Grounded Read online

  ‘Awww.’ Courtney pouts but she trots off obediently.

  ‘Where’s Cian?’ I ask.

  Seaneen jerks her head upwards. ‘In his room. She doesn’t trust him to babysit. For obvious reasons.’

  ‘So do you still feel sorry for him?’

  Seaneen wrinkles her nose in a way that makes the freckles join together. ‘Ah, you know – a bit. I saw him earlier coming out of the loo. He looked awful. Like everything was too much.’ She lowers her voice. ‘Stacey’s heart-scared of social services getting involved – with Madison getting hurt like that – and she blames him. Did you hear he stole her phone and sold it?’

  ‘To pay off Emmet?’ I remember the ‘business’ he said he was doing the other night.

  ‘I dunno. Because Cathal said, when I was in the shop today, that Emmet’s still looking for him. Anyway.’ She chews her lip. ‘I better go and see what Courtney’s up to.’

  She has the door closed before I can even say goodbye.

  For a second I think about Cian up in his room. And I nearly knock the door again and say I’m going to go up and talk to him.

  Seaneen would know what to say. Maybe me and Seaneen together could help him. But there is no me and Seaneen.

  * * *

  I reach under my bed for my wad of notes in its new hiding place. It’s still not much more than two hundred pounds. That’s the trouble with having a horse. There’s a million things eating up my wages – feed, grooming brushes, fly repellent, not to mention all the creams and sprays and stuff I had to buy when her skin was still all scabby. And in the winter she’ll need haylage, extra feed and rugs. I put the notes into piles, wishing the fivers were tens and the tens twenties. Or fifties would be better. The winter is going to take every penny I earn just to keep Folly alive. All for a horse that hates me.

  But what about Seaneen, hardly able to look at me, her hand sitting over her belly in that annoying way? I told her I’d help support the kid. Let’s face it, I’m going to have to fork out anyway – Granzilla will see to that – so I might as well do it willingly. I count out five twenties and set them in a pile. It looks like nothing.

  And if I go away? Not that I’m really going, but if I did … just say I tried my luck in Middleham? That’s going to take money.

  And what about Cian? Should I give him some? Would it do any good?

  No. Even if he did give it to Emmet without drinking it first it’d only be a matter of time before the same thing happened again.

  I sweep all the notes together again and put them back under the bed.

  9.

  Courtney sits on our kitchen worktop swinging her legs. In her school uniform she doesn’t look as much of a mini-prostitute as usual, though she has her hair tied up on one side in some sort of purple and yellow feathery thing, and her fingernails are bright pink.

  Mum is doing something very weird: she’s baking. At least that’s what it looks like. She’s mixing something up in a bowl, and the kitchen’s warm with the greasy smell of the heating oven.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘We’re making cupcakes,’ Courtney shouts. ‘And I’m allowed to decorate them, and they’re going to be pink. With silver balls.’

  ‘It’s only a packet mix,’ Mum says, but she’s flushed with pride or maybe from the heat.

  ‘Where’s Stacey?’

  ‘Hospital.’

  ‘I thought the kid was getting home.’

  ‘She’s still running a temperature. They’re a bit worried about her. Only a wee bit worried,’ she says in a louder voice, but Courtney is mixing some kind of pink gunk in a bowl and doesn’t look up. ‘So Courtney’s staying for her tea.’

  ‘We’re getting pizza,’ Courtney says. She looks up from her mixing. ‘My brother’s runned away.’

  ‘What?’

  Mum shakes her head. ‘Och, he hasn’t really, Courtney.’ She turns to me. ‘He mitched off school. As if Stacey hasn’t enough to worry about. He’ll be back when he’s hungry.’

  ‘Is he allowed a cupcake?’ Courtney asks.

  ‘If he’s good.’

  Courtney frowns at her bowl. ‘I’ll keep him one,’ she says.

  * * *

  Cian doesn’t come back when he’s hungry. When I get in from work the next day both of Stacey’s kids are sitting in our living room watching The Simpsons and eating crisps. It’s starting to feel like a crèche. I go into the kitchen for some peace and to see if there’s any cupcakes left, and there’s Stacey at the table drinking coffee with Mum.

  ‘Social services are going to come sniffing round, I know they are.’ She takes out a cigarette and lights it.

  ‘But Stacey, they’ll see the girls are fine,’ Mum says, passing her over an ashtray. ‘Sure you have the two of them lovely, and your house is like a wee palace.’

  ‘But if they come and he’s not there they’ll say I can’t cope.’

  ‘Well, you can’t, can you?’ I say.

  Mum gives me the dirtiest look you ever saw. ‘Declan!’

  Stacey sniffs. ‘You don’t know what it’s like!’ She wags her cigarette at me. ‘You young fellas – have you thought about what that wee girl of yours is going to do?’

  ‘That’s nothing to do with –’

  ‘Declan, it’s none of your business,’ Mum says.

  ‘But it’s OK for her to –’

  ‘Stacey’s just worried, aren’t you, Stace?’

  I sigh and lean against the door. There’s no sign of any dinner. ‘Any cupcakes left?’

  ‘In the cupboard.’

  ‘So, what do the police say?’ I ask, taking two lopsided cupcakes out of the tin in the cupboard.

  Stacey hesitates and looks at Mum. ‘He’s only trying to scare me,’ she says. ‘He’s done it before. Used to stay out overnight. He’ll be with one of his mates.’

  ‘He hasn’t got any mates. Not round here.’

  ‘He’ll have gone back to Portadown, to his old mates. The ones we moved here to get away from.’ She nods at the table.

  ‘Have you phoned him? Have you phoned these mates?’

  ‘What on? Sure the wee bastard sold my phone!’

  ‘Declan,’ Mum says. ‘I think you should –’

  ‘I’d better go,’ Stacey says. ‘Madison shouldn’t be out for too long.’ She gets up, leaving her coffee half-drunk. Mum follows her out. I rootle around for something more to eat.

  Mum comes back into the kitchen and starts on me. ‘Who do you think you are, Declan, talking to my friend like that?’

  ‘Mum! The kid’s fifteen, he’s been away for – what, two days? And she hasn’t even phoned the police.’

  But Mum, who used to do a good line herself in disappearing for days, won’t hear a word against her new best friend. ‘I know. But she’s scared to – sure that’s the first thing’s going to get social services sniffing round, isn’t it?’

  ‘Maybe she could do with social services sniffing round!’

  ‘Declan, it’s nothing to do with you.’

  ‘It was something to do with me the other night when I had to mind her kid cause she was out shagging some bloke.’

  A couple of weeks ago I’d have asked Seaneen if she thought we should do something. But I know exactly what she’d say.

  Phoning the police – it’s not really my kind of thing. From somewhere comes the memory of me telling Seaneen that hospitals weren’t really me. And I know I need to get over myself.

  I go for a walk round the estate. All the streets are dark and wet. Kids hang around outside the shops, hoods up, but none of them is Cian. A silver jeep stops to let me cross the road. It isn’t Emmet McCann. But it helps me make up my mind.

  I turn down the alleyway behind the shops, lean against the wall, and take out my phone.

  * * *

  I walk round the school with the wheelbarrow and the scoop. As I bend to lift the plops of dung left behind by other people’s horses, I realise that I haven’t ridden for ages. Not once sin
ce I came back to work has Cam asked me to exercise a horse or take Spirit round the farm trail or anything. I’ve become some kind of skivvy.

  The fixed-up bit of fence stands out, new and raw against the weathered wood rails, laughing at me – as if it remembers something I can’t. I ignore it and take a break, leaning on the handle of the wheelbarrow. My phone buzzes in my pocket and I take it out, glad of the distraction. Police been round. Checked out C’s old friends in P’down. No word. Getting worried.

  About time.

  Down below me Sally stops at the gate of the ponies’ field, and the three Welshies come bustling up to see what the craic is and if there’s any treats going. Folly stands aloof, her white head held high. I watch. She walks a few steps forward then stops. Then she seems to make up her mind and barges her way into the middle of the herd. Sally holds out a piece of whatever she’s got and Folly snuffs it up. Nothing strange about that: she’s always been greedy. But even when it’s clear Sally has nothing left, when she dangles her bag upside down and flicks out the last few bits, and the ponies drift away to graze, Folly stays. She lowers her neck and Sally strokes it. Folly lips at Sally’s hand even though Sally has nothing for her. I bend down and scoop the last lump of dung up. It’s only because Sally had treats and wasn’t carrying a headcollar. Or maybe Folly’s just in a good mood today.

  She isn’t. When I go down to get her later, she gives me the usual run-around and swings her arse round in her most threatening way. I manage to catch her but we’re both bad-tempered and tired by the time I’m leading her into her stable. She hangs back at the door. ‘Go on.’ I slap her rump and she barges in.

  I lean over the door watching her eat. It’s the only thing she seems to like these days, apart from being left alone in the field. When she’s finished she starts chewing on the top of the half-door. I shout at her and she cowers and I feel terrible. Next minute she’s biting it again anyway.

  ‘She’s going to teach Promise bad habits,’ Cam says, coming out of the stable next door.

  ‘I’m sure Promise is too perfect to pick up bad habits,’ I say. I place the palm of my hand against Folly’s neck. Her skin shudders, and I can feel her, tense and unhappy under my touch.

  ‘She hates me,’ I tell Cam.

  ‘Stop feeling sorry for yourself,’ Cam says. ‘You knew she wouldn’t be easy. If you’re not up to the challenge, get rid of her, but stop moping around the yard. You’re putting people off.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  Cam leans over the door. Folly runs back when she sees her and takes up position in the far corner. ‘See?’ I say. ‘She hates you too.’

  ‘Declan, that’s rubbish. She’s just nervous. You’re stressing her out. She’s picking up on your stress.’

  ‘I’m not stressed.’

  ‘Declan.’ Cam gives me one of her looks and leans against the door in a way that makes me cop on to the fact that she wants to have A Chat. And suddenly it’s no longer about Folly, which is uncomfortable enough; it’s about me, which is worse. ‘Well, you’re certainly … preoccupied,’ Cam goes on. ‘Oh come on, Declan, you know what I mean. You’ve lost your – I don’t know – enthusiasm?’

  I pick at a skelf of wood on the door of the stable. Hard to be enthusiastic about shovelling shit and washing brushes.

  ‘Is it just Folly? Or the baby?’

  ‘The baby? It’s not the baby.’

  ‘You don’t need to sound so defensive. And there’s no point pretending the baby isn’t happening. You can’t keep running away from things.’

  ‘But it’s not. Happening. I mean – I don’t mean like Fiona’s. Seaneen dumped me.’

  ‘Ah. Is that why …?’

  ‘I don’t mind. She’d rather do it on her own anyway.’

  Cam stares at me as if I’m mental. ‘She wants to do it on her own?’

  ‘Yeah. She knows I’m not interested. I tried to be, but …’ I scratch the back of my neck. ‘It’s OK, Cam. I’m still going to give her money. And the thing is, Seaneen likes babies. She knows how to look after them. She’s very’ – I search for the right word – ‘competent.’

  ‘You like horses. You’re very competent. Doesn’t mean you’re coping with Folly on your own, does it?’

  ‘It’s not the same. Seaneen has loads of help. Her ma and all. God, even my ma, I think. I’d be about as much help as – as Seaneen would be with Folly.’ I give a wee laugh to show Cam how ridiculous this would be. ‘Anyway.’ I want to kill this subject stone dead. ‘I’m not worried about the baby. Just about Folly.’

  ‘Hmm. Whatever you say.’ Cam looks at her watch. ‘Gosh, I must go. Pippa’ll think I’m not coming.’

  I put Folly’s headcollar on again and take her out of the stable. Promise looks over her door and nickers as we walk past, a few strands of haylage falling from her soft black mouth. Folly’s head goes straight to the ground and she snaffles it up.

  As soon as I turn Folly out she races down to her pony friends and they go on one of their mad charges round the field for no reason, tails out like banners. Just running for fun.

  Cam’s wrong. I’m not running away from the baby. I never have. Seaneen’s running with the baby, away from me.

  And I could run too.

  Just go. Anywhere. Middleham. Why not? I can write to Cam when I get there, apologise, say I tried to tell her I was fed up but she wouldn’t listen.

  Cycling home I have one of those debates with myself.

  So you’d just abandon Folly? Like the last person who had her?

  No. It wouldn’t be like that at all. I could send Cam the money for her keep.

  Cam charges eighty pounds a week for full livery. Where are you going to get that? As well as support a baby? You going to go through your whole life taking things on and then dumping them?

  Cam would sell her. Like Libby.

  But nobody will buy a horse like Folly. Only McCluskey and the cat-food factory.

  This is a stupid conversation. I’m not really going. It’s just a fantasy because I feel so grounded and stuck.

  But it’s what Seaneen wants, remember?

  No. It would just be running away.

  And then another voice echoes in my head. I don’t walk. I hide. And out of the fog that’s clouded my brain since I got the knock on the head come two boys walking up the road, one of them turning round to look back up the hill.

  Walking, running away, hiding – whatever you call it, it’s the same thing.

  And I know where Cian is.

  VI. Finding

  1.

  I don’t want to go back there. The closer I get, the slower the wheels go round and the more I think I’m kidding myself anyway. I could phone the police or Stacey or Mum. It doesn’t have to be me who goes in and finds him.

  Only what if I’m wrong? I’m going to look pretty stupid when the police burst in and find the place empty, or if I go and see Stacey and Cian’s at home on his own sofa eating chips.

  But I can’t pretend it’s out of my way. Now that I’ve had the idea I can’t just cycle past without checking. If it hadn’t been for me, Cian wouldn’t even have known the place existed.

  Nearly there. Here’s the lorry yard.

  There’s something else too. If he is there, if he’s been hiding out for the last three days, it’s because he’s scared. He’s in trouble with everybody. And I know what that feels like. Maybe I can talk to him, make him see that he needs to face up to stuff, not hide from it. He’s got off to a bad start here, but if someone helped him get McCann off his back and helped him to stop taking drugs, maybe even got him interested in something – the boxing club, or football, or … I don’t know, just something – then he’d be OK. And I know for everything I’ve said about him being nothing to do with me and nothing like me, that it’s not really true.

  I think these positive thoughts to push away the memories of the barn. But no matter how hard I try I can’t stop thinking of the dead mare and the foal and, worst of all someh
ow, even though she’s still alive, Folly, my own ghost horse, tucked in the corner by the wooden pallets, her thin cries cutting through the night. How many times did I cycle past and not hear those calls? If I’d rescued her before I did, would she have been less traumatised? Would I be less wary about coming back here if I could be confident Folly’s story was going to have a happier ending?

  But I did rescue her. I did my best.

  And look at her now. She hates you, and you’re going to run away and leave her, aren’t you?

  I’m at the gate now. It’s still tied with different colours of baler twine. It doesn’t look like it’s been disturbed.

  Yeah, but he could have climbed over.

  I throw the bike into the hedge, making sure it’s hidden. The last thing I need is for some joker to come past and nick it and leave me to walk home. I’m going to look stupid enough when there’s nobody here.

  The field is rutted and scrubby, wetter than it was in June. The same beds and old tyres – at least I suppose they’re the same – slump beside the hedge, like monsters in the dusk. The house looms up quicker than I expect it, its smashed windows like broken teeth.

  I’ll try it first. The house isn’t the barn, and chances are it’s where he’ll be if he’s here at all. After all, both buildings are derelict and crappy, but surely a house would be a better hideout than a barn?

  I sneak round the house and look in some of the windows but it’s too dark to see in. The back door’s boarded up with old bits of wood. It’s obvious that nobody’s been through it in years. The front door’s closed but the lock’s broken. When I push, it resists, because it’s so swollen with damp, but it opens.

  Inside the chill hits me like opening a freezer. Stairs rise straight up from the small front hall. There’s a door at each side of the hall, both open. I look into the first room. It smells of mice. I wish I’d a torch or something. I use my phone to make a feeble light, just enough to show that the room is empty.

  I don’t know if I should shout. Do I want to scare him off? Not that he’d get too far. He’d have to run past me to get out. Anyway, it’s not me he’s scared of. He might even be glad to hear a familiar voice. If I’d thought in advance I could have brought some food, shown him I wanted to help, not just turn him in. And it’s not like he’s done anything criminal. If we get McCann off his back, all the rest of it can be sorted. Maybe he could even stay with us for a bit, give Stacey a break, give Mum someone to fuss over.