“I promise.” Her solemn eyes meet mine. “I mean it.”
“You scared me,” I quietly say.
“I’m so sorry.” Silent tears stream down her face, and I lean in and hug her.
“Shush, it’s okay.” My fingers reach for hair that isn’t there. “Why did you do this?” I ask, feeling the ragged edges of her new pixie haircut.
“He was always playing with my hair, said he loved it. Every time I looked in the mirror, I would see him there, running his fingers through it.” She reaches up, touching the ends of her much shorter hair. “I’m not sorry I did it, though I probably should’ve waited to go to the hairdressers.”
I wasn’t sure what kind of mood Ash would be in when she woke, but I’m glad she seems more like herself. The sadness is still there. The hurt too, but there’s a resignation, an acceptance of sorts, that was missing before. Perhaps doing what she did was the wake-up call she needed though I would never have wanted it to come about like this.
I ease back and stare her straight in the eyes. “You can get it fixed, and you can fix your heart too, Ash.”
“I need time to mourn him and mourn all those stupid dreams I had.”
“They weren’t stupid. Only that prick was.”
She averts her eyes, looking to one side.
I gently cup her cheek. “You will get through this, Ash, and I’ll be with you every step of the way.”
She sniffles, nodding. “I’m thirsty.”
I pour her some water from the jug on her locker, elevate the bed, and help her to sit up a little. I hold the plastic cup while she takes a few sips, and that’s how the nurse finds us. She talks quietly to Ash, asking her a few things, before checking the machine and her vitals, and then she leaves again.
“Where’s everyone?”
I fill my sister in on all that she missed, and gradually, her eyelids droop shut. “Sleep,” I say, helping her to lie down flat and pulling the covers up over her. “I’ll be right here when you wake up.”
The next couple months are difficult for my sister, but she is finally starting to turn a corner. She decided to defer sitting her exams because she has missed too much time, and she’ll re-sit sixth year. It means we will be together for our final year, and we’ll both be doing the Leaving at the same time next year. I like that, and I like that this takes the pressure off Ash so she can concentrate on getting better.
I drive her to therapy every week, and when I’m not at school, working, or with the band, I spend every spare moment with my sister. Gradually, she is healing and the old Ash is starting to resurface. We are all so relieved.
I don’t know what Shane did or said, but the week after Ash returned home from the hospital, Cillian and Kelly packed up and moved to Cork to stay with his grandparents. I assume they transferred to a school there, but I really couldn’t give a flying fuck as long as they stay away from my sister. I’d be happy if they never came back to Kilcoole.
During the summer holidays, Toxic Gods books a second regular gig at a pub-slash-nightclub in Wicklow on Saturday nights. Ciarán has graduated UCG, started a job with Microsoft, and he’s living in a flat in Greystones with Susie now. They have come to see us play in Bray and Wicklow a couple of times, letting Ro tag along as Ash still hasn’t ventured back onto the social scene.
Ro is champing at the bit to play with us and pestering me nonstop to get rid of Aaron and bring him on board instead. He’s such a clown. My little bro is nowhere near ready to fill Aaron’s shoes, and even if he was, I wouldn’t boot the guy out just to accommodate Ro. That would be a seriously shitty thing to do. Ma would also string me up. Unlike me, Ro does well in school, and she doesn’t want the band distracting him from his studies.
Shane and Fiona had a little girl, Chloe, and she has us all wrapped around her tiny finger.
A few nights a week I work behind the bar at a local pub for extra cash. I’m saving every spare penny I earn towards my motorbike and leaving home. The band has already decided we’ll be moving into the city center after we finish school next year. We’re going to try to get a few gigs around town and start making a name for ourselves on the indie rock scene in Dublin.
It’s late one Thursday night in early July when my world turns upside down.
I’m the last patron to leave Bray Boxing Club, and I wave at Pete as he locks up and heads towards his car while I stop to havea smoke. The bus isn’t for another twenty minutes, and I have plenty of time to walk to the bus stop.
I’m leaning back against the wall at the side of the club when a new model BMW 8 Series pulls up to the curb. I puff away, feigning disinterest, as an older man, wearing a sharp fitted black suit gets out of the back seat. His blue eyes narrow on me as he approaches, and all the fine hairs on the back of my neck stand to attention. Not a single dark hair is out of place on the man’s head, and his clean-shaven jaw and smooth tanned skin make it hard to put an exact age on him. He projects arrogant confidence as he heads straight towards me.
I straighten up, throwing my ciggie on the ground and stamping it out under my boot, instantly on high alert. Clutching the straps of my bag tighter, I study him as he comes near. I don’t know the man. I’m one hundred percent certain I’ve never set eyes on him before, yet somehow, he’s familiar. His silver watch glints under the streetlamp, and it looks like an expensive one. In fact, his whole demeanor screams wealth.
I level a glare at the rich prick when he stops directly in front of me. If he wants trouble, he’s come to the right place. I won’t hesitate to take this dick down if necessary. “What do you want?” I say in a cold unwelcoming voice. I’m a few inches taller than him and broader in the shoulders, and I enjoy looking down at him.
His eyes roam over me with a calculated stare. “You’re Dillon O’Donoghue.” His American accent is unmistakable, and my breath falters as the realization instantly hits like someone just plunged a dagger straight through my heart.
No.
I clutch the wall behind me for support when my legs feel like they might go out from under me.
