boy. The one from yesterday.’
Thomas wets his lips with his tongue. ‘What’s he got to do with us?’
‘She said I could go back to Hydebank. She said you could go to prison. She said we wouldn’t be able to see each other.’
Ciaran feels a hot, fat tear roll down his cheek. Thomas wipes it away.
‘That’s not going to happen,’ Thomas says. ‘Listen to me. That is not going to happen. I won’t let it happen. Ever.’
‘But she said—’
Thomas pulls Ciaran close, embraces him, arms tight like a trap around Ciaran’s body. Lips against his ear.
‘I love you,’ Thomas says. ‘And you love me. They will not separate us again. Never. I promise you. Do you believe me?’
Ciaran nods. Thomas’s arms relax and slip away.
‘Say it.’
‘I believe you.’
‘Good,’ Thomas says. ‘Has she got you a job lined up?’
‘I have to go somewhere today,’ Ciaran says. ‘A gardening place. She gave me a card.’
‘All right,’ Thomas says. ‘You go there, you talk to them, you be polite and friendly. Tell them you’ll work hard. You need a job so they’ll know you’re being good. All right? It’s important for them to think you’re being good. I’ve been good these last two years while I’ve waited for you. And you’re a good boy, aren’t you?’
‘Yeah,’ Ciaran says.
‘All right. I’m on the evening shift tomorrow, so I don’t have to be in till six. We’ll go for a spin in the morning. Maybe go to the seaside. What do you think?’
‘Okay,’ Ciaran says.
Thomas hugs him, kisses his cheek, leaves him there.
Alone, Ciaran allows the tears to come. Just a few, then he wipes his face clean. His groin aches from holding on. He had feared he might wet himself there on the street. Then Thomas would have surely used his teeth. But Ciaran held it in. Now he turns in the doorway, opens his fly, and lets it go, shame burning in him.
The man at the gardening place isn’t friendly, but he isn’t angry either. He tells Ciaran he can start on Monday, to be ready for the van at seven every weekday morning. Three other boys from the hostel work for him. They’ll all go together. It’ll be hard work, he says. Ciaran says that’s all right, he wants to work hard. The man seems pleased. He wants Ciaran’s National Insurance number. Ciaran doesn’t know what that is. The man says never mind, he’ll get it from Mr Wheatley at the hostel.
The taxi ride back into the city takes a long time. Rush hour, the driver says. He curses at the traffic and punches the face of the steering wheel, making the horn blare.
Ciaran stops noticing the buildings and the pedestrians as they creep past. He thinks about his mother. He remembers her as a shadow, a scent, a disturbance of light. There used to be a photograph of her. A young, thin, dark-haired woman, sitting outside a tent in a field full of tents. She wore a red checked shirt, muddy jeans, wellington boots. A cigarette held between her fingers.
The last time he saw it, Ciaran had been sitting alone on the bed in the room he and Thomas shared. He couldn’t quite remember who the foster carer was. An older couple, he thought, but it was hard to see from all these years away.
He had the photograph in one hand, the fingertips of the other tracing her outline, touching her face, trying to remember what her voice sounded like. Music, Ciaran thought. Probably like music, the gentle kind.
How old was he then? Maybe seven. He remembered the dirt beneath his nails and the smudges his fingers left on the photograph’s gloss.
Then Thomas walked in. One of the foster carers had taken him away a few minutes earlier, said she needed a word with him. Ciaran didn’t know how long he was gone, but when he came back, Thomas’s face told him to be afraid. Anger there, and hate, black beneath his skin. Ciaran could almost feel the teeth already.
Thomas sat down on the bed opposite, his hands balled into fists on his knees, breathing hard. His nostrils
Thomas wets his lips with his tongue. ‘What’s he got to do with us?’
‘She said I could go back to Hydebank. She said you could go to prison. She said we wouldn’t be able to see each other.’
Ciaran feels a hot, fat tear roll down his cheek. Thomas wipes it away.
‘That’s not going to happen,’ Thomas says. ‘Listen to me. That is not going to happen. I won’t let it happen. Ever.’
‘But she said—’
Thomas pulls Ciaran close, embraces him, arms tight like a trap around Ciaran’s body. Lips against his ear.
‘I love you,’ Thomas says. ‘And you love me. They will not separate us again. Never. I promise you. Do you believe me?’
Ciaran nods. Thomas’s arms relax and slip away.
‘Say it.’
‘I believe you.’
‘Good,’ Thomas says. ‘Has she got you a job lined up?’
‘I have to go somewhere today,’ Ciaran says. ‘A gardening place. She gave me a card.’
‘All right,’ Thomas says. ‘You go there, you talk to them, you be polite and friendly. Tell them you’ll work hard. You need a job so they’ll know you’re being good. All right? It’s important for them to think you’re being good. I’ve been good these last two years while I’ve waited for you. And you’re a good boy, aren’t you?’
‘Yeah,’ Ciaran says.
‘All right. I’m on the evening shift tomorrow, so I don’t have to be in till six. We’ll go for a spin in the morning. Maybe go to the seaside. What do you think?’
‘Okay,’ Ciaran says.
Thomas hugs him, kisses his cheek, leaves him there.
Alone, Ciaran allows the tears to come. Just a few, then he wipes his face clean. His groin aches from holding on. He had feared he might wet himself there on the street. Then Thomas would have surely used his teeth. But Ciaran held it in. Now he turns in the doorway, opens his fly, and lets it go, shame burning in him.
The man at the gardening place isn’t friendly, but he isn’t angry either. He tells Ciaran he can start on Monday, to be ready for the van at seven every weekday morning. Three other boys from the hostel work for him. They’ll all go together. It’ll be hard work, he says. Ciaran says that’s all right, he wants to work hard. The man seems pleased. He wants Ciaran’s National Insurance number. Ciaran doesn’t know what that is. The man says never mind, he’ll get it from Mr Wheatley at the hostel.
The taxi ride back into the city takes a long time. Rush hour, the driver says. He curses at the traffic and punches the face of the steering wheel, making the horn blare.
Ciaran stops noticing the buildings and the pedestrians as they creep past. He thinks about his mother. He remembers her as a shadow, a scent, a disturbance of light. There used to be a photograph of her. A young, thin, dark-haired woman, sitting outside a tent in a field full of tents. She wore a red checked shirt, muddy jeans, wellington boots. A cigarette held between her fingers.
The last time he saw it, Ciaran had been sitting alone on the bed in the room he and Thomas shared. He couldn’t quite remember who the foster carer was. An older couple, he thought, but it was hard to see from all these years away.
He had the photograph in one hand, the fingertips of the other tracing her outline, touching her face, trying to remember what her voice sounded like. Music, Ciaran thought. Probably like music, the gentle kind.
How old was he then? Maybe seven. He remembered the dirt beneath his nails and the smudges his fingers left on the photograph’s gloss.
Then Thomas walked in. One of the foster carers had taken him away a few minutes earlier, said she needed a word with him. Ciaran didn’t know how long he was gone, but when he came back, Thomas’s face told him to be afraid. Anger there, and hate, black beneath his skin. Ciaran could almost feel the teeth already.
Thomas sat down on the bed opposite, his hands balled into fists on his knees, breathing hard. His nostrils
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