The galvanized barrel was stuffed with rags and newspapers, now black and fragile, edges crumbling in on themselves. Wisps of smoke still curl from the heap. When Trey touches the side of the barrel, it’s hot.
“Move,” Sheila says. She hefts her bucket with a hard grunt of effort, braces its lip on the barrel, and pours. The barrel lets out a vicious hiss and a puff of rising steam.
“More,” Sheila says. Trey pours in the water from the stewpot. The residue in the barrel is sinking into a sodden mess.
“Get the rake,” Sheila says. “And the spade. Whatever’s got a long handle.”
“Why?” Maeve demands. “It’s out.”
“One spark and we’ll have the whole mountain on fire. Get the things.”
The shed, at the far edge of the yard, holds tools from a time before they were born, when Sheila tried to turn the yard into a garden. Trey and Maeve scuff their way through scattered scraps of black that disintegrate under their feet. “I hate them lads,” Maeve says. “They’re a shower of fuckin’ pricks.”
“They don’t give a shite if you hate them,” Trey says. She and Maeve have never liked each other much, not since they got old enough to tell the difference, and today neither of them likes anyone much.
They heave aside a cobwebbed stepladder and a rust-ridden wheelbarrow to dig out a rake, a hoe, and a spade. “It’s not Daddy’s fault,” Maeve says defiantly, as they get back to the barrel. Neither of them answers her.
They dig the handles of the tools into the barrel and stir, extinguishing any hidden smolders. It gives off a thick, acrid reek. “Stinks,” Maeve says, wrinkling her nose.
“Fuck up, you,” Trey says.
“You fuck up.”
Sheila swings round and catches each of them a slap across the face, in one move so neither of them has time to jump back. “Now ye’ll both fuck up,” she says, and turns back to the barrel.
The mess resists them, clogging and tangling the handles. In the end Sheila pulls the rake free and stands back, breathing hard. “Get rid of that,” she says, nodding at the barrel. “And come straight home, or I’ll malavogue the pair of ye.” She picks up the bucket and the stewpot and heads back to the house.
Trey and Maeve take one side of the barrel each and drag it around the back of the house and up the mountainside. There’s a ravine where they dump unwanted large things, broken bikes and Alanna’s outgrown cot. The barrel is awkward to grip and heavy, scraping across the yard with a loud relentless grating, leaving a wide swathe of raw dirt and a leaking trail of black liquid in its wake. When they get in among the underbrush, they have to stop every minute to heave it over roots and brambles.
“You think you’re so great,” Maeve says. She sounds like she’s on the verge of tears. “Now look what you done.”
“You haven’t got a clue,” Trey says. Her arms ache from hauling the barrel; flies are whirling noisily at the sweat on her face, but she doesn’t have a hand free to swat them away. “You thick cow.”
The ravine drops out of the mountainside with lethal suddenness. Its sides are steep and rocky, blurred in patches by muscular, tenacious bushes and tangles of tall weeds. At the bottom, among the undergrowth in the dried-up streambed, Trey can see the flash of sun on something else discarded.
“You fucked it up on purpose,” Maeve says. “You never wanted him back.”
They swing the barrel together, over the edge of the ravine. It bounces down to the streambed in great zigzagging arcs, letting out a deep ominous boom each time it hits the ground.
—
“I’m going out,” Trey says, as they clear the table after dinner. Sheila had nothing in, so dinner was a dispiriting stew of potatoes, carrots, and stock cubes. Johnny made a big production of praising the flavor and talking about fancy restaurants where traditional Irish cooking is all the rage. No one except Liam was hungry.
“You’re going nowhere,” Sheila says.
“Going for a walk.”
“No. Wash them up.”
“I’ll do it later.” Trey can’t stick looking at their faces another second. The air feels like it’s clamping in all round her. She needs to move.
“You’ll do it now.”
“Sure, you can’t go out anyway,” Johnny says, in a peacemaking voice. “I’m off for a wee saunter myself, in a bit; you need to stay here and help your mammy while I’m gone.”
“I don’t want you to go,” Maeve tells him, pouting. “Stay.” She nuzzles up against Johnny’s side. He smiles and smooths her hair.
“Quit acting like a baby,” Trey says.
“I’m not!” Maeve snaps, her lip trembling. “I want Daddy!”
“You’re fuckin’ eleven.”
“I’m scared!”
“You make me wanta puke.”
Maeve kicks out and gets Trey in the shin. Trey shoves her hard enough that she staggers back against the counter. Maeve screeches and goes for her, raking at Trey’s face with her nails, but Trey catches Maeve’s wrist and punches her right in the gut. Maeve wheezes for breath and grabs for Trey’s hair, but it’s too short. Somewhere Liam is laughing too loud, like it’s fake but he can’t stop.
Their dad gets between them. He’s laughing his arse off too. “Whoa, whoa, whoa, cool the jets there,” he says, holding them apart with a hand on each one’s shoulder. “Holy God almighty, wouldja look at the pair of spitfires we’ve got here? None a that, now. Leave that stuff to the big rufty-tufty lads. Ye’re both too gorgeous to go ruining those faces. Are you all right, Maeveen love?”
Maeve bursts into tears. Trey shakes her dad’s hand off her shoulder and goes to the sink to wash up. She feels like she’s drowning, deeper in bog every second, the mountain sucking her down.
—
On his way out, Johnny pokes his head into Trey’s room, where she’s shut herself to get away from the rest. Maeve is in the shower and has been for a while. Trey would bet money that she’s using up all the hot water on purpose.
“There’s my wee wild woman,” her dad says. He’s all dolled up, with a fresh shirt on and his hair arranged in an appealing swoop; Trey can smell his aftershave. He looks like he’s going on a date. “Now, you do what your mammy says while I’m out, and look after the little ones. And don’t be bickering with Maeve. She’s a bit nervy, just. ’Tisn’t her fault she’s not as big and brave as you.”
Trey shrugs. She’s brushing Banjo. Normally he basks in the attention, twisting to make sure she gets the best spots, but tonight he’s too hot to do anything but lie there like he’s melted. She thought about leaving the shed fur in Maeve’s bed, but that kind of babyish shite doesn’t fit in the place where they’ve found themselves.
“And don’t you go worrying your head, now,” her dad says, waving a finger at her. “No one’ll do anything on anyone tonight. They’ve all gone for a nice sleep, after their shenanigans last night. You do the same.”
“Why can’t I go out, so?”
“Ah, now,” Johnny says reprovingly. “I know you’re missing your pals, but a bitta responsibility won’t do you any harm. ’Tis only for one night; you’ll be out and about tomorrow.”
Trey doesn’t answer. Johnny switches tone. “Ah, sweetheart. ’Tis awful hard being the oldest, isn’t it? It’ll be only great when Brendan gets the rambling outa his system and comes home. You can be one of the little ones again, and have the poor lad’s head wrecked.”
Trey doesn’t want to think about Brendan. She keeps her eyes on Banjo.
“Meanwhile,” Johnny says, “you just keep telling the rest everything’s grand. ’Cause it will be. I’ll do my bit tonight, and you’ll do your bit tomorrow, and we’ll have the show back on the road in no time.”