Chapter 15
HIT THE ROAD, JACK
MICK
When me and Patrick walked in the front door of our house, I sighed, and my whole body relaxed.
It had been a hell of a day, and I was happy to be home.
The weather was fucking awful. It was raining cats and dogs, so the drive home had been a proper nightmare.
Why does a bit of rain turn all the drivers on the roads into maniacs?
Like I had done every workday for the last ten years, I hooked my keys underneath my nameplate, which sat in a row with three plaques above four identical brass hooks.
One for each of the members of my family.
Next, my overcoat went on the larger coatrack below.
We’d parked the van right in front of the house and legged it indoors, so my coat wasn’t wet.
Good thing too, Mam would shout at me for dripping on her carpet.
Like I controlled the bloody weather or something.
I plonked myself down onto the little bench topped with a chintzy cushion, not stepping off the large doormat and took off my work boots, then put them away in their designated cubby.
Pat did the same, just as he had done every day for the last ten years.
The simple and familiar routine soothed me, and I started to shake off the long hard day.
“Mam!” I shouted into the house. “We’re home. Is Dad home yet?” There was no reply, so I wandered into the kitchen to find her.
“It’s raining stair rods out there! I hope you didn't have any washing out,” I called as I entered the kitchen.
She wasn't at her usual spot in front of the cooker, which was weird. For my whole life, I’d come home–first from school and then when I was older, from work–to find her busy making the family tea.
I could count on one hand the number of times she hadn't been here when I got home.
The kitchen was empty. And spotless. What made me worry was the lack of smells.
Our kitchen was always full of the comforting scents of traditional Irish food.
“Mam? Where are you?” Walking with a bit more purpose back into the hall I saw Pat standing in the doorway to our living room. He turned to face me and the look of him filled me with dread. He’d gone deathly pale, his eyes bulging out of his head.
“What is it?” I asked frantically, but he didn't say a word. Terror filled my body. What would I find in the living room?
“Is it Mam?” I croaked.
Pat shook his head and stepped further into the room. The hairs on the back of my neck stood up as I followed him. Something was wrong. I braced myself for whatever I was about to face.
Mam was sitting on the settee with her head bowed and her hands in her lap. Breathing a sigh of relief I found Dad there too, standing with his back to the room, staring through the window that faced the street.
“Thank goodness you’re alright!” I said to the room. “From the look on Patrick’s face, I thought something terrible had hap–”
The words were stolen from my throat as I saw what was on the low coffee table in front of the sofa.
On top of the pristine white lace cloth that adorned the dark wood surface was a battered old shoe box.
All the air left my lungs, replaced with terror and darkness.
That box shouldn’t have been there. It was never meant to be seen by another soul.
It should have been under a floorboard in my bedroom that nobody knew was loose, which you could only reach by moving a huge chest of drawers and lifting up a corner of the carpet.
How the fuck was that box on the table in my living room?
I’d been so damned careful–only taking it out late at night or when I was certain nobody else was in the house.
What the fuck was it doing there? Unremarkable and ordinary looking, its presence here meant the worst thing in the world had happened.
My parents had found out my deepest secret.
Bile rose from my stomach into my throat.
Swallowing it down and only barely managing not to throw up, I wrenched my eyes away from the box and looked at my mum.
Big fucking mistake. Despair and disgust wrestled to take charge of her features.
Red, puffy eyes gazed at her hands, which gripped a lace handkerchief so tightly her knuckles were bone white.
“What–”
Swallowing the question I knew nobody would answer, I returned my focus to the source of my destruction.
The lid was askew, the incriminating contents spewed out onto the table.
Worn and dog-eared books, bundles of letters tied together with brown string, prints and photographs turned face down, so only the yellowing backs scrawled with descriptions were visible.
More damning items were inside, I knew, but they must have been deemed too indecent to be displayed.
Shivering, I realised the electric fire wasn’t on despite the cold weather, as though they couldn’t bear to offer me warmth or comfort of any kind. Outside, the torrential rain continued to fall, commiserating with me or punishing me, I wasn’t sure which.
Everything in here was still. Nobody moved. Nobody made a sound. Like we were all frozen in this awful moment. What the fuck was I supposed to do? Petrified of what would happen next, but desperate for this torture to end, I broke the silence.
“Ma, I’m sorry.” It was true. I was sorry she’d found out. I was sorry she knew my secret. I was sorry I hadn’t been more careful. Choking out a sob, she still refused to make eye contact with me.
“It’s too late for that, now.” The sound of my father’s voice startled me.
Too loud in the silent room, but so much quieter than normal, it felt wrong to hear him speak so calmly in such a chaotic situation.
Why wasn’t he screaming and shouting at me?
Anger radiated from him, but he remained still and quiet; it was so fucking unsettling.
This wasn’t like him at all. He wasn’t a man who kept his emotions or opinions to himself.
Desperate for something from him, even hatred, I tried to talk to him.
“Dad, look at me, please. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
Nothing. He didn’t say a word or move a muscle. What was I supposed to do? Tears pricked my eyes, so I shut my mouth and swallowed hard. Crying was the absolute worst thing I could do.
Spinning around so I could wipe my face and compose myself, I caught sight of my brother. I’d almost forgotten he was here. His face was ashen, but at least he looked me in the eye. I sent him a pleading look, but all I got in return was the smallest shake of his head.
My parents were still refusing to look at me.
What the fuck was happening? Someone had to say something.
We couldn't just stay like this forever.
Everything in the room was just as it always had been.
The crucifix hung on the wall behind me, agonised eyes looking down on us.
Maybe it would provide divine inspiration? That was a laugh.
“Mam, Dad, talk to me, please. What can I do? How can I make this right?”
Still no words came from my parents; the silence was deafening. When my dad did turn around, I wished he hadn’t. The look of utter disgust on his face was so extreme the bile rose in my throat again. Looking over my shoulder, he nodded to the large brown armchair behind me.
I hadn’t seen it when I came in, too worried about my mum.
A suitcase perched on the floral armchair.
A large brown rectangular thing, ordinary and insignificant, just like the shoe box.
Except it wasn’t. It was very fucking significant if it meant what I thought it meant.
Behind it was a milk crate packed with my possessions.
My mod suits were on hangers hooked onto the handle of the case.
Something about the care that had been taken made the whole thing worse.
My Sunday best suit that my gran had bought me wasn’t there.
I looked at the milk crate again. My framed picture of the family wasn’t there.
Nor was the enormous bible my Auntie Mary bought me after my confirmation.
The message was clear: they were kicking me out.
They were removing me from their lives and themselves from mine.
“You want me to go? When? Where? For how long?” The questions were pointless. In my heart, I knew the answers.
Yes.
Now.
Anywhere.
Forever.
I had two choices. Beg for forgiveness, promise to repent my sins, and hope they would let me stay. Or I could leave with my head held high.
I chose dignity.
I took off my work jacket and laid it across the back of the sofa. Thank heavens, I wasn’t wearing overalls today. I fished out the van keys from my pocket and placed them on the coffee table, then I went to pick up the box.
“Leave it,” barked my father. I thought about arguing. They were my belongings, after all. But I didn’t want the last words I shared with my family to be an argument over some dirty books and a handful of letters from men I didn’t even remember.
So, I picked up the milk crate crammed with memories and manoeuvred it under my arm against my hip, then I grabbed the handle of the old leather suitcase. Head held high, I left the room and marched towards the door… and realised I wasn’t wearing any shoes. So much for my big exit.
After putting on my pointed black shoes–leaving the sensible work boots where they were–I gathered my things and left the only home I’d ever known.
As soon as I stepped out of the door, my shirt soaked through.
It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered. Vague thoughts about how my suits would be ruined flitted around my head, but I didn’t give a shit about them.
What good were fancy suits when I’d be living at the fucking bus station?
A feeling of panic swept over me. What the fuck was I going to do?
Keep walking. Right now, that was the one thing I could do.