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Authors: Stuart Neville
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volume down until they were mute, opening and closing their mouths like cattle chewing cud.
Ciaran Devine was out, like his brother two years before him. And there wasn’t a thing in the world Daniel could do about it. When the Probation Board had contacted him this time, he hadn’t even responded. It had done no good when Thomas Devine was up for release. He had emptied his heart to them, told them exactly what the brothers’ actions had cost him, but it made no difference. They had let him go anyway.
At the time, Thomas’s release hadn’t been much more than a ripple on the surface of Daniel’s life. He wasn’t happy about it, but what could he do? Nothing, he told himself, quite reasonably. He’d had no desire to track Thomas down, to confront him, to ask him why.
But then, weekend before last, Ciaran’s photograph on the front of the newspaper. Daniel had been in the newsagent’s, getting the papers when he saw the headline on one of the local weeklies.
He remembered shaking, dropping the newspapers he’d already selected. His bladder suddenly aching for release. He was a child again, that disorienting shock of the world shifting beneath his feet as his mother told him what had happened. All over again, the years between then and now compressing into nothing.
Why had Ciaran’s release hit him this way, and not Thomas’s? Daniel couldn’t explain it to Niamh, though he did try. She had hugged and comforted him as he tried to articulate it, but his thoughts got ground up in his anger until he could make no sense of them, let alone share them with someone else.
Nine months those boys spent in his parents’ house. His house. Except it was never really his house.
Something had gone wrong when Daniel was born, his mother had tried to explain it to him, something to do with her womb. He had almost died inside her. It left her unable to have more children. Whenever he tried to complain about another foster child coming to his home, to eat at his table, to share his toys, his mother reminded him that his birth meant he would have no brothers or sisters, so she wanted to care for the children that most needed it. As if their invading his family were a punishment for the ruin he’d left in her belly.
‘Not every child’s as lucky as you,’ she would say, and she would give him that cold stare. And he would try to embrace her, and she would shrug him off and tell him not to be fussing round her, he was a big boy now.
So he would be polite and smile as another boy or girl arrived. He would help him or her carry their bags to his or her room. Show them his PlayStation, his games, the garden, how to work the TV and the DVD player.
Each newcomer would stay anything from a few weeks to a year, but only ever one at a time.
Until the brothers came.
Daniel had turned fourteen a few weeks earlier. He had more than two years on Ciaran, but only six months on Thomas. And Thomas was taller, with hard hands. It wasn’t so bad when the foster kids were smaller. They would stay out of his things and out of his way. But not the bigger kids. They came from the rough areas, knew how to fight, didn’t cry when they got hurt. They knew Daniel for a weakling the moment they saw him, and they knew everything that was his was now theirs.
‘Don’t be selfish,’ his mother would say. ‘Look at all the things you have. Learn how to share.’
But there was no sharing. Not with the older kids. There was only taking.
Thomas had made Daniel’s position clear two days after arriving. Daniel had found him in the kitchen, taking a biscuit.
‘You’re supposed to ask,’ Daniel had said. He lingered in the doorway, feeling his own kitchen had become their territory, and he an intruder.
Thomas and Ciaran had been respectful and polite since they’d taken the spare bedroom. Especially Ciaran, who stuck by his brother’s side like a ghost that haunted the living. He had sat there at the table, eating the biscuit his brother
Ciaran Devine was out, like his brother two years before him. And there wasn’t a thing in the world Daniel could do about it. When the Probation Board had contacted him this time, he hadn’t even responded. It had done no good when Thomas Devine was up for release. He had emptied his heart to them, told them exactly what the brothers’ actions had cost him, but it made no difference. They had let him go anyway.
At the time, Thomas’s release hadn’t been much more than a ripple on the surface of Daniel’s life. He wasn’t happy about it, but what could he do? Nothing, he told himself, quite reasonably. He’d had no desire to track Thomas down, to confront him, to ask him why.
But then, weekend before last, Ciaran’s photograph on the front of the newspaper. Daniel had been in the newsagent’s, getting the papers when he saw the headline on one of the local weeklies.
He remembered shaking, dropping the newspapers he’d already selected. His bladder suddenly aching for release. He was a child again, that disorienting shock of the world shifting beneath his feet as his mother told him what had happened. All over again, the years between then and now compressing into nothing.
Why had Ciaran’s release hit him this way, and not Thomas’s? Daniel couldn’t explain it to Niamh, though he did try. She had hugged and comforted him as he tried to articulate it, but his thoughts got ground up in his anger until he could make no sense of them, let alone share them with someone else.
Nine months those boys spent in his parents’ house. His house. Except it was never really his house.
Something had gone wrong when Daniel was born, his mother had tried to explain it to him, something to do with her womb. He had almost died inside her. It left her unable to have more children. Whenever he tried to complain about another foster child coming to his home, to eat at his table, to share his toys, his mother reminded him that his birth meant he would have no brothers or sisters, so she wanted to care for the children that most needed it. As if their invading his family were a punishment for the ruin he’d left in her belly.
‘Not every child’s as lucky as you,’ she would say, and she would give him that cold stare. And he would try to embrace her, and she would shrug him off and tell him not to be fussing round her, he was a big boy now.
So he would be polite and smile as another boy or girl arrived. He would help him or her carry their bags to his or her room. Show them his PlayStation, his games, the garden, how to work the TV and the DVD player.
Each newcomer would stay anything from a few weeks to a year, but only ever one at a time.
Until the brothers came.
Daniel had turned fourteen a few weeks earlier. He had more than two years on Ciaran, but only six months on Thomas. And Thomas was taller, with hard hands. It wasn’t so bad when the foster kids were smaller. They would stay out of his things and out of his way. But not the bigger kids. They came from the rough areas, knew how to fight, didn’t cry when they got hurt. They knew Daniel for a weakling the moment they saw him, and they knew everything that was his was now theirs.
‘Don’t be selfish,’ his mother would say. ‘Look at all the things you have. Learn how to share.’
But there was no sharing. Not with the older kids. There was only taking.
Thomas had made Daniel’s position clear two days after arriving. Daniel had found him in the kitchen, taking a biscuit.
‘You’re supposed to ask,’ Daniel had said. He lingered in the doorway, feeling his own kitchen had become their territory, and he an intruder.
Thomas and Ciaran had been respectful and polite since they’d taken the spare bedroom. Especially Ciaran, who stuck by his brother’s side like a ghost that haunted the living. He had sat there at the table, eating the biscuit his brother
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