Читать книгу A Thousand Roads Home: ‘A weepy but important book’ Cecelia Ahern - Carmel Harrington - Страница 20

Tom didn’t like to make plans. He preferred to see where life took him. Over the past ten years it had been full of surprises. He looked up to the grey sky and thought to himself that it was highly unlikely that this beautiful world was done surprising him yet. Take today. On a whim, he hopped on the 41C bus. And on another whim, he jumped off in Swords village and decided to sleep there tonight. It had been years since he’d done that. He preferred to stay close to Fairview Park, the place he called home now. It was getting late. He walked over a stone bridge in the centre of this historic town, looking down at leaves drifting along the inky-blue water of the River Ward with its green grass banks on either side. Bette Davis sniffed an empty Coke can that poked its head through a cluster of weeds that sagged towards the river, as if in protest at the intrusion.

The sun had shone all day, a fine day for an Irish autumn, but even so, he pulled the collar of his grey overcoat upwards to form a barrier between the breeze and the back of his neck. He’d had a haircut last week and the hairdresser had been scissor happy. The haircut was a trade with Winnie, a woman he met in the Peter McVerry Trust. She was a semi-regular there like himself and they often chatted in the dining hall, both enjoying a good debate. As they discussed the horrific shooting that had occurred that month in Las Vegas, he’d noticed a gash on her hand, red and angry. Winnie was a proud woman and she would not allow him to clean and dress her wound unless she gave him something in return. A haircut was agreed.

Tom remembered another evening, years before, when he had driven over this same bridge in search of a petrol station. Cathy and he were on a road trip to Belfast and long before Applegreen Services were built to feed and water the travelling nation, diversions to small towns to hunt for fuel were the norm. The car radio was on. Cathy was singing along to a song with Gary Barlow and his Take That pals. What was it? Tom started to hum, trying to remember the lyrics, knowing it would irritate him for days until he remembered what it was.

Tom looked to his left where the ruins of a castle lay and where he’d spent a large proportion of today. Then to his right where shops and flats lined the path. The town was still busy, cars whizzing by the Main Street pavement. End-of-the-day shoppers and pedestrians moved fast with their heads down. He walked in the opposite direction. Away from all of that. He wanted a quieter area to settle down for the evening. As he explored the estates that surrounded the town the sun began to set. Headlights flooded the roads as cars made their way home after a busy day at work. He wandered into a large housing estate, which had a small cluster of shops in the middle of it. He looked at every doorway and entrance to see if he could find just the right spot to make his own for the night. Bingo. A doorway with a deep inset. Perfect. It belonged to a pharmacy that was now closed for the evening and would give him and Bette great shelter. He laid his rucksack down, guessing he’d walked nearly five or six kilometres today in all. They were both bone tired.

He heard footsteps before the shadow of their owner appeared around the corner. Bette’s ears pricked up and she whined. ‘Ssh,’ Tom commanded, and she laid her head down on his feet.

Tom watched a slender figure, dressed in black, walk their way. It had a hoody pulled up over its head. It covered half of the face so it was difficult to decipher gender. But there was something about the swagger that told tales on its owner. It was all boy, that swagger. A nervous one, at that, the way he looked around every few seconds as he walked.

Tom pondered his next move. He’d just found this sweet spot. He was warm and content exactly as he was. But experience had taught him that it was sensible to be upright when a young fella in a hoody walked by. He hated stereotypes with a passion, but as he’d had four different incidents with ‘hoodies’, all of which Tom came out of the worst, he felt he was justified. Before he had a chance to stand up, the figure walked by. He glanced towards where Tom stood with unseeing eyes. Tom realised that the shadowy inlet hid him.

Where was the hoody going? He watched him walk across the street and then stop in front of a block of flats. Maybe he was meeting some friends who lived here. If that was the case maybe it was time for Tom to make a move, find somewhere else to sleep for the night.

The boy had now come to a standstill in front of the long brick wall that surrounded the small concrete yard which sat in front of the flats. His rucksack now pulled off his back, he did another jerky scan of his surroundings. Every move was angry. He placed two spray-paint cans onto the ground beside him.

Tom felt the tension seep away from his shoulders. This boyo was likely working on his own. He’d do his thing, then with any luck piss off and Tom could start his evening meal. One he’d been looking forward to for hours now.

The trouble was he found he couldn’t take his eyes off the boy, who was staring at the walls of the flats, his head cocked to one side. Then when a car backfired from somewhere in the estate, the kid jumped at least two feet off the ground, landing with a thud and a clatter, dropping his cans. He glanced Tom’s way, again unseeing, but this time Tom managed to catch a look at the boy’s face. He was no more than ten or eleven. He looked scared. Something told Tom that he wasn’t watching a seasoned graffiti artist.