Blood Tracks (7 page)

Declan groaned as he stepped out through the doors to be greeted by the evening gloom and the heaving rush-hour traffic. He booted a discarded can along the pavement, deep in thought.
You’re such a balls-up, Declan Doyle!
Mum and Dad have only been gone two months.

It was his parents’ fault that he hadn’t wanted to move to Ireland with them, even though he loved the place. How could he not love it? It was in his blood; he’d spent every holiday of his life there. Okay, so it rained most of the time, but in his head his uncle’s farm was always bathed in sunshine, with lush fields as far as the eye could see; him and his cousins running wild, drinking cider in the hayloft and joyriding on the tractors.

In England his mum would have had him tagged given half a chance: always wanting to know where he was going, who he was with, giving him embarrassing curfews that his mates laughed at. But at the farm in Ireland, normal rules never seemed to apply. His parents seemed happy to let him and his cousins camp out all night in the middle of nowhere, or roll in after midnight, without having to explain himself – yeah, the
craic
was great, the place was beautiful, but still, it was this heaving, grimy city across the grey water that felt more like home.

After all, this city was where he’d been raised, amongst the sea of crammed-in houses. The cobbled back alleys were where he’d honed his football skills and accidentally smashed a few windows. All his mates were here, his football team was here, sometimes the whole of humanity seemed to be here. He was happy that his parents had fulfilled their dream and returned home to help Uncle Shaun with the farm, but he wasn’t ready to give up the buzz of his city for the joys of the Irish countryside.

His parents had taken some persuading, but his dad had eventually convinced his mum to let him stay in England. “I know he’s only seventeen but it’ll be the making of him,” his dad had proclaimed. “You’re going to get a job, aren’t you, Declan? Make me and your mammy proud.”

His mother’s attitude had been somewhat different. “You get one chance, Declan Doyle,” she’d said, “and if you mess this up I’ll have you over in Ireland quicker than you can say ‘Guinness’!”

Declan checked his watch.
Six-thirty! God, I’m late for tea. Mrs. Mac will have a search party out for me.

He started to sprint down the road, cutting down the side streets and through the back alleys until he reached the unique forecourt that marked Mrs. McManus’s house. The tiny space in front of the terrace was overflowing with window boxes containing luridly coloured silk flowers, their stems sunk into concrete. As all the local cats had taken to using her floral display as a litter tray, a distinctly unflowery aroma rose from it, though Mrs. McManus still maintained that it “brightened up the street”.

Declan’s heart sank. He could see his landlady’s wizened face peering through the thick lace curtains.

He greeted her with a winning smile as she ushered him in, tutting.

“Evening, Mrs. Mac,” he said cheerily. “You’re looking particularly lovely today. Have you done something with your hair? It takes years off you.”

“Where have you been, Declan? I’ve been worried,” Mrs. McManus scolded. “Your dinner was going cold. I had to put it back on the stove. Get in that kitchen and wash your hands.”

Declan did as he was told and then waited at the kitchen table for a further telling-off.

Mrs. McManus stood at the stove, stirring the contents of a pan with some difficulty. “I hope you don’t mind, but I went ahead with mine because I’m away to bingo in an hour and you know I like to be ready in good time.”

After living with Mrs. Mac for the last two months, Declan did indeed know that she liked to be early for everything. If she was going out at eight p.m. she’d be ready in her hat and coat by seven thirty. Declan couldn’t imagine that Mrs. Mac had ever done anything spontaneous in her whole life.

“Bridie is picking me up,” she continued. “Do you fancy coming along? I know you love the bingo.”

It was true that Declan had accompanied Mrs. Mac and her best friend, Bridie, to a few of the bingo nights, but this was solely to make the old ladies happy. There was no way he could face it this evening. Anyway, going out with Bridie was too traumatic. She drove her mini at twenty miles per hour on the ring road, shouting “Feck off” to the queue of beeping cars behind her and, even worse, once she’d had a couple of brandies at the bingo hall bar, she started to get a bit flirty towards him.

“No thanks, Mrs. Mac,” he answered quickly. “I’m a bit tired. I think I need an early night.”

“Ah, God love yeh. Have you been walking the feet off yourself all day, looking for a job?”

“Kind of,” Declan replied uneasily.

“Well, don’t you worry. Your mammy and daddy have left you in my care and you know I take that responsibility very seriously. I’ve seen you struggling to find work these last weeks so I thought I’d give you a helping hand.”

Declan looked worried.

“I know how upset your mammy was when you failed all those exams, especially when the school said you were more than capable if you’d bothered applying yourself.”

Declan cringed. Mrs. Mac may have been a family friend for years but did his mum have to tell her
everything
?

“So, I’ve had a word with Mr. O’Rourke. He knows you come from a good, church-going family – though I didn’t mention that I hadn’t seen you at Mass once since you’ve been here.” She let out a theatrical sigh of disappointment. “Anyway, he’s willing to give you a try. Be at the parlour on Monday morning, eight a.m. sharp. He even provides your work clothes, although he said the only suit available may be a bit big. The last fella who used it was on the large side. Mr. O’Rourke was very upset with him when he went off on the sick after only a few weeks and tried to claim compensation for injury at work. He said carrying the coffins had given him a slipped disc. I assured Mr. O’Rourke that you wouldn’t be having any slipped discs; you’re a strapping young lad who would brighten up any funeral.”

Declan looked at her in horror. “I’m not sure working in a funeral parlour is really for me, Mrs. Mac.”

“Nonsense! It’s a solid trade. Recession-proof, Mr. O’Rourke calls it; always got a good supply of customers. The only thing certain in life is that we’re all going to die,” she proclaimed cheerfully.

“I don’t think I’ll be very good around dead bodies,” he protested.

“You’ll soon get used to them. And, if you play your cards right, you might end up in the mortuary section, helping to get them looking all nice and peaceful for the families. Mr. O’Rourke’s a real miracle worker; once
he’s
finished with them, some of those corpses look better than they did when they were alive.”

Declan’s face was now tinged with green as Mrs. McManus ladled steaming heaps of stodge onto his plate. He picked at his food in brooding silence.

“Get it down you, Declan. You’re going to need plenty of fuel to carry all that dead weight.” She smiled wisely.

He disguised a grimace as he spooned in a mouthful of charred food.

“It’s delicious, Mrs. Mac, but I’m not very hungry,” he said, getting up from the table. “I hope you won’t be offended, but I’ve given Mr. O’Rourke’s job offer some thought and decided it probably isn’t for me. But thanks anyway.” He bent down and kissed the old lady’s cheek.

Mrs. McManus rolled her cloudy eyes. “Think on, Declan. You shouldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth.”

Declan went up to his bedroom and lay on the plump eiderdown. He looked up at the wallpaper that covered every inch of the room. The old lady’s taste in décor didn’t complement his own. Her penchant for floral wallpaper and matching curtains left him feeling claustrophobic. Her obsession with putting lavender-scented liners in all his drawers left him smelling less than manly. But he’d managed to introduce a hint of testosterone into the flowery flurry, cluttering the top of the chest of drawers with his male grooming products and stockpiling football magazines on the bookcase next to Mrs. Mac’s Mills & Boons.

Life as Mrs. Mac’s lodger wasn’t what he’d had in mind when he’d asked to stay in England, but it was the compromise he’d had to make. Mrs. Mac wasn’t the most liberal of landladies. She wouldn’t let him have a TV in his room; she would never be sure what he was watching! So, if he wanted to watch television, he had to go in the sitting room, where she’d often join him, especially for the gruesome cop shows that absolutely thrilled her. The problem was she could never follow the plot and so asked Declan a constant stream of questions, making him miss all the important bits. And, when she was in the room, she never relinquished control of the remote. At the first glimpse of naked flesh, she could change channels faster than Billy the Kid could draw his gun. She’d suck in her teeth, protesting, “Now, there’s no need for that kind of thing, is there?” Declan found it hard to agree.

As he lay on the bed he thought about the events of the day and his stomach churned. He didn’t have long to make up his mind; the offer was only open until midnight and then his fate would be sealed. He chewed his lip, weighing it up. If he didn’t, then this man could ruin his life, his parents would be devastated and the truth was, he was scared, really scared. What option did he have? He’d be a fool not to make that call. He didn’t want to, but if he didn’t, the alternative was much worse, wasn’t it?

Declan took the card out of the back pocket of his jeans and flipped it back and forth between his fingers before phoning the number. When the voice answered he didn’t bother with any pleasantries.

“This is Declan Doyle,” he said coldly. “I’ll do it.”

Gina sat in stony silence as they drove home.

“You should give Dr. Havers another chance,” her mum said. “She seems really nice. I think she could help us.”

“No way!”

“But what she said made a lot of sense. She has years of experience in these things.”

“I’m not seeing her again,” Gina said, staring ahead. “And you shouldn’t have made me go there in the first place. I’m not mad, you know.”

“No one thinks you’re mad, Gina. You just need a bit of help to get through this.”

“I’m fine. There’s nothing wrong with me,” Gina said, tugging at her cropped hair like she was attempting to make it longer.

“Do you think that your dad would want you to be like this? Cutting yourself off from people, all those silly thoughts whirling round your head. No! Your dad would want you to get on with your life, get out running again, go out with your friends. That’s what he would want. Don’t let him down, Gina.” Her mum’s voice trembled.

Gina didn’t answer. She turned her sorrowful eyes away from her mother. She felt so alone.

When they reached the house, Danny was waiting excitedly at the front door. He ushered them in.

“We’ve got a visitor!” He smiled. “You’ll never guess who it is.”

Before they had time to answer, Tom jumped out from behind the living-room door. “Tada!” he said, his arms open wide.

“Tom!” her mum shrieked. She rushed towards him and Tom wrapped his arms around her, lifting her off the floor. Gina shrank into the background. Her heart was pounding.

“God, Clare, you don’t know how wonderful it is to see you.” He held her at arm’s length, inspecting her. “You’re looking great!”

“Give over.” She blushed. “I’m twice the size since you saw me last.”

“You always needed more meat on your bones.” He grinned, his teeth dazzling white against his deeply tanned skin.

Gina’s mum rolled her eyes, tutting. “So the wanderer returns and not one postcard in six months.”

“Sorry.” He looked remorseful. “Were you worried about me?”

“No,” she replied dismissively. “I knew you’d be having too much of a good time to even give us a thought.”

“I just really needed to get away from it all. Have a complete break from normal life. I mean, the places I got to see were mind-blowing: Vietnam, Cambodia… I even spent some time with Tibetan monks in India – it was amazing.”

“Gina, come and see Tom,” her mum ordered.

Gina stepped forward, glaring at him. “So, did you ‘find yourself’ then?” she asked sarcastically.

“Gina!” His eyes widened. “That’s a radical haircut.”

“Yeah, she had a fight with a pair of scissors and lost,” Danny chuckled.

Gina walked past Tom and over to the shelf which displayed their trinkets and trophies. In the middle of the shelf sat the shiny grey urn. She cupped her hands around it and stood for a moment in silence.

Tom shot her mum an unnerved look. Her mum shook her head to warn him not to comment on it.

This ritual had been going on ever since her dad’s ashes had been collected from the undertaker’s. As soon as her mum had brought them into the house, Gina had taken the urn from her, marched into the living room and placed it prominently on the shelf. Her decision had gone unchallenged; her mum didn’t want to upset her, so there they’d remained, the presence of this small vessel overwhelming the room. Now, every time Gina entered the room she’d make a beeline to touch the urn, even when she thought no one was around. Her mum was concerned, but decided to ignore Gina’s behaviour, hoping that it might be comforting to her in some way.

“Are those presents for us?” Danny said. He pointed to a pile of packages on the sofa.

“Danny, don’t be so rude,” Mum laughed.

Tom wrestled Danny into a headlock and ruffled his hair. “Yeah, Danny, you won’t be getting anything until I’ve heard you’ve been looking after your mum and sister while I’ve been away,” he teased.

Danny laughed, wriggling out of the hold, grabbing Tom’s wrist to give it a Chinese burn, but then he let Tom’s hand drop in shock.

“What happened to your fingers?” Danny asked.

“Oh, these things,” Tom replied blithely, wiggling the two stumpy fingers on his left hand. “They’re a souvenir from my travels. It’s not too bad. I only lost them down to the first knuckle. I wish I could tell you it happened doing something heroic, but I’m afraid it was just a jet-ski accident in Australia. I was lucky it was just the two. If I’d fallen any closer to the propeller it would have cut through my whole hand.”

“Oh you poor thing,” Gina’s mum said, wincing. “You’re safer staying at home.”

“Well, that’s where I’m going to be from now on,” Tom announced.

“Not this home,” Gina hissed under her breath.

“Great! Are you back for good?” Danny beamed.

“Yep! I’ve well and truly got my wanderlust out of my system. You won’t believe it, but you can get bored of paradise. I started longing for grey skies and a decent cup of tea and, of course, the people I’d left behind.”

Gina bristled as she noted how Tom’s sky-blue eyes fell on her mum.