I frowned. “What do you call it?”
“Well, we don’t know for sure if…I mean there’s nothing to suggest…” He sighed. “Just tell me why you think you’re responsible.” He motioned for more.
“Well, Jenny-May didn’t like me,” I began slowly, suddenly becoming nervous.
“Oh, I’m sure that’s not true,” he said kindly. “What makes you think that?”
“She used to call me a lanky slut and throw stones at me.”
“Oh.” He fell silent.
I took a breath. “Then last week she found out that I told my friend Emer that I didn’t think she was as good at King/Queen as everybody thought she was and she got really angry and stormed over to me and Emer and challenged us to a game. Well, not us actually, because she didn’t say anything to Emer, just me. She doesn’t like Emer either but she doesn’t like me more, and I was the one that said it so we were supposed to play this game the next day, me and Jenny-May, and whoever won meant that they were the undisputed champion and nobody could say that they weren’t good because the fact that they’d won would prove it. She also knew that I fancied Stephen Spencer and she always used to shout stuff at me just so he wouldn’t like me, but I knew that she liked him too. Well, it was obvious because they French-kissed in the bushes at the end of the road a few times for dares but I don’t think that he really liked her and maybe he’s happy she’s gone now too, so he’ll be left alone, but I’m not saying I think he did anything to make her disappear. Anyway, the day we were supposed to play King/Queen I saw Jenny-May Butler cycling past my house down the road and she gave me a bad look and I knew she was going to beat me that day at King/Queen and that things would be even worse than they already were and-” I stopped talking and pursed my lips, not sure whether to say what I felt next.
“What happened, Sandy?”
I gulped hard.
“Did you do something?”
I nodded and he moved in, shuffling his backside closer the edge of his chair.
“What did you do?”
“I…I…”
“It’s OK, you can tell me.”
“I wished her away.” I said it quickly, like pulling a bandage from my skin, quick and easy.
“I’m sorry, you what?”
“I wished her away?”
“Whisht? Is that a weapon of some-”
“No, wished. I wished that she’d disappear.”
“Ah.” Realization dawned and he sat back slowly, in his chair. “I understand now.”
“No, you’re just saying that you do but you don’t really. I really did wish for her to be gone, much more than I’ve ever wished for anything to be gone in my whole entire life, even more than when Uncle Fred stayed over in our house for a month after he split up from Aunt Isabel and he smoked and drank and stunk the place out and I really wanted him gone but not as much as I wanted Jenny-May gone, and a few hours after me wishing that, Mrs. Butler came over to our house and told us she was missing.”
He leaned forward again. “So you saw Jenny-May a few hours before Mrs. Butler came over to your house?”
I nodded.
“What time was this at?”
I shrugged.
“Is there anything that could remind you of what time it was? Think back, what were you doing? Was there anybody else around?”
“I had just opened the door to my grandma and granddad. They came over for lunch and I was giving Grandma a hug when I saw her cycling by. That’s when I made the wish.” I winced.
“So, this was lunchtime. Was she with anyone?” He was on the edge of his seat now, ignoring my concern over my wishing her away. He asked question after question about what Jenny-May was doing, who she was with, how did she look, what was she wearing, where did it look like she was going, lots of questions over and over again until my head hurt and I could barely think what the answers were anymore. It turned out that I was such a good help to them because I was the last person to see her that I was allowed to go home early that day. Another benefit to Jenny-May’s disappearance.
A few nights before the Gardaí came to the school I had begun to feel guilty about Jenny-May disappearing. I watched a documentary with my dad about how one hundred fifty thousand people in Washington, D.C., all arranged to think positive thoughts at the same time and the crime rate went down, which proved that positive and negative thinking had a real effect. But then Garda Rogers told me that it wasn’t my fault Jenny-May Butler was gone, that wishing for something to happen didn’t actually make it happen, and so I became a lot more realistic after that.
And there I was, standing outside the office of Grace Burns twenty-four years later, about to knock on the door and feeling exactly the same as when I was ten. I had that same feeling of being responsible for something beyond my control but I also held the belief in some childish way that ever since I was ten years old, I had been secretly, silently, and subconsciously wishing I’d discover a place like this.
48
Jack, is everything OK?” Alan asked, as soon as Jack had taken his seat opposite him at the low bar table. Concern was written all over his face and doubt crept in on Jack again.
“I’m fine,” Jack replied, putting down his drink, settling on the stool, trying to keep the anger out of his voice, feeling confused.
“You look like shit.” His eyes dropped to Jack’s leg, which was bouncing away steadily.
“Everything’s OK.”
“You’re sure?” Alan narrowed his eyes.
“Yeah.” He took a slug of Guinness, his mind going back to the memory that had hit him with his last taste. Alan’s lie.
“So, what’s up?” Alan said, back to his usual nature. “You sounded on the phone like there was a fire. Something important to tell me?”
“No, no fire.” Jack looked around, avoiding eye contact, doing everything he could do to stop himself from throwing a punch. He needed to approach this properly, and tried to relax. His leg stopped bouncing, he leaned in to the table, and stared into his pint. “It’s just this past week I’ve been looking for Donal, and it’s brought everything back, y’know?”
Alan sighed and stared into his pint too. “Yeah, I know. I think about it every day.”
“About what?”
Alan looked up quickly. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, what kind of things do you think about every day?” Jack tried to take the interrogative tone out of his voice.
“I don’t know what you mean. I think about the whole thing.” Alan frowned.
“Well, I think about how I wish I’d been there that night, how I wish I’d known Donal better because if I had then maybe…” Jack said, holding his hands up. “Maybe, maybe, maybe. Maybe I’d know where to look, maybe I’d know the places or people he went to for safety or for privacy. Anything like that, you know? Maybe there were some people he was running from, people he got involved with. We didn’t talk much about private things and every day I think about the fact that if I’d been a better brother maybe I’d have found him. Maybe he’d be sitting right here beside us having a pint.”
They both naturally looked to the empty stool beside them.
“Don’t think stuff like that, Jack. You were a good bro-”
“Don’t,” Jack interrupted, raising his voice.
Alan stopped in surprise. “Don’t what?”
Jack looked him directly in the eyes. “Don’t lie.”
Fear and uncertainty entered Alan’s face and Jack knew his intuition was correct. Alan looked around the room anxiously but Jack stopped him. “You don’t need to tell me I was a good brother because I know I wasn’t. Don’t lie to make me feel better.”
Alan seemed relieved by this answer. “OK, you were a shit brother.” He smiled and they both laughed.