Dark Chapter Read online

Time to go.

  Don’t look back, don’t let them see your face.

  Head still reeling from the punch, he races off into the shadows, turns right, and skitters around the corner, blood pumping in his ears, heart thumping in his throat.

  “Fuckin knacker!” he hears a man shout.

  Still running at full speed, though he doubts they’re behind him. He is always fast on his feet, has never been caught before. He knows when to run and when to hide.

  He keeps running. Just a bit more now, slowing down now to catch his breath, getting ready to melt into the shadows. He slips into the dark by the waterfront.

  Under the cover of a bridge, he finally rests, his breath returning to normal. He leans forward, hands on his knees. It’s quiet here by the river, none of the buzz of the high street.

  Blood’s not surging anymore. Now, he begins to really feel the pain, flooding his head, his face. He knows he’ll have a black eye.

  Jaysus, what a waste. Nothing to show for it neither.

  He’ll get the full clatter from his da about this. And the lads.

  He starts to make his way along the water. There’s street lamps here and there with strong yellow light, the rest of the pavement’s in shadow. Somewhere from the wall by the river, he hears a girl’s laugh and a man’s voice, lower, saying something he can’t make out, something manly and romantic that’ll make her giggle some more and rest her hand on his chest, allow him to cup her tits.

  Some eejits are always lucky. Never him.

  “A group of five? Never take on five.”

  Michael says this as he dabs a hot damp cloth on his face. He flinches at the pain.

  “Your one was so langers, she wouldn’t of noticed her bag missing.”

  “Yeah, well, her man noticed. Noticed enough to lamp you right in your gorgeous mug.”

  Michael wrings the cloth out again and leans over with it.

  He turns away. “Enough. Fucking hurts.”

  Michael snorts. “Don’t be going all soft now. Next thing I know you’ll be growing a pussy and wanting to live in Dublin with Mam.”

  He don’t say nothing.

  Michael tosses the cloth into the sink and hands over his can of Carlsberg. “Here. Have some of this. I can send you over to Old Thomas to take care of the pain, but then everyone’ll know you had a clatter.”

  He gulps down the lager. Warm and tasteless, but better than nothing. He hopes a buzz will come, ease off the pain.

  “Da’s gonna be asking about that when he comes back, you know.” Michael gestures to the black eye.

  “I’ll just tell him I got in another scrap.”

  “With who?”

  He shrugs. “Dunno.”

  Michael starts up with his preacher tone again. “Not with buffers. We don’t want to be stirring up trouble with them. And you know we don’t fight with ourselves.” Christ, he’s worse than the Pope sometimes.

  “Ok, then. I got in a fight with some tourists.”

  “Better. But you know what he’ll say: ‘You get in a fight, you better be giving out the black eyes, not getting them.’” Michael does a good impression of Da with his drunken slur and his awkward gestures, and he’s forced to laugh. Which makes the pain in his left eye flare up again.

  Flinching, he sets the Carlsberg down on the table. “Guess I got some room for improvement, then.”

  Michael grins. “You could say that, yeah.”

  He gets up and moves to the caravan window, looks out the small square pane into the night. Nothing except the sound of the wind. No cars on the road.

  “Hey, you think I need to worry about the police?”

  Michael thinks for a moment, then shrugs. “Peelers? Nah.”

  “Really?”

  “You didn’t take nothing from them, right? And they were out drinking. They won’t bother to do a report. Why ruin a good night?”

  He starts to laugh.

  “What’re you laughing at?” Michael asks.

  “These posh people. They make it too easy. I reckon I even made their night more exciting. Think of how easy I made it for them to shag the ladies tonight, them being the big heroes and all. They should fucking pay me for that kind of foreplay.”

  They both break out in laughter.

  “The day they pay a Traveller for robbing them is the day we got it sorted,” Michael says.

  “I’ll drink to that.” He raises the can of Carlsberg, holds it to his lips, but it’s empty. Foam slides slowly into his mouth, tasting like metal.

  He keeps his eyes shut, keeps the can to his lips, and swallows the foam. And as he does, he thinks: Mallorca… now there’s a gorgeous place.

  Outside, the wind whistles against the caravan sidings.

  *

  One year later, he’s in Dublin.

  The first girl he has is a skinny brown-haired girl he finds wandering home after a birthday party. He is fourteen, and he’s been kissing girls for two years now. He reckons she’s about the same age. A settled girl, somewhere near a housing estate in West Dublin. It’s not too late, early summer evening, and she’s walking on her own.

  He sees her, long hair and narrow legs, arms stuffed into her jacket pockets. From that distance, can’t tell if she’s pretty, but it don’t really matter. Just some girl to practice on. All them tricks the lads told him would work.

  He moves in her direction. Trying to look aimless, casual, like he just happens to be there.

  “Hiya,” he says, when he’s close enough.

  She stops short, turns around. Mainly she looks bored, and a little sad. Her hair is brown and lank, but her eyes are pretty enough.

  “Hi,” she says. Not particularly warm. But he’ll change that.

  “Where you coming from?”

  She don’t answer right away, looks unsure.

  “My friend’s party.”

  “What’s your friend’s name?”

  “Niamh.”

  “And what’s your name?”

  “Sarah.”

  “Sarah…” he says, as if breathing in a rich perfume, the way he’s seen Michael say the name of a girl when he tries to chat her up. This gets a faint smile out of her.

  “Sarah, I’m Donal.”

  “Hi, Donal.”

  They stand there in the late evening sun, casting two long shadows.

  “Sarah, why’d you leave the party?”

  She shrugs and looks down at her feet, balancing on the outside edges of her trainers. “They weren’t being very nice. Started leaving me out of the talk. Niamh kept going on about her boyfriend, and the other girls too.”

  “And you – you don’t have a boyfriend?”

  She shakes her head, keeps her eyes down as if too embarrassed.

  Bingo. All easy from here on in.

  “Well, hey, Sarah, you know I’m always looking for a party. But I’m glad you left, because I’d rather be here with you.”

  She looks up. He can tell she don’t quite believe him, but she likes what he says.

  Sarah blushes, looks down, and starts walking away.

  “Where you going?”

  “I should get home.” But this time, a little coy. Like she wants to be followed.

  Which he does.

  “Oh, come on, don’t go just yet. We’ve only just met.”

  That line he’s heard Michael say loads of times to other girls. Most of the time it’s worked.

  It works on Sarah. She slows her steps and looks at him curious.

  He cracks a smile.

  “Come on, Sarah, come with me. Let me show you something.”

  She pauses, liking the attention. “No, I should go.”

  He grabs her hand – playful, as if drawing her somewhere. “It’s only just over here.”

  He don’t actually know the area too well, is making things up as he goes along. But he can remember there’s a stand of trees clumped somewhere beyond those buildings.

  All it takes is a nice quiet place. Make sure there’s no one e
lse around. This is what Donal and Michael have told him. That’s how easy it is to get off with girls.

  He looks around – the neighbourhood is completely empty. Families gathered in their homes, watching telly or eating dinner. But there’s no one else out on the streets. Safe enough.

  She is startled at first when he grabs her hand, but lets him guide her. She is even smiling.

  “Where you taking me?” It comes out in almost a giggle.

  “Oh, you’ll see.”

  He blathers on as they head towards the trees. A bunch of lies really, but he knows she believes him. He’s just moved with his family here. He grew up in County Tyrone. His da’s a doctor. He has three sisters. Does she like living here?

  “It’s all right. Never been anywhere else.”

  “Where’ve you been on holiday?”

  “London once. Spain another time. But always with my family, so it’s not much fun.”

  He’s been to London three times. He has an uncle who lives in France and another one in New York.

  “Wow, New York.”

  New York is amazing, the skyscrapers, the crowds of people, the Statue of Liberty.

  “Have you been up the Statue of Liberty?” she asks, her eyes wide.

  “I have, yeah. It’s gorgeous, the sun shining on the water, and you can see all of New York.”

  What’s the name of that main bit in New York? Manhattan.

  “Manhattan, now there’s a grand place to live.”

  “Wow,” she says. He can tell she’s impressed. No longer so scared.

  He still has her by the hand, and now they’re just a few yards from the clump of trees. Not sure what to do once they get there, but he’ll figure something out.

  “Just this way here.”

  He steps high over a fallen tree, pushes his way under a screen of wire-mesh fence that’s been knocked over.

  She stops. “What’s in there?”

  “Don’t worry, it’s safe.”

  He tugs on her hand, and she leans down to hunch under the wire-mesh. He holds up the screen for her, glancing at her tits. Nothing hardly. Might as well be a cardboard box.

  But he can still feel the blood stirring in his veins. She’s here, trapped on this side of the fence. And there’s no one else around.

  She brushes dirt off her jacket and looks up. He is staring at her.

  “Sarah,” he says.

  “What?” she giggles back, a little uncomfortable.

  He don’t answer, but leans in against the fence, partly to block any escape.

  “What’d you want to show me?” she asks, looking around at the trees, the scuffed-up ground.

  “Well, I kinda lied.”

  She’s nervous again, and he can see it, almost enjoys it.

  “Why’d you bring me here?” A note of alarm in her voice.

  “I just wanted to do this.”

  And he leans in and kisses her.

  She pulls back for a moment, staring at him. He kisses her again; this time she don’t try to squirm out of his grip. She tries to settle into the kiss.

  The thing you need to remember is: all girls secretly want to be kissed by a boy. You just need to make sure you’re that boy. Michael and Donal have told him this over and over.

  And after you kiss them long enough, you can do other things with them.

  Her mouth tastes of Tango and Doritos, and after long enough, he releases her. She looks a little shocked, but flushed.

  “You like that, Sarah?”

  She don’t say nothing, but don’t seem upset either.

  “Ever been kissed before?”

  She shakes her head, a little embarrassed.

  “It’s my first time, too.” And he leans in and kisses her again.

  Now that was another lie. He’s kissed a few Traveller girls, but by now he knows it’s always easier to go for the settled girls. Less risk of their parents finding out and chasing you down.

  And no matter what, the older girls are always the best at kissing. They know how to twist their tongues around his, sexy and sometimes forceful, which always gets him hard. The younger, shyer ones just kind of freeze up and don’t do anything with their tongues. Like this one here.

  He has Sarah by the shoulders now and her Dorito-flavoured mouth is boring him, so he tries to slip one of his hands up her jacket. She flinches and pulls back; his left hand is still gripping her shoulder.

  “Didn’t you like that?”

  “I… I don’t know.” She is like one of those rabbits on the lawn outside the caravans – frozen, waiting to be pegged with a stone.

  “Let me kiss you again.”

  Without waiting for her reply, he leans in again, one hand behind her head. Presses his body up against her tits, but there’s just that cardboard-box flatness, and he don’t know what to do.

  She wrests her mouth away from his.

  “Please, I want to go home. I want to stop.”

  But it’s way too late for that.

  He’s pulling at her jacket zipper now, twitchy, trying to get his hand on her tits. She tries pushing his hand away, but she’s panicking, like that rabbit already pegged through the head, brainless, and his cock is jerking to attention, pushing him on.

  The jacket undone, he can feel her breast now through her shirt. A slight bump and the nub of her nipple, but it’s enough to get him harder.

  And from here just move your hand lower…

  “Please stop.” She’s practically crying now, her voice all crumpled and whiney and the sound of her begging makes him even harder. Girls, so predictable. They want to be kissed, but then they say they don’t want to do anything else.

  “Please don’t.” She starts to sob, an awful wheezing sound, and he can’t risk her making noise like this, so he slaps her across the face, once, hard.

  “Shut the fuck up, bitch.”

  She goes silent.

  Enough of that now. He’s crossed over, and he’s going to get his way this time.

  *

  At twenty-three, she is hiking on her own in the Beara Peninsula in Southwest Ireland. The landscape here never fails to intrigue her. The rocky hillsides, interspersed with scrubby vegetation; the cottages and villages that are like mere specks on the great, contoured hide of a beast, rippling with ridges and valleys and streams.

  She’s been living in Cork for a year now, studying for a Master’s in Irish Literature, while on a prestigious scholarship. She now lives in the center of town, after answering a flatshare ad a few months ago to live with an eighteen-year-old boy, in a rickety addition built on the roof of a popular pub. It’s right in the nightlife district, and on weekends, the air is loud with people, streaming out drunk after all the clubs have closed at 2am.

  In the summer, she often sits on the edge of their roof terrace and looks into the alleyway below. Late at night, there are inevitably men urinating against the wall, hidden at street level in the dark shadows and swaying, but still visible to her. There is something amusing about it, the men relieving themselves with drunken abandon, completely unaware of someone directly above them, watching.

  Once in a while, she’ll see a couple going at it in the shadows. Heavy kissing and groping, accompanied by the occasional moan. The woman with her back braced against the wall, the man pressed against her, hands reaching frantically up shirts or skirts. She’ll feel guilty looking down on them, and partly disgusted, that people could act like that, in public. But also intrigued. She’ll watch for a minute or more, then turn away, disturbed.

  In the morning, when she walks past that alleyway on weekends, it will stink of urine. Occasionally she’ll see a used condom, kicked against the wall, in an attempt to hide its existence.

  The boy she lives with does not bother her. He lives his own life, has his own friends, his posters of Tupac that he collects, and a girlfriend, Emer, whom he’s been dating for four years.

  “Emer’s pregnant, like,” Jamie announced one day, when they both happened to be in the fla
t at the same time.

  “What?” she asked, unable to keep the shock out of her voice. This eighteen-year-old boy – a father? “How do you feel about being a dad?”

  “Oh, it’s grand, like.”

  Their other friends are already parents at the age of seventeen, eighteen. They’ll inherit their baby clothes. Emer can get good money from the government as a single mum. They’ll be grand.

  She can’t understand that simple, happy acceptance of their future lives. Parents at the age of eighteen. And looking forward to it.

  So it’s about time for her to get away from the city – the stinking alleyways and beer-sodden evenings and teenage parents – and spend a night in the countryside on her own.

  She’s chosen the Beara Peninsula, because she read about an intriguing hike in her Lonely Planet guidebook. A trail leading from the small town of Glengarriff, through a nature reserve, and then into the Coomarkane Valley, the upper part of which remains entirely uninhabited. And at the end of that empty valley, there are two lakes bearing impossible names: Lough Derreenadavodia and Lough Eekenohoolikeaghaun.

  What would it be like to follow a trail to such fantastically named lakes?

  So late September and she’s taken a bus out here on her own, determined to walk the trail outlined in her map and guidebook. Her hiking shoes make their way nimbly over stone and dirt, as the footpath snakes along the slope of a hill. To her left below her, there’s a ruined cottage or two, roof fallen in, trees growing in corners where children used to play. She knows now that Ireland is full of these ruined cottages, spotting the countryside in these out-of-the-way places.

  She read that two centuries ago, Ireland used to be more heavily populated with over 8 million people living off the land. But that was before the potato famine and the mass exodus of Irish off this island to America, Canada, Australia, New Zealand. And of course, England.

  She herself is thinking of moving to London after this. The past year, she’s visited the city a handful of times on those spectacularly cheap Ryanair flights. Even a few days spent there are a heady thrill. So much theatre and shopping, so many museums, the throngs of people in Trafalgar Square and Covent Garden and along the Thames. She could even be entertained by sitting in a McDonald’s on Oxford Street: eating fries and watching the whole stream of humanity move past, black and white and Asian and Middle Eastern faces. Tourists, commuters, schoolkids, homeless people, and her. An anonymous face, observing it all.