I close my eyes and take the plunge. ‘What happened to him?’
The buzzing stops and the children’s game ends as though everyone needs to know the answer to this question.
Nanny Bet’s eyes soften and I lean in.
She takes a breath.
A large tortoiseshell cat leaps onto her lap, letting out a petulant yowl. She gasps like the air has been knocked out of her. ‘Oh, for fu—Fergal, you eejit!’
He meows and glares at me.
The question hangs unanswered. I open my mouth to ask it again, but the moment has passed. I know she wouldn’t have told me anything anyway. Nobody ever does.
‘Another time,’ she says as if reading my mind. ‘I’m going to feed his majesty here and make you a cup of tea. Biscuit?’
‘Sure.’
She heads to the kitchen, the cat padding after her with his tail held high.
I should be used to people avoiding any talk about Dad by now. His is the name that can’t be said. It’s like he isn’t allowed to exist, while at the same time he’s all we think about.
Or maybe that is just howIfeel. Because they do talk about him, but behind closed doors, when I’m not in the room. Like the whispered urgent fights my parents used to have late at night. Their hissing words made my skin crawl almost as much as their forced displays of affection over breakfast the next day. I was never allowed to be part of the troubles happening in my own home.
I’d hoped Nanny Bet would be different. She’s always been open and direct.
‘Dark chocolate OK?’ she calls from the kitchen.
Gross.
‘Yes, please.’
Politeness might be dishonest, but it’s what people expect.
My phone vibrates and my fingers tingle with the hope of a message from Ben. But it’s Cormac seeing when I’ll be back so we can head into town.
Not long
I drop my phone on the table and close my eyes, enjoying the sun on my face. I’m starting to relax when the needle of pain pricksat my neck and the light on my closed eyelids flares from peach to bright yellow.
I rub my forehead as the light intensifies. I stand up and the chair falls behind me with a crash.
‘Michael?’ Nanny Bet calls.
The pain is white hot now. ‘I’m fine,’ I gasp.
The smell of smoky earth and metal floods through me as the light flares again. My palms sweat and blood rushes in my ears. Heat hits me like I’ve opened an oven door, and my eyes fly open.
I freeze.
Standing by the garden fence is a soldier, pointing a rifle right at me.
I jump backwards and fall over the chair. My palm is punctured by grit as I scramble to my feet. The soldier is shouting but I can’t hear what he’s saying.
A figure steps alongside me.
A child.
A little boy, eight or nine years old.
