Ian
“Good thing I’ve only got one big bag, or how else would I have managed?” Ryan asks, appearing behind me as I get off my motorbike.
“Thanks for coming to get my scrawny arse, Ian,” I mimic, making fun of him.
Ryan throws his bag to the ground and looks at me a few seconds before extending his hand.
“A hug would be appropriate here,” I tell him, squeezing tightly.
“If we have to…” he says with fake distain, playing up his tough guy persona that no one, not even himself, believes.
I give him a pat on the back and let him go.
“So…” he says, delving his hands into the pockets of his leather coat.
“You’re home.” I half smile.
He sighs heavily. “I’m home.”
“Come on, I’ll take you in to them.”
“No,” he stops me before I can get back on the bike. “Not yet. I’m not ready.”
“Ryan, what’s going on? Please try not to be an idiot.”
“You can’t tell me what to do.”
“Of course I can. I’m your older brother, and I’m not a dickhead like you.”
“First of all, you’re not even—” he stops himself before going on. “Sorry.”
“It’s fine,” I lie, locking my jaw.
“I just need a minute, okay? This isn’t easy.”
“I understand,” I say, before handing him a helmet. He slings his bag over his shoulder and then puts the helmet on. “I’ll take you over to mine.”
“Thanks. Yours’d be great.”
We both get on the bike and leave terminal car park, heading out onto Swords Road, then merging onto the M1, which brings us straight back into town. I ride in silence for about half an hour, weaving between cars. The night starts to fall, leaving us with a sense of oppression that threatens to crush us, prevents us from breathing.
I know he’s noticed it too.
I can only imagine how Ryan feels right now; he left when his life got completely turned upside down about two years ago. He’s kept his distance from this city, and I think he wanted to keep it that way for the rest of his life.
He moved to England to play on the London Irish team, but I know that he really moved to get away from Nick and everything that reminded him of his life here.
In the past two years, he’s set foot in Dublin only once, when we found out about our father; he stayed as long as he could before leaving again, with no intention of coming back.
But now he’s here. I knew he’d come home. Ryan would never abandon his family in a situation like this; he just needed a push to make him see reason.
I park my motorbike in front of the gate, and we both get off. Ryan takes off his helmet and looks around.
“You still live here? With all that money they’re paying you?”
I shrug.
I live in an area called Docklands, south of the Grand Canal. It’s not too bad; granted, it’s not the trendiest place in Dublin and at one point, nobody really looked in this area, thanks to the never-ending construction projects and the squatters. But in recent years, it’s had a bit of a makeover, and has become a neighborhood just like any other.
