Two of the kids had slept in here. Their bunk beds had been moved to the end of Sean and Elaine’s bed. The yellow wallpaper had bits of stickers on it, half a spaceship, a lion’s mane and legs, the face missing. In the corner Elaine had tried to wash off a scribble of black felt pen.
The window in Callum’s room looked out over the street. It’s better this way, said Elaine over dinner, because now the kids won’t get woken up with the noise of cars in the street. Better this way. As if she was trying to convince herself. She was slim for a mum of four, brown hair, shiny. When she bent forward at dinner her shirt fell open a bit and he saw her bra. Nearly jumped her there and then.
They’d lied about him to the kids. The oldest girl, Mary, told him while they were out of the room getting the wee ones bathed. You’ve been away in Birmingham, she said. You’ve got a lot of problems. She was tiny, hands so small they didn’t cover his palm. Everything she did was cute. When she spilled milk all over the floor it was cute. She smiled at him a lot, set an example to the others. The toddler, Cabrini, liked him too but the atmosphere was still tense. Elaine was nervous and Sean never took his eyes from him.
Who could blame them.
Callum sat up in the bed and dropped his feet to the floor, holding the curtain away from the wall with one finger, watching the cars speed past outside, craving the fresh cold radiating from the glass. A woman passed by, head down, jeans too tight for her, showing off all her lumps and bumps. He thought about masturbating to get to sleep but someone might come in and find him.
It was so warm, the curtains, the carpet and the heating on. He was used to walls breathing cold, to pulling the prison blankets around himself to stave off the chill. He didn’t know if he could stay in this heat; he could hardly draw a breath in it.
It was dark outside. Across the road, on the step of a close mouth, he saw something move and thought it was a rat. A couple of rats. But they were shiny, caught the orange streetlight, sleek. Feet. A pair of feet hiding in the dark doorway, shuffling to keep warm. Someone was watching the street.
Sweat prickled at the nape of Callum’s neck. His fingers began to tremble, making the curtain quiver. He dropped his hand but stayed where he was, trapped, tearful, panicked and alone.
He sat there all night, sleeping in small nervous bursts, his head lolling against the wall, craving the cold from outside the cluttered little flat.
FIFTEEN. THE SOUND OF MUSIC
I
The morning was bright as Paddy led Pete around the corner. The street was swarming with small children in red T-shirts and gray skirts or trousers, ready for the new school year. The children came from a poor catchment area and the uniform was minimal.
It was an old-fashioned primary school, the playground railed off from the street and the building arranged in a tall U around it. The two entrances were at opposite ends of the yard and carved into the stone above them were GIRLS and BOYS.
Pete stopped dead. “Mum! Gym kit!”
Paddy touched his backpack. “In here.”
He did a comedy phew, rolling his head in a figure of eight, showing the small hairs on the back of his neck, like Terry’s. She considered picking him up and running back to the car. Phone the school. Plead a cold. She could give in to her fears every day and keep him under her bed until he was eighteen.
A young man in a black tracksuit stepped out in front of them, crossing the road to the railings, pressing his face through, looking for a kid.
In the yard a blonde teacher, Miss MacDonald, was marshaling the children into groups of their own year in preparation for the lineup and roll call they took before the kids went into the school building. Out on the street parents were lined up along the railings, staring into the yard at their children, who were showing off their latest toys, making alliances for the fresh day, or chasing each other within the limited parameters of the group Miss MacDonald had put them in.
Suddenly, Pete slipped Paddy’s hand and bolted into the road. She leaped, grabbing his shoulder with a talon hand, spinning him so hard he almost fell to one knee.
“Mum!” He looked up at her, mouth hanging open in shock.
She saw herself, grabbing him to assuage her insecurity, keeping him from his life. Flattening his hair with her hand, she avoided his eye. “What have I told you about running into the road?”
“You hurt me.” He looked at her, demanding that she look back.
She busied herself straightening the straps on his backpack. “Just… be careful.”
He hit her hand away. “I am being careful.”
“I’m sorry. I got a fright when you ran out. Sorry.” Apologizing to a child-her mother would hate that. Never apologize and never explain, Trisha would say, which was all right for her: everything she did was explained by the Church or by teachers in the Catholic school. Paddy wanted Pete to grow up being able to question authority, but it was a lot more work than telling him to shut up and do what he was told.
“Sorry.”
Pete nodded and looked over at his friends, his face lightening in delight, her offense forgotten.
“Come on.” She took his hand and led him over the road.
He ran into the yard, straight into Miss MacDonald, who ordered him over to another group, away from his friends. Paddy followed him in.
“Miss MacDonald? Could you keep an eye on Peter today?”
“Is he ill?”
“No.” She didn’t want to sound paranoid. “You know Peter’s father and I aren’t together?”
Miss MacDonald touched the tiny gold crucifix around her neck and mugged sorrow, as if everyone had tried but failed to keep them together.
“We’re in dispute about access,” she said, sounding stern when sad would have done better. “I’m concerned Peter’s dad might try to come and take him out of school today. Could you keep an eye on him?”
“Of course.”
“He might not come himself. He might send a friend to get Peter.”
“We’ll keep an eye on him.” She turned to a child who was wandering around between groups, ending the conversation.
“Don’t let him leave with anyone but me, is what I mean.”
But Miss MacDonald was out of earshot.
Paddy shuffled out of the yard and stood outside with the other mums, holding on to the railings with both hands, fighting a familiar knot of terror with phrases that didn’t mean anything: he’s fine, you’re worrying too much, it’s normal to be afraid, you have to stop this.
A loud, rankling bell ripped through the cheerful sounds from the children, bouncing off the sides of the building. Late parents hurried their children along the road and shoved them roughly through the gates. Miss MacDonald waited for the last few stragglers and pulled the gates closed, shutting them with a latch.
Paddy watched as Pete was put in line, hoping for one last wave from him, but he was talking to his friends.
She walked sadly back to the car, thinking about Michael Collins and how terrifying being a mother was. There was no need to be so scared: she had a photo of Collins now, she could show it to people, get an ID.
She unlocked the car door and climbed in, rolled down all the windows, and lit a cigarette.
Parents were dispersing in the street. Women walked in ones and twos, those with cars pulled out slowly, all a little dazed at the sudden calm after the rush of the morning, looking forward to the next six hours until home time.
The one-way system in the small backstreets channeled Paddy up to the lights on Hyndland Road. She stopped for red and shut her eyes, thinking through what she had to do today. Find Collins’s real name. Kevin Hatcher should be up now. She’d call him and ask him about the picture.
A car behind her hooted its horn. Glancing in the mirror she saw a mum she recognized from the school, a pretty woman whose son had a stammer. The woman smiled, pointed at the green light up ahead and the empty road ahead of her. Paddy held her hand up in apology and took the handbrake off. She glanced to the side, looking for oncoming cars, pulling out into the road.