the way back the two of you can see if you can find Ger.’
The next morning, after Mr O’Gorman had finished his business in Clontarf, he drove Suzanne into an area of Dublin she did not know.
This was an old part of town. Amid rows of grimy terraced houses, a few cottages were bright with window boxes, but for the most part the area looked poor. There were some boarded-up shops and a lot of young lads just hanging around, smoking cigarettes and watching passing traffic with bored expressions.
But none of them was Ger Casey.
Mr O’Gorman took a map from the glove compartment and looked at it for a long time, then drove on. ‘There’s Morton’s Court, through there,’ he said suddenly, pointing as he braked.
Up a narrow laneway, Suzanne glimpsed a multi-storeyed grey building with broken windows and limp laundry strung across littered balconies. There were no flower boxes here, just an air of neglect and decay, as if no one cared.
‘Oh Ger,’ Suzanne murmured. She remembered how lovingly the boy had swept the tackroom and polished the saddles and bridles until they gleamed.
‘We’ll park here,’ Mr O’Gorman said, ‘and I can go into that shop over there and ask about your friend. They’ll be sure to know everyone in the neighbourhood, and tell us where to find him. Wait for me in the car. And keep the doors locked, this is the city!’ he added sharply.
With the windows up and the doors locked, it was hot in the car. Suzanne waited, gazing glumly at the council flats. Her father was taking his time. Talking business, probably. He could never go into a newsagent’s without talking about the business.
Suddenly a knot of boys erupted from a laneway and ran diagonally across the road. Suzanne saw them for a moment only, but she recognised the mop of red hair. Forgetting her father’s instructions, she unlocked the car door and jumped out.
‘Ger!’ she shouted, waving her arms. ‘Ger, it’s me, Suzanne! Wait for me!’
But the boys had vanished.
Suzanne cast one quick glance towards the newsagent’s. She couldn’t see her father. By the time she went over to get him, the boys could be far away, beyond finding. So she set off after them by herself, still calling Ger’s name.
With a last exchange of remarks about bad business and worse weather, Mr O’Gorman left the shop. He started across the street to his car, only to see the door on the passenger side standing wide open. No one was in the car. He didn’t even pause to slam the door shut, but hurried up the laneway towards Morton’s Court, searching anxiously for his daughter.
Ever since he stopped going to the stables, Ger had been angry. Hedidn’t know who he was mad at, exactly, or why. He was just raging and he wanted to strike out at someone or something. He broke windows, wrote on walls, let air out of car tyres and still the anger simmered in him. He led the gang on one prank after another, each one bolder than the last. They cheered him on, delighted. Even Anto seemed to accept his resumed leadership.
Today he was looking for something new to do. The gang was bored. ‘Let’s go over to the docks,’ Rags suggested.
‘What’ll we do over there?’
‘I don’t know. Something.’
‘Got any money?’
‘You must be joking.’
‘I got some smokes,’ Anto volunteered boastfully. ‘Took ‘em from the old lad while he was asleep.’
The other boys clustered around him. He produced a half dozen battered cigarettes and a box of matches. They gathered behind a wall and lit up, taking deep breaths and coughing.
Ger didn’t like the taste of the cigarette and he didn’t like the choking sensation it caused. For no reason, a memory flashed through his mind of the No Smoking signs to be found over every doorway at the stables.
He spat out the cigarette and ground it beneath his heel on the tarmac.
‘Hey!’ cried Anto. ‘What’d you do that for!’
‘Didn’t like it.’
The others stared at him. No one they knew
The next morning, after Mr O’Gorman had finished his business in Clontarf, he drove Suzanne into an area of Dublin she did not know.
This was an old part of town. Amid rows of grimy terraced houses, a few cottages were bright with window boxes, but for the most part the area looked poor. There were some boarded-up shops and a lot of young lads just hanging around, smoking cigarettes and watching passing traffic with bored expressions.
But none of them was Ger Casey.
Mr O’Gorman took a map from the glove compartment and looked at it for a long time, then drove on. ‘There’s Morton’s Court, through there,’ he said suddenly, pointing as he braked.
Up a narrow laneway, Suzanne glimpsed a multi-storeyed grey building with broken windows and limp laundry strung across littered balconies. There were no flower boxes here, just an air of neglect and decay, as if no one cared.
‘Oh Ger,’ Suzanne murmured. She remembered how lovingly the boy had swept the tackroom and polished the saddles and bridles until they gleamed.
‘We’ll park here,’ Mr O’Gorman said, ‘and I can go into that shop over there and ask about your friend. They’ll be sure to know everyone in the neighbourhood, and tell us where to find him. Wait for me in the car. And keep the doors locked, this is the city!’ he added sharply.
With the windows up and the doors locked, it was hot in the car. Suzanne waited, gazing glumly at the council flats. Her father was taking his time. Talking business, probably. He could never go into a newsagent’s without talking about the business.
Suddenly a knot of boys erupted from a laneway and ran diagonally across the road. Suzanne saw them for a moment only, but she recognised the mop of red hair. Forgetting her father’s instructions, she unlocked the car door and jumped out.
‘Ger!’ she shouted, waving her arms. ‘Ger, it’s me, Suzanne! Wait for me!’
But the boys had vanished.
Suzanne cast one quick glance towards the newsagent’s. She couldn’t see her father. By the time she went over to get him, the boys could be far away, beyond finding. So she set off after them by herself, still calling Ger’s name.
With a last exchange of remarks about bad business and worse weather, Mr O’Gorman left the shop. He started across the street to his car, only to see the door on the passenger side standing wide open. No one was in the car. He didn’t even pause to slam the door shut, but hurried up the laneway towards Morton’s Court, searching anxiously for his daughter.
Ever since he stopped going to the stables, Ger had been angry. Hedidn’t know who he was mad at, exactly, or why. He was just raging and he wanted to strike out at someone or something. He broke windows, wrote on walls, let air out of car tyres and still the anger simmered in him. He led the gang on one prank after another, each one bolder than the last. They cheered him on, delighted. Even Anto seemed to accept his resumed leadership.
Today he was looking for something new to do. The gang was bored. ‘Let’s go over to the docks,’ Rags suggested.
‘What’ll we do over there?’
‘I don’t know. Something.’
‘Got any money?’
‘You must be joking.’
‘I got some smokes,’ Anto volunteered boastfully. ‘Took ‘em from the old lad while he was asleep.’
The other boys clustered around him. He produced a half dozen battered cigarettes and a box of matches. They gathered behind a wall and lit up, taking deep breaths and coughing.
Ger didn’t like the taste of the cigarette and he didn’t like the choking sensation it caused. For no reason, a memory flashed through his mind of the No Smoking signs to be found over every doorway at the stables.
He spat out the cigarette and ground it beneath his heel on the tarmac.
‘Hey!’ cried Anto. ‘What’d you do that for!’
‘Didn’t like it.’
The others stared at him. No one they knew
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