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he seemed to have suffered some already. I could even have killed him. I tried hard to think about Cian’s good qualities. That took up most of my time. Eventually, I remembered that he was very generous about sharing his crisps at lunchtime. He always offered them around straight away as soon as he opened the bag. He didn’t wait until the bag was nearly empty and there were only teeny, bitty crisps left at the bottom, like some other kids did.
    I felt genuine remorse about my attempted murder. So, I had no problem apologising to him when I went back to school, but it still rankles that he never apologised to me. If it were not for Michael Collins and other brave Irish men and women, Ireland would still be a little British colony and the Tiernans would be nothing but indentured servants. I am not entirely sure what ‘indentured’ means but it sounds right.

Chapter 10
    S cott took me with him up to the Bronx yesterday to visit a lame horse at the Riverside stables in Van Cortlandt Park. Through the open doors of the inside arena, we watched a mothers’ and daughters’ group having a riding lesson.
    ‘Oh no!’ groaned Scott. ‘I think that woman on the chestnut mare is Christina Morgan, one of my more committed stalkers. I don’t know why I am such a magnet for bored divorcees.’
    ‘Joanna says it might have something to do with your James Bond complex,’ I replied.
    ‘That’s a compliment,’ Scott said cheerfully.
    ‘I don’t think anything with the word “complex” in it is a compliment. And maybe if you didn’t always look like you stepped off the cover of GQ magazine, you would have less worries about stalkers.’
    ‘GQ!’ said Scott with a low whistle. ‘Not bad. I can’t help knowing how to dress, and I buy the GQs for the clients!’
    My mouth dropped open.
    ‘Yeah, sure, the people who come into the clinic, like Mr Fannelli, are
so
GQ readers.’
    Scott pulled off his brown aviator sunglasses and squinted as he peered closer at the riders.
    ‘It’s not Christina,’ he said with relief, ‘just some woman who must visit the same hairdresser for her extensions. Let’s go find this lame horse.’
    One of the grooms led us into the stalls, explaining that the horse had just arrived that morning and he had noticed she was lame. He suspected laminitis. I had never seen a real horse up close before. One time in Dingle, when I was a little kid, I had a ride on a very sweet white donkey called Noddy. But the nearest I have been to a horse was the plastic contraption masquerading as a horse in the play
War Horse
that Mum’s friend, David produced in a theatre in Belfast last autumn.
    The groom led a mare, Bobbi, out of her stall. She was dapple grey with a black mane and markings from her hooves to half way up her knees that looked like black socks. I patted her gently on her neck and she nuzzled her face into me. I inhaled the smell – the intensely warm, comforting, sweetish smell of horse and hay feed. Almost instantaneously, I felt the
Joy To The World sha la la la
feeling, except it was a quieter, calmer, feeling, like lowercase
joy to the world
and minus the
sha la la la
bit.
    Looking up from the hoof he was examining, Scott half smiled and half-laughed at me.
    ‘You get it, Evie. I knew you would. People get horses or they don’t. There are no in-betweens.’
    I nodded slowly. I get it. At least, I think I get it.
    ‘Will she be ok?’ I asked anxiously.
    Scott straightened up.
    ‘It is laminitis but we have caught it early. She should be ok after a few months.’
    As he discussed treatment with the groom, I patted Bobbi on her face and scratched her ears, talking soothing nonsense with her. She seemed to like it.
    ‘Would you like to start riding lessons, Evie?’ Scott asked.
    I swung around.
    ‘WOULD I? Yes, yes, yes, I would LOVE it!’ I said, doing a little half-jump, half-skip.
    ‘Ok, we’ll get you started. They have classes for beginners on Sunday mornings.’
    ‘But