Street Song Read online

  Sheena Wilkinson is one of Ireland’s most acclaimed writers of fiction for young people. She has won four Children’s Books Ireland awards including overall Book of the Year in 2013, a White Raven Award from the International Youth Library, an IBBY Honour Listing, and she has twice been shortlisted for the Reading Association of Ireland Awards. Sheena tutors for Arvon, runs a network for young writers in Belfast and is Royal Literary Fund Fellow at Queen’s University, Belfast. When she’s not writing or reading, she’s usually walking in the forest or singing, sometimes both at once. She taught herself guitar especially for Street Song.

  First published 2017 by Ink Road

  INK ROAD is an imprint and trade mark

  of Black & White Publishing Ltd

  29 Ocean Drive, Edinburgh EH6 6JL

  www.ink-road.com

  ISBN: 978 1 78530 116 2 in EPub format

  ISBN: 978 1 78530 089 9 in paperback format

  Copyright © Sheena Wilkinson 2017

  The right of Sheena Wilkinson to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  Ebook Compilation by Iolaire, Newtonmore

  For everyone I’ve sung and played music with over the years, but especially for Melanie Stone, who still remembers all the harmonies.

  Contents

  Title Page

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  37

  38

  39

  40

  41

  42

  43

  44

  45

  46

  47

  48

  49

  50

  51

  52

  53

  54

  55

  56

  57

  58

  59

  60

  61

  62

  63

  Acknowledgements

  1

  I woke early – it had been a weird night even by our standards; we’d passed out mid-fight – and there was Kelly, curled round my duvet with her back to me. Her hair, all smoke and hairspray, clogged my mouth, and through the thin sweaty cotton of her green top you could count each of her vertebra. I stretched out my finger and placed it between two of the green cotton bumps and shuddered. She whimpered and wriggled and turned round. Her eyelids cracked open the layers of mascara and eyeliner.

  ‘Ryan?’ she murmured. ‘Iss not morning?’

  I shook my head. I couldn’t trust myself to speak because when she opened her mouth I caught a reek of last night’s vomit, drink, smoke and, somewhere in the mix, the pizza we’d had on the walk between the pub and the club – she only ate when she was stoned. I half-turned my head away and focused on the far corner of my bedroom. The cold dawn light slanting through the slats of the wooden blind showed the dust on my guitar. If I looked above it I’d see the photo of me the night I won PopIcon, but I didn’t look up.

  Kelly smiled dopily and reached her hand out towards me.

  I drew away. ‘You have to go.’

  Her face crumpled.

  ‘I said last night – I can’t do this any more.’

  ‘Ry.’ Her eyes widened. ‘We were both out of it last night. We both said things we didn’t mean.’

  I had no idea what she’d said. She’d been talking all summer and I’d stopped listening about the start of August. I just knew that her cold thin fingers on my skin made me cringe.

  And she’d called me Ry.

  ‘You have to go now.’

  If she stayed another minute I’d hurt her. I’d tell her she disgusted me, that I hated who I was with her. That if I didn’t get rid of her I would lose myself. Again.

  ‘Is it the drugs? Because I only—’

  ‘It’s not one thing.’ I fell back on clichés. ‘It’s not you. We had a laugh, OK? But it’s over.’

  Clichés and lies. We’d never had a laugh. Kelly wasn’t a laughy kind of girl. Maybe at the start, when she was a bit starry about me. I’d liked that – the flattery. And her friends were cool.

  She cried and fussed and clawed at me and went out and locked herself in the loo for ages and came out all shiny-eyed and, God, it was boring. By the time I got her bundled out into the road, sobbing and yelling and calling me all kinds of names, I felt as knackered as I used to feel coming off stage, only without the buzz. I pushed the heavy front door to and took a second to lean against it, eyes closed in relief, breathing in the quiet, the glossy white paint cold against my bare arms.

  ‘Ryan?’

  I opened my eyes to see my mother. ‘Hi, Louise.’

  She frowned, then stopped as if remembering that Ricky always told her it made her look older. Dark roots showed in her long blonde hair. That wasn’t like her. I suppose I hadn’t seen her for a few days. I’d been staying out, different places, mates’ floors, Kelly’s bed; one night a few of us sat up all night on the beach, drinking and having a laugh. Kelly’s mates. I’d have to make new ones now.

  ‘What was all that row?’

  I shrugged. ‘Kelly just left.’

  ‘Was that shouting I heard?’

  ‘How do I know what you heard?’

  ‘Ry.’

  ‘Don’t call me that.’ I tried to push past her, but she blocked me with her arm. She was wearing a peachy satin dressing gown, and her bony wrist poking out reminded me of Kelly.

  ‘Did you upset that poor girl?’

  ‘We broke up.’

  ‘Ah, Ryan. She was lovely.’ Louise and Kelly had done a lot of girly bonding over hair extensions and calories. ‘What did you do to her?’

  ‘Nothing. She had issues. I can’t stand girls like that.’

  ‘Jesus, you’re a little bastard.’ She shook her head. ‘Poor girl.’

  ‘She was a bad influence, Mam.’ She loved it when I called her Mam. ‘I didn’t want to worry you by telling you this but, she was using – stuff. I couldn’t trust myself around her. You know I don’t want to get back into all that.’ I put a little crack in my voice, the kind of crack no mother could resist.

  Right on cue, Louise’s eyes softened. ‘Ah, love. You’ve been doing so well.’

  ‘It was too much temptation.’

  Louise’s eyes widened in alarm. ‘But you didn’t, did you?’

  ‘I could have.’ I made my eyes troubled and innocent, though actually I was telling the truth. ‘If she’d stayed.’

  Louise’s bird-skeleton shoulders slumped with relief under the peach satin. ‘Well, you did the right thing, son. And you’ll easily find another girl.’

  Now that she was in motherly mode, she started wittering about breakfast and keeping my strength up, so I followed her down the hal
l into the kitchen, where the marble tiles chilled my bare feet. The kitchen had been completely transformed since I’d been in there, and was now decorated in shades of grey and black. I sat on a stool at the breakfast bar and let Louise rummage in concealed cupboards for pans. She hummed one of my old songs while she cracked eggs into a white bowl. I tried not to hear it.

  I’d reached the hungry stage of hangover and was looking forward to getting stuck into the omelette Louise was whisking when Ricky slimed through the door, knotting his purple silk tie.

  Louise spun round, flicking globules of egg over the marble worktop. Ricky broke off a frown, and then zoomed his attention straight on me. The attention I used to crave. The attention Louise still lived for.

  ‘Haven’t seen you for a few days.’

  ‘I’ve been around.’

  ‘The terms of your release require you to be at home for us to keep an eye on you.’

  He made it sound like I’d been in prison.

  ‘It’s summer. I was only with my friends.’

  ‘I’ve spent a lot of money on your recovery, Ryan. I’m not having you mess it up at this stage.’

  Louise bent over the pan, swirling the eggs.

  ‘And since you mention it, it is not summer, not now. It is the end of August and we have an appointment with Father O’Dwyer at midday.’

  I sighed. ‘I haven’t decided—’

  ‘There’s nothing to decide. You messed up your exams. You’re repeating the year.’

  I didn’t mess up: that implies I took my exams and failed. Whereas I did not take them because I spent most of what should have been my sixth year off my head and then learning to avoid getting off my head. At, as Ricky was so fond of reminding me, considerable cost. ‘I don’t know if I want—’

  ‘It’s not up for negotiation.’ Ricky’s voice was clipped, the way it was when he was telling some pop star wannabe No.

  ‘I could go to a college in town. It’d be cheaper.’

  ‘No. I – we need you where we can keep an eye on you.’

  For someone who’d spent his life in the music business, Ricky could be ridiculously naïve. I didn’t want to use any more, but if something sent me back down that road, Father O’Dwyer’s school for posh boys would be as fertile a supply ground as anywhere else. Ricky thought that because it had a uniform and charged a fortune it would be some kind of monastery.

  ‘Ricky, do you want breakfast?’ Louise slid my omelette off the pan onto a square white plate. Regular round plates were too boring for Ricky.

  Ricky frowned and looked at his watch. ‘Just a coffee, Louise.’ She busied herself with the cafetière. ‘I’ve a meeting at nine. More problems with the Sweet Treat negotiations. Ideas above their station now, just because they had a number one in Lithuania. I need to remind them where they come from.’

  I stabbed my omelette. It was runny in the middle.

  Ricky sat down opposite me, all charcoal-grey suit, pointed shiny black shoes and spicy aftershave. He made me suddenly aware of my three days’ stubble, grubby bare feet, and body that had been dancing, sweating and God knows what else since it was last in a shower. ‘So,’ he said in a conversational tone. ‘Who are these friends?’

  I shrugged. ‘People.’

  ‘People who use drugs?’

  I stopped with my fork halfway to my mouth. A bit of omelette shivered and fell off. ‘Why do you—?’

  ‘I found this in your bathroom.’ He brandished the butt of a spliff.

  Louise looked at me in alarm as she handed Ricky his coffee with a shaking hand.

  ‘Must be Kelly’s,’ I said. Stupid cow. Why couldn’t she tidy up after herself? And what was Ricky doing in my bathroom? No point in asking – the answer would come, as it always did, that on the contrary, like everything in the house, in our lives, it was his bathroom.

  ‘I don’t believe you,’ Ricky said. Steam rose from his coffee, a dark bitter mist that wrinkled my nose.

  ‘Ricky.’ Louise’s voice was a brave squeak. ‘I’m sure it is Kelly’s. Ryan’s told me she has a – a problem. In fact, he felt it was better to finish with her, which I think was very strong of him. It was a very mature decision.’

  ‘You still believe in the lying little shit, don’t you?’ Ricky shook his head pityingly. ‘After all this time – all he’s put us through – the lies – and the money. Christ, have you any idea how much that place cost per day?’

  ‘It was Kelly’s. I haven’t used since I came out, I promise.’

  ‘I don’t believe you,’ he repeated. He didn’t raise his voice – he sounded as pleasant as if he was being interviewed on TV. ‘You’ve told too many lies. So if you want to keep on living in this house you make a good impression on Father O’Dwyer – you’re very lucky he’ll even consider taking you. It just shows, Louise’ – he turned to her – ‘that those hours on the golf course are worth it. O’Dwyer wasn’t exactly keen but – well, I suppose he thinks of me as a friend.’ Smug smile. He drained his cup. ‘I’ll be back at twelve. I expect you to be ready. If not . . . ’

  I escaped to my room. It smelt of Kelly and the sweaty bad breath of our fight so I crossed to the window and pushed up the heavy sash. Cool salty air rushed in, rattling the wooden blinds. The sea looked clean and blue. Seagulls screeched, out of tune. I leaned against the sill. I felt like a smoke – I even had a few grams stashed in the bottom of my guitar case – but I genuinely was trying to stay clean. I’d scared myself this year more than I’d admitted to anybody.

  As usual the road was quiet: just a disdainful cat tiptoeing down the edge of the footpath as if she couldn’t bear to dirty her snowy paws. I grew up on a normal noisy street with the smell of exhaust fumes, and dogs sniffing and bins spilling onto the footpath. But when Ricky married Louise he brought us to his white mansion beside Dublin Bay. It’s so private, he loved saying, I can just be anonymous. Bollocks. He hated it if people didn’t recognise him. And this area was full of celebrities – mostly real ones, not like Ricky. Or me.

  Below me the front door slammed and the top of Ricky’s head appeared. I smiled to see that his bald patch was expanding. As if he could sense me looking, he ran his hand over the back of his head and then zapped his keys at his silver BMW.

  The crunch of its wheels swinging out of the driveway depressed me, and I pulled away from the window. I didn’t need reminding about what had happened to my own Audi A3, and yes, it was all my own fault and thank God I hadn’t killed anybody, but the car was a write-off and it would be a long time before I’d be allowed behind the wheel again. You probably read about it – the Irish tabloids loved it. RyLee In Crash Horror. Boy Racer’s Drug Rampage.

  A soft knock on my door was followed immediately by Louise’s anxious face. ‘Ryan?’ Her voice was pleading. ‘Shall I come with you to see Father O’Dwyer? Would that make it easier for you? I could cancel my hair appointment.’ But she ran her hands through her hair and I could see worry weighing down the corners of her mouth at the thought of another day of imperfect blondeness.

  ‘No.’

  It wasn’t going to be hard. I just didn’t want to do it. I was eighteen. There was hardly a town in Ireland I hadn’t played in, or a local radio station I hadn’t been interviewed for. I had turned the Christmas lights on in midland towns whose names I’d never bothered to find out. Two in one night once. I was not going to go back and sit in a classroom with a crowd of posh boys. They might recognise me, especially if they had kid sisters who’d been RyLeens. That would be mortifying.

  Or they might not. Which would be worse. I wouldn’t be Ryan Lee any more of course: I’d be Ryan Callaghan again, and hope nobody discovered my middle name and worked it out. Ryan Lee – RyLee – had been Ricky’s invention. I hated it. It sounded like someone else. ‘Exactly,’ Ricky had said. ‘You’re just a cheap Irish version of something else. Don’t ever forget it.’

  My phone, on the bedside table, glowed with a text. Just some abuse from Kelly. I deleted it, and her
number. I pretended not to notice Louise watching me, chewing her bottom lip.

  ‘He just wants you to get your life back on track, love. We both do. You’ve put us through a lot of—’

  ‘I’m going to have a shower.’ I started pulling off my T-shirt, but she didn’t get the hint. ‘Can you get out of my room?’

  I stayed in the shower longer than it took to wash away the last few days, until the whole bathroom was steamy. Everything looked better in the damp haze, no sharp edges. I cleared a patch on the steamed-up mirror and thought about shaving. I was pretty sure Father O’Dwyer wouldn’t tolerate stubble. But I didn’t pick up my razor.

  Back in my room, dressed as far as jeans and a clean, black long-sleeved T-shirt, I picked up my guitar and tried to blow the dust off. It had kept me sane when I was in there, but I hadn’t played much since I got home. I bought it when I was sixteen, to replace the old cheap blue one I’d learned on, when people were already saying I was talentless and manufactured, even if I had won PopIcon with record viewer votes, mostly from the pre-teen female population. OK, they’d been saying it all along, only it took me a while to hear them. Ricky had me well protected in those days. So I bought the best acoustic guitar I could afford, a Taylor 320E, and spent hours strumming and picking and making up bits of songs. I told Ricky I wanted to play my own guitar, sing my own songs, but he said not to be ridiculous. I made him listen to my best song – ‘Jenny’, about this girl I was obsessed with at the time. After half a verse he had tousled my highlighted hair and said I should stick to what I did best, which was dancing and flirting onstage and belting out power ballads to a backing track and looking cute. I never got Jenny to go out with me and I never wrote another song.

  Meanwhile, I discovered a new talent for sneaking into clubs underage – and getting photographed falling out of them under the influence of various substances. I stopped turning up for studio recording sessions, I forgot to turn up for gigs, or was too out of it to remember how to sing when I did. Pretty soon my label dropped me, everybody who had loved me hated me – or their mothers did – and I wasn’t cute any more. My ‘career’ was over at seventeen.