Copyright

Published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

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London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollins Publishers 2018

Copyright © Carmel Harrington 2018

Cover illustrations © Shutterstock.com

Cover design by Ellie Game © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2018

Carmel Harrington asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780008276584

Ebook Edition © October 2018 ISBN: 9780008276591

Version: 2020-12-04

Dedication

For Ann Murphy, my person. You’ve been making my life better for nearly thirty years. Thank you.

Epigraph

There are a thousand ways to kneel and kiss the ground;

there are a thousand ways to go home again.

Rumi

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Epigraph

Prologue

Chapter 1. RUTH

Chapter 2. RUTH

Chapter 3. RUTH

Chapter 4. TOM

Chapter 5. RUTH

Chapter 6. RUTH

Chapter 7. RUTH

Chapter 8. TOM

Chapter 9. RUTH

Chapter 10. RUTH

Chapter 11. RUTH

Chapter 12. TOM

Chapter 13. TOM

Chapter 14. RUTH

Chapter 15. RUTH

Chapter 16. TOM

Chapter 17. TOM

Chapter 18. TOM

Chapter 19. RUTH

Chapter 20. TOM

Chapter 21. RUTH

Chapter 22. TOM

Chapter 23. RUTH

Chapter 24. RUTH

Chapter 25. TOM

Chapter 26. TOM

Chapter 27. RUTH

Chapter 28. TOM

Chapter 29. TOM

Chapter 30. RUTH

Chapter 31. TOM

Chapter 32. RUTH

Chapter 33. RUTH

Chapter 34. RUTH

Chapter 35. RUTH

Chapter 36. RUTH

Chapter 37. TOM

Chapter 38. TOM

Chapter 39. RUTH

Chapter 40. TOM

Chapter 41. TOM

Chapter 42. RUTH

Chapter 43. TOM

Chapter 44. RUTH

Chapter 45. TOM

Chapter 46. TOM

Chapter 47. TOM

Chapter 48. RUTH

Chapter 49. RUTH

Chapter 50. TOM

Chapter 51

Chapter 52. TOM

Chapter 53. TOM

Chapter 54. TOM

Chapter 55. TOM

Chapter 56. TOM

Chapter 57. TOM

Chapter 58. RUTH

Epilogue

Christmas at the Silver Sands Lodge

A Note from the Author

Book Club Questions

Keep Reading …

About the Author

Also by Carmel Harrington

About the Publisher

PROLOGUE

Then

Ruth fastened the seat belt around her newborn son’s car seat. She tugged it twice to double-check it was secure. Little DJ puckered his lips and smiled as he chased his dreams, the way babies do.

She switched the engine on and drove away from the only world she knew. But she was not sorry. It was just her and her son now. Whilst there was fear, there was excitement, too. It was time for a new beginning. She looked in the rear-view mirror to ensure her sleeping son was as he should be. She would do this many times until they arrived at their new flat in Dublin.

Ruth Wilde had always been a person with obsessions: Odd Thomas, who was both her imaginary best friend and the main character from her favourite book written by Dean Koontz (she would soon finish this book for the hundred and fourth time); Westlife, her number-one favourite band, whose song ‘Flying without Wings’ helped her drown out the white noise and anxiety whenever it threatened to overcome her; mashed potatoes, white sliced loaf, bananas, ice cream – in fact any food that was white in colour; counting steps, always even.

Yes, Ruth Wilde did obsessions very well.

And now she had a new one. The most important one of all.

Her son.

She would be a good mother. She would fight for DJ when he could not fight for himself. She would keep him safe from the dangers that lurked in the dark shadows. She would make him laugh at least once a day. And she would love him as she had never been loved herself.

Yes, it was time. Ruth was ready to leave Wexford to make a new home for her family.

‘Just the two of us against the world, DJ,’ she whispered. She hit play on her CD player, letting Shane from Westlife’s voice fill the car. The words from, ‘Flying Without Wings’ had never felt more apt. For as long as Ruth had thought, she too had been looking for that something. Something to make her complete. She glanced at DJ again in the rear-view mirror and felt joyful satisfaction bubble its way up inside her.

If she had not chosen that exact second to do this, she might have noticed instead the man she’d just passed, walking with a rucksack on his back. And she might have stopped.

Tom did not notice the red car pass by him either, as he walked along the Estuary Road towards the N11. His head was full of the warnings his friend Ben had made earlier. They nipped and taunted him, whirling around in his brain, tangling everything up, until he could no longer make sense of anything.

‘If you don’t find something to light up the darkness, Tom, you’ll get lost in the shadows.’

But what if that was what he wanted? Tom didn’t believe he would ever feel peace again. He was bone tired from weeks of sleepless nights. Despite this, he kept on walking, putting one foot in front of the other. His pace was steady and a few hours later he arrived in the town of Enniscorthy. Tom’s feet were beginning to protest about the long walk. A throb in his right little toe and left heel set up residence. He welcomed the pain.

He walked over the Seamus Rafter Bridge, leaving the banks of the River Slaney behind him. He glanced at Enniscorthy Castle on his right then made his way towards Main Street.

It was late, the last of the daylight now swallowed up by the night. He didn’t plan to end up here, but somehow he’d found himself in the grounds of St Aidan’s Cathedral. He walked to a small clearing in the shadow of the big church and sat down, his back against the cold stone wall.

For in that sleep of death what dreams will come. That’s what Shakespeare had written. Tom hoped he was right. Because if so, Cathy was living the life they had dreamed they would have. The life that had been cruelly snatched from them. Wouldn’t that be something?

Close your eyes.

– Cathy?

Yes, my love.

– Are you here?

Remember what I told you. If you close your eyes, the dreams will come.

– I don’t know how.

Yes, you do. We’re waiting for you, Tom. Come home to us.

Tom didn’t make a conscious decision to sleep outdoors. The night just crept up on him. To his surprise, on the hard, concrete ground with the cold brick of the Cathedral to his back, he finally found a different kind of peace and the sleep that had eluded him for weeks.

And in that sleep the dreams did come.

Cathy stood a few feet away from him, carrying Mikey. He ran towards them and pulled them both into his arms.

Daddy’s home. I’ll never leave you again.

1
RUTH

Now

‘Err, what’s it supposed to be, Mam?’ DJ asked.

Ruth flicked on her tablet and pointed to an image on Pinterest. Their eyes flicked back and forth between the green chequered fondant perfectly encasing the square Minecraft cake on screen, and the mound of brown, black and green smudged squares that covered Ruth’s cake in front of them. Four hours of baking, dyeing fondant, cutting, moulding. And for all that effort she had what looked like a patchwork quilt made by a four-year-old. Ten candles leaned to the left, perilously close to a sugary grave.

It was DJ’s tenth birthday. A milestone that deserved celebrating. And not with a big mess of a cake. Was he cross with her? She peered at her son’s face, trying to determine his mood, as he contemplated the cake in front of him. His face broke into a big grin and he pointed to the tablet screen, then back to Ruth’s cake, and said, ‘Nailed it!’

Ruth repeated his words with relief and then they both said it together, ‘Nailed it!’, each time making them snort a little louder. This went on until they clutched their sides, the pain from a laughter stitch doubling them over.

‘Thanks for trying, Mam. It probably tastes all right. But don’t give up the day job!’

Ruth felt a rush of emotion for the boy DJ was now and the man he was on his way to becoming. The past ten years had gone too quickly. One moment a baby in her arms. Now, on the brink of opening a door to adulthood.

‘You have to blow out the candles,’ Ruth said.

‘Aren’t I too old for that?’

‘Never too old for candles and wishes.’ Ruth lit the wonky wax sticks one by one.

His nose scrunched up as it always did when he was thinking. His father had done the same too. She remembered that much, even if some things had become a bit faded with time. A shared mannerism between father and son despite the fact that they had never met.

‘Make a wish, DJ,’ Ruth whispered.

With one big puff, DJ blew out the ten candles all at once, as Ruth sang ‘Happy Birthday To You’.

She reached under the kitchen table and pulled out a basket of gifts all wrapped prettily in blue paper with a perfectly formed red bow tied on top. DJ quickly counted them. Ten. His mam always bought him a gift for each year, even though he always told her she shouldn’t.

‘Thanks, Mam,’ he said, ripping the paper from the first parcel.

Ruth’s eyes never left him, drinking in his every reaction as he opened the gifts one by one. A football jersey, a journal, a Rubik’s Cube, a book, artist’s pencils, a sketch pad, a bar of Galaxy, a new T-shirt, and a pair of bright, stripy socks.

‘I know what this one is,’ DJ said, as he pulled the paper off the last gift. He nodded in satisfaction when it revealed a book of raffle tickets. A sticker, with a message written in Ruth’s neat handwriting, covered the front of the book: One strip can be redeemed for a hug at any time. He didn’t have a birthday memory that didn’t include a version of this gift. He had never spoken about this arrangement with his friends in school, suspecting, correctly, that they would find it strange. It was just the way it was with him and his mam.

DJ felt her eyes on him, as he picked up his new football shirt, and a lump jumped into his throat. His mam must have been saving for ages to get him that jersey. It was the real deal. Not a cheap copy from the market. He pulled a strip out of the book and handed it to her.

Ruth folded it in two, then placed it in her jeans pocket. She opened her arms to her son and held him close in her embrace, breathing in his unique smell. Mud, milk, bananas and tonight, because of his earlier treat, pepperoni pizza.

Ruth knew that there would come a day when raffle tickets would no longer be needed. Previous years she had to buy new books halfway through the year, such was the demand for her cuddles. But when she had checked her son’s bedside locker last week, she realised that a quarter of his ninth birthday book was unused. She closed her mind to that. Because right now in this moment, she was his and he was hers.

‘Hey! How did you do that?’ DJ asked when the lights in the flat went out.

Ruth’s stomach sank. Not again. She stood up and counted her steps to the kitchen. She continued counting until she got to eight, then pulled open a drawer, reaching for her torch. She flicked it on and investigated the ESB box. Please let it be a trip switch. Her silent pleas fell on deaf ears. All switches were upright and correct. ‘We have been cut off.’

‘It doesn’t matter,’ DJ said by her side, reaching for her hands that had begun to fly in frustration at this turn of events. ‘We can watch the movie another time.’

‘I get paid tomorrow. I was going to pay the bill then.’ Ruth popped her knuckles in frustration. Her phone pinged to let her know she had a text message, its blue light flashing on the kitchen table. It was from Seamus Kearns, her landlord.

I will be calling at the flat next Friday at 6pm.

She turned her phone upside down.

‘All OK?’

Ruth nodded and pushed aside a niggling feeling of unease. This was DJ’s night. Ruth would deal with the landlord tomorrow.

‘We can still eat cake, even in the dark!’ DJ said, pulling two plates from the cabinet.

Ruth held the torch over her son as he cut a large wedge of the cake. Then he reached up into the larder press and felt his way until he found his target. Rice cakes. He took two out and put them on the second plate. Ruth grabbed a bag of tea lights and lit a dozen of them, placing them around the sitting room. They sat side by side on the small sofa, balancing their treats on their knees. With a mouthful of the cake, DJ said, ‘Knew it. Tastes great.’

Ruth shuddered just thinking about putting a mouthful of that green mess into her mouth. Knowing how hard it must have been for his mother to touch food that wasn’t white, DJ said, ‘I can’t believe you made this cake for me, Mam.’

‘I would do anything for you, DJ. Always remember that.’ And they inched a little closer to each other.

His eyes, now accustomed to the near darkness, took in the birthday banners that hung from each corner of the room. The multi-coloured balloons that seemed to dance in the candlelight. The empty pizza box. The gifts. His mam. And while he didn’t know it yet, this birthday was the one that, for the rest of his life, he would look back on as his best.

2
RUTH

The day Ruth Wilde and her son, DJ, became homeless was just an ordinary day in Dublin. The sun poked its head through the grey clouds of an autumnal sky. Cars drove by at a snail’s pace, bumper to bumper in their early morning commute.

One, two, three … Ruth began counting steps to herself as she walked down the driveway in front of her flat.

For most, it was just another thank-crunchie-it’s-Friday morning in the suburbs. For Ruth it was a day of despair. Her world, her normal, was falling apart. She was not prepared for the unknown future that lay ahead. With every change that was flung at her, she felt like she was moving closer to the edge of an abyss.

… ten, eleven, twelve …

And for Ruth, who lived her life in quiet, isolated order with her son, the abyss looked impossible to cross. Taking a leap of faith was not in her psyche. Ruth needed to prepare, to understand, to know before she undertook anything new. That way she had time to build a bridge, if you like, that would take her safely to the other side.

… nineteen, twenty, twenty-one …

She looked up and down the road, seeing it with new eyes that told her danger lay ahead.

… twenty-five, twenty-six, twenty-seven …

The end of the driveway. She took one more step, then breathed the last number with relief.

Twenty-eight. As it should be; as it had been for four years now.

Ruth placed two black sacks beside the ugly but serviceable suitcases she’d left there moments before. Not much to show for her thirty years in this world. Running her hands over the cases, she felt a moment of sympathy for them. When it came to the luggage lottery they lucked out. While other suitcases got to travel the world, hers were used only to transport meagre possessions from rented house to rented house. So many moves over the past ten years since they arrived in Dublin. The plan had been to stay here until they were given a council house. Now there was a new plan. She just did not know what it was yet.

Ruth felt her son’s presence before she saw him. He had this weird energy lately that filled the air between them: a mixture of disappointment, anger and, she supposed, fear. None of which she knew how to alleviate.

‘You should be in school,’ Ruth said, watching the patterns of the cracks in the pavement. She had dropped him there earlier this morning, then went for her usual early morning run. She never needed the escapism running gave her more than she did today.

His response was to kick the concrete path with the toe of his scuffed runners. He’d had another growth spurt over the past couple of weeks. School tracksuit bottoms were almost at the point of embarrassment for him, barely grazing the tops of his shoes. She would have to get to Penneys at some point to pick up a pair. And then a thought hit her hard. How will I clean his uniform if we have no home of our own, no washing machine?

She felt guilt flood over her again. She had let him down just as her mother had predicted she would. A spectacular failure of a parent. She cracked the knuckle on her ring finger and felt tension release as she heard a familiar pop, pop, pop.

‘Sorry,’ she said, when DJ made a face. She knew the noise irritated him. But this quirk had been embedded in her for as long as she had a memory. It proved hard to say goodbye to.

‘Why are you looking all weird at the cases?’ DJ asked. He gave the one nearest to him a kick.

‘I feel sorry for them,’ Ruth said, pushing them away from DJ’s feet, which were hell-bent on causing damage right now.

‘That’s weird. You do know that, right?’ DJ asked.

‘Yes.’

You used to like my weirdness. Please do not stop.

‘Is that it, then? We’re really leaving now?’ DJ said.

‘Yes.’ Her culpability crippled her. She had promised him that they were done moving around when they had found this flat four years previously. But she made that promise without the knowledge that eviction lay in their future.

‘I never liked it here anyway. It’s a dump,’ DJ lied.

‘I liked it,’ Ruth answered softly. ‘And while it was not much, it was our dump.’

‘So what next?’ His voice made a lie of his earlier bravado, the tremor showing his truth. He was a scared kid who didn’t want to leave his house, his bedroom, his life.

‘Right now you need to go back to school. We have talked about this. I will collect you later on. After my meeting with the council in Parkgate Hall. I will come and get you. You have my word,’ Ruth said.

‘I’m not going to school today.’ DJ was matter-of-fact, and when she didn’t answer him he turned to her. ‘You can’t make me go in.’

‘Yes I can,’ Ruth replied.

‘Well, maybe, but you need me with you, Mam. You know how you get when you’re stressed. Let me help. Let me go with you to the council.’

‘I will not say the wrong thing.’

DJ had heard his mother rehearse possible scenarios for this day dozens of times. He’d watched her struggle to stay calm, with the sound of her pops cracking in the air, as her knuckle-cracking habit exacerbated. The fear that the council would not have somewhere safe for them danced around them both. But DJ could not give in to that. He was no longer a baby. He had to be strong for his mam. She needed him.

‘It’s not fair to expect me to sit through double maths when all I’m thinking about is you and where we will sleep tonight,’ DJ whispered.

Ruth nodded in agreement. ‘None of this is fair.’

Her reasoning that it was better for him to miss all of this was perhaps misguided. She took in every part of him, from the frown on his face to the hunch of his shoulders, and felt her love for him overtake everything else. ‘Do you need a hug?’ Ruth asked, taking a step backwards.

If he said yes, she would pull him into her embrace and whilst she did so, she would count to ten, before letting him go. That’s just the way it was for them, and on a normal day that didn’t bother him. But today was not normal. For once, just once, DJ wished she would hug him without question. Without a raffle ticket.

‘It’s OK.’ DJ turned away from the look of relief on her face.

‘You can stay with me. I will write a letter for your teacher tomorrow morning,’ Ruth said.

‘Thanks.’ He felt some of his irritation slip away.

Their Uber arrived and the driver jumped out of the car, looking at their luggage with dismay. ‘This all yours, love?’

‘Correct.’

‘We’ll be doing well to fit this in the boot,’ he complained, picking up the black sacks. ‘You should have ordered a people carrier.’

‘Put the suitcases in first and you will have adequate space,’ Ruth pointed out what seemed startlingly obvious to her.

‘Listen to my mam. She’s good with stuff like this,’ DJ said, when the driver ignored her. DJ helped him do as Ruth suggested. With one last shove, the boot closed with a loud bang.

‘Told you,’ DJ said. He liked proving his mother right. Had she even noticed? He didn’t think so.

Ruth and DJ turned to look one last time at the home they had lived in for the past four years. Anger flashed over DJ’s face once more and Ruth shuddered as his features changed. Cold. Angry. Disappointed.

‘Stop staring at me,’ he complained.

Ruth ignored him and only looked away when his face returned to normal.

That’s better. He looked just like his father again. They got into the car and she turned her head to look out the window. Had things been different, if she had never met DJ’s father, his namesake, they might not be in this situation. But then she would have no DJ – arguably a fate much worse, because without her son, she had nothing.

As the car moved away from their old life, she said, ‘I am so sorry.’

‘You keep saying that,’ DJ said.

‘Because it is true.’

DJ sighed, something that Ruth noted he did with increasing regularity. The stress of the past month had made sighing part of his new normal. It was funny how sounds could bring you back to another time. Back to her childhood home where life had been full of sighs. The thing was, despite their regularity, they had the power to cut her each and every time.

The first sigh she could remember was at her four-years-old developmental check-up in the local health centre in Castlebridge, Wexford. Her mother had dressed Ruth in her best dress, a burnt-orange tweed pinafore. She had thick black tights on underneath, which scratched her legs and made her cry. Her mother had sighed and asked, ‘Why must you always be so difficult?’

Ruth did not like seeing her mother upset so she pinched herself hard and tried to make the tears stop. She wanted her mother to look at her with different eyes. With love.

On the way to the health centre, her parents coached her. They were second-guessing what the nurse would ask Ruth. She had tried to listen to her parents’ instructions, determined to succeed, to win, to not be a loser again. But with every question they threw at her and every answer Ruth offered up, she saw her parents throw furtive glances at each other. She could sense that something was not quite right. She wanted to be at home again in her bedroom, wearing her soft pyjamas that were made of pink fleece. She liked how they felt on her skin. They did not itch or scratch like her tights and dress, and they made her feel safe. She wanted to go back to her picture book and read about Angelina Ballerina. Instead she had to sit in a cold waiting room with hard plastic chairs and dirty floors while her parents told her to act like a normal child.

‘I want to go home,’ Ruth decided, and she felt her arms begin to fly. She wished she was a bird so she could disappear into the blue sky. Back home. Back to safety. Back to her normal.

Her mother’s exasperated sigh filled the air with tension. ‘Oh, Ruth, stop that right now. People will stare! Why must you always be so difficult?’

Ruth had sat on her hands, shamed, scared and tearful.

A lifetime of sighs and sorrys. Now her son was in on the act, too.

‘DJ,’ she whispered, and her hand hovered in the centre of the car, in the space between them. Only a few inches away from each other yet it felt like an unbridgeable gulf. She let her hand drop into her lap and she looked back out through the window.

3
RUTH

‘It’s not your fault,’ DJ said, finally, in a voice that was older and more knowing than it had any business to be. ‘It’s Seamus Kearns. I hate him. The … the … fucker.’

Ruth looked at her young son in shock. Had he just said that? DJ’s honest, innocent face jarred with his foul language. She was not naïve enough to believe that he had never used bad language before, but this … this really was out of character. One of the rules of their family was that they had a swear-free home. As much for her as him because, in truth, she enjoyed a good expletive.

Ruth wanted so much for DJ: an education, friends, social acceptance, a life without offence. Because offending people had been, and still was, a regular occurrence for her.

‘Hate is a strong word, DJ,’ Ruth said. Had it been any other day, she would have been cross with him. But she had to concede that on a day that involved losing your home, a few concessions had to be made.

‘You hate him, too,’ DJ said.

‘That is incorrect. I would say I abhor his actions. But hate is a negative, angry and all-encompassing emotion. He is not worthy of taking up that much space in my head. Or yours.’

DJ’s resentment filled the air between them, contaminating their close unit. She felt at a loss, knowing that she must, as the adult, find a way for them both to get through this. She turned to face him, then moved her hand an inch closer to his, letting her fingertips brush the top of his. He looked down and she saw a ghost of a smile inch its way back onto his face. He squeezed her hand for a moment then released it back to her lap.

It was a start. She would find a way to do better.

DJ turned his attention back to the blur of Dublin as they drove through the city. Their taxi came to a halt at a pedestrian crossing. Ruth looked up and watched an old man, unshaven and dirty, wearing a long grey overcoat, begin to cross the road. By his side was a dog with a long and silky strawberry-blonde coat. The man raised his hand in small salute to the taxi driver, thanking him for waiting. He walked slowly, with a slight limp on his right leg. He had a rucksack on his back and something about him – his clothes, his hair, the collar of his coat turned up to protect him from the chill in the air – brought a lump to Ruth’s throat.

Where is he going? Does he have a home?

Then a car behind them blasted its horn, impatient to get on with its journey. They all jumped in unison, including the dog, who stopped suddenly, causing the old man to crash into it. Like a deck of cards, he tripped and fell to the ground, his rucksack spilling its contents onto the road.

‘Probably pissed,’ the Uber driver said, looking with annoyance in his rear-view window at the car behind, whose driver continued to blast the horn.

‘His dog tripped him up,’ Ruth said, feeling the need to defend the old man. She watched a red-and-white flask escape his rucksack and roll towards their car.

‘Where you going?’ DJ asked in surprise when Ruth opened her door.

‘To help.’ She ran over to the flask and picked it up before it disappeared under their car.

‘That’s mine!’ the old man shouted at her, back on his feet again.

Ruth shook the flask gently to see if it had broken, relieved to hear only the swoosh of liquid inside, not broken shards.

‘It is unharmed,’ she said, handing it over to him. His boots were brown. Scuffed and worn. Like him.

He stuffed the flask back into his rucksack, looking at her curiously. Was she imagining it or did he look surprised? Without any further comment, Ruth counted the steps back to their Uber.

‘I don’t know why you bothered, love. His kind would stab you as soon as look at you,’ the taxi driver said. ‘Only last week I saw one of his lot robbing a handbag from a woman. Witnessed it from this very car.’

Ruth glanced towards the man still standing on the side of the road, watching her intently, his head tilted to one side. For a split second their eyes met and he raised his hand and saluted her. And in that gesture, Ruth had the strangest feeling she knew him. She had seen that salute before, she was sure. The memory teased her but refused to show itself. It was gone. And so was he when he turned away and walked in the opposite direction, his dog by his side. Her imagination was playing tricks on her.

‘Why did you do that?’ DJ asked.

‘Because it was the right thing to do,’ Ruth replied. She nodded towards the back of the Uber driver’s head. ‘Do not write off people based on how they present themselves to the world. You should know that better than anyone. Everyone has a story, if you take the time to listen.’

As their car moved on, the old man disappeared from her view but not from Ruth’s mind. She supposed he could have a home. But something about the way he retrieved his fallen items and put them back into his rucksack made her think that his home was in that bag. His face looked weathered in a way that suggested it had been exposed to the outside elements twenty-four-seven. Had life changed as quickly for this man as it had for her and DJ? In only four weeks, they had gone from home to homeless. Four short weeks that had been the longest of her life. When their landlord, Mr Kearns, gave them notice to leave their two-bedroomed flat, he set their life into a tailspin. Ruth was never late paying the rent, even by a day, which meant some months were leaner than others. But Mr Kearns did not care about that.

He had walked into her kitchen and opened up a cupboard above the sink, two months previously. Then pulled out a mug, laughing as he said, ‘It’s a mug’s game, this landlord malarkey. I’m getting out. Selling up.’ His eyes narrowed as he turned to look at Ruth. ‘Make me an offer if you like. Can’t say fairer than that.’

Ruth knew when someone was making fun of her. She recognised the tone, one that she had heard many times in her life.

‘I can’t maintain the rent. Not at the levels they are at,’ Mr Kearns said, in a manner that implied he was talking about the weather, not their eviction.

‘You raised the rent by twenty per cent only a year ago,’ Ruth interjected.

‘You can blame our government for the mess they’ve landed us all in. I can’t raise the rent for another two years, because of these new laws they’ve made,’ Seamus replied, picking up cushions on their sofa and examining them, before tossing them back.

Ruth had been relieved when she’d read about the changes to the Irish rent laws. Naïvely, she believed it meant that she would not have to worry about a further increase until 2020. By then she would have a council house. Only she realised now that although they were on the housing waiting list with Fingal County Council, they were as likely to win the lottery as they were to get a house. Ruth had heard the phrase ‘You are only two pay cheques away from the streets.’ As it happened, for them, the number was one.

Ruth felt panic begin to mount inside her once again, as she sat in the back of the car. Then Odd Thomas’s voice whispered to her, as it had done for over a decade whenever she needed help, calming her, supporting her:

Perseverance is impossible if we don’t permit ourselves to hope.

It was his name, ‘Odd’, that made her choose the book in the first place at her local library in Wexford. She had been called that on more than one occasion in her life. For different reasons from his, she found out soon enough. Odd could see and talk to dead people, and used this skill to help the Chief of Police in Pico Mundo to solve murders. Odd’s world in the USA became as real to her as the one she herself lived in in Ireland. She read the book in one glorious sitting the first time, then picked it up to read again the following day. Then something extraordinary happened on a damp, grey morning in spring. She watched her classmates playing basketball in the school yard, chatting in groups of twos and threes, happy cliques. A thought crept into her head, insidious and mean. If she disappeared, faded to nothing, who would miss her?

And that was when Odd Thomas spoke to her for the first time. Be happy. Persevere.

That very line was one of her favourites from the book. And she knew immediately what it meant. Ruth would have to work extra hard to be happy. But if she never gave up hope, she could find happiness. Thank you, Odd.

And so their friendship began: she trying her best to be happy; he reminding her that perseverance was necessary to achieve that end. Of course, Ruth knew that Odd was not real. She was neither stupid nor delusional. Just alone.

She looked across the seat to her son. For him, she would fight. She would find them a home again. He would never feel alone.

4
TOM

Bette Davis nuzzled Tom’s hand again, her apology for knocking him off his feet earlier. ‘It’s OK, girl,’ he said to his dog, ruffling her coat behind her ears, the way she liked. He leaned back into the curve of his park bench. His home now, he supposed, as it was where he spent most of his nights. Bette rested her head on his feet. Tom closed his eyes. His breathing slowed down and his lids flickered, heavy, until every sense lost its place in the now and went back in time to his dreams, to his happy place, to his home …

Tom stretched his aching muscles upwards, knowing that a locum was a priority. He couldn’t keep this pace up for much longer. His bones ached, older than his forty years. His small general practice had grown to the point that Tom had to turn new patients away. And patients were beginning to complain that the usual twenty-minute waiting time for their appointment was stretching towards an hour. That didn’t sit well with him.

His receptionist, Breda, poked her head through his door. The sound of the Spice Girls singing their Christmas hit ‘Too Much’ drifted in towards him. He stood up and heard his knees click in protest. He needed to get out for a run. He’d been saying that to himself for the past two months. But somehow or other, another day would go by and he’d find himself falling onto his couch, tired and hungry, exercising his fingers with the TV remote.

‘What’s the plan for the weekend?’ Breda asked.

‘Not listening to the Spice Girls. That’s for starters,’ Tom said.

‘Would suit you well to find a Spice Girl for yourself.’

‘Would be a lucky lady to get me,’ Tom said, smiling. ‘But if she’s out there tonight she’ll have to wait. Because my only plan is to head to Tesco. I need to replenish my poor cupboards, then it’s home to catch up on some sleep.’

‘It’s no life you have,’ Breda said. ‘Good-looking man like you.’

‘Stop flirting with me,’ Tom joked.

Breda waved her hands at him and grinned, ‘Oh, you, you’re such a messer.’

‘What are you up to this weekend, Breda?’ He watched her tidy her reception desk, switching off the computer. She looked as tired as he felt. Was he expecting too much from her? Probably.

‘I’m going dancing. Don’t laugh. I told you not to laugh!’ Breda said when Tom’s face broke into a grin. ‘Himself has it in his head that we should learn how to ballroom dance. I’m not sure I’ll ever be Ginger to his Fred, though.’

Tom walked over to Breda and grabbed her hand, spinning her around 360 degrees. ‘I don’t know. I reckon you have all the moves.’

She laughed as she pushed him away. ‘Get away out of that! Maybe thirty years ago. But I’m nearly sixty now!’

‘Never, you don’t look a day over forty!’ Tom didn’t miss a beat and she beamed. They had formed their mutual appreciation society nearly fifteen years previously, when he’d opened the practice. He would be lost without her.

They both groaned when the doorbell rang. Who on earth was calling at this late hour? They had cleared all appointments and it was now twenty minutes past their closing time.

‘Is it Ben, maybe?’ Breda asked. Sometimes Tom and his solicitor friend had a drink together after work.

‘Not tonight. He’s got a hot date with a new woman called Orla. Right now he’s dousing himself in aftershave.’ He unlocked the front door to a young mother with a young child in her arms, wrapped in a blanket.

‘Siobhan!’ Breda exclaimed, walking towards the woman.

‘I saw the light on. I hoped you were still here,’ Siobhan replied.

‘We were just about to walk out the door,’ Breda answered.

Siobhan’s face clouded with anxiety. ‘I’m worried. Daniel’s chest is really bad. His wheeze has gotten worse.’

Breda looked at Tom, ready to take his lead. Technically they were closed. Surgery hours were explicit on the sign at the front of their office.

‘You did the right thing coming,’ Tom said, shrugging his jacket off. Daniel looked smaller than his four years, his face bleached white.

Breda was unsurprised. Her boss had a big heart. It was one of the reasons she loved him like her own son.

Once they got into Tom’s office, Daniel climbed off his mother’s lap and stood in front of the doctor. Daniel knew the drill – he’d been here so many times before. He lifted his top up before he was asked, so that Dr Tom could listen to his chest.

‘Good man. Big deep breath for me. Hold it. And exhale,’ Tom said. ‘You’re a great fella. Do that again for me.’

Tom took his temperature, which was high, and looked in his ears and throat. ‘His left lung doesn’t sound good. The wheeze is particularly bad there.’

Siobhan wrung her hands back and forth. ‘I knew I should have brought him in earlier today. But Lulu has a bad cold. And I didn’t like to bring her out. She’s been so bad-tempered with it all. Gerard was away working. As soon as he came home, I told him I had to bring Daniel to see you. I rushed here as fast as I could. I’m so sorry …’

Tom put his hand up to stop the apologies. The woman would have a heart attack if she didn’t let herself off the hook. Nothing like a mother’s guilt. Unnecessary in this case. Her children were idolised and well looked after. ‘You were right to come to me.’

An hour spent on Tom’s new nebuliser made Daniel a new boy. Tom walked them both to the door with a prescription in hand. ‘If anything happens during the night that worries you, just go straight to A&E. But I think he’s going to be OK at home with the steroids.’

‘Bye, Dr Tom,’ Daniel said. He looked better already and was walking beside his mam now, holding her hand. Seeing how much improved the little fella was made the late night worth it. He locked up and jumped in his car. With a bit of luck, with traffic on his side, he’d make the supermarket before it closed.

The store announced its imminent closure as Tom raced up the escalators. He grabbed a trolley, ignoring the look of annoyance on the spotty-faced store assistant, who was restocking the baskets and trollies. The last thing he wanted was a last-minute trolley dasher like Tom to delay closure of the store. ‘Sorry, buddy,’ Tom said. ‘Promise I’ll be quick.’

He went straight to the pre-packed meal counter to cut out any procrastination on what to buy or, indeed, cook. Not quite home cooked but marginally better than living in the chipper all weekend. If he was fast he could hit the booze aisle to grab some beer too. It was Friday night, and while he was planning a weekend of little else but a book and maybe a bit of TV, alcohol would play a part, too.

His parents would be horrified if they knew he wasn’t going out this weekend looking for love. They were obsessed with his social activities and he found himself making up events that he’d been to just to satisfy them. Not that he was short of social opportunities. He just didn’t want any of them right now.

Tom was one of those people who always had lots of friends. He was born with charisma. His mother used to say that from the moment he arrived into the world people would stop and stare at him. He would lock his big brown eyes onto theirs and they were putty in his hands. In school kids loved him. His easy-going nature, coupled with a quick wit, made him good company. Children and teachers alike gravitated towards him.

This aura that surrounded him followed him through to university. His best friend, Ben, would watch him sail his way through his classes, making friends and finding new girlfriends without breaking a sweat. Whereas he always had to try harder. And whenever he complained, asking him what his secret was, Tom would answer, ‘I’m a charming fecker, that’s how.’

And he was. People liked him.

But even charmers like him need a chance to recharge batteries every now and then. The savage hours in work were taking their toll.

But, if Tom had finished his day at 6 p.m., as was originally planned, he would never have met Cathy. And that would have been the greatest tragedy. Cathy liked to think that something else governed their destined meet-up that day. Fate. Tom thought it was dumb luck. Either way, it was the start of everything.

In the shadow of the bench, Bette Davis looked up when she felt her master shift to the right. Even though he had his eyes closed, he was smiling. He was happy. He was home.

5
RUTH

Ruth was never late for an appointment. If she made a commitment to be somewhere, you could rely on her. Even with the unscheduled stop for the old man and his dog, Ruth and DJ were waiting outside the front entrance of Parkgate, ready to see the council, five minutes early. At 10.01 a.m., Ruth began to feel agitated.

She willed the door to open, wondering how many steps there were between the door and their scheduled appointment. When the door swung open moments later, she said to the brown-lace-up-loafer man, ‘You are two minutes late.’

‘Not by my watch, missus,’ the man replied, not one bit put out by her comments.

‘Excuse me? Are we in the 1950s? I am neither Mrs, Ms, nor Miss. I am Ruth.’

His bewildered face gave DJ a fit of the giggles.

Ruth and DJ picked up a black sack each, balancing it on top of a suitcase. Then they wheeled them into the hall following the signs for the Central Placement Service. One hundred and two steps. Ruth and DJ placed their bags against a wall on their left, which seemed as good a place as any to leave their worldly goods. Then they settled down to wait. From previous interactions with the council, Ruth expected that to be at least thirty minutes. She came prepared and placed her headphones on, hoping Westlife’s harmonies would block out the hundreds of horror stories she’d read online in support forums about other families who were in the same predicament as her. They were difficult to silence and over the past twenty-four hours had been, lingering inside her head.

I slept in my car for nearly two weeks. Gas thing is, I woke up at three o’clock every morning, at the exact same time. The cold woke me, or the nightmares, maybe both.

Laoise

We left the kids with my mother. She doesn’t have room for us all. But I can’t have them in the hostel. It’s not right. Not for anyone but definitely not for them.

Jude

They can’t find us emergency accommodation. Hotels won’t take our family of six. We’re too big. They want to separate us. But without each other, what’s the point of anything?

Gerry

I gave away all our clothes and possessions, except for one bag each. Not because I didn’t want them any more. But because I had nowhere to put them.

Ursula

The desperate words of these families kept her awake at night and haunted her during the day.

Plan B was one she could not contemplate. Could she do it? Ask her family for help? Which of them? Her mother, her father or Mark?

Pop, pop, pop.

‘Mam.’ DJ nudged her, unease pinching his face. ‘You’re crying.’

She wiped the tears away, surprised to feel their wetness on her cheeks.

‘Ruth Wilde,’ a voice called out.

They stood up and turned to look at each other. DJ’s head now reached her breastbone. He was getting tall and she surmised that within a few years he would overtake her. But despite his physical appearance, despite the fact that his emotional intelligence was far older than his years, he was just a kid. And she was letting him down. Shame on you, Ruth. Shame, shame, shame.

‘It’s going to be fine, Mam,’ DJ said, sensing her anxiety.

‘Ruth Wilde?’ the voice shouted again.

Not everyone is cut out to be a mother, Ruth. That’s what her mother had said. Had she been right all along?

Eight steps till she reached the counter, and with each one Ruth vowed to make this right for DJ. But as she walked, she looked around the small waiting room that was now almost full. She felt the eyes of the room follow her, judging her, questioning her story. She wrung her hands. Ruth felt blinded by an imaginary spotlight, one that was focused on her inadequacies.

Shame. Shame. Shame.

She wanted to run. Run, leaving behind her suitcases and black sacks. Leaving behind her shame. DJ moved a step closer to her and she felt the warmth of his hand on her back, steadying her. She was not alone. For her son, she summoned every ounce of strength and she focused on the job at hand.

They each took a seat side by side in front of the clerical officer. Ruth looked at the desk in front of her and saw a photograph of a family, taken at a child’s First Holy Communion. Mum, dad and two smiling kids, one of them dressed in white. The woman in the photograph beamed and her hands rested on the shoulders of her two children. She had a kind face and she was a mother. That had to be a good sign. Because right now this stranger in front of them held their fate in her hands.

DJ’s hands covered hers as Ruth began popping her knuckles one by one. She unflexed her hands reluctantly. If I just get through this interview, I can go home and be myself in private … The thought hung unfinished in her mind. She no longer had a home to go to. She forced herself to look up at the woman in front of her and silently begged her to help them. The woman’s eyes were locked on her computer screen and she hit the keyboard a few times, before looking up at them both and smiling.

‘Good morning! I’m Gillian. Nippy out there today, isn’t it? My car nearly skidded on black ice when I left our estate. Put the heart across me!’ She spoke fast, her smile bright and honest, reaching her eyes. Ruth had not been expecting a summary of Gillian’s journey to work and was thrown by it. She had rehearsed what to say all morning and this had not been part of any scenario. So she ignored Gillian and repeated her rehearsed statement in one long breathless sentence.

‘I have a job I always pay my rent on time but our landlord has evicted us as he is selling our flat I have tried everything in my power to find another home for us but there is nothing in my price range we have nowhere to go we are homeless I have a job that I am going to lose if I do not have a home and I have a son who needs a home.’

‘It’s OK,’ Gillian interrupted. ‘Breathe.’

‘I am breathing. I would be dead if I were not.’

Gillian could not work out if Ruth was joking or not. She decided that she was. ‘Good one! Well, don’t worry, I’m going to help you. OK?’

Ruth nodded, looking closely at the woman in front of them whose face only showed sympathy and kindness. She could not see her shoes and that disappointed her. She guessed she was a black-mid-heel-court type of woman. She decided she could trust her.

‘Do we get a house with a garden?’ DJ asked.

‘I can’t guarantee that, I’m afraid. But I’m going to do my best to make sure you have somewhere to go today, until we find you something more permanent. And we need to ensure that you don’t lose your job, Ruth. Let me just double-check that your information on file is still correct.’

‘I cannot lose my job I have worked very hard not to lose this job.’

‘I’m sure you have. You work from home as an online customer advisor?’

Ruth nodded.

‘Your annual salary is 18,000 euro.’

Another nod.

‘You are a single mother. You have one child – DJ, who is aged ten. You do not receive maintenance from his father. All correct?’

Three nods in a row. Ruth felt like one of those nodding dogs in the back of a car.

‘And there’s no family you can call on for help? Somewhere you can stay until your name comes up on the housing list?’

Her family. What would this woman think if she knew the truth about her mother?

‘I have no family support,’ Ruth confirmed. She felt DJ’s eyes on her and looked towards him. She knew what he was thinking. Why? She wished she had an answer to that.

‘I’m going to make a few calls to find emergency accommodation close to DJ’s school. But I must stress that I can’t guarantee that. It’s been a busy month – hell, it’s been a busy year,’ Gillian said.

‘It’s OK if I miss school for a bit,’ DJ said helpfully.

Gillian laughed at this, but stopped when she realised Ruth wasn’t joining in. She was such an odd woman, so serious.

‘We have no car to sleep in. Or friends’ houses to sofa surf. Please help us. I do not want my son to sleep on a bench. Please,’ Ruth said.

Pop, pop, pop.

Gillian leaned in and said, with utmost sincerity, ‘I told you that I would help. And that’s what I plan to do. Try not to worry.’

Twenty minutes later, Gillian looked up from her computer screen and said, ‘I’ve pulled some strings and found you a room in a hotel. It’s a little bit away from DJ’s school, which I know was a priority for you both location-wise, but it’s all I have at the moment. Like I said earlier, it’s been a hard year for many people,’ Gillian said.

‘Thank you. We will take it,’ Ruth said, breathless with relief. She wanted to dance with joy. No park bench for them. They would be safe.

‘I’ll keep the pressure on for you, to try and get your house. You’ve been on the waiting list for a long time. Your turn has to come soon,’ Gillian promised.

‘What’s the name of the hotel?’ DJ asked.

‘The Silver Sands Lodge. It’s small. Really a guest-house or, as Erica, the owner, likes to say, a boutique hotel. We’ve housed a number of our families there over the past couple of years. I think you’ll be comfortable. It’s all booked with Erica, who is expecting you. You mentioned you have no car?’

‘No. I sold our car a few years ago to pay for a deposit on the flat we’ve just been evicted from,’ Ruth replied. She scribbled down Erica’s name and hotel details into her notebook. Fairview. She did not know the area, but knew it was close to the city centre.

‘Just as well maybe. The Silver Sands Lodge does not allow social housing residents to park in their car park,’ Gillian said.

‘That makes no sense. A car park is for cars.’

‘It’s small, so they prefer to keep the spaces there for their paying guests. You understand.’

Ruth did not understand, but thought she’d better keep quiet in case the room was taken from her as quickly as it had been offered.

Gillian turned to DJ, who was listening to their exchange with eyes wide. ‘My priority is to get you that garden, DJ. I promise I’ll do my best.’

DJ’s face was alight with excitement. ‘I’ve never stayed in a hotel before! This is going to be so cool. Our first holiday!’

Gillian looked at him, pity turning her kind face sad. She had visited too many families squashed into one hotel room, with little privacy and no comforts to make themselves a home. Gillian wished she had the power to stop that harsh reality sinking in for DJ. He wasn’t much older than her own kids. Glancing at the photograph of her beaming family, snapped at home, she realised how lucky they were, to live the life they did. And when she got home, she would tell them so.

6
RUTH

Then

Ruth slipped a navy sleep mask over her eyes, smiling in satisfaction when her brother, Mark’s, small kitchen disappeared into darkness. Armed with her bowl of chopped fruit, she moved eight steps to the small dining-room table, which sat at the edge of the open-plan kitchen and living room. She had considered eating standing up, against the sink. But the thought was fleeting. One, her lower back ached and she needed the welcome relief of sitting. Two, more importantly, the sink was not the correct place to eat.

Ruth liked to do the correct thing. Follow the rules.

‘Sorry, little baby. Be patient,’ she whispered.

A third kick under her ribcage made her jump and elicited a loud bellowing laugh. ‘Not afraid to look for what you want, that’s my fierce little one.’ In delight, she rubbed her round tummy.

The baby responded by kicking her once again, its target the top of her pelvis. She lowered the bowl onto the table, ignoring the stabbing pain, then sat down. The relief was immediate. She felt her body celebrating the respite from hauling around the additional weight she now carried on her slight frame.

Reward for her efforts was immediate when Ruth popped a large slice of mango into her mouth. The sweet, tangy juice spilled from the soft flesh in an explosion that set her taste buds alight. She laughed out loud again as her jubilant baby began a victory dance, its craving for bright-orange mango fruit quenched. ‘If there is a sweeter taste, then I do not know it,’ she whispered to an empty room. But her little one answered, with another sharp kick to her ribs.

‘I will always do all in my power to give you what you want, little one,’ Ruth whispered to her unborn child.

Not everyone is cut out to be a mother.

Ruth stuck her tongue out to the voice of her mother, which loved to peck, peck, peck at her. If she could fulfil the wishes of her baby, even now, before it was born, maybe her mother was wrong.

Then a monstrous thought crept up on her, threatening to ruin what had been a perfect moment. Irrational fears about consuming food that was not white began to fill her head. What if she turned her breast milk orange, from all the mango juice she had been relishing? What if the baby decided that it did not want to drink her milk or formula? What if the baby only wanted juice? The mango syrup changed from a vibrant orange to blood red and her head began to pound. What if … what if … what if … Ruth felt dizzy with the unanswered dangers that were hidden in the what ifs of her mind. A familiar flip of panic turned her stomach upside down and as it grew stronger, feeding on her fear, it snaked its way around her insides, exploring her body, poisoning her.

She pushed the bowl of fruit away from her and stood up, taking off her mask.

Why must you always be so difficult?

It was no use. Her mother may not be here, in this flat, but she lived in her head and would not leave her alone.

‘Do you think the starving children of Africa get to choose the colour of their food? Oh, for pity’s sake, Ruth. You are trying my patience. Just EAT YOUR DINNER!’ Marian shouted to her ten-year-old daughter.

‘I am sorry, Mama, I am trying,’ Ruth whispered.

‘Yes you are. Very trying.’

Now she reached for a napkin and threw it over the discarded fruit in disgust. Her baby thought about protesting, even gave a small kick but, in a moment of solidarity, quietened down.

Sweat trickled from her forehead, sliding down her cheek, disappearing under her chin. She wiped it away with the back of her hand, feeling contaminated and shamed. Always just below the surface, ready to jump up at a moment’s notice, self-reproach returned. She was bad. She let people down. Shame, shame, shame.

Ruth lay her hands on her protruding tummy and felt love move between her and her baby. It was a tangible thing – an energy that was palpable. Had her mother ever felt that energy herself, when she carried Ruth in her tummy? Her memories said no. But maybe she remembered her childhood incorrectly. Was it possible that she had distorted her childhood into something ugly, something untrue? A confusion of dreams with reality. Maybe right now, her mother was in her childhood home, baking bread and smiling as she thought of her daughter and the grandchild that was soon to come to this world.

Sometimes Ruth thought her head would break into hundreds of pieces. Dangerous scenarios crashed around her skull. But even Ruth’s vivid imagination could not have predicted how far her mother would go to take her baby from her.

7
RUTH

Now

Ruth and DJ stood side by side in front of the small hotel. Painted in a garish canary yellow, it stood at the end of a small complex of shops. Ruth noted there was a café, a chemist, a newsagent and what looked like a beauty salon included in the row.

She looked to her left and then to her right and saw rows of red-brick semi-detached houses. Their driveways were in the main empty, waiting for their owners to return home from their working day.

‘Is that our hotel?’ DJ asked, disappointment lacing his words. His dream of a fun holiday hotel, with a swimming pool, maybe even a Jacuzzi, faded with every mediocre angle of the building in front of them.

‘Yes, it appears it is. The size would suggest that it is more a guesthouse than a hotel,’ Ruth noted.

‘The sign is crooked,’ DJ said, pointing to the blue wooden sign that said, ‘The Silver Sands Lodge’.

Ruth had noticed the lopsided sign the moment the taxi pulled up outside. If a ladder was in her eye line, she would have climbed up and straightened it. Instead she pointed to their surroundings.

‘They have put us in a hotel that is falling apart,’ Ruth said, looking at the fallen sign.

‘I don’t want to stay here!’ DJ raised his voice with deliberation. He wanted to upset Ruth. He wanted to cause her pain. Maybe that would stop him feeling so bad. Maybe that would keep the tears away.

‘We have no choice.’

‘I want to find my dad,’ DJ said, kicking the road with such ferocity that a haze of dust rose up to obscure him. He hoped this time the whole hotel collapsed in front of them.

‘You choose now, in this moment, to say that,’ Ruth said.

‘I want to know where he is,’ DJ repeated, knowing that his question was unfair. Knowing that Ruth could not answer him. But he was sick of being fair, of understanding, of helping. He was sick of it all.

‘I do not know where your father is. You know that,’ Ruth said, taken aback by her son’s outburst.

DJ ignored this statement and said, ‘He might be able to help. If we can find him. I want to find him.’

Ruth thought about DJ’s father. His large, round, earnest face only seconds away from laughter at any time. If we kiss, that will be it. That’s what he’d said. They had kissed, they had done a lot more than kiss, but it turned out that it wasn’t it, after all. Over the past ten years Ruth had gone over and over their last moments together. She believed him when he said he would be back. She had waited for him. She supposed she was still waiting.

‘Come on, it is time to check in. We shall talk about this another time,’ Ruth stated. She picked up her case and sack and began counting the steps to the front door.

One, two, three …

‘You always say that,’ DJ complained, but he followed her all the same.

… nine, ten, eleven …

This was wrong. There were twenty-eight from kerb to door at their old flat. Only eleven here. She took a step sideways. Twelve. Better, but not right.

DJ sighed, watching her.

A bell tinkled as they opened the double front door. Ruth wiped her feet and nudged DJ to do the same, trying to put the bothersome number twelve out of her head.

‘It’s dirtier than our shoes!’ DJ said, nodding down towards the doormat that had years of mud ingrained into it.

A woman looked up from her computer screen with interest and studied them both up and down, taking in their suitcases and black sacks.

‘Ruth and DJ Wilde?’ She smiled as she spoke, but it was without any real warmth.

‘Yes,’ Ruth said. She noted the woman’s name badge: ‘Erica’. The owner.

‘How did you know it was us?’ DJ asked, impressed by the woman’s correct assumption.

‘My guests don’t normally bring black sacks with them. Don’t just stand there, you’re making my entrance all cluttered up!’ Erica said. Then she tutted, loudly, in case they were in any doubt as to her distaste about their appearance.

Ruth and DJ moved in quickly without a word.

‘Now, as it’s your first day, I am making an allowance, letting you use our front entrance.’ She smiled as she informed them of her generosity.

‘I do not understand,’ Ruth said.

‘We have a side entrance reserved for our social housing residents,’ Erica explained.

DJ and Ruth looked at each other, confused.

‘That’s rule number one,’ Erica stated, ‘but it’s one I am most particular about.’

‘Excuse me?’ Ruth was still at a loss.

‘The front entrance is for our normal guests,’ the woman replied, her smile still in place, but her eyes narrowed.

Normal. That word again. How many times had Ruth heard people say that she was not ‘normal’, and here, once again, she had been labelled. There was no getting away from it.

‘But we are guests, too,’ Ruth stated.

‘Of course you are. But you must also know that you are different to our paying guests. It was my Billy’s idea to make an entrance just for you. It’s just down the lane to the left of the hotel. You’ll be far more comfortable using that.’

‘I am quite comfortable using this entrance,’ Ruth insisted.

‘Are we going to have an issue here?’ Erica’s voice was sharp now. All pretence of a smile gone.

Ruth and DJ shook their heads in unison. The thought of a park bench put paid to Ruth’s annoyance.

‘We might be safer using the side entrance anyhow,’ Ruth said. ‘Your sign looks like it is about to fall off. That is a health-and-safety issue.’

‘That blasted sign!’ Erica said with irritation. She beckoned them over to the front desk and turned a large red hardback book towards them. ‘Our register must be signed every night to let us know that you are in the hotel. If you would please do so now …’

Signatures were listed beside room numbers, day after day until they blurred into one big hot mess.

Ruth’s hand shook as she picked up the pen and added her autograph to the list of names. Big Brother is watching us.

‘We’ve placed a laminated list of all the rules in your room. They have been drawn up by the council and ourselves to help make your stay as comfortable and safe as possible.’ Erica’s voice had taken on a singsong quality that Ruth suspected she reserved for new guests like them.

‘Your curfew – that’s rule number five, by the way – states that you must return to the hotel by 11 p.m.,’ Erica continued.

‘Why?’ Ruth asked. She could not remember the last time she was out later than nine or ten, but that was not the point. To be dictated to like this felt intrusive.

‘For the convenience of our guests. It’s just better this way,’ Erica sighed, her patience growing thin.

DJ moved closer to his mam. The adventure of hotel living was wearing off and they hadn’t even seen their room yet.

‘Now, to your right is our restaurant. Breakfast is included in your room rate and I think you’ll be very happy with it. We have quite the reputation for our hot buffet. We do three types of eggs,’ Erica boasted. ‘Served between 7 a.m. and 9.30 a.m. We also have a bar, located next door to the restaurant. But residents are asked not to use these facilities after breakfast. The communal areas of the hotel are out of bounds, as they are reserved for our …’

Ruth cut in and finished her sentence, ‘… normal guests.’

Erica sensed trouble. ‘I suggest you read all the rules when you get to your room and if you have any further questions you can direct them to your housing officer in Parkgate.’

Erica walked past a lift near the lobby down a long dark corridor, to a second smaller lift. She pointed to a sign for the car park and said, ‘That’s where you will enter and leave the hotel from now on.’

The difference between the double-fronted entrance and this emergency fire exit was stark.

‘Are your normal guests allowed to use this entrance?’ Ruth asked, and DJ sniggered into her back.

Erica chose to ignore her and said, ‘Your room is on the first floor. All our social housing guests are there.’

They followed her into the small lift, dragging their luggage behind them. They each found a space in a different corner, the wait for the doors to close feeling like an eternity.

Ruth had never felt so claustrophobic in her life. Her hands were full so she couldn’t even pop to alleviate the pressure. She kept losing count of her steps because Erica would not shut up. Ninety-four. Yes. Ninety-four.

Once they got to the first floor Erica pointed to her right. ‘The communal kitchen is down there. It’s small, but I think you’ll find it has everything you need. Your room is at the other end of the corridor.’

Two kids, young boys that looked no more than four or five, came running around the corner onto the hallway at great speed. The looks on their faces as they slammed hard into Erica and Ruth were comical.

‘Hey, you two, watch it. You know the rules,’ Erica shouted at them both.

The two suitcases Ruth and DJ had been pulling along behind them fell to the floor with a thud.

‘Oh, shit,’ one of the boys said. DJ started to giggle, which made them both giggle even louder.

‘Sorry, ’Rica. Sorry, missus. Don’t go off on one,’ the taller of the two boys said, panting from his run. He offered them both his biggest smile, all teeth and a wrinkled-up nose, then grabbed his brother’s arm, pulling him out of the way so they could continue on theirs.

‘You don’t look one bit sorry, but you might be when I tell your mother about this!’ Erica’s words were lost on them. ‘Just slow down, lads. It would be good if we could all get to the end of the day without someone ending up in A&E!’

‘We will,’ the boys shouted back.

‘Oh, for goodness’ sake!’ Erica exclaimed, watching them take off again. She wiped a trickle of sweat that was making its way down the side of her face onto the back of her hand. ‘The heat in this place. I must talk to my Billy about the air conditioning.’

‘Carrying extra weight causes the body to work harder and could be at the root of your unwanted perspiration. It is only eight degrees outside after all,’ Ruth said.

‘I beg your pardon!’ Erica exclaimed.

Ruth replied, ‘I said, it is unlikely that the temperature outside is causing your perspiration issue.’

‘I know what you said!’ Erica said, then marched off down the corridor. DJ and Ruth picked up their cases and black sacks, then followed Erica’s retreating back once more. They weren’t heavy, but they were big and cumbersome. DJ’s little hands were red from his efforts. Yet he never complained, not once all day. Ruth was so proud of her boy and grateful she had listened to him when he insisted he stay with her.

Her eyes drifted downwards to their preferred position and DJ’s too-short jogger bottoms taunted her. Where was the nearest Penneys to here? One hundred steps already. Erica’s black Skechers shuffled their way over the busy red-and-gold carpet that was underfoot. It was showing signs of years of wear and tear. One hundred and nine. Parts of it were shiny from the thousands of feet that had walked on it, the edges beginning to fray. Ruth felt her head buzz as a ringing sound bounced its way between her two ears. It was making her cases feel heavier than they actually were, slowing her down. For a large woman, Erica moved at great speed. Ruth tried to focus on the retreating back of Erica and not give in to her dizzy spell.

One hundred and thirteen. Erica stopped in front of a white door that had a gold number, top centre. ‘Here we are. Room 129. Your new home. Had Parkgate called yesterday we would have had to turn you away. We’d a nice couple in this room until this morning. They fell on hard times and were a genuine case that needed help. Not like most of the wrong ’uns that we see in this place.’

‘We’re not wrong ’uns, Mam,’ DJ said.

‘No we are not,’ Ruth replied, then turned to ask Erica, ‘How long were that couple here for?’

‘About six months, I’d say. Not that long,’ Erica said.

Six months. Ruth felt DJ’s eyes on her. She could not bear to look at him, to see the reproach and fear that she knew would be there.

Erica placed the key card in the slot and smiled with satisfaction when the light turned green. ‘These can be buggers. The amount of times I’ve had to go back down to reception to reset the key. Don’t put your card in the same pocket as your phone. That’s my top tip. It wipes them, then makes them redundant.’

Ruth replied, ‘That is correct. Anything with an electromagnetic field transmitting from it, such as a mobile telephone or TV can cause a mag stripe to demagnetise.’

Erica’s mouth dropped open in surprise, making DJ laugh. Go, Mam!

‘However, due to the frequency of the problem you are encountering, it is instead more likely to be caused by the faulty encoding equipment. I would suggest your machine in reception needs a service,’ Ruth said, matter-of-factly.

Erica pushed the hotel-room door wide open and walked in, keeping her eyes on Ruth all the while. In realisation that her mouth was agape, she shut it quickly. ‘Well, I never. I’ll tell my Billy that. Maybe you’ve got something there. You’re full of surprises, aren’t you?’

DJ said, ‘My mam knows a lot of stuff.’

Ruth remained silent. If she was that clever she would not be standing in the doorway of a small hotel bedroom that was the only roof over her and her son. It felt like she had just been issued a prison sentence. But for what crime? Living?

‘Aw, that’s nice that your boy is so proud of you,’ Erica said.

DJ continued, ‘She can add up numbers in her head, better than a calculator.’

A thought struck Ruth that would be funny if it was not so tragic. The woman who is so good with numbers has now become one. A statistic. One of the many thousands homeless in Ireland.

‘Well, enough of our gabbing, go on in. Here you go, home sweet home,’ Erica said.

They looked into the tiny room, which looked like it belonged in the 1980s. Magnolia walls, heavy red-and-cream checked curtains, with matching duvet covers and pillow shams on twin beds, and pine furniture. The woman was wrong. This wasn’t home to Ruth. And it never would be.

8
TOM

Over the years Tom had moved around Dublin quite a bit but he kept finding his way back to Fairview Park. He liked its proximity to the sea. In fact, the twenty-hectare park was once part of the North Strand, reclaimed in the 1900s. During the day, he would sit on his park bench and listen to the sounds of the children playing in the distant playground. Their laughter and squeals of delight as they spun faster on a roundabout, or climbed one rung higher on the rope ladder, lifted his spirits. Bette Davis, his dog, his friend, liked to watch the kids do tricks in the skateboard park. They’d stop for a while and watch in awe. No fear, those kids. They would fly through the air, from ramp to ramp. Sometimes, in the amongst the noise of children having fun, he could hear Mikey.

His knee was aching again. He knew that one day soon he would have to get it looked at. His guess, which he reckoned was fairly accurate, was that the cartilage was gone. He’d walked more miles than he could even begin to hazard a guess over the past ten years. And it had caught up on him.

Sleeping rough in the cold winters doesn’t help either. He liked to ignore that voice in his head. It irked him because it spoke a lot of sense. And he wasn’t interested in sense. He liked his life the way it was, just fine. Out here. It was his choice.

He’d slept on the same bench every night since he took up residence in this park. And the Fairview Park regulars agreed that it was unofficially his. Lash and Bones, fellow rough sleepers, slept in the park most nights. And while they weren’t friends, it was nice sometimes to pass the time of day with them. Bones loved telling stories about Fairview’s most famous resident, Bram Stoker. The coastline beyond the park was eerie at night and it was easy to imagine, when the fog came down, how it had played a part in inspiring Stoker’s stories.

Tom sat down on his bench and Bette Davis fell asleep at his feet almost instantly. His sandwich was limp and uninspiring. But he wasn’t complaining. He’d had it in his rucksack since last night, when the volunteers from the Peter McVerry Trust did their rounds handing out food and hot drinks. He sat back, feeling every day of his sixty-one years. Bette had the right idea. Time for a nap. I’m coming, Cathy. He closed his eyes and remembered back to that first evening his wife and he had spent together …

Cathy rented a one-bedroom apartment that turned out to be only a mile or so away from Tom’s place. How had he lived so close to such an incredible woman and never seen her before?

He felt big and awkward in her small kitchen, bumping into her as he tried to help unload the groceries, on that first night they met. She told him to sit. He watched her fry their steaks and chop tomatoes for their salad, her every movement a symphony. Her grace bewitched him.

He wanted to know everything about her life. He couldn’t get the questions out quickly enough. She was from Donegal, one of three children, and a carer for adults with disabilities.

‘Tell me about your work. What’s an average day like?’ Tom asked.

‘We offer supportive services to help meet the needs of adults with disabilities.’

Tom looked at the tiny woman in wonder. He’d known her only a few hours yet she had surprised him several times in that short time. He couldn’t lie, it was a physical attraction at first. But the more she shared about herself, the more he found himself struck by her beauty, not just on the outside.

‘We’re there for help with both the physical and emotional wellbeing of our attendees and their families too. Parents and carers get a break, and the adults themselves keep some independence when they come in to us. In the main they return home each evening, relaxed. That’s crucial.’

‘I have a patient who is a full-time carer for her son. When I ask who looks after her, she just shrugs. I can’t get her to recognise the importance of having some time off, taking care of her own needs,’ Tom said.

‘There’s huge guilt for most carers. All self-imposed, but real none the less. You should tell your patient about our programme. We might be able to help. You can change the world by helping one person at a time. That’s what we try to do at the centre. One at a time,’ Cathy said.

Tom felt a lump in his throat, catching him unawares. Her words moved him profoundly. He would never forget that statement. Ever.

His appetite disappeared and it seemed hers did, too.

‘Maybe I should have bought tofu,’ Cathy joked, pointing to Tom’s uneaten steak.

‘I’m sorry. It’s delicious,’ Tom said, quickly spearing a piece to prove the point.

She reached over and her fingers brushed his and they both felt another jolt. ‘There’s no need.’

Their eyes locked. Time stood still. Cathy put her glass down, the crystal tinkling as it hit the glass top table. The sound bounced around the kitchen and his eyes could not leave hers. They moved to her bedroom and they made love. He could not call it anything but that. It was tender, every touch a promise.

‘I didn’t expect this,’ Cathy said afterwards, when they lay in each other’s arms.

‘Breda, my receptionist, is forever saying that I am one of Ireland’s most eligible bachelors. Sure you couldn’t resist,’ Tom teased.

‘She’s right. A good-looking man and a doctor. At least in the top one hundred,’ Cathy joked back.

‘Thank you, young lady.’ Tom pretended to tip his cap to her.

‘I bet patients fall in love with you all the time.’ She started to laugh when she saw him blush. ‘I knew it! Spill!’

‘Well, there was this woman last year who kept making appointments, saying she was unwell. Breda used to tease me that she had a crush on me. But I thought that was preposterous. Then one day, she came in with a bad chest infection.’

‘Oy oy! That old chestnut!’ Cathy laughed.

‘I remember thinking she was looking very well for someone who needed a doctor. Then before I had a chance to so much as take her temperature, she had her blouse unbuttoned.’

‘Her blouse,’ Cathy snorted in response. ‘How old was she?’

‘About thirty, why?’

‘No one wears a blouse under the age of fifty!’

‘Well, she opened her …’

‘Her top, just say top,’ Cathy advised.

‘She opened her top and had on this red lacy thing that left nothing to the imagination!’

‘Oh my goodness, I am scarlet for her! What did you do? Actually, scratch that question. I’m not sure I want to know.’

‘I jumped up and called Breda in. I told the woman that I had to have Breda in with me for any consultation that involved chest investigations.’

‘Ah, the poor woman.’

‘Poor woman my hat. Funnily enough, she stopped coming shortly after that.’

‘I bet she did!’ Cathy laughed again. ‘Go on, tell me more. How many hearts have you broken …?’

‘I’m afraid that’s it, really. I did meet one of my patients out in a bar last year. She was pretty drunk and she made a bit of a clumsy pass at me. I made a joke about being resolute to stay single. Then I ran home!’

‘Are you resolute to stay single?’ Cathy asked, leaning into him.

‘I’ve always been open to meeting Miss Right. She was just tricky to locate. No matter how many women I dated – all lovely, or at least most – I never felt “it”.’

He looked at her silhouetted against the fading evening light. And realised something. She was it.

‘So, what is “it” for you?’ Cathy asked.

‘“It” is that undeniable, unfathomable, unmistakable feeling of knowing that what you have is something special. I think “it” is you.’ He finished on a whisper.

‘Oh. That “it”,’ Cathy said, and they beamed at each other for the longest time.

The next evening, they moved to his flat above the surgery for a change of scenery. ‘It’s double the size of mine!’ Cathy said, walking from room to room.

‘I’ve the top half of the house. Downstairs is the surgery …’

‘Do you mind living above work?’ Cathy asked.

‘The commute is hard to beat.’

‘Are these your parents?’ She picked up a photograph of Tom in his graduation cap and gown, standing in between a couple who were bursting with pride.

‘Yeah. It was a good day. First in our family to graduate.’

‘Do you see much of them?’ Cathy asked.

‘They died last year, within a month of each other,’ Tom admitted sadly.

‘I’m so sorry,’ Cathy said, wishing she’d known him then to help him through the pain, which still lingered on his face.

‘My parents were obsessed with the idea of me settling down. They spoke about this subject often and at great length. They hung around until their eightieth and eighty-second birthdays respectively, before dying within weeks of each other.’

‘A proper love story.’ Cathy felt tears in her eyes.

And Tom and Cathy looked at each other and both silently wished for the same thing. A lifetime together, just like Tom’s parents had.

For a split second, when Tom woke up, he forgot. He reached across the cold pavement for Cathy. But she hadn’t been by his side for a long time. He gently stroked Bette Davis and wished for the one millionth time in his life that he could wake up and find happiness in the now, not just in the then of his dreams.

9
RUTH

As they walked into their hotel room another dizzy spell hit Ruth and she clutched the door frame.

‘Are you OK?’ Erica asked, frowning as she spoke. ‘You don’t look very well. You’re not going to get sick on the carpet, are you? You’ll have to clean it up yourself if you do. Housekeeping are gone for the day. You’ll see that in the rule book. Rule number nineteen.’

Ruth shook her head in an effort to reassure Erica that she was not about to contaminate her room. She was not sure that she could trust herself to speak, to say the words out loud that she was OK.

‘Mam?’ DJ saw the colour drain from her face.

‘I am fine,’ Ruth lied. She just wanted to give in to panic, fall into the darkness.

Erica looked dubious but she was a woman on a mission. She had a tour to give and she was going to deliver it. ‘This door to your left, that’s your en-suite bathroom.’

Ruth and DJ looked into the small room, which had a shower, bath, toilet and sink. ‘It’s dirty,’ Ruth said with dismay. The room was clad in white tiles, with greying grout that looked like it had not been cleaned in years.

‘It most certainly is not. I pride myself on the cleanliness of this hotel,’ Erica said, smarting at the insult.

‘Awkward,’ DJ said, not bothering to hide a snigger.

‘You can bring your luggage in here.’ Erica swung her arm around, like she was a hostess on the QVC shopping channel showcasing a roomful of beautiful baubles and silk scarves.

DJ and Ruth both sucked in their breaths as they took in the scale of the room that was to become their home – their bathroom, living room and bedroom. Where would DJ do his homework? Perhaps she could move the lamp and small radio alarm clock off the locker.

‘Are we supposed to take turns sitting on that?’ Ruth asked, pointing to a single armchair that sat alone under the large bedroom window. Ruth blinked when the curtains morphed into bars. Their room became a prison cell. Your imagination working overtime, that’s all, Odd whispered. She blinked again and the sad grey curtains were back.

Erica pursed her lips together. Opposite the two beds was a long vanity table with drawers, on which sat the TV and a phone.

It’s all wrong. Everything is in the wrong place.

Ruth pulled at her hands.

Pop, pop, pop …

‘We have all the channels. Not that I look at much regular TV any more. It’s all Netflix and chill for me!’ Erica said, laughing at her own joke.

DJ started to flick through the channels before Erica had finished speaking.

Ruth counted the steps to take her from her bed to the bathroom. Six. Wrong, wrong, wrong. It should be fourteen steps. For four years, it had been fourteen steps.

‘Your accent, I can’t quite place it. It’s not a Dublin one, anyhow,’ Erica stated. She stared at Ruth, taking in her short hair, cut like a boy’s, which she wasn’t sure she cared for. Her face was white as a sheet, without a scrap of makeup on. And she had two piercings in each ear. She’d put money on the girl having tattoos. She had that look about her. She was what her Billy would call ‘alternative’.

‘I’m from Wexford originally. But Dublin has been my home for ten years,’ Ruth answered.

‘Oh, a beautiful part of the world. But as I often say to my Billy, half of Wexford is living in Dublin and half of Dublin are down in Wexford. Funny old world we live in, all topsy-turvy,’ Erica commented.

Ruth picked up one of her suitcases and placed it on one of the beds. She had placed some cleaning products in this case and wanted to start scrubbing the bathroom.

‘The rules of the hotel are listed on this.’ Erica pointed to an A4 laminated sheet. ‘There’s nothing too major, but if we didn’t have them, chaos would ensue. And if you have a problem with any of them, take it up with the council, not me. My Billy says I’m too good-natured.’

‘Mam?’ DJ whispered loudly.

Ruth turned her back on the woman and faced her son. ‘Yes?’

‘Where’s my bedroom?’ he asked.

Ruth said, ‘We will be sharing this room.’

Erica tutted loudly, so that they both heard her. ‘I don’t know. The phrase “beggars can’t be choosers” springs to mind. You’re luckier than most. You could have been given a sleeping bag and left to your own devices outside.’

DJ looked mortified. Ruth held the laminate up in front of her. ‘My son was simply asking a reasonable question. And from a cursory glance at this laminated sheet of paper, refraining from asking questions is not listed as one of your rules.’

Before Erica had a chance to splutter a response, Ruth added, ‘For the record, you will never know how grateful this “beggar” is for a hotel room.’

Erica’s face softened at those last words. ‘Maybe my choice of words was a bit harsh. There’s no point looking back. That much I’ve learned over the years. Your old home is gone. This is your home for the foreseeable. Make the most of it.’

Ruth re-counted her steps to the bathroom. Still six.

She felt another wave of dizziness overcome her. One, two, three, four. She sat down on the nearest bed before her legs gave way.

‘Are you always that pale? You’re like one of those goths,’ Erica said, looking at her closely. ‘I hope you’re not coming down with something. Keep out of the communal areas if you’ve a bug. I don’t want any viruses going around the hotel, thank you very much! All I need is another bad TripAdvisor review …’

She took a step backwards and covered her mouth, as if Ruth’s germs were about to march their way towards her right that minute.

‘I am not sick. I am tired.’ Sleep had not played much of a role in the last nightmarish forty-eight hours. Could Erica take this room away from them, if she suspected Ruth was carrying a virus? She felt panic join into the myriad of emotions that were running around her body.

Please leave. Just let me lie down on the bed and close my eyes for five minutes. Please.

Erica groaned, ignoring Ruth’s silent pleas, then sat down on one of the single beds, making it bounce as her body hit it. ‘I’m shattered myself. And while I don’t know your story, you seem like a nice family and I wouldn’t wish this situation on anyone. I’ve said to my Billy, over and over again, we should count our blessings. We own this beautiful hotel. Boutique, I like to say. And we have our own mews out the back. It has three bedrooms. With a lovely garden back and front. And we have our mortgage paid for over five years now. Yes, we really should count our blessings.’

DJ pretended to put a gun to his head behind her back.

‘… there but for the grace of God go I …’ Erica’s voice continued to drone on.

‘I do not believe in God,’ Ruth said, moving towards the door.

‘An atheist? I thought you had the look of one of those all right,’ Erica said.

… five, six … Ruth had reached the end of her patience and could take no more, so she opened the door to their room and said, ‘Goodbye.’

‘Well, I do beg your pardon,’ Erica sniffed, before heaving herself up from the bed with a wobble and a creak of her knee.

Human beings can always be relied upon to exert, with vigor, their God-given right to be stupid, Odd Thomas whispered as Ruth slammed the door shut behind Erica.

Never a truer word, Odd.

Every nerve in Ruth’s body felt frayed, exposed and tender. With a frenzy, she began to empty the contents of her two suitcases and the black sacks onto the bed. She doubled things up on hangers but still was unable to fit everything into the wardrobe. She hung their coats on the back of the one chair they had, looking around, trying to work out how she could turn this room into a home.

Who was she kidding? This would never be a home for them. It looked exactly like what it was: a small hotel room, crammed full of nothing. How had they come to this?

She grabbed her bleach spray and began to scrub the sink in the bathroom, frantically trying to remove years of inbuilt grime and dirt. And she felt herself sink into a vat of sadness and anxiety. Every bone in her body ached. Her eyes felt heavy. If she could just sleep. But then the sound of a drill on the street below filled their room. She checked the windows to make sure they were closed. But the noise kept coming. The lighting in their room was too bright and hurt her eyes, so she pulled the grey curtains tight.

‘Mam?’ DJ asked, hovering close to her. Like a car with no brakes, his mam was going to crash. He had to be ready to rescue her.

One, two, three …

Her bed was in the wrong position. It should be facing the other way. But she had no more energy.

Pop, pop, pop.

DJ watched her hit the wall, head on. Ruth’s anxiety spilled over until her body shook in response.

Ruth felt her arms and legs go heavy, her head buzzed until the pain became unbearable and she fell into a ball on the bed. She could feel DJ’s eyes on her, watching her, as he always did.

DJ’s voice whispered in her ear, ‘It’s going to be OK, Mam. Go to sleep and it will all be better when you wake up.’ He had been only three years old the first time he helped to calm Ruth down. He didn’t understand why his mama had got so upset when they were shopping and the fire alarm went off. He thought it was really cool when the big fire engine came. But he did understand that she was scared. And he loved her so very much, he would do anything to take away her fear. He knew she liked listening to her music through her headphones, so he gently placed them on her head and said, ‘DJ make Mama better. There, there, Mama.’ He wrapped his arms around her and snuggled into her back. She was warm and soft. He loved snuggling with his mama.

Ruth closed her eyes as she felt her son’s soft hands gently place her headphones on her head, as he had done hundreds of times before. And while she could not thank DJ at this moment, she was grateful more than he would ever know. For now, she let the music take her to her safe place, away from the pain, away from the chaos, away from here.

10
RUTH

Ruth woke up feeling disorientated. She heard muffled sounds coming from either side of their room. For a moment, she forgot where she was. She blinked her eyes twice to get used to the darkness and make out her surroundings.

She was in The Silver Sands Lodge.

‘DJ?’ she called out to the darkness. Silence.

Once her mind had again caught up to her new normal, Ruth reached over to locate the light switch. Bright lights filled the room, eliminating the darkness. She looked at her watch. It was nearly 4 p.m. She had been asleep for over three hours. She could not remember the last time she had slept during the day. She was not a good sleeper at the best of times but she supposed this was new territory.

While she slept, DJ had made efforts to make their room look more like home. He had placed her favourite soft green chenille throw over her. At the end of the bed was her green velvet cushion. DJ had also placed his Liverpool FC throw and cushion on the bed beside hers. Oh, DJ. She was wrong earlier. This room could be their home. Because home was wherever DJ was.

She needed to see him, to tell him that. She picked up her phone, knowing he would have sent her a text message, letting her know where he was.

Going out to explore. Back soon, DJ.

Where are you?

Her stomach reminded her that she had not eaten since breakfast. It appeared she had lost her appetite around the same time she lost her home. Her jeans felt looser this morning when she slipped them on. She could not afford to get ill. She had to be strong in mind and in body if she was going to get them both through this.

Back in five, DJ pinged back to her. She would have to talk to him about taking off like that. He was streetwise, but he did not know this part of Dublin.

He would be hungry, too. She scanned through the list of rules on the laminate sheet until she got to the one regarding the kitchen.

There is a small kitchen at the end of the second floor, beside the fire exit, available for use for all residents, who are part of the emergency housing scheme. The kitchen consists of a small fridge, a cooker, oven, toaster and microwave. All cups, plates and utencils must be washed up after use and kitchen MUST be cleaned after use.

Please note that no microwaves, toasters or hobs are allowed in your hotel room or bathroom.

Ruth walked over to her handbag and took out a Sharpie, then circled the word ‘Utensils’. If you are going to the trouble of laminating rules, at least make sure they are correctly spelled! And who on earth would put an electrical item in a bathroom? Sometimes the stupidity of people amazed Ruth. She hoped the kitchen was clean. Not having her own kitchen was going to cause her a lot of problems and was perhaps the hardest challenge she would have to face.

While she waited for DJ to return she scanned the other rules once again.

No running in the hallway.

No guests in your room.

A communal room is available on the ground floor. Guests ask reception for the key.

No hanging laundry on the balcony.

No smoking in the room.

No hanging of pictures on the walls.

Parents must look after their own children. No babysitting of other guests’ children allowed in hotel.

A thump in the corridor outside made her jump. She got off the bed and walked to the door, peeping out the small glass hole.

‘Hey, Jason, hey, Barry,’ DJ said, high-fiving the two boys from earlier, who were still running up and down the hall.

Ruth marvelled at how quickly he had made friends in the space of a few hours.

‘Where have you been?’ Ruth asked, when he walked into their hotel room.

‘Nowhere,’ he answered, flopping down onto his bed.

‘Well, that’s impossible. You must have been somewhere,’ Ruth said.

‘Exploring,’ he mumbled. ‘You OK again?’

‘Yes. Thank you.’ Ruth looked at her son and tried to gauge how he was doing. She was not good at reading people’s emotions. ‘Are you OK?’

He shrugged.

‘Does that mean you are OK?’ Ruth asked.

‘I’m OK. But hungry. Can I watch TV?’

‘I will go to the shop, buy some groceries and make us something to eat,’ Ruth said.

‘What are we eating, and please don’t say mashed potatoes?’ DJ said.

‘Depends what choice there is in the shop down the road. But noted on the potatoes.’

DJ turned back to the football match that had just started. As Ruth reached the door, he called out, ‘Just remember to say hello if anyone speaks to you. And take the sunglasses off when you are inside. You’re not one of the Kardashians.’

‘I could think of nothing worse. No potatoes. Speak. Sunglasses. Got it,’ Ruth replied, with more confidence than she felt. She threw the sunglasses onto the bed to avoid temptation.

It was her brother, Mark, who gave Ruth her first pair of sunglasses when they were kids. Her classmates had begun to call her a weirdo. Mark did not like other kids making fun of her. Not because he was worried about Ruth, but because he was worried about how it would reflect on him.

‘People think you are being shifty, hiding something, if you don’t look at them. And then they think that you don’t like them,’ Mark explained.

‘I am not hiding anything,’ Ruth said. ‘And I like them all. Except for Mary Lawlor and Tadgh D’arcy, who laugh at me a lot.’

‘Just try eye-balling them when you are in conversation with them. Look at them for five seconds, then you can be all weird and look at the ground again.’

‘But I do not like eyeballs,’ Ruth said.

‘Don’t look at their eyes then. Jeez, Ruth, help a guy out here! Cheat. Look in that general direction. It will be grand,’ Mark said.

‘I can do that. I will try it,’ Ruth said.

And try it she did. It went spectacularly wrong. When Mary Lawlor asked her for help with page 190 of their maths homework, it was the perfect opportunity to try out her new skill. People often asked her for help at maths and she was happy to do so. She liked solving problems. Ruth looked up at Mary, who was a few inches taller than she. She lowered her gaze to avoid eye contact and hoped for the best.

‘You big fat lesbian!’ Mary Lawlor screamed. ‘Did you see that? Ruth Wilde is looking at my breasts!’ She covered her chest with her arms, delighted to see that she held the class’s attention.

Ruth did not know what a lesbian was. She suspected it was not said as a compliment.

Mark was not happy when they walked home together after school. ‘How on earth did you manage to make them all think you were a lesbian in the space of only a few hours? I can’t leave you on your own at all, can I?’

‘What’s a lesbian?’ Ruth asked.

‘Ask Mam,’ Mark replied, making a face.

So when she walked into their kitchen, she asked Marian, ‘Mary Lawlor said I was a lesbian. Am I a lesbian?’

Marian’s face told Ruth that she’d done something wrong again. ‘In the name of all that’s good in this world, what is wrong with you, child? Are you trying to kill me? That’s all I need on top of everything else.’ Then Marian sighed again.

And that was why Mark bought Ruth a pair of sunglasses. That was the thing about her brother. He spent most of their childhood ignoring her or making fun of her. But every now and then he surprised her with a random act of kindness.

Twenty minutes later, armed with a small bagful of groceries, she made her way to the kitchen for the first time. She crossed her fingers that it would be empty. Her hopes disappeared when muffled sounds of fellow residents creeped out into the corridor as she approached. She braced herself for interactions and hoped that the people in the room were friendly. She reminded herself that she was actually a good communicator. She could enjoy a conversation for an hour or two at a time. Unless it was boring, of course.

A sign on the door stated:

Please avoid prime times in the kitchen:

8–9 a.m., 1–2 p.m. and 5–7 p.m.

As it was now four o’clock she hoped that meant it was a good time to make their dinner. A man and a young boy were sitting down at the kitchen table, tucking into fish and chips. A woman stood at the hob literally watching water boil in a pan. Then another woman stepped out from behind the door and said, ‘Don’t get any ideas about skipping the queue. I’ve been waiting nearly ten minutes already.’

Ruth shook her head quickly and took two steps away, until her back hit the wall.

‘Leave her alone. She’s the new one I was telling you about,’ the man said. ‘I saw you arriving earlier. I’m Kian. This handsome young fella with me is Cormac, my heir apparent.’

Ruth nodded in his direction. She did not recollect seeing him in the lobby earlier. She was pretty certain it was empty. She would learn that Kian was like a silent ninja. A pro at hiding in places he was not meant to be.

Kian continued, ‘One fridge, one cooker, one microwave, ten families and five hundred bleeding rules about how you can use them all. Welcome to the kitchen.’

This made the woman beside Ruth laugh, but hob woman replied in a tone that was decidedly frosty, ‘Rules that some in this establishment don’t seem capable of following. I’m Ava, in room 124. That’s Aisling hovering to your right.’

Say hello, remember to say hello.

Kian saved her by continuing his rant. ‘Bleeding bureaucratic bullshit. There’s more rules on the lists in The Silver Sands Lodge than in a bleeding jail. What gets my blood boiling is that they don’t make sense at all. I mean, take a look at the notice on the door. The so-called rush hours to be avoided create rush hours in the quiet times. Do you get me?’

His little boy, who looked no more than eight or nine, started to laugh, delighted with his dad’s rant.

‘Ignore our resident ray of sunshine,’ Ava said. She threw a look of disdain in his direction. He happily threw an equally disdainful one back at her, then scoffed the last of his chips.

‘They need to add a new rule to the laminate. No stealing food. That way I wouldn’t have to be here. Cooking again,’ Ava said loudly.

Kian pretended to play the violin behind her back, making Cormac snort with laughter. Aisling looked uncomfortable with the conversation between them both.

‘When Brian hears that someone has stolen our food again, he’s going to lose his shit. There should be cameras in here to catch the thieving bastards,’ Ava said. ‘I wouldn’t mind but I used extra-lean mince in that lasagne. It was bloody lovely.’

Aisling turned to Ruth and said, ‘I wish I could say it’s not like this every day. But …’

Ruth felt like she had stepped into an episode of a bad daytime soap. And she did not like it one bit.

Aisling continued, ‘I’m sorry if I sounded snappy when you walked in. It’s just I’ve left my daughter, Anna, on her own. We’re in room 127 down the other end of the corridor. Her asthma has been playing up this week and I don’t like leaving her.’

Ruth could not imagine what that must be like, dealing with a sick child on top of everything else. She felt Aisling’s eyes on her, waiting for a response. She looked up and quickly scanned the room. Damn it. They were all staring at her. She had forgotten DJ’s advice.

‘Hello hello hello hello,’ Ruth burst out in one breathless sentence to each of them, one by one. She looked down at the floor again and hoped they would stop talking to her.

‘Hello, hello, hello, hello to you, too,’ Kian said. The room swelled with merriment and Ruth felt her skin prickle with heat.

She was messing this up, like she always did.

But to her surprise Aisling moved a little closer to her and said with warmth, ‘I won’t be long. I’m only frying up a few sausages for Anna. Her favourite, and you’d give them the world when they’re sick, wouldn’t you?’

Ruth nodded to Aisling’s pretty pink pumps. She had small feet, dainty. Which looked at odds with her large frame.

‘Here, Aisling, I’ve finished with the second hob. You can cook beside me.’ Ava shuffled over to make room for the woman. Aisling pulled a frying pan out of the cupboard beside the cooker and stuck it on the heat. She sprayed the pan with Frylight, coating the base. The sausages sizzled and spat as soon as they hit the pan. The smell made Ruth nauseous and reminded her of Saturday mornings when her mother cooked the full Irish fry-up for them when all she wanted was porridge.

Ruth was two seconds away from breaking rule number six and running out of the kitchen and down the corridor back to their room. They could eat rice cakes for their supper, with bananas on top. She felt the eyes of the kitchen on her. She wished she had left her sunglasses on, ignoring DJ’s advice. She could not win. You got looks from people if you wore sunglasses indoors; you got looks from people if you preferred to keep your eyes to yourself. People were tricky. People passed judgement all the time.

People are fierce judgemental. To hell with people, that’s what I say.

Ha! You’re funny, Odd.

I’ve been told that once or twice before.

Me too …

Kian and his son, Cormac, stood up, the sound of their chairs scraping the floor bringing Ruth back from her chat with her imaginary friend.

‘Will I do the dishes, Da?’ Cormac asked.

‘Do, son,’ Kian replied, then they both sniggered some more when Cormac threw their paper plates into the bin.

‘A regular double act, those two,’ Ava sniffed, keeping her back to them. ‘I queued for an hour yesterday to use this oven. And the large lasagne I made was supposed to last for two days’ dinner.’

‘Did someone take it off yer?’ Kian asked, his face a picture of innocence.

Ava ignored him and said to the others, ‘It’s not good enough. I’ll be sending an email of complaint to the council and Erica when I get back to my room. Some people have a bare-faced cheek.’ She thumbed towards Kian, who whistled as he walked out of the room, his sidekick right behind him.

‘Did you see the cut of them both? The fecking bastard! I know it was him,’ Ava spluttered out. ‘We’re eating in our room tonight. And so help me, if there is any leftovers, it’s going in the bin.’

‘They looked a bit shifty all right,’ Aisling reluctantly agreed. ‘I’ve seen Cormac running in and out of here a lot, checking to see if the kitchen is empty. I gave up leaving yoghurts in the fridge months ago. Always swiped. He’s a divil for those.’

Ava nudged Aisling as she turned the sausages over, nodding towards Ruth. ‘You don’t say much.’

‘Hello,’ Ruth said again. They continued to stare at her, so she added, ‘I am not here to steal anyone’s food or to skip any queues.’

Aisling and Ava laughed in response and Ruth breathed a sigh of relief.

‘My son and I arrived at 12.07 p.m. today,’ Ruth answered. ‘It has been quite the day.’

Aisling reached out to touch Ruth’s arm in a gesture of support, causing Ruth to jump back and knock one of the chairs onto the floor.

‘Sorry,’ Aisling murmured. The room went quiet, except for the sound of water as it reached boiling point and the splash of pasta as Ava threw it into the water with a slosh. Steam filled the air around her. ‘It’s fresh, not dried, so I’ll be done in a jiffy.’

‘Fresh pasta is 3.45 times more expensive than dried,’ Ruth stated.

‘Well, I like fresh. And for the sake of a few cent …’ Ava said.

‘Assuming you eat fresh pasta twice a week, then your saving per meal for two people, is 0.94 euro. Over a year that will be just under 98 euro,’ Ruth replied, eyes still on the ground.

Ava and Aisling looked at each other, then back to Ruth again, a little startled by her quick maths.

‘Wouldn’t it be nice if, for once, we didn’t have to be thinking about things like the cost of every little thing we need to buy?’ Aisling said. ‘I spent a day yesterday trudging around Penney’s, Heaton’s and Tesco, comparing prices on a tracksuit for Anna. And everywhere I looked I saw all these cute outfits in, ready for Christmas. I’d have given anything to buy her a whole new wardrobe.’

‘Anna always looks beautiful,’ Ava said with kindness.

‘Hand-me-downs. Thank God for my friend. She sends down a bag of clothes every six months or so. It’s like Christmas for Anna.’ Tears threatened to spill from Aisling’s brown eyes as she flipped her sausages again. ‘Just once, I’d like her to have her own outfit. Brand new with labels. Chosen just for her.’

Ava squeezed Aisling’s arm in sympathy.

Ruth wanted to say to them both that she knew what it was like to juggle her finances so that she did not have ‘too much month at the end of her money’. She wanted to tell Aisling that she needed to do a similar exercise to find DJ new tracksuit bottoms and trainers. But the words were getting jumbled in her head again, the way they did. She was making a terrible first impression but she felt powerless to change it. They would see her continued silence as an insult and she did not want them to think she was rude.

Tell them you are shy. Be honest. People always respond well to honesty. This advice was given to her over a decade ago by her doctor and it often popped into her head. Funny how some words stick while others disappear into nothing. Maybe it was time to take this advice.

‘I am shy, not rude,’ Ruth blurted out.

‘Ah, I’ve a younger sister like that,’ Ava said, nodding in understanding. ‘Crippled with shyness, has been ever since she was born. She spent most of her childhood hidden behind Mam’s skirts!’

‘And there I was, thinking the cat had your tongue! I’m sure it’s been a tough day for you,’ Aisling said, smiling.

‘I never thought I would end up in a place like this. In this situation,’ Ruth said.

They both understood that.

‘Hotels are meant to be about leisure, rest, holidays. But this is hell on earth,’ Ava said, her eyes filled with tears.

‘Maybe this will be your month to get a house,’ Aisling added, patting her hand.

‘We said that last month and the month before, too. When we moved into this hotel, we thought it would be temporary. Couple of weeks, max. Six months later it’s getting harder to be upbeat,’ Ava replied. She pulled the pot of pasta off the stove and drained it over the sink. ‘I don’t think my husband, Brian, can cope much longer.’

‘It will be your turn soon, you wait and see,’ Aisling said.

‘That is most unlikely. Twenty per cent of those on the housing list will remain on it for five years,’ Ruth interjected in an effort to join in.

Ava and Aisling both turned towards her, Ava in distress, Aisling in irritation.

‘Read the room!’ Aisling said. She made a face, nodding her head towards a tearful Ava.

Ruth looked at the floor, wishing she was an Aisling, someone who knew automatically what to say, how to make Ava feel better. Why did she always find her voice just in time to say the wrong thing?

11
RUTH

Then

The past couple of months had been difficult, the worst of Ruth’s life. First of all, the man she loved, Dean, disappeared. She missed him. She refused to give up hope that he would return. But the realisation that she was pregnant brought a whole new world of trouble. And telling her mother, dealing with her reaction, was the start of the end for them both.

‘A baby? No, that’s impossible,’ Marian had said, picking up her cigarettes.

‘Yes, Mother. It is quite possible. I am twenty weeks pregnant.’

Her mother’s eyes dropped to her abdomen and Ruth automatically placed her hands over it. And then her mother did something that she’d never done before. She threw her cigarettes at Ruth and screamed at her. The box bounced off Ruth’s hands. The blow did not hurt, but the rage behind her mother’s actions did.

Things had not improved since then. Had Marian told Ruth’s father about the baby? She did not know. She guessed her mother called him to complain that there was an even bigger inconvenience on the way.

It was Mark who came to her rescue during those awful few weeks after her announcement, unlikely ally though he was. When her mother called him to garner support in her tirade of abuse about the pregnancy, he stood closer to Ruth while Marian ranted and raved.

‘You can’t have a baby!’ Marian said. ‘Tell her, Mark. It’s preposterous.’

‘Why not?’ Ruth asked. ‘I am perfectly healthy.’

‘What if it’s like you?’ Marian replied with a shudder. At that damning question, silence fell over the room.

Mark broke the silence. ‘Have you listened to yourself, Mother?’ His voice was low and gruff.

Ruth looked at him in surprise. He sounded angry.

Mark continued, ‘Seriously, have you actually listened to the fucking shit that comes out of your mouth?’

‘How dare you speak to me like that?’ Marian screamed, horrified at Mark’s words.

‘How dare you?’ Mark replied.

Ruth and her mother both looked at Mark in shock. He had never stuck up for his sister like this before.

Marian found her voice and screamed, ‘Get out. Get out. Get OUT!’

‘With pleasure,’ Mark said. Then he turned to Ruth: ‘If I were you, I’d get the fuck out of here, too.’

Three days of non-stop abuse from Marian followed.

That boy Dean used you. A cheap and easy tart, who fell for his lies.

You have really gone and done it this time.

You ruined all our lives when you were born, and this pregnancy will be the final nail in my coffin!

Ruth would block out her cruel taunts by looking at a slip of paper with a fortune printed on it. A memento from her lost weekend with her soul mate. He had loved her. He would be back. Her old friend Odd whispered to her that she must always hope and persevere. But nevertheless, conclusions had to be made.

Dean was not coming back to rescue her.

She was having this baby on her own.

She needed to do as Mark had said and get the fuck out. Not just for her sake. But for the sake of her unborn child.

She moved from the village where she grew up and hitched a lift to Wexford town. Fate was on her side, because Pat from the arcade in Curracloe pulled up beside her in his beaten-up Jeep. Ruth did not have any friends, but she had gotten to know Pat over the many summers she had spent on Curracloe beach, buying ice cream from him in the arcade. He did not waste her time offering raspberry or chocolate syrup, as he did with the other kids. Or sprinkles or hundreds and thousands. He took the time to know she liked hers plain, in a tub, not on a cone. That was her way.

And Pat liked Ruth. She was a good kid once you took the time to get to know her. Not like her older brother, Mark, the little prick. He was forever in the arcade kicking the machines, trying to get them to cough out money. Trouble. Always looking for trouble. And he watched other kids pick on Ruth, letting them call her names. That’s no way to be about family. Pat had had to step in once or twice.

As Ruth climbed into his jeep, Pat realised that she wasn’t a kid any more. Short cropped hair, not a scrap of makeup on, wearing oversized dark sunglasses. He didn’t think he’d ever seen her without them. They’d been too big for her for many years, like she was playing dress-up with her mama’s things. But now they suited her perfectly.

‘Where you off to?’ he asked.

‘I am pregnant. I have to leave home.’

And Pat felt heart sorry hearing this. He remembered all the times Ruth had put coins into the fortune-telling machine in the arcade. He wasn’t sure what she hoped would come spitting out of it. But if Pat could rig it so that it gave her whatever it was her heart desired, he’d do it. He told her he would take her anywhere she wanted to go.

‘I am going to Mark’s in Wexford.’

Pat was pretty sure that Ruth was jumping from the frying pan into the fire, but he held his counsel. Before she said goodbye he pressed a fifty-euro note into her hand. ‘Come back sometime with the baby to see me. Always an ice cream for you and the little one in my arcade. OK?’

She nodded but she had a feeling that she would not be licking ice creams in the arcade any time soon. She made her way to Mark’s flat, which was at the end of Wexford Quay, opposite the railway tracks. She had been there just once before, when he first moved in and had asked her and their mum around. But he had never asked her to visit since and she was not sure how he would react now.

His response – ‘Oh, for fuck’s sake!’ – when he answered the door was problematic. She stepped inside, taking it as a good sign that he had not told her to go away.

‘I have left home,’ Ruth said to his Nike trainers. They were new and brilliant white. He usually wore Adidas.

‘Good for you. Didn’t think you had it in you,’ Mark replied.

In the end, he let her stay. He did not have much choice, she supposed. She loved Wexford town. A place that was big enough that she could get lost in it, where she could go days without meeting anyone who knew her or thought she was strange. She liked that. She liked that a lot. His flat, without the oppressive disapproval of her mother, was a welcome relief.

For the first time in her young life, Ruth felt like she was in control. And it was a feeling that she very much approved of.

12
TOM

Now

Bette Davis growled at the two kids who stopped to snigger at the sleeping Tom, who lay on his park bench, in his sleeping bag.

‘Bum!’ they jeered, until Bette growled a little louder and they ran away laughing. The dog moved closer to her best friend, keeping guard while Tom dreamed some more …

When one of Tom’s patients died, a young mother who had been battling breast cancer for years, Cathy was the only person he wanted to see. He didn’t want to talk about it. He didn’t want to analyse why it had happened. He just wanted to be with her. And Cathy instinctively got that. She simply fed him, held him and asked no questions. The following day, one of her day-care patients lost his temper and threw a chair through the patio window to the garden. Tom drove over to help her clear up the mess. While he understood that there were times that things happened that were beyond your control, he was terrified that she might ever be in danger. This terror clarified everything for him.

There were no longer any questions in his mind. He loved this woman and he wanted the world to know it. He plotted and planned the perfect proposal. He wanted to make it memorable, worthy of the woman he loved. But in the end, all his plans fell in disarray back in the deli aisle of Tesco where they’d first met.

‘This is where it all started!’ Tom said, looking at their single trolly this time.

‘One clash of our trollies and that was it,’ Cathy remembered with a smile.

‘You could never resist me. Me being such a charming fecker,’ Tom joked.

‘That is true,’ she answered, kissing him lightly. ‘Now, goat’s cheese-and-spinach pizza, or the triple meat feast?’ She held them both up, waving the goat’s cheese one in front of his face, which he duly pointed to.

‘Marry me,’ he blurted out. He couldn’t for the life of him see the sense in hanging around one more moment.

‘What?’

‘Will you marry me?’ He moved in closer. ‘I have been planning the most beautiful and perfect proposal, but I can’t wait a moment longer.’

‘Yes,’ she whispered.

‘Yes?’ he asked in disbelief.

‘Yes!’

He spun her around, lifting her off her feet. When he put her back down he realised they had gathered quite a crowd around them. ‘She said yes!’ he shouted loudly and they all cheered and whooped for him.

They had a small wedding a few months later on 18 October, the date they had met.

‘I only want people who love us in the church,’ Cathy stated. With just immediate family and friends, they exchanged vows in Cathy’s hometown of Donegal. She walked down the aisle on the arm of her proud father, to the sound of ‘Nella Fantasia’. There was a lot of love in that small church that day.

Cathy had invoked a speech ban for her father’s sake, a shy man, who hated any public speaking and was more at home on the farm. Tom should have been taken aback when she appeared on the stage, holding a microphone. But he wasn’t. His wife was unpredictable.

‘We said no speeches. Well, I said no speeches!’ she conceded when Tom raised one eyebrow. He walked close to the front of the stage, their guests moving in behind him.

‘There’s not enough love in this world, is there?’ Cathy asked the small group. And they all nodded in agreement. ‘I sometimes wake up at night and think, what if Tom hadn’t been in Tesco that Friday night, where would we be now? I am astonished that we found each other that night. I am astonished that we fell in love as quickly as we did. I am astonished that despite the whirlwind nature of those first few days, we never stopped in regret, realising we had been swept away. And I am astonished that despite my compulsive cleaning habits, my need to be right, my snoring – yes, my snoring – that Tom still loves me. I cannot wait for a lifetime of astonishments with you, Tom, my love, my friend, my confidant.’

In his sleep, on the cold, lonely park bench, a tear rolled down Tom’s cheek. Bette Davis’s ears pricked up, her sixth sense telling her that her master needed her. She moved in closer, licking his hand. She would never leave his side.

13
TOM

Tom didn’t like to make plans. He preferred to see where life took him. Over the past ten years it had been full of surprises. He looked up to the grey sky and thought to himself that it was highly unlikely that this beautiful world was done surprising him yet. Take today. On a whim, he hopped on the 41C bus. And on another whim, he jumped off in Swords village and decided to sleep there tonight. It had been years since he’d done that. He preferred to stay close to Fairview Park, the place he called home now. It was getting late. He walked over a stone bridge in the centre of this historic town, looking down at leaves drifting along the inky-blue water of the River Ward with its green grass banks on either side. Bette Davis sniffed an empty Coke can that poked its head through a cluster of weeds that sagged towards the river, as if in protest at the intrusion.

The sun had shone all day, a fine day for an Irish autumn, but even so, he pulled the collar of his grey overcoat upwards to form a barrier between the breeze and the back of his neck. He’d had a haircut last week and the hairdresser had been scissor happy. The haircut was a trade with Winnie, a woman he met in the Peter McVerry Trust. She was a semi-regular there like himself and they often chatted in the dining hall, both enjoying a good debate. As they discussed the horrific shooting that had occurred that month in Las Vegas, he’d noticed a gash on her hand, red and angry. Winnie was a proud woman and she would not allow him to clean and dress her wound unless she gave him something in return. A haircut was agreed.

Tom remembered another evening, years before, when he had driven over this same bridge in search of a petrol station. Cathy and he were on a road trip to Belfast and long before Applegreen Services were built to feed and water the travelling nation, diversions to small towns to hunt for fuel were the norm. The car radio was on. Cathy was singing along to a song with Gary Barlow and his Take That pals. What was it? Tom started to hum, trying to remember the lyrics, knowing it would irritate him for days until he remembered what it was.

Tom looked to his left where the ruins of a castle lay and where he’d spent a large proportion of today. Then to his right where shops and flats lined the path. The town was still busy, cars whizzing by the Main Street pavement. End-of-the-day shoppers and pedestrians moved fast with their heads down. He walked in the opposite direction. Away from all of that. He wanted a quieter area to settle down for the evening. As he explored the estates that surrounded the town the sun began to set. Headlights flooded the roads as cars made their way home after a busy day at work. He wandered into a large housing estate, which had a small cluster of shops in the middle of it. He looked at every doorway and entrance to see if he could find just the right spot to make his own for the night. Bingo. A doorway with a deep inset. Perfect. It belonged to a pharmacy that was now closed for the evening and would give him and Bette great shelter. He laid his rucksack down, guessing he’d walked nearly five or six kilometres today in all. They were both bone tired.

He heard footsteps before the shadow of their owner appeared around the corner. Bette’s ears pricked up and she whined. ‘Ssh,’ Tom commanded, and she laid her head down on his feet.

Tom watched a slender figure, dressed in black, walk their way. It had a hoody pulled up over its head. It covered half of the face so it was difficult to decipher gender. But there was something about the swagger that told tales on its owner. It was all boy, that swagger. A nervous one, at that, the way he looked around every few seconds as he walked.

Tom pondered his next move. He’d just found this sweet spot. He was warm and content exactly as he was. But experience had taught him that it was sensible to be upright when a young fella in a hoody walked by. He hated stereotypes with a passion, but as he’d had four different incidents with ‘hoodies’, all of which Tom came out of the worst, he felt he was justified. Before he had a chance to stand up, the figure walked by. He glanced towards where Tom stood with unseeing eyes. Tom realised that the shadowy inlet hid him.

Where was the hoody going? He watched him walk across the street and then stop in front of a block of flats. Maybe he was meeting some friends who lived here. If that was the case maybe it was time for Tom to make a move, find somewhere else to sleep for the night.

The boy had now come to a standstill in front of the long brick wall that surrounded the small concrete yard which sat in front of the flats. His rucksack now pulled off his back, he did another jerky scan of his surroundings. Every move was angry. He placed two spray-paint cans onto the ground beside him.

Tom felt the tension seep away from his shoulders. This boyo was likely working on his own. He’d do his thing, then with any luck piss off and Tom could start his evening meal. One he’d been looking forward to for hours now.

The trouble was he found he couldn’t take his eyes off the boy, who was staring at the walls of the flats, his head cocked to one side. Then when a car backfired from somewhere in the estate, the kid jumped at least two feet off the ground, landing with a thud and a clatter, dropping his cans. He glanced Tom’s way, again unseeing, but this time Tom managed to catch a look at the boy’s face. He was no more than ten or eleven. He looked scared. Something told Tom that he wasn’t watching a seasoned graffiti artist.

Without plan he was on his feet moving out of the dark shadow of his doorway. Bette jumped up and walked by his side, ready to defend her master if she needed to. The boy sensed he had company and spun around, his body tensed, two hands in fists, raised to his side ready for a fight.

‘What you want?’ the boy croaked, all bravado.

Tom stopped a few feet from him. He thought about that for a minute. What did he want? He was breaking all his own rules about keeping out of trouble, not getting involved. It had taken years for him to work out that best practice was just to turn round and walk away.

But there was something about this kid … He took another step forward as he said, ‘I’m just here to enjoy the show. Not often I get to see a young Banksy doing his thing.’

‘A what?’ Hoody replied.

‘Banksy.’

‘What’s that?’

Tom despaired of the youth sometimes. ‘He’s probably the world’s most famous vandal.’

This grabbed the attention of the kid. ‘Never heard of him.’

‘Well, I’d suggest you look him up. He’s a street artist at the top of his game.’

‘What makes him so special?’ Hoody asked.

‘He’s a political activist. He’s a commentator on culture. Some say a legend. He’s an enigma. As I said, you should look him up.’

The boy shrugged, then turned back to inspect the wall. He looked back with suspicion to Tom.

‘Don’t mind me,’ Tom said.

Hoody paused then shook the can with vigour, moving closer to the grey wall, ready to make his first mark.

‘Before you do that, do you want to smile for the camera?’ Tom asked.

Hoody spun round. ‘What camera?’

‘The CCTV. Well, there’s actually four cameras on this street, by my reckoning. It’s one of the reasons why I chose this spot to sleep tonight. It’s safe.’ Tom pointed to where the cameras lay.

‘Cameras don’t bother me,’ Hoody responded, but Tom noted that he’d not raised his spray-paint can again.

‘You’re right not to care. Banksy never did. A political activist, sure he never worried what anyone thought about his street art.’

Hoody looked at Tom a little closer. ‘What kind of stuff does this Banksy do?’

‘He uses stencilling. Strong images, but always coupled with even stronger messages. There’s a lot about his work to learn from. Like, for instance, his ape with a sign on him, that says, “Laugh now, but one day we’ll be in charge.” To me, that’s all about respect.’

‘For who?’

‘For everyone and everything. It’s telling us to be kind to each other and our environment. And really another way to say what my mam always used to preach: be careful who you step over on your way to the top, because you might need them, when you stumble back down again.’

The boy laughed. ‘I like that.’ Then his face changed and anger contorted his features into a grimace. ‘There’s someone I know who I’d like to see stumble on his way down.’

Tom wondered what had happened to the lad to cause him so much upset. ‘What message are you planning on sharing with the world today?’

Hoody shifted from one foot to the other. ‘Seamus Kearns is a fucking tool.’

‘Ah. That’s disappointing.’

‘Why?’

‘It’s lazy just shouting expletives, without giving any context to back them up.’

‘I never said I was a political activist!’ Hoody shouted.

‘No. That’s true, you didn’t. I’ll probably regret asking, but what did this Mr Kearns do to you?’

‘That used to be my bedroom.’ Hoody pointed to the upstairs window.

‘Used to be?’

‘Seamus Kearns was our landlord. He evicted me and Mam. And we couldn’t find anywhere else to live, so now we’re homeless.’

Tom felt his heart sink at this news. ‘And you want to graffiti his flat because he evicted you?’

Hoody nodded. ‘My mam, she’s scared, but she’s trying so hard to be brave. We’re in this hotel, which is a joke because it’s nothing like the hotels I’ve seen on TV. They have more rules than I have in school. And I have to share a room with my mam.’

Ten years on the streets of Dublin and Tom had watched more families than he could count go through exactly what this kid was going through right now. Emergency housing was not the Ritz, that was for sure.

‘Listen, I don’t know anything about your life, but I do know that getting arrested won’t do either of you any good. You said your mam was scared. Well, if you do this, it will make things worse for her.’

‘I have to do something,’ Hoody said.

Tom nodded. ‘I get that. You want to be the hero. But real heroes know when to walk away. And trust me, this is not the way.’ He nodded towards the CCTV cameras again. ‘It’s late. I suspect your mother is worried sick.’

‘I told her I was going to a mate’s this afternoon.’ He looked at his watch and frowned.

‘And did you go to your friend’s?’

‘For a bit. But he kept asking me when he could call over to my flat to watch YouTube. Over and over, banging on about it being my turn to have him come to my home. So I bailed.’

‘You didn’t tell him about your current situation?’

‘What do you think?’ The kid pulled a face. ‘I don’t want anyone to know.’

‘A good friend would understand,’ Tom said.

‘Maybe he’s not that good a friend,’ the kid said. He looked at his watch again. His mam would be looking for him. He said he would be home by seven o’clock and it was past that now.

He sighed then placed his paint can back into his rucksack. He turned to walk away, then stopped for a moment. ‘Thanks, mister. For the heads up about Big Brother watching. I owe you one.’

‘Do you know any Take That songs?’ Tom asked.

‘Nope. Mam likes all that golden oldie stuff, but not me.’

‘It’s going to annoy me until I think of that bloody song Cathy was singing,’ Tom muttered. ‘You’re going home?’ He realised he cared that this kid got back to his mother in one piece.

‘I don’t have a home. Not any more.’

‘Ah, but you do. Home isn’t a place. It’s a feeling. It’s what is up here and in here.’ He pointed to his head and heart. ‘Promise me you’ll try to remember that.’

The kid pulled his hoody up over his head and moved off into the night.

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