Chapter Ten
The only problem is, I haven’t had any visions.
Meg taps the notebook with her pen. On it is a list of scribbled-out places we’ve tried today that might have something to do with Dad.
Outside the secondary school he went to, different bits of the estate, a bar that he collected glasses in.
We went back to the Europa Hotel too, but saw nothing.
There was a riot following another anti-immigration protest in a town just outside of Belfast last night, so Meg suggested we didn’t go too far from the city centre.
We’re back sitting in Meg’s favourite cafe eating toasties, my feet aching from power-walking round Belfast.
‘Aren’t you worried about the fighting?’ I ask. ‘I heard there was a leisure centre burned down because evacuated refugees had been relocated there.’
She sighs. ‘It’s horrible, I know.’
I lean in. ‘Isn’t it scary? Like, should we be scared of the riots?’
Her smile is kind. ‘I think we’re just kinda used to it here.’
‘To violence or being scared?’
‘Both, a little bit.’ Meg touches her necklace. ‘Anyway, where do we try next?’
I frown at the change of subject. She does it as effortlessly as my parents.
‘I dunno.’ I’ve been trying to think of any other locations that might be connected to Dad, but he spoke so little about this place. A pang of guilt throbs in my chest as I realise I know so little about him. Should I have asked more questions?
No. I tried, but he wouldn’t talk about it.
‘Maybe we need to retrace our steps. Go back to places I saw the visions but can’t remember. So the docks and…’
Meg nods. ‘Your nan’s garden. You’ve definitely not seen any more visions since we were at her house?’
‘I don’t think so. But I guess I wouldn’t remember if I didn’t get a photo or write them down, right?’ I say. ‘This is messed up.’
She takes a slurp of her smoothie. ‘We’ll figure out the rules. We just have to go to the right places. Are you sure you can’t make it happen? Like, the past is all around us.’
‘I don’t think it works like that. I can’t summon it.’
‘Maybe we need to replace your magical batteries?’
‘Maybe.’
She drains her drink. ‘OK, so we hit the docks then your nan’s?’
I check my phone. There’s two messages from Mum and one from Cormac.
Shit.
‘Will have to be tomorrow. I have a family thing.’
‘Oh?’
‘Yeah, it’s my nan’s birthday. Mum’s mum. She wants to bring flowers to her grave.’
Meg’s eyes light up. ‘Can I come?’
‘What? To my nan’s grave? You didn’t know her.’
She blushes. ‘No, I mean to the graveyard. Just in case you see anything.’
‘What would I tell my family?’
‘I’ll hide until you see something.’
An electric chill passes through me and I gasp as a gravestone flashes in my mind.
Meg frowns. ‘What is it?’
‘Nothing, just a feeling.’
She grins. ‘A feeling that you need me to go to the graveyard?’
I close my eyes, trying to recall the image. But it was just a regular gravestone. Nothing strange about that, considering what we were talking about.
‘Michael?’ she says. ‘What is it?’
A tiny tingle prickles the back of my neck.
‘I think you’re right – you should come with me to the graveyard. There might be something there.’
‘So, you can sense where your power is going to work?’
‘Maybe.’
Meg beams as she clutches her acorn necklace. ‘This is amazing. I love graveyards.’
‘That’s very on-brand for you.’
As we pack up our things, I realise with a healthy dose of fear and excitement that it’s becoming quite on-brand for me too. I’m starting to enjoy this.
Meg gets a black taxi up to the graveyard, agreeing to wait outside until my family leave. I feel like I’m in a terrible spy film as I greet Mum and Tommy. I climb into the back seat, carefully placing the backpack with the camera equipment at my feet.
‘All right, cuz?’ asks Cormac. He’s wearing a black sweatshirt. Should I be wearing something black too? Is there a dress code for graveyards?
I grunt an answer then stare out the window as we drive through the grey stone arch of Milltown cemetery, resisting the urge to hum the Jurassic Park theme tune.
I find going to graveyards incredibly weird.
It’s not something we did in London, because, well, we don’t know that many people buried in them.
But ever since Granny and Granda McCutcheon died, Mum has always visited their grave when we’re here.
Their funerals were just a year apart and I didn’t really know how to behave at them.
I was too young. The main thing I remember is feeling lost at seeing Mum and Uncle Tommy so upset.
We park and walk through the graveyard, Mum’s arm linked in mine, a bunch of flowers in her other hand.
We pass graves with bouquets of fresh flowers laid out, one with a red glass candle holder – a brave tea light surviving the breeze – and even one with a battered pink teddy bear, which makes my stomach plummet.
Sadder still are the ones with nothing on them, barely legible names on the weather-beaten, weedtangled stone.
Maybe nobody’s alive to remember those people.
I blink that cheery thought away as we arrive at my grandparents’ gravestone. Their names, Liam and Marie McCutcheon, are engraved on the polished granite.
‘You’ve kept it lovely, Tommy,’ says Mum as she bends down to leave the flowers beside a statue of the Virgin Mary and a pot plant with pink flowers, Nanny Marie’s favourite colour.
Tommy puts an arm round her. Something about this place brings out a softer side in him. I remember the taut pain on his face as we all stood shivering by the grave at Granda Liam’s funeral, his arm gripped around Sheila as she held the hand of a three-year-old Fiona.
Cormac sniffs and I look away as he holds his hands together in a mumbled prayer.
My gaze settles on an older woman in a red coat clutching rosary beads in her wrinkled hands. A lump lodges in my throat as I imagine whose grave she’s at. A husband, a sibling, a child? Is she alone, like Nanny Bet?
‘You OK, love?’ says Mum.
‘Yeah, are you?’ I ask. My neck burns as I realise how stupid it is to ask that at the grave of her parents.
She smiles a little. ‘Yeah. I might just take a minute though.’
I nod and that’s when the pain pierces the back of my head. My hand flies up instinctively and Mum’s eyes widen in concern.
‘Thought it was a wasp,’ I say. ‘I’m going to go for a walk. See you back at the house.’
‘You don’t want a lift?’ says Tommy, frowning.
‘No. But thank you.’ The pain is getting worse, and in the corner of my eye a light is flaring. ‘It’s a nice day and I…love graveyards.’
What?
Mum and Tommy give me a look.
‘Don’t be heading into town again, OK?’ says Tommy. ‘Those buck eejits are playing up.’
‘I won’t. See you later.’
The light is shining from about a hundred metres away. As I start walking towards it, the smell of earth and blood mixed with salt fills the air.
I message Meg.
I’m having a vision!
I nod politely at the old woman in the red coat. She gives me a warm smile despite the pinkness round her eyes and the handkerchief knotted in her fingers.
The light is beaming from the clouds like a massive spotlight and I can make out shadowy forms within it.
Fuck.
It’s a funeral
My fingers tremble as I message Meg and send a live location link. I can make out about six silhouettes, crowded around a grave. As I get closer, the pain in my head builds and a drumming sound echoes in my ears.
Rain.
I can hear it so clearly. I don’t remember hearing anything in the other visions.
I see it now, sheets of rain falling on the gathered people.
Meg texts.
On my way
The people in the vision are dressed in black. One has his arms raised, a priest. The pain intensifies as I open my backpack and pull out the pinhole camera.
The rain is so loud now that I look up to make sure I’m not going to get soaked, but I see blue skies all around the spotlight of the vision, with its grey rain and stormy skies.
The people huddle together, faces lowered towards a coffin.
Something is laid over it. Green, white and orange.
An Irish flag, the tricolour. It flutters in the breeze, but is held in place by the pummelling rain.
A bunch of yellow flowers rests in a puddle of mud on the next grave.
I raise the camera and pull open the shutter. There’s a tap on my shoulder.
‘Fuck!’
‘What you doing, cuz?’ says Cormac, following my gaze.
Shit. Can he see it too?
As I turn towards him, a needle of pain skewers me in the temple.
‘Um, just looking at something.’
Cormac steps up beside me. ‘What?’
I let out a breath. He can’t see the vision. ‘Just a sec.’
The light is fading. A woman with dark hair has her hands over her face. Beside her is a teenager in a long black coat, his dark hair pasted to his scalp. His head is lowered but I know it’s him.
Nanny Bet and Dad.
I stumble forward, gripping the camera. The light is fading as I get closer. The coffin is being lowered into the grave by two men in black jackets. I focus on Dad, my urge to see him stronger than caring about how I look to Cormac.
The light fades before I reach him. The rainfall stops and I’m standing by a grave in the sunshine.
‘Mate, what’s going on? Why are you…?’ He clocks the grave. ‘Oh yeah, of course.’
The name on the gravestone reads Francis Emmanuel Kenny.
‘Granda Frank,’ I say.
‘You want some space?’ says Cormac.
I shake my head. ‘No, no, all good. I just… I’ve not been here before, to his grave.’
Cormac nods and we stand side by side. I replay the vision in my head. The coffin with a tricolour on it. Was that normal? My nan and dad huddled in the rain and the few other people standing around.
So few people.