I’ve long buried the desire for anything more than a one-night shag. Relationships are impossible to sustain. Either I fuck it up or th
e woman realizes I’m a mistake. Better not to risk trying to be with someone for more than the quick release.
That hasn’t stopped me from thinking about Ms. Patterson, though. A lot. I imagine how she might be in bed. How her proper therapist demeanor might be undone by a good fuck. I’d like to ask her how she feels about that. Not so much because I fancy her, like, but more to see how it would mess with her. I do love to get a reaction.
“Bum a fag?”
I turn quickly to see the lab owner standing next to me. Hadn’t seen her come up. Her useless dog is still in the water.
“Em, yeah, sure.” I stand up and retrieve my ciggies, give her one before lighting it. I join her in a smoke and we stare back at the pond. “How long you reckon he’ll be out there?” I ask.
“She will be there for far too long, I’m sure,” the woman replies. “Stupid of me to let her come to this part of the park. I know better.”
“This your local?”
The woman keeps her eyes on her dog and nods with a sigh.
I take a drag. “First time for us. Been trying to find a place to go without a lead. Seems a good spot, even if I have to come from Southside.”
“Ah, you’re one of them poncy Southsiders, are you? Wouldn’t have thought it to look at you.”
There’s amusement in her voice. She’s not entirely serious with this dig, yet I’m surprised by the offense I feel. The divide in Dublin between Southsiders and Northsiders is a real thing. And hell, my brother is the prime example of a rich bastard from the Southside. But I’m not like him and—inexplicably— I want her to know that.
“I’m not really a Southsider—more of a world traveler, actually. I’m only there at the moment because I’m house sitting my brother’s place. Temporarily. Likely,” I stammer on and she eyes me skeptically. Seems her mind’s already made up about me and it irritates me far more than it should. But a familiar instinct to make light of this ridiculous divide takes over, and I ask, “How does a Southsider get a day off work?”
Without missing a beat, she glances at me and replies with a saccharine whine, "Daddy, I don't feel well."
We share a laugh at the old joke which makes fun of the stereotype that Southsiders have everything handed to them. The joke lights up her face, makes her seem softer. She’s pretty.
I rub my hand clean on my jeans and offer it to her. “This here is Roscoe. And I’m Danny Boy. Good to meet you.”
“Danny Boy, is it?” she asked with a smirk before giving me a quick handshake. Like her shirt, her hand has dried spots of paint on it. “I’m Julia O’Flaherty, but I’ve gone by Jules before since you’re partial to nicknames.”
Now I laugh. “So, Jules, have you been painting house or something?”
“Or something.”
I can tell she doesn’t want to talk about it, but that’s never stopped me before. “Ah, it’s more like your job, is it?”
She glares at me and takes her time enjoying the fag she bummed off me.
“Listen,” I tell her. “I don’t think house painting is anything to look down upon. It’s honest work.”
“That’s very kind of you to say, Mr. Southside.”
I groan. Like, out loud. I’m not easily bothered. I’ve been slagged off by all kinds of people, even ones I care about, without batting an eye. This characterization, though, hits me hard. I hadn’t meant for her to take it the way she has. Jesus, why would I? Me, of all people—the heroin addict who has literally no accomplishments to my name.
Instead of trying to get this point across, I lose control over my stupid gob, telling her, “Don’t get your knickers in a twist, love. I ain’t judging you.” The incredulous look on her face makes me realize I’m not doing myself any favors, so I switch tactics. “All I meant is, I’ve done a bit of everything, too. And a bit of nothing, to tell the truth. Right now, I’m actually in between gigs myself.”
“Well, I may be a Northside girl, but at least I’m not unemployed, thanks very much.”
“I’m not exactly on the dole. I’m just waiting for things to ramp up again. Then, I’ll be—”
“Molly! Here now, Molly!” she calls to her dog.
“Ah, that’s her name, yeah?”
Again, all I get is a glare.
Though I’m not sure how our brief meeting turned into this weird debate over Southside versus Northside, I want to leave it behind. It’s riled something in me—and her, apparently—that has nothing to do with what we were actually talking about.
“Listen, I’ve got a towel in the car. I’d be happy to lend it to you and your Molly there. What do you say?”
Jules is wavering, but Molly helps out by running up and shaking her coat in our direction, spraying filthy water at us.
“Yes, I’ll take you up on that,” Jules says and nods back toward the car park.
Our dogs do the sniffing thing of each other’s bits and seem to approve of one another. The four of us walk on through the park, dodging the streams of people who have cropped up in the last hour.
I start several lines of conversation, but Jules isn’t interested in any of it. I wonder what I’m even doing offering this woman help. Ms. Patterson might have some insight into my motives, I suppose. It will give us something to talk about other than my shitty childhood.
Jules lets out a peel of laughter as I reach for the door of the Porsche. I turn to see her rolling her eyes.
“Oh, that’s perfect,” she says. “Typical Southsider.”
“It’s not my car,” I protest.
“Yeah, sure.” There’s no conviction in her voice as she shakes her head, a smile slowly dying on her lips.
“I’m borrowing it. I don’t have one of my own.” Retrieving the promised towel, I hand it to her.
“Thanks for this,” she says as she uses it to wipe down her dog.
“I’m not joking you. The car is my brother’s. He’s the wealthy one.” I’m not sure why it even matters to me that I convince her of this, but I’m desperate to. “I only even had a job because of him. I was working the lighting for his band’s tour up until it ended not long ago. Now I’m just staying in his house and using his car until the band starts back up again.”
She had knelt down next to Molly and now she stops the vigorous rubbing of the dog and looks at me. “What band? Who is your brother?”
Normally, I’d shout who my brother is from the rooftops. I drop his name whenever possible, happy to enjoy the perks that come with his fame. But I find myself hesitating just now. I force myself to forge ahead with the answer.
“Shay Donnelly. Drummer for—”
“Rogue.”
I nod to confirm. Something passes over her face, some recognition or remembrance. Maybe Rogue was the first band she loved as a girl but hasn’t stayed a fan of and now she’s flooded with memories. Or maybe Dublin is a small enough city for her to have known the lads back in the day, before they became one of the biggest bands in the world. Whatever it is, she keeps it to herself.
“Anyway, thanks for the towel. I’ll have it cleaned and back to you in a few days if you dare come back ‘round the Northside, yeah?” she says with a smirk. The playfulness we shared for a second earlier is back. It sends a tingle throughout my body, but she doesn’t wait for a real response from me, just turns and pulls her dog by the collar toward a beat up ten-year-old Toyota Corolla.
Watching her go, I’m not sure what to make of what just happened. All I can think is that a drop-in session with Ms. Patterson is in order.
5
There’s a sad woman sitting next to a sad plant in the sad waiting room. My therapist’s office isn’t too far from the Rogue organization’s offices in Dublin’s Docklands, though it lacks any of their spectacular views of the River Liffey and Samuel Beckett Bridge. Always seemed odd to me the choice of olive green paint for the walls here. So dull. So uninspiring. Maybe Jules can do it up in a nice bright shade of happy yellow.
I’m lost in these thoughts and not even aware of
the stink eye the sad woman is giving Roscoe when Ms. Patterson opens her office door. She looks lovely in a gray pencil skirt and burgundy blouse. Her brown hair, usually pulled back when I see her, is now down and in soft curls.
“Daniel!” she says in surprise.
I stand and go to her. “I just need a few minutes. It’s an emergency, like.”
“An emergency? What sort?”
I start to move past her and into her office, but she puts her hand on my chest to stop me. Her palm is warm. She leaves it there for a second longer than necessary. That feels good.
“Let’s make an appointment for another time, shall we?” Ms. Patterson asks. “I have a client now. I can’t keep her waiting.”
The sad woman takes this as her cue and slips past us and into the office. Damn. Unless I follow her in and sit on her lap, I’ve lost my chance.
“Well, when can I see you, then?”
“This is my last appointment for the day. First thing tomorrow?”
“No, I’ve got to be at the park in the morning.”
“Well, if it’s an emergency maybe you can alter your plans for the park a bit?”
She’s let go her professional detachment. In its place is amusement at my expense that I don’t appreciate.
“Listen, if you can’t do your duty as my therapist to help when I need it, then I’ll find another course of action.”
“You are not to threaten me, Daniel,” she says sternly.
“I’m not threatening you, Ms. Patterson. Fuck’s sake. I’m asking for your help, amn’t I?”
She surveys me for a moment, her mind at work. I pick at my cuticles, a habit I’ve never been able to curb. Roscoe decides we’ll be here for the duration and makes himself comfortable by leaning heavily against my leg.
Looking For Trouble (Rogue Series Book 5) Page 2
