through a couple of oily patches in the courtyard, to avoid any stains on my white trainers, I head towards the open double garage doors.
‘Hello,’ I call out as I enter the building. The smell of oil and petrol, mixed with a dirty, greasy sort of smell, hits me, catching in the back of my throat. There are a number of bikes in the workshop, all in various states of repair. One looks like it has been stripped right down to the frame; there are bits of motorbike lying alongside. I assume they are bits of motorbike. To me it’s a mass of metal and plastic.
To my right a curtain of thick industrial plastic strips separates one side of the workshop. A blond head pokes through, the face obscured by a white mask and a pair of thick protective goggles. Pulling the mask from his face, he speaks.
‘All right?’ he says looking over at me. ‘Can I help you?’
I swallow hard. I recognise the voice instantly. It’s Jody Wright. He doesn’t appear to recognise me. Perhaps I can get away with this.
‘Hi. I’m after Kerry.’ I turn my face from view, looking around the workshop as if trying to locate Kerry.
‘He’s upstairs in the stock room. I’ll get him.’ I can hear Jody’s footsteps come further into the workshop. ‘Oi! Kerry! You’ve got a visitor!’ His voice bellows out, followed by a shrill whistle.
A moment later, I hear the door at the top of the stairs open.
‘All right?’ comes another voice.
‘Someone to see you,’ says Jody.
I have no choice but to turn around this time. I look up at the figure standing at the top of the steps.
‘Hi…I’ve come to get the keys for Marie Hurley.’
Before Kerry can answer, Jody interrupts. ‘Hey, wait a minute! I know you.’ I turn and watch him take a few strides across the workshop, coming to a halt in front of me, whereupon he whisks his goggles from his face. ‘Well, well, well, if it isn’t Curly Hurley!’ I stand there in silence as I come face to face with my nemesis of those wretched childhood days. ‘It’s me…Joe. Jody Wright!’ He grins at me, raking his fingers through his mop of longish blond hair. ‘We were in the same class at Rossway School. Mr Capper’s class, or Mr Crapper, as we used to call him. I sat behind you and Roisin Marshall. Come on, you must remember me.’
Despite feeling myself flinch, I remain composed. I’m older now. I’m in control. I can handle this.
Straightening up, giving him the benefit of my five-feet-eight-inches’ height, I look at him unsmiling. ‘How could I forget?’
‘Nearly didn’t recognise you without your curls,’ Joe says, nodding towards my poker-straight hair, which hangs loose over my shoulders. ‘Do you remember my cousin, Kerry? He used to come and stay sometimes during the summer.’
I give a shrug. ‘A bit.’
Kerry is watching me. He has blond hair, not dissimilar to Jody’s, actually, casually parting in the middle with longish layers giving a sort of dishevelled look. He wears a pair of blue overalls, which hang from his waist and bear the scars of many a battle with a paintbrush. The black t-shirt has suffered a similar fate, together with a rip at the left sleeve, revealing some sort of tribal-pattern tattoo around his bicep. He smiles at me and descends the steps.
‘I thought you looked familiar, I was just trying to place you,’ he says. ‘You were at Shane’s eighteenth birthday party, weren’t you?’
I nod, impressed with his recall. Shane is one of Joe’s older brothers. ‘That’s right. There was a big group of us.’ I shift on my feet. The desire to take a trip down memory lane is furthest from my mind.
Joe gives a laugh and carries on energetically. ‘There are quite a few of us Wrights. Kerry probably just blended in. One summer he came to stay and never went home, I don’t suppose me mam even noticed an extra person at the dinner table.’ I nod this time. He carries on enthusiastically. ‘What you up to these days? It must be about ten years. You disappeared without a trace.’
‘Working in London,’ I reply, really having no wish to get into this conversation. ‘Look, I don’t mean to be rude but what with my dad and everything…’ I wave my hand airily, hoping I don’t need to explain. I’m relieved when Kerry speaks, ending Joe’s desire to revisit our childhood days.
‘Yes, of course, you’ve got more important things to do than reminisce about the good old days. You’ll have to excuse my cousin’s enthusiasm,’ says Kerry, giving Joe a playful whack on the arm with back of his hand. Kerry ferrets around in the large side pocket of his trousers and after a moment produces a set of keys. He holds them out to me. ‘How is your dad?’
‘Not good. He’s stable, but they’re waiting for the swelling to go down before they can assess him further. He’s taken a nasty bang to his head. Thanks for asking.’ I take the keys from Kerry, his rough hands with grubby fingernails briefly brush my own well-moisturised and manicured fingers. ‘Mum said you helped her yesterday evening?’
‘It was nothing,’ replies Kerry shrugging. ‘I just happened to be out the back there. I called the ambulance and then locked up the flat. As I said, nothing really.’
‘Thank you, anyway. Mum really appreciates it. We all do.’
‘You should come down the pub one night and meet up with some of the old gang,’ says Joe.
Looking at him for a moment before I speak, I can’t think of anything less I want to do. ‘I’m only here for a few days, so probably won’t have time. And besides, if I wanted to catch up with everyone, I could have done that by now on Facebook.’ I give a little laugh, which I so don’t mean and then, turning my back on Joe, direct a slight nod at Kerry before heading out of the dirty workshop. I’m just congratulating myself on getting one over my old enemy when I hear him call after me.
‘See ya, Bunny!’
For a split second I’m transported back to my school days. Bunny is the nickname Joe used for me. A loose connection between the colour of my hair and carrots, which still appears to amuse him. I force myself to walk on and not acknowledge his parting shot.
*
Roisin’s heart pumped an extra beat. There was Erin Hurley walking across the green, heading straight to where Roisin and her mam had parked their car. Roisin had got Erin’s voicemail but it had come too late. She hadn’t been sure Erin would come but fate had intervened and made it impossible for her not to. The incident with Jim Hurley, unfortunate as it was for Erin, was fortunate for Roisin.
Suddenly, Roisin thought of her mam and how she would react. She looked across the roof of the car as they got out. Her mam, Diana, was having a good day today. She was calm. She was talking clearly. Thinking rationally. She had even been smiling a lot. Roisin was under no illusion that it was all about to end in a matter of seconds.
‘Mam,’ she called across to her. Diana looked up and smiled. Roisin didn’t return it. She flicked her eyes towards Erin. Her mother followed suit. Roisin watched the recognition spread across Diana’s face like a snow flurry. Her mother’s hand grappled for the car, resting on the front wing for support.
The athletic figure of Erin Hurley walked purposefully towards them. The curls might have gone, but the distinctive red hair was unmistakable as it reflected back the sun, almost challenging it to be brighter.
This was not how Roisin had wanted the meeting with Erin to happen. It was supposed to be just the two of them. Alone. On Roisin’s terms. Somewhere private. Not here in the middle of the village when she was caught by surprise.
Erin was only a few metres away and as she looked up, the recognition in her eyes was instant. The defiant look came a second later. She slowed her pace and came to a stop in front of their car. She fiddled with the bunch of keys she was holding.
‘Hello, Erin,’ said Roisin. She wanted to glance over at her mam to see if she was okay, but