“At this stage of the investigation, I’m afraid we have no further updates.”
We’d been back from Dublin for less than an hour, and already the Gards were at the door.
I knew it would be a regular occurrence for the next while, John Sr. had told me as much, but it didn’t make it any easier. Because when they sat me down and tried to coax and coddle me, they seemed to forget that they weren’t talking to the seven-year-old child I had been when it started. I wasn’t that same little boy who had buried his father and sister the month before his stepbrother pinned him to the edge of his bed and defiled his body. I wasn’t the eight-, nine-, ten-, or eleven-year-old version of that kid anymore, either.
I was seventeen years old, with the body of a full-grown man, and I dared any motherfucker to put his hand on me now. I had a girlfriend, and friends, and a life that I refused to put on hold just because the adults around me had finally gotten the memo.
I’d made it this far and it wasn’t from rocking in a corner. Sure, I took a short leave of absence from reality when everything came out, but I had a firm handle on my sanity again. Well, whatever little bit I had in the first place.
I wasn’t sure if I would ever fully get over what happened, and to be honest, I wasn’t even sure if I was handling it in a healthy way, but I knew I couldn’t erase it or escape it, so I just kept going. And knowing that there was a small chance this might stop him from fucking up another kid’s life gave me a sliver of comfort. Either way, today was New Year’s Eve, and I had zero plans to carry that bastard’s burden into 2006.
“No further updates?” Wiping her nose with a balled-up tissue, Mam stared at the detective sitting opposite her at our kitchen table. “So, that’s it? He’s still walking around a free man?”
“As of now, the relevant authorities in Mumbai liaising with the Garda Síochána have been unable to locate Mark Allen. According to airline officials, he never arrived at Shirdi International Airport on the dates you provided us with.”
“So, he could be anywhere?” Mam demanded, and then cast an anxious glance in my direction. “He could be still in Ireland?”
“Please try not to worry, Mrs. Allen,” the detective continued to say. “The relevant authorities are working tirelessly to see that man located and prosecuted to the full force of the law.”
Rolling my eyes, I retrained my attention on the game of Snake I was playing on my phone.
“And don’t you worry either, Gerard,” the detective added. “Every effort has been put in place to ensure your protection.”
“Whatever you say,” I replied, thumbs tapping furiously on the keypad of my phone. “Either way, I wasn’t worrying.”
“Gerard,” Mam sobbed, reaching a hand over to place on my arm, “you’re perfectly safe now, pet. The locks have been changed and we’ve been granted an order of protection from the courts.”
“Good to know, Mam,” I replied with a nod, attention trained on the snake jetting around the screen. “Fuck, this round is a tricky one.”
“I don’t know what to say to him,” Mam told the detective. “He keeps brushing it off.”
No, I didn’t keep brushing anything off. I was trying to live my life the same way I had lived it since she moved those assholes into my house.
All of this shit might be new and terrifying for my mam, but I’d been living in a constant state of fear for ten years, unlike the ten days she had under her belt. What she was feeling now was what I had felt every time the clock struck bedtime.
“You are remarkably composed.”
“I’m remarkable, period,” I replied, choosing not to tell him that the drugs the psychiatrist had prescribed me were remarkably effective. I felt sorry for Joey, the poor bastard, knowing that he would never be prescribed another ride on the roller coaster of narcotics like I was.
“There is also the matter of Deirdre O’Malley,” the detective said. “Without your statement, the DPP are unable to go any further with the prosecution.”
“Well, that’s fabulous news,” I declared, setting my phone down. “The first bit of good news I’ve heard since this whole fucking mess kicked off.”
“Mess?” Mam gaped at me. “Gerard, pet, this is your life we’re talking about.”
“I know it’s my life we’re talking about,” I shot back. “I’m the one who’s been living it.”
She flinched and then a sob tore from her throat. “I didn’t know.”
I didn’t know.
Three words that, in my limited experience in life, were about as useful as putting a condom on your dick after sex. If I had a euro for every time someone had said ‘I didn’t know’ to me this past week, then I would be a wealthy lad. I knew it was good intentions, but it didn’t help. I didn’t need Mam or anyone else that I loved to validate their ignorance or reaffirm how they didn’t do me wrong. I knew they didn’t know. That’s how it had to be. That’s how I stayed alive.
“Gerard,” Mam snapped. “That woman abused you!”
Actually, that woman had kept my head from going under at a time in my life when I was drowning, but I didn’t bother explaining that to either one of them. Because I knew what Dee had done was wrong. She’d stepped over lines that should never be crossed, but that didn’t mean that I wanted any hand in being her judge, jury, or executioner.
“Son, you’re going to have to talk to one of us,” he pushed. “We have statements from several students at Tommen College to confirm your statement – if you would just give it to us in writing.”
“I am talking to one of you,” I replied as calmly. “I have talked to all of you, but I’m not saying what you want to hear, so they keep sending more of you over to talk.” I shook my head. “I’ve made my mind up.”
“Gerard,” Mam sobbed, “please reconsider.”
“I have made my mind up, Mam.”
“Happy now?” Johnny demanded when he sauntered into my room later that night with the DVD box of Love Actually in hand. “I had to pry the bleeding box from Tadhg’s fingers.”
“Kid’s got good taste.”
“On the contrary, lad, I think it’s safe to assume that his attachment to the film has a lot more to do with the full-frontal nudity than Hugh bleeding Grant.”
“Ah, I’d hardly call it full frontal,” I snickered. “You can only see yer one’s tits.”
“Yeah? Well, tell that to my ma.” Huffing out a breath, he tossed the DVD on his lap and sank down on the beanbag next to mine. “Because I’ve just had to endure a forty-minute lecture from the woman on the importance of not corrupting innocent minds with blue movies,” he grumbled, snatching his controller.
“Imagine thinking Love Actually was a bluey.”
“Gibs,” he deadpanned, “you’re talking about the woman who still covers my eyes when there’s even the hint of kissing on the telly.” Unpausing the game of FIFA we’d been playing earlier, Johnny tapped on the buttons of the PlayStation controller. “Happy fucking New Year to me, huh?”
“Nah, you still have a couple of hours before midnight to turn it around.”
“Two thousand and five.” My best friend shook his head. “What a crazy fucking year, huh?”
“Yep.” I sighed heavily. “It’s been a memorable one, alright.”
“Do you remember New Year’s Eve in ninety-nine?” he asked then, lips tipping up.
“Do I what?” I groaned, shuddering at the memory. “I thought your mother was going to kill me.”
“Lad,” Johnny chuckled. “You threw an entire bucket of water on an open fire.”
“Only because I thought the flames were getting out of control.”
“Gib, the fire was in the fireplace.”
“Exactly my point, Johnny,” I replied. “I thought we were having a chimney fire. How was I supposed to know the smoke would backfire like that?” Shrugging, I added, “I was trying to save the manor from burning down.”
“Yeah, well, there certainly was plenty of steam coming out of my ma’s ears when the soot destroyed her new wallpaper.”
“She stills brings it up, you know,” I muttered. “Every Christmas.”
“Hm.” Chuckling softly to himself, Johnny miscalculated a dive against my player that resulted in my team scoring. “Shite.”
“You’re shit at PlayStation, Cap.”
“Says the fella wearing a kangaroo onesie.”
“Hey, don’t knock the onesie, lad.” I grinned. “Besides, onesie or not, I can still kick your ass at PlayStation.”
“Yeah, well, maybe I’d be better at it if I actually had some free time.”
“True that,” I mused, scoring another goal on his team. “I hear live-in girlfriends can be quite the distraction.”
“Speaking of girlfriends,” he said in a careful tone, “have you seen yours yet?”
And there it was.
The million-dollar question.
I hadn’t seen Claire since the night of the dance, and the more days that passed without seeing her, the harder the thought of facing her became.
Because I could handle the Gard’s questions, and the sympathetic side-eye glances from Johnny when he thought I wasn’t looking. I could handle my weeping mother and the wrath of the Young family. I could handle the whispers, I could even handle the stares, but what I couldn’t handle was Claire Biggs looking at me as less than a man.
It didn’t matter if it was an irrational fear or not, the thought of my girlfriend looking at me in any other way than she had for the past sixteen years, made me want to throw in the towel.
“We broke up,” I reminded him, feeling a pang in my chest at the memory.
Johnny rolled his eyes. “Excuses, excuses.”
“I said some bad stuff the last time I saw her, Cap.”
“So?”
“So, I’m still pissed.”
“Well, she’s not holding on to any of that, Gibs,” he replied. “Trust me, lad.”
“Then I guess I’m still working up to it.”
“Shannon’s over there.”
“Bet Little Shannon loves me right now,” I mused. “First, I stole her fella over Christmas, and now he’s spending New Year’s Eve in my room, getting his ass kicked on the PlayStation.”
“We’ll have plenty more Christmases together,” he replied quietly.
“You can go over to her, you know,” I said, giving him the permission he clearly thought he needed. “You don’t have to sit around babysitting my ass for the night because I’m okay, lad.”
He looked at me with that sad look and then quickly blinked it away. “You think this is a pity date?”
I arched a brow. “Well, isn’t it?”
“I’ll make a deal with you,” he said then, tossing the controller down. “I’ll go across the road, and ring in the new year with my girlfriend if you do the same with yours.”
