shift. She’d seen his blistering morning attacks, when he was full of sugary coffee and vim and hadn’t yet blunted his temper at the morning editorial meeting. She never wanted to witness one again, much less be the focus of one.
“Here?” Sullivan was cruising up the Cambuslang Road, watching out of the corner of his eye as the house values progressively declined, finally tumbling into a black hole.
“No, it’s on a wee bit yet. Go right here,” said Paddy. They took the lights and headed up the hill. “And first left here.”
Paddy used to feel proud when people from work dropped her home but not anymore.
The Eastfield Star was a small estate on the edge of the countryside. The central roundabout was broad and the houses on the radiating streets were cottage-style, some four in a block, some detached houses for bigger families like her own. The estate had been built for a colony of miners, but the Cambuslang seams were thin and the mines had shut down long ago. Residents were council tenants and workers in heavy industry, the very sector that had been decimated in the recent recession.
An atmosphere of despair hung over the small housing scheme. Stick fences hung drunkenly on rusted wires and the grass and bushes on the roundabout were full of litter. Kids from the scheme farther up the road had scarred the blindsides of houses and garages with messy graffiti supporting splinter factions of the Irish troubles. The porridgey protective coating the council gave the houses was due to be renewed and had weathered badly, flaking off in big patches and exposing the weak brickwork underneath.
Mr. Anderston, the gardener on the roundabout, had died of a heart attack in his kitchen. He was replaced by a family of drinkers who fought loudly with each other in the street and attacked anyone who asked them to keep it down. For the first time in their lives Paddy’s parents were afraid of their neighbors.
The only person on the street this morning was old Ida Breslin. She was standing in the long, wild grass in Mrs. Mahon’s front garden as they approached, wearing a child’s green parka with the hood up, looking at something on the ground. They couldn’t see her face past the furry rim but Paddy prayed that she had her teeth in. When Ida heard the noise of the approaching car she turned, still as a startled gazelle, her tongue running along her collapsed lips.
“Here.” Paddy let Sullivan glide past Quarry Road. “You can just stop here.”
He looked out at Ida and Mrs. Mahon’s pink nylon curtains. “Is this your house?”
“Um, no, not really.” She didn’t want them to go past her own house; stray vegetation and long grass had overrun the front garden and their gate was held shut with a rusting bit of wire hanger.
“Well, which one is yours, then?”
She realized that Sullivan wasn’t driving her home to be polite; he was there to see where she lived, so that they could keep tabs on her. He turned back to look at her. “You live here?”
“Aye.” She glanced out of the window to the hillside overlooking the estate. A stolen car had been abandoned on the hill and set on fire. Lazy smoke crept out of smashed windows while the bonnet smoldered.
“For goodness’ sake,” Paddy tutted, as if it were a misplaced table mat, “who put that there?”
III
The clock said four and it was dark outside. Paddy sat up with a start, thinking for a moment that it was four a.m. and she’d been asleep at work. She swung her legs over the side of the bed and stood up before her legs were awake, staggering off to the side, and heard a giggle from her sister’s bed. Mary Ann was sitting in the dark, holding a set of plastic pearl rosary beads. She watched Paddy stagger back to the bed and kneel on it before carrying on with her prayers.
“It’s a bit dark, isn’t it?”
Mary Ann smiled as her fingers automatically clicked onto the next bead.
Unreasonably angered at the sight, Paddy climbed across the
“Here?” Sullivan was cruising up the Cambuslang Road, watching out of the corner of his eye as the house values progressively declined, finally tumbling into a black hole.
“No, it’s on a wee bit yet. Go right here,” said Paddy. They took the lights and headed up the hill. “And first left here.”
Paddy used to feel proud when people from work dropped her home but not anymore.
The Eastfield Star was a small estate on the edge of the countryside. The central roundabout was broad and the houses on the radiating streets were cottage-style, some four in a block, some detached houses for bigger families like her own. The estate had been built for a colony of miners, but the Cambuslang seams were thin and the mines had shut down long ago. Residents were council tenants and workers in heavy industry, the very sector that had been decimated in the recent recession.
An atmosphere of despair hung over the small housing scheme. Stick fences hung drunkenly on rusted wires and the grass and bushes on the roundabout were full of litter. Kids from the scheme farther up the road had scarred the blindsides of houses and garages with messy graffiti supporting splinter factions of the Irish troubles. The porridgey protective coating the council gave the houses was due to be renewed and had weathered badly, flaking off in big patches and exposing the weak brickwork underneath.
Mr. Anderston, the gardener on the roundabout, had died of a heart attack in his kitchen. He was replaced by a family of drinkers who fought loudly with each other in the street and attacked anyone who asked them to keep it down. For the first time in their lives Paddy’s parents were afraid of their neighbors.
The only person on the street this morning was old Ida Breslin. She was standing in the long, wild grass in Mrs. Mahon’s front garden as they approached, wearing a child’s green parka with the hood up, looking at something on the ground. They couldn’t see her face past the furry rim but Paddy prayed that she had her teeth in. When Ida heard the noise of the approaching car she turned, still as a startled gazelle, her tongue running along her collapsed lips.
“Here.” Paddy let Sullivan glide past Quarry Road. “You can just stop here.”
He looked out at Ida and Mrs. Mahon’s pink nylon curtains. “Is this your house?”
“Um, no, not really.” She didn’t want them to go past her own house; stray vegetation and long grass had overrun the front garden and their gate was held shut with a rusting bit of wire hanger.
“Well, which one is yours, then?”
She realized that Sullivan wasn’t driving her home to be polite; he was there to see where she lived, so that they could keep tabs on her. He turned back to look at her. “You live here?”
“Aye.” She glanced out of the window to the hillside overlooking the estate. A stolen car had been abandoned on the hill and set on fire. Lazy smoke crept out of smashed windows while the bonnet smoldered.
“For goodness’ sake,” Paddy tutted, as if it were a misplaced table mat, “who put that there?”
III
The clock said four and it was dark outside. Paddy sat up with a start, thinking for a moment that it was four a.m. and she’d been asleep at work. She swung her legs over the side of the bed and stood up before her legs were awake, staggering off to the side, and heard a giggle from her sister’s bed. Mary Ann was sitting in the dark, holding a set of plastic pearl rosary beads. She watched Paddy stagger back to the bed and kneel on it before carrying on with her prayers.
“It’s a bit dark, isn’t it?”
Mary Ann smiled as her fingers automatically clicked onto the next bead.
Unreasonably angered at the sight, Paddy climbed across the
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