Chapter Four
I sit up; arms tingling and drenched in sweat. I try to shake off the image of the woman from my dream.
Then, with a jolt, I remember what happened on the ferry yesterday. Before I fainted, there was a blinding light and I saw…
No. It was a dream.
The Titanic.
Seriously…
Before I fainted, there was a light. Then I saw a ship. And people.
You dreamed it.
The foghorn was so clear, so loud. I clutch at my dream, grasping fragments, but it’s like trying to hold smoke.
The woman. I freeze as I picture a pale face, dark eyes and a hungry mouth.
My phone vibrates beside me. It’s only a photo reminder but it triggers another memory.
On the ferry. The light. I took a photo.
Careful not to wake Cormac, I grab my backpack. The camera nearly slips from my sweaty fingers. The last image is the photo I took of Belfast from the deck of the ferry, and the one before that is a rectangle of light. Nothing else.
My eyes adjust. What is that?
In the top right of the photo there’s a vertical black line. I tweak the contrast. Most of the photo is white, overexposed, but the black line has spread to reveal the top of a dark column. A chimney.
I gasp as the lost memory comes rushing back. It wasn’t a dream. I saw this chimney billowing smoke. It was on a boat. A boat that was built in Belfast over one hundred years ago. The most famous ship in the world – one that now rests at the bottom of the Atlantic.
And yet, somehow, I have a photograph of it.
I drop my camera.
‘Oh fuck,’ I breathe.
Well, there we go. I’ve lost it.
Either I’ve seen and taken a photo of the – I don’t even know – the ghost of the Titanic, or else I think I have. To be honest, I don’t know which is the better option.
This is insane!
OK, yes. Objectively and rationally, this is insane. I hate that word. I don’t want to be that word. But what’s the alternative?
Stress?
Yes, I’m stressed. I didn’t eat properly so I fainted and then my dramatic brain created a story to make things more interesting.
It’s probably linked to some entrenched emotional trauma I’m not ready to deal with.
So instead I’m conjuring up ghost ships then trying to find proof in a whited-out photo.
That black line – it could be anything. A hair on the lens, a railing, a cloud…
I did not see the ghost of the Titanic.
I burst out laughing at the thought. It’s insane that I even need to convince myself. Of course I didn’t see the bloody Titanic. As far as I’m aware, there were no mermaids welcoming me to Ireland with a quirky Christmas-ad-style cover of ‘Galway Girl’ either.
That would’ve been cute.
I’m adjusting, that’s all. I check the time on my phone. It’s 6 a.m. I really need to sleep.
My head is throbbing and my stomach begs me not to touch the fried breakfast that Sheila is plating up for us. We didn’t get back too late last night and I only had a few drinks, but that’s enough for my body to be pissed at me.
Plus, I saw the Titanic yesterday.
Stop.
‘So, you had a good night?’ Mum asks in her ‘casual parent’ voice, crunching on the organic granola she brought with her.
I shrug. ‘Was all right.’
Fiona sets down her orange juice. ‘Did you smooch any hotties?’
‘Fiona!’ Sheila snaps from the kitchen.
Cormac smirks.
‘No,’ I say, cheeks burning. ‘Met some nice people though.’
Fiona yawns dramatically. ‘Are you sixteen or sixty?’
Cormac pats me on the shoulder. ‘She has a point.’
I shrug his hand away with a laugh.
Mum checks her phone. ‘I told your Nanny Bet we’d call up this morning.’
I want to hide in a blanket cocoon and escape into a book, but I need to see her.
‘Um, what about our big day out?’ says Cormac.
Crap.
We made plans last night, and Meg has already texted to confirm. My head is so foggy. ‘Oh yeah. Well, we can do that after.’
‘What you doing?’ asks Mum.
‘Heading into town with a few people.’
This seems to make her happy. ‘That sounds lovely. With you, Cormac?’
He spears some bacon. ‘Yup. I’m going to show him the real Belfast. The things you won’t see on any official maps. We’re going to slime our way through the seedy underbelly of this dirty town. The—’
‘Would you ever give over,’ groans Uncle Tommy as he heads past the table. ‘Michael, don’t listen to that eejit.’ Cormac’s smile flickers for a second. ‘See you later, love.’
Tommy kisses Sheila on the top of the head as she sets down a mountain of potato bread. My uncontested favourite breakfast food. My stomach seems to have forgiven me now and I pile up my plate.
After a detailed briefing from Sheila on how to use the shower (I manage to scald and freeze myself), I get ready, and Mum and I set off to see Nanny Bet. She lives three streets up the hill, in what Mum has always said is the fancier end of the estate but that looks identical to me.
As we walk, Mum says hello to neighbours and our fiveminute stroll becomes a twenty-minute rolling interview as they ask when we got here, if we’ve heard about the trouble and how long we’re staying.
Then, of course, there’s the now familiar pause in the conversation when they mention Dad, do a sad little nod and change the subject.
Everyone knows everyone, which I find incredibly odd. In London we knew about four people on our street and even that was just to say hello. People came and went so quickly or just got on with their own lives and ignored everyone else.
Here, people stay in the houses they grew up in.
There are multiple generations living on the estate and as a result everyone knows everything about everyone.
They’re keen to give Mum the low-down, and hot topics today include Big Sean getting his extension approved, the O’Neills’ youngest having chicken pox and the new coffee shop that the Laverys have opened up down the road, which is a bit of a rip-off but does good French toast.
To be honest, I’m grateful for all the interruptions as they mean I don’t have to have any more awkward chats with Mum. I just want to coast through the day and not rock the boat.
The boat!
No. Stop that.
‘Ugh!’
Mum stiffens and my cheeks burn red as I realise I just said that out loud. ‘Sorry, I was thinking of something else.’ I walk on while she finishes her conversation.
‘What was that?’ she says, catching me up.
‘Nothing.’
‘It’s not like you to be rude.’
‘I said sorry.’
‘What’s got into you?’
A thousand angry responses force their way from my brain to my tongue, spurred on by the heat in my ears and neck.
‘Nothing,’ I mumble and walk faster.
Nanny Bet’s house is bright and airy, and wind chimes tinkle in the summer breeze. It’s filled with figurines and framed cross-stitched images of plants, insects and birds. And there are books everywhere, including all her published poetry collections.
On the wall are some of Dad’s photographs – black-andwhite prints of people in the war zones he visited when he was younger, rather than his later celebrity pics. He wouldn’t have any of his early work up in our house so this is the only place I can see it. Meg was right, he really was talented.
The kitchen smells of freshly baked soda bread and the coffee that is always on the pot. Everyone else in my family drinks tea, but Nanny Bet drinks coffee that’s ‘strong enough to turn the river Lagan’.
Her garden is huge. Trees and shrubs run along both sides, and there’s a teal wrought-iron table and chair set where she spends most non-raining days. A path cuts down the middle to a red fence and beyond that is the most incredible view.
You can see all of Belfast from here. From Cave Hill to the north, to the docks with Samson and Goliath – the famous yellow cranes – all the way to the opposite mountain in East Belfast and Stormont Castle, where Northern Ireland’s government sits ‘when they can be arsed’. I love this view.
I learned all about ‘Béal Feirste’ while sitting here with Nan as she sipped her coffee. She’d tell me the tales of Old Ireland. Of warriors, faeries and battles. And cows. I recall cows being very critical in ye olde Irish myths.
Nanny Bet has barely aged since I last saw her.
Her pure white hair falls loose over her shoulders and her dark green eyes are sharp as always.
We stand in the garden while she and Mum have a brief conversation.
I think Mum is a bit scared of her. Not that Nanny Bet is scary, but she’s very direct.
‘Politeness is just dishonesty in drag,’ is one of her favourite quotes.
Mum is very polite. I am too. We got so used to walking on eggshells at home, worrying about setting Dad off.
Mum picks at her fingers as they talk about work, the move, the weather, Nanny Bet’s cat Fergal (‘He’s a bloody arsehole, but I love him’) and the sunflowers she planted. They talk about everything except Dad.
Standard.
Mum eventually leaves us to it.
‘So,’ says Nanny Bet as she sits down beside me on her patio chair, her opal beads clacking like pebbles in a stream, ‘how’re you doing?’
I shrug. ‘Fine, you?’
She rolls her eyes and shrugs dramatically. ‘Fine, you?’ It’s an adequate impression of my accent and I snort.
‘That’s better.’ She winks. ‘Now, how are you really? What’s going on in that head of yours?’
I’m possibly losing my mind.
I stop myself shrugging again. ‘I’m OK.’ She doesn’t break her gaze. She needs more than that. I swallow. ‘I…I’m finding the move tough. I miss my friends and…I’m worried I’ll not fit in here.’ The heat of shame tingles at the base of my neck.
‘Fitting in is overrated,’ says Nanny Bet, with a glance towards her neighbours’ house. I know she’s seen as a bit of an eccentric on the estate, and the Kellys next door are not on her Christmas-card list. ‘You’re special. You know that, don’t you?’
‘Hardly.’
‘Oh, for goodness sake. You don’t know yourself at all.’
I don’t know what to say to that, because I’m pretty sure I do know myself. The problem is, I’m not a big fan.
‘What’s going on?’
I stare at my feet. ‘I don’t like all this change.’
She sighs and squeezes my hand, her skin soft as ever. ‘Change isn’t easy. But you’ll get through it. A wise woman once said, “When one door closes, another opens – but the hallway between the two is a pain in the hole.”’
I snort again, which sends Nanny Bet off.
‘That’s better,’ she says, her twinkling eyes creased. ‘The years fall off you when you smile. You were such a happy little thing, running around this garden. Not a care in the world.’
I remember one summer out here. Playing football – the first and only time in my life I played any sort of ball sport.
Dad in goal. Me scoring and Mum lifting me up in celebration.
Dad tickling us until the three of us were rolling about laughing.
Nanny Bet watching from the back door, cigarette in hand (she finally quit about five years ago).
Fresh-cut grass, sunblock and smoke fill my senses, and, of course, Dad’s aftershave.
My stomach thuds.
Nanny Bet watches me. ‘You’ll be happy again, Jack. You know that, don’t you?’
What?
‘You just called me Jack,’ I say.
Nanny Bet knots her brow. ‘Did I?’ She laughs. ‘My head’s away. Doesn’t help that you’re the spit of him. Well, apart from that mop of McCutcheon red hair.’
‘I guess.’
‘It’s true.’ She looks at me then, but not really at me. Her smile falters and my stomach lurches again. I can’t handle seeing her upset.
A silence settles between us. The buzzing of a lazy bee and the shouts of children on the street fill the space. There’s something else here, someone else. Dad is an invisible presence that can’t be ignored.
One of us has to say something.
I close my eyes and take the plunge. ‘What happened to him?’
The buzzing stops and the children’s game ends as though everyone needs to know the answer to this question.
Nanny Bet’s eyes soften and I lean in.
She takes a breath.
A large tortoiseshell cat leaps onto her lap, letting out a petulant yowl. She gasps like the air has been knocked out of her. ‘Oh, for fu—Fergal, you eejit!’
He meows and glares at me.
The question hangs unanswered. I open my mouth to ask it again, but the moment has passed. I know she wouldn’t have told me anything anyway. Nobody ever does.
‘Another time,’ she says as if reading my mind. ‘I’m going to feed his majesty here and make you a cup of tea. Biscuit?’
‘Sure.’
She heads to the kitchen, the cat padding after her with his tail held high.
I should be used to people avoiding any talk about Dad by now. His is the name that can’t be said. It’s like he isn’t allowed to exist, while at the same time he’s all we think about.
Or maybe that is just how I feel. Because they do talk about him, but behind closed doors, when I’m not in the room.
Like the whispered urgent fights my parents used to have late at night.
Their hissing words made my skin crawl almost as much as their forced displays of affection over breakfast the next day.
I was never allowed to be part of the troubles happening in my own home.
I’d hoped Nanny Bet would be different. She’s always been open and direct.
‘Dark chocolate OK?’ she calls from the kitchen.
Gross.
‘Yes, please.’
Politeness might be dishonest, but it’s what people expect.
My phone vibrates and my fingers tingle with the hope of a message from Ben. But it’s Cormac seeing when I’ll be back so we can head into town.
Not long
I drop my phone on the table and close my eyes, enjoying the sun on my face. I’m starting to relax when the needle of pain pricks at my neck and the light on my closed eyelids flares from peach to bright yellow.
I rub my forehead as the light intensifies. I stand up and the chair falls behind me with a crash.
‘Michael?’ Nanny Bet calls.
The pain is white hot now. ‘I’m fine,’ I gasp.
The smell of smoky earth and metal floods through me as the light flares again. My palms sweat and blood rushes in my ears. Heat hits me like I’ve opened an oven door, and my eyes fly open.
I freeze.
Standing by the garden fence is a soldier, pointing a rifle right at me.
I jump backwards and fall over the chair. My palm is punctured by grit as I scramble to my feet. The soldier is shouting but I can’t hear what he’s saying.
A figure steps alongside me.
A child.
A little boy, eight or nine years old.
‘Stay back,’ I call. But he ignores me.
The boy’s fists are clenched. A crow lands on the fence behind the soldier and caws.
Take a photo.
I grab my camera from my bag and switch it on.
‘Michael!’ Nanny Bet calls again.
I raise the camera.
The little boy turns and I gasp.
Dad?
He runs towards the soldier, and the crow on the fence raises its wings and screeches. The sound builds to an angry shriek and the smell of blood washes over me like a wave.
The camera slips from my hands.
As my body crumples, I hear the beat of wings. A voice whispers in my ear. ‘Rise.’