you!â she screamed.
Great. My last contact with the human race didnât remember who I was. I didnât know my father, my mother was too embarrassing to know, my sister was psychologically unhinged and on top of everything else I was Billy Nae-Pals and had been for more than a year now.
This might have been partly my own fault, since very few people extended the hand of friendship in case it got bitten off. Iâd put a lot of energy into my public image. Boy, was it paying off.
From my old gang, Kevâs friends, I was ostracised, excommunicated. I was as dazed as Dad on a Friday night, but with an unfocused anger and a sense of violent injustice. Funny how I was the great untouchable, when it was Kev whoâd â¦
Well, there was no way back with Kev, which was lucky because I didnât want one. Shuggie was not much of a replacement gang, but for once I felt extremely benevolent towards him. The lights had come on in my head, so dazzling I couldnât sleep for the glare. To hell with Dad; to hell with ex-friends and imaginary ones. I had a date with Orla Mahon. Tonight.
A worm of unease had been nibbling at my guts, but I put that down to excitement â anticipation, nerves, lust, whatever. I wasnât letting myself associate it with the sniggers of Orlaâs posse yesterday afternoon. Anyway, sheâd shut them up fast enough. All but Gina, who was ahard girl to shut up, but sheâd choked and spluttered so long into her Tango, Orla had finally sworn at her and kicked her ankle.
Iâd had to turn away to hide my stupid smile. Orla Mahon, no less, was sticking up for
me.
No need for the squirming ball of nerves in my gut then. No reason to let it distract me.
It did though. Between nerves and ecstasy, I wasnât capable of thinking about anything else. That must be why, when I pulled the front door shut behind me and jogged down the concrete path that morning, I had my hand on the rusty iron gate before I recognised the car parked across the road.
Dark blue Mondeo. Fancy rims. A suit jacket hung carefully in the back. Tinted windows, but the driverâs side was down and a lean, muscled arm rested on the sill, crisp shirt sleeve rolled neatly to the elbow. Lola Nanâs hitman, eh? Easy mistake to make, even with a functioning brain. After all, the nearest sexually challenged cow was some way from our street, so what was
he
doing here?
I stopped, not breathing, my hand tightening on the gate till flakes of rusty metal dug into my palm. He didnât worry me. He didnât scare me, I told myself. When a few repetitions of that didnât convince me, I tried to picture him at his day job. Mickey Naughton, up to his armpit in a startled Friesian. Dreamy look in his eyes.
Still didnât work.
I tried to focus on his shadowy face. He was looking right at me, an unpleasant sneer on the side of his mouth. Mickey had a thin face, a handsome face, and Kevâs girlfriend had once assured me those shadowy eyes were sexy. Dangerously so.
Kevin Naughtonâs mother died. Did you hear?
She had cancer. That can be fatal, you know.
That can be fatal.
Stupidhead.
Mickey lifted his fist like a wee boy pretending to have a gun, his first and second fingers jutting out to make the barrel. He pointed it not at me, but at the upstairs window of our house. He was aiming at the parentsâ room, had he but known it, but I wasnât tempted to laugh at his mistake.
Came back with a vengeance.
His finger gun jerked up with the imagined recoil, then he brought it to his lips and blew away imaginary smoke. Mickey smiled at me.
He didnât do anything as cheaply dramatic as screeching away. He turned the key lazily in the ignition, nosed the car into the road and drove out of sight.
11
Aidan was exactly the wrong age to witness my wee Clint Eastwood performance with Shuggie. He was fifteen, just one year younger than me: young enough to be reckless, old enough to
Great. My last contact with the human race didnât remember who I was. I didnât know my father, my mother was too embarrassing to know, my sister was psychologically unhinged and on top of everything else I was Billy Nae-Pals and had been for more than a year now.
This might have been partly my own fault, since very few people extended the hand of friendship in case it got bitten off. Iâd put a lot of energy into my public image. Boy, was it paying off.
From my old gang, Kevâs friends, I was ostracised, excommunicated. I was as dazed as Dad on a Friday night, but with an unfocused anger and a sense of violent injustice. Funny how I was the great untouchable, when it was Kev whoâd â¦
Well, there was no way back with Kev, which was lucky because I didnât want one. Shuggie was not much of a replacement gang, but for once I felt extremely benevolent towards him. The lights had come on in my head, so dazzling I couldnât sleep for the glare. To hell with Dad; to hell with ex-friends and imaginary ones. I had a date with Orla Mahon. Tonight.
A worm of unease had been nibbling at my guts, but I put that down to excitement â anticipation, nerves, lust, whatever. I wasnât letting myself associate it with the sniggers of Orlaâs posse yesterday afternoon. Anyway, sheâd shut them up fast enough. All but Gina, who was ahard girl to shut up, but sheâd choked and spluttered so long into her Tango, Orla had finally sworn at her and kicked her ankle.
Iâd had to turn away to hide my stupid smile. Orla Mahon, no less, was sticking up for
me.
No need for the squirming ball of nerves in my gut then. No reason to let it distract me.
It did though. Between nerves and ecstasy, I wasnât capable of thinking about anything else. That must be why, when I pulled the front door shut behind me and jogged down the concrete path that morning, I had my hand on the rusty iron gate before I recognised the car parked across the road.
Dark blue Mondeo. Fancy rims. A suit jacket hung carefully in the back. Tinted windows, but the driverâs side was down and a lean, muscled arm rested on the sill, crisp shirt sleeve rolled neatly to the elbow. Lola Nanâs hitman, eh? Easy mistake to make, even with a functioning brain. After all, the nearest sexually challenged cow was some way from our street, so what was
he
doing here?
I stopped, not breathing, my hand tightening on the gate till flakes of rusty metal dug into my palm. He didnât worry me. He didnât scare me, I told myself. When a few repetitions of that didnât convince me, I tried to picture him at his day job. Mickey Naughton, up to his armpit in a startled Friesian. Dreamy look in his eyes.
Still didnât work.
I tried to focus on his shadowy face. He was looking right at me, an unpleasant sneer on the side of his mouth. Mickey had a thin face, a handsome face, and Kevâs girlfriend had once assured me those shadowy eyes were sexy. Dangerously so.
Kevin Naughtonâs mother died. Did you hear?
She had cancer. That can be fatal, you know.
That can be fatal.
Stupidhead.
Mickey lifted his fist like a wee boy pretending to have a gun, his first and second fingers jutting out to make the barrel. He pointed it not at me, but at the upstairs window of our house. He was aiming at the parentsâ room, had he but known it, but I wasnât tempted to laugh at his mistake.
Came back with a vengeance.
His finger gun jerked up with the imagined recoil, then he brought it to his lips and blew away imaginary smoke. Mickey smiled at me.
He didnât do anything as cheaply dramatic as screeching away. He turned the key lazily in the ignition, nosed the car into the road and drove out of sight.
11
Aidan was exactly the wrong age to witness my wee Clint Eastwood performance with Shuggie. He was fifteen, just one year younger than me: young enough to be reckless, old enough to
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