Ayres Unravelled (The Travellers #2)

Prologue

John-Francis

St Joseph’s Park, Finglas, Dublin

“‘Ey, ‘ey, ‘ey! John-Francis! On y’head!”

I whipped around, just in time to see a ratty football soaring towards me. I wasn’t quite quick enough, and with a slap it hit me, ricocheting off my body into the bushes.

“Oi!” I shouted, rubbing my shoulder. “What y’playin’ at?!”

My best friend, Declan Furey, sprinted to my side with a grin on his face.

“Ah, stop ya belly achin’, y’wee fanny,” he teased, jostling me playfully.

I fought back and we quickly found ourselves doubled over laughing and scrapping. I knew better than to start a proper fight with Declan. I’d seen him going at his punching bag and didn’t much fancy being on the receiving end of what he could do when he meant it.

Declan and I had been friends from the moment he and his ma turned up on the hitching site.

The other lads had given him a hard time at first, but not me.

Declan had proven himself to be a loyal friend to me time and time again.

I may have only been fourteen, but I knew a decent fella when I saw one.

“C’mon, y’melter. Let’s go,” I gasped, breathless from tussling. “The lads’ll be waitin’ now.”

Declan retrieved his football, dribbling it along the dusty track that cut through to the football fields.

It was well-trodden, though the odd errant nettle would occasionally brush your legs.

It was a route I knew like the back of my hand, nothing better to do with my time most days than go down to the fields and kick a ball around.

Anything was better than hanging around at home under the judgemental gaze of my da.

Declan and I chatted easily about anything and everything. He was only two months my junior, and we had plenty of things in common.

It was a blistering summer day and by the time we joined the other lads on the field, my vest was wet with sweat and sticking to my back. The others were already organising the teams, shouting greetings as they spotted Declan and I approaching.

“Y’pair o’ langers shirts or skins, Dec?” One of the older lads, Cian, called out.

“Skins.”

I glanced at my friend, just in time to see him whipping his t-shirt off over his head.

My gaze dropped to Declan’s chest. My friend had changed a lot over the summer.

He’d always been a bit of a weed, ribs visible beneath his skin and arms and legs like matchsticks, but no longer.

Something had shifted and somewhere along the line, Declan had become broader, filling out.

He was still a skinny wee wretch, but looking at him suddenly made me uncomfortable in a way it never had before.

“Chuck us y’shirt,” Declan said, turning to me. “I’d be slingin’ ‘em down t’ mark the goal posts.”

I nodded, mouth dry and dragged my damp vest off. When I launched it at Declan, he caught it and laughed with a grimace.

“Feckin’ dirty wee bastard. This vest is kip!”

“Ah, feck off now,” I muttered, unable to resist grinning even as my heart hammered against my ribs, making me nauseous.

I toed a lump of grass, waiting behind as Declan jogged across to the opposite side of the field, dumping our shirts down with the others.

Cian shoved him playfully as he passed and Declan laughed, shouting something crude back at him.

Shite, since when had Declan been so tall?

He was almost eye to eye with some of the older lads now, despite being several years younger.

“Y’ready or ya just gonna stand there wi’ y’wee mickey in y’hand, now?” Declan yelled to me, cheeky grin in place.

I snapped from my thoughts, scowling back at him.

“Aye, keep y’knickers on! I’d be watchin’ that tone o’ yas.”

“Y’gonna make me, aye?”

Declan and I always chatted shite to one another this way but this time, with my cheeks still hot and uncomfortable, it was making me tense. I muttered something under my breath before jogging to Declan, keen to distract myself with a game of football.

We must have been at it maybe half hour when a sharp whistle pulled me up, drawing my attention.

“Ah, would y’look at that now,” Cian muttered, missing the ball I’d just passed to him.

His eyes were trained across the field and when I noticed the other lads had all stopped playing as well, I followed their gaze.

There, just a way off in the distance, was a group of girls from the camp.

Arm in arm they strode closer, already giggling and tittering between themselves.

“What’re they wantin’?” I asked, panting to regain my breath. I strolled to Declan’s side.

“Wee Rosie Cawley is after Cian. She’d be wantin’ him t’ take a run at grabbin’ her,” Declan replied, swiping the sweat from his forehead. “The other wee geebags are just her mates. Y’know how girls are. They travel in packs, aye.”

As the girls approached, Declan and I watched Cian jogging over to meet up with them. My friend’s observation was bob on – Rosie was making eyes at Cian, flirting and showing off for him.

Cian was a couple of years older than me, though I wasn’t entirely sure by how much.

He had to be pushing sixteen or so, which meant Rosie Cawley was probably after a courtship and a ring.

We did things differently than the settled folks.

Getting hitched early and springing out a litter of wains was just part of life for most travellers.

One of the lads kicked Declan’s football back to us.

With our game clearly on pause I scowled, watching the others closing in around our spectators.

That game had just been getting good – I’d finally hit my stride and had been about to score.

Football was one of the few things I was pretty decent at around here, better than Declan and even some of the older boys.

I was pissed to have my game interrupted by a few geebags.

What was the big deal anyway? We saw these girls around the camp all the time.

When Declan tucked his ball under his arm, wandering over to the others, I reluctantly followed. One of Rosie’s mates, a pretty wee thing, lit up when she saw us approaching, but it wasn’t me she was excited about.

She smiled, smoothing a stand of her long, dark hair through her fingers. “How’s the form, Dec?”

“Ah, can’t complain, now,” Declan replied, running a hand through his hair.

Just like Cian, he puffed up a little. In fact, all of the lads seemed just as eager to chat with the girls, showing off by ripping on one another and play fighting.

I felt awkward, strangely jaded. Clearly, I was missing something.

“‘Bout ya, Johnny,” she said, politely acknowledging me before her attention flitted back to Declan. I simply jerked my chin in greeting, shifting foot to foot and feeling out of place.

Unfortunately, the girls loitered around longer than I had expected and when the sky began to turn dusky, I accepted that the rest of that football game was never going to happen. Even Declan seemed happy, entertaining Rosie’s wee friend.

When the last of the sunlight disappeared, the night grew chilly. Wearing just a thin vest, I was a little uncomfortable and sidled up to Declan.

“Y’wanna be headin’?” I asked, nudging him with my elbow.

When Declan hesitated, his gaze drifting back to the geebag he was chatting with, I shrugged.

“I’ve a chill. Y’stay. Not like I don’t know the way back, now.”

“Ah, y’sure? I don’t—”

“No bother.” I got to my feet, brushing dirt and grass from my arse and holding out my fist. “Come a’ knock me in the morning, aye?”

Declan bashed his knuckles against my own. “Aye.”

A few of the other lads muttered their farewells, but not Cian. I halted with morbid curiosity for a moment, watching him and Rosie Cawley kissing messily. I wrinkled my nose – yep, I was definitely missing something. I didn’t dare think on that too hard.

It was a good job I knew my way back to the camp with my eyes closed because by the time I was pushing through the undergrowth, it was pitch black.

As I grew closer to home, the lights of the camp shone through the darkness ahead. With each step, my anxiety began to spike. Would Da be home tonight or would he be out at the pub with his mates? I knew which option I’d prefer.

I paused at the steps leading up to our family caravan. The lights were on inside, glowing invitingly but that was about all I would find inviting inside, that I could be sure of. I sucked in a deep breath and hopped up, opening the door and slipping inside.

“The feck d’ya think ya’ve been all day?”

I cringed, keeping my head down. Great, Da was home.

“Sorry, Da,” I mumbled. “I’d a wee game o’ footie wi’ the lads.”

“Ya ma put tea up f’ya,” he slurred angrily. “It’s gone t’ feckin’ waste now. Stone cold.”

Looked like the pub had come to us tonight. That was never a good sign. This time I kept quiet. I’d long since learnt there was no point in trying to reason with my da, and after he’d had a skin full? I daren’t even meet his eye.

He got up from the seating area, swigging from a beer bottle. When he swayed on his feet, falling into one of the kitchenette cupboards, my ma leapt forward.

“Now, love, don’t ate the poor wee lad’s head off. He’d just be—” She was cut off by my pa shoving her roughly back down. Just as always, she cowered away from him and watched on helplessly as he strode towards me.

I fought against my instincts not to shrink back when Da got up in my face. I knew from experience that it just made him angrier.

“Ya selfish wee prick!”

He slapped his hand against the back of my head and I flinched, sinking my teeth into my tongue until I could taste blood.

“After all I do f’ya, aye?!” Another slap. “More money down the feckin’ drain!”

I wanted to argue, to tell him we’d have more money if he didn’t drink away every last fucking penny he earnt, but I didn’t. I let Da berate me a while longer, standing stock still until he told me to get out of his sight.