Read the book: «A Thousand Roads Home»

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Epigraph

Prologue

Chapter 1. RUTH

Chapter 2. RUTH

Chapter 3. RUTH

Chapter 4. TOM

Chapter 5. RUTH

Chapter 6. RUTH

Chapter 7. RUTH

Chapter 8. TOM

Chapter 9. RUTH

Chapter 10. RUTH

Chapter 11. RUTH

Chapter 12. TOM

Chapter 13. TOM

Chapter 14. RUTH

Chapter 15. RUTH

Chapter 16. TOM

Chapter 17. TOM

Chapter 18. TOM

Chapter 19. RUTH

Chapter 20. TOM

Chapter 21. RUTH

Chapter 22. TOM

Chapter 23. RUTH

Chapter 24. RUTH

Chapter 25. TOM

Chapter 26. TOM

Chapter 27. RUTH

Chapter 28. TOM

Chapter 29. TOM

Chapter 30. RUTH

Chapter 31. TOM

Chapter 32. RUTH

Chapter 33. RUTH

Chapter 34. RUTH

Chapter 35. RUTH

Chapter 36. RUTH

Chapter 37. TOM

Chapter 38. TOM

Chapter 39. RUTH

Chapter 40. TOM

Chapter 41. TOM

Chapter 42. RUTH

Chapter 43. TOM

Chapter 44. RUTH

Chapter 45. TOM

Chapter 46. TOM

Chapter 47. TOM

Chapter 48. RUTH

Chapter 49. RUTH

Chapter 50. TOM

Chapter 51

Chapter 52. TOM

Chapter 53. TOM

Chapter 54. TOM

Chapter 55. TOM

Chapter 56. TOM

Chapter 57. TOM

Chapter 58. RUTH

Epilogue

Christmas at the Silver Sands Lodge

A Note from the Author

Book Club Questions

Keep Reading …

About the Author

Also by Carmel Harrington

About the Publisher

PROLOGUE

Then

Ruth fastened the seat belt around her newborn son’s car seat. She tugged it twice to double-check it was secure. Little DJ puckered his lips and smiled as he chased his dreams, the way babies do.

She switched the engine on and drove away from the only world she knew. But she was not sorry. It was just her and her son now. Whilst there was fear, there was excitement, too. It was time for a new beginning. She looked in the rear-view mirror to ensure her sleeping son was as he should be. She would do this many times until they arrived at their new flat in Dublin.

Ruth Wilde had always been a person with obsessions: Odd Thomas, who was both her imaginary best friend and the main character from her favourite book written by Dean Koontz (she would soon finish this book for the hundred and fourth time); Westlife, her number-one favourite band, whose song ‘Flying without Wings’ helped her drown out the white noise and anxiety whenever it threatened to overcome her; mashed potatoes, white sliced loaf, bananas, ice cream – in fact any food that was white in colour; counting steps, always even.

Yes, Ruth Wilde did obsessions very well.

And now she had a new one. The most important one of all.

Her son.

She would be a good mother. She would fight for DJ when he could not fight for himself. She would keep him safe from the dangers that lurked in the dark shadows. She would make him laugh at least once a day. And she would love him as she had never been loved herself.

Yes, it was time. Ruth was ready to leave Wexford to make a new home for her family.

‘Just the two of us against the world, DJ,’ she whispered. She hit play on her CD player, letting Shane from Westlife’s voice fill the car. The words from, ‘Flying Without Wings’ had never felt more apt. For as long as Ruth had thought, she too had been looking for that something. Something to make her complete. She glanced at DJ again in the rear-view mirror and felt joyful satisfaction bubble its way up inside her.

If she had not chosen that exact second to do this, she might have noticed instead the man she’d just passed, walking with a rucksack on his back. And she might have stopped.

Tom did not notice the red car pass by him either, as he walked along the Estuary Road towards the N11. His head was full of the warnings his friend Ben had made earlier. They nipped and taunted him, whirling around in his brain, tangling everything up, until he could no longer make sense of anything.

‘If you don’t find something to light up the darkness, Tom, you’ll get lost in the shadows.’

But what if that was what he wanted? Tom didn’t believe he would ever feel peace again. He was bone tired from weeks of sleepless nights. Despite this, he kept on walking, putting one foot in front of the other. His pace was steady and a few hours later he arrived in the town of Enniscorthy. Tom’s feet were beginning to protest about the long walk. A throb in his right little toe and left heel set up residence. He welcomed the pain.

He walked over the Seamus Rafter Bridge, leaving the banks of the River Slaney behind him. He glanced at Enniscorthy Castle on his right then made his way towards Main Street.

It was late, the last of the daylight now swallowed up by the night. He didn’t plan to end up here, but somehow he’d found himself in the grounds of St Aidan’s Cathedral. He walked to a small clearing in the shadow of the big church and sat down, his back against the cold stone wall.

For in that sleep of death what dreams will come. That’s what Shakespeare had written. Tom hoped he was right. Because if so, Cathy was living the life they had dreamed they would have. The life that had been cruelly snatched from them. Wouldn’t that be something?

Close your eyes.

– Cathy?

Yes, my love.

– Are you here?

Remember what I told you. If you close your eyes, the dreams will come.

– I don’t know how.

Yes, you do. We’re waiting for you, Tom. Come home to us.

Tom didn’t make a conscious decision to sleep outdoors. The night just crept up on him. To his surprise, on the hard, concrete ground with the cold brick of the Cathedral to his back, he finally found a different kind of peace and the sleep that had eluded him for weeks.

And in that sleep the dreams did come.

Cathy stood a few feet away from him, carrying Mikey. He ran towards them and pulled them both into his arms.

Daddy’s home. I’ll never leave you again.

1
RUTH

Now

‘Err, what’s it supposed to be, Mam?’ DJ asked.

Ruth flicked on her tablet and pointed to an image on Pinterest. Their eyes flicked back and forth between the green chequered fondant perfectly encasing the square Minecraft cake on screen, and the mound of brown, black and green smudged squares that covered Ruth’s cake in front of them. Four hours of baking, dyeing fondant, cutting, moulding. And for all that effort she had what looked like a patchwork quilt made by a four-year-old. Ten candles leaned to the left, perilously close to a sugary grave.

It was DJ’s tenth birthday. A milestone that deserved celebrating. And not with a big mess of a cake. Was he cross with her? She peered at her son’s face, trying to determine his mood, as he contemplated the cake in front of him. His face broke into a big grin and he pointed to the tablet screen, then back to Ruth’s cake, and said, ‘Nailed it!’

Ruth repeated his words with relief and then they both said it together, ‘Nailed it!’, each time making them snort a little louder. This went on until they clutched their sides, the pain from a laughter stitch doubling them over.

‘Thanks for trying, Mam. It probably tastes all right. But don’t give up the day job!’

Ruth felt a rush of emotion for the boy DJ was now and the man he was on his way to becoming. The past ten years had gone too quickly. One moment a baby in her arms. Now, on the brink of opening a door to adulthood.

‘You have to blow out the candles,’ Ruth said.

‘Aren’t I too old for that?’

‘Never too old for candles and wishes.’ Ruth lit the wonky wax sticks one by one.

His nose scrunched up as it always did when he was thinking. His father had done the same too. She remembered that much, even if some things had become a bit faded with time. A shared mannerism between father and son despite the fact that they had never met.

‘Make a wish, DJ,’ Ruth whispered.

With one big puff, DJ blew out the ten candles all at once, as Ruth sang ‘Happy Birthday To You’.

She reached under the kitchen table and pulled out a basket of gifts all wrapped prettily in blue paper with a perfectly formed red bow tied on top. DJ quickly counted them. Ten. His mam always bought him a gift for each year, even though he always told her she shouldn’t.

‘Thanks, Mam,’ he said, ripping the paper from the first parcel.

Ruth’s eyes never left him, drinking in his every reaction as he opened the gifts one by one. A football jersey, a journal, a Rubik’s Cube, a book, artist’s pencils, a sketch pad, a bar of Galaxy, a new T-shirt, and a pair of bright, stripy socks.

‘I know what this one is,’ DJ said, as he pulled the paper off the last gift. He nodded in satisfaction when it revealed a book of raffle tickets. A sticker, with a message written in Ruth’s neat handwriting, covered the front of the book: One strip can be redeemed for a hug at any time. He didn’t have a birthday memory that didn’t include a version of this gift. He had never spoken about this arrangement with his friends in school, suspecting, correctly, that they would find it strange. It was just the way it was with him and his mam.

DJ felt her eyes on him, as he picked up his new football shirt, and a lump jumped into his throat. His mam must have been saving for ages to get him that jersey. It was the real deal. Not a cheap copy from the market. He pulled a strip out of the book and handed it to her.

Ruth folded it in two, then placed it in her jeans pocket. She opened her arms to her son and held him close in her embrace, breathing in his unique smell. Mud, milk, bananas and tonight, because of his earlier treat, pepperoni pizza.

Ruth knew that there would come a day when raffle tickets would no longer be needed. Previous years she had to buy new books halfway through the year, such was the demand for her cuddles. But when she had checked her son’s bedside locker last week, she realised that a quarter of his ninth birthday book was unused. She closed her mind to that. Because right now in this moment, she was his and he was hers.

‘Hey! How did you do that?’ DJ asked when the lights in the flat went out.

Ruth’s stomach sank. Not again. She stood up and counted her steps to the kitchen. She continued counting until she got to eight, then pulled open a drawer, reaching for her torch. She flicked it on and investigated the ESB box. Please let it be a trip switch. Her silent pleas fell on deaf ears. All switches were upright and correct. ‘We have been cut off.’

‘It doesn’t matter,’ DJ said by her side, reaching for her hands that had begun to fly in frustration at this turn of events. ‘We can watch the movie another time.’

‘I get paid tomorrow. I was going to pay the bill then.’ Ruth popped her knuckles in frustration. Her phone pinged to let her know she had a text message, its blue light flashing on the kitchen table. It was from Seamus Kearns, her landlord.

I will be calling at the flat next Friday at 6pm.

She turned her phone upside down.

‘All OK?’

Ruth nodded and pushed aside a niggling feeling of unease. This was DJ’s night. Ruth would deal with the landlord tomorrow.

‘We can still eat cake, even in the dark!’ DJ said, pulling two plates from the cabinet.

Ruth held the torch over her son as he cut a large wedge of the cake. Then he reached up into the larder press and felt his way until he found his target. Rice cakes. He took two out and put them on the second plate. Ruth grabbed a bag of tea lights and lit a dozen of them, placing them around the sitting room. They sat side by side on the small sofa, balancing their treats on their knees. With a mouthful of the cake, DJ said, ‘Knew it. Tastes great.’

Ruth shuddered just thinking about putting a mouthful of that green mess into her mouth. Knowing how hard it must have been for his mother to touch food that wasn’t white, DJ said, ‘I can’t believe you made this cake for me, Mam.’

‘I would do anything for you, DJ. Always remember that.’ And they inched a little closer to each other.

His eyes, now accustomed to the near darkness, took in the birthday banners that hung from each corner of the room. The multi-coloured balloons that seemed to dance in the candlelight. The empty pizza box. The gifts. His mam. And while he didn’t know it yet, this birthday was the one that, for the rest of his life, he would look back on as his best.

2
RUTH

The day Ruth Wilde and her son, DJ, became homeless was just an ordinary day in Dublin. The sun poked its head through the grey clouds of an autumnal sky. Cars drove by at a snail’s pace, bumper to bumper in their early morning commute.

One, two, three … Ruth began counting steps to herself as she walked down the driveway in front of her flat.

For most, it was just another thank-crunchie-it’s-Friday morning in the suburbs. For Ruth it was a day of despair. Her world, her normal, was falling apart. She was not prepared for the unknown future that lay ahead. With every change that was flung at her, she felt like she was moving closer to the edge of an abyss.

… ten, eleven, twelve …

And for Ruth, who lived her life in quiet, isolated order with her son, the abyss looked impossible to cross. Taking a leap of faith was not in her psyche. Ruth needed to prepare, to understand, to know before she undertook anything new. That way she had time to build a bridge, if you like, that would take her safely to the other side.

… nineteen, twenty, twenty-one …

She looked up and down the road, seeing it with new eyes that told her danger lay ahead.

… twenty-five, twenty-six, twenty-seven …

The end of the driveway. She took one more step, then breathed the last number with relief.

Twenty-eight. As it should be; as it had been for four years now.

Ruth placed two black sacks beside the ugly but serviceable suitcases she’d left there moments before. Not much to show for her thirty years in this world. Running her hands over the cases, she felt a moment of sympathy for them. When it came to the luggage lottery they lucked out. While other suitcases got to travel the world, hers were used only to transport meagre possessions from rented house to rented house. So many moves over the past ten years since they arrived in Dublin. The plan had been to stay here until they were given a council house. Now there was a new plan. She just did not know what it was yet.

Ruth felt her son’s presence before she saw him. He had this weird energy lately that filled the air between them: a mixture of disappointment, anger and, she supposed, fear. None of which she knew how to alleviate.

‘You should be in school,’ Ruth said, watching the patterns of the cracks in the pavement. She had dropped him there earlier this morning, then went for her usual early morning run. She never needed the escapism running gave her more than she did today.

His response was to kick the concrete path with the toe of his scuffed runners. He’d had another growth spurt over the past couple of weeks. School tracksuit bottoms were almost at the point of embarrassment for him, barely grazing the tops of his shoes. She would have to get to Penneys at some point to pick up a pair. And then a thought hit her hard. How will I clean his uniform if we have no home of our own, no washing machine?

She felt guilt flood over her again. She had let him down just as her mother had predicted she would. A spectacular failure of a parent. She cracked the knuckle on her ring finger and felt tension release as she heard a familiar pop, pop, pop.

‘Sorry,’ she said, when DJ made a face. She knew the noise irritated him. But this quirk had been embedded in her for as long as she had a memory. It proved hard to say goodbye to.

‘Why are you looking all weird at the cases?’ DJ asked. He gave the one nearest to him a kick.

‘I feel sorry for them,’ Ruth said, pushing them away from DJ’s feet, which were hell-bent on causing damage right now.

‘That’s weird. You do know that, right?’ DJ asked.

‘Yes.’

You used to like my weirdness. Please do not stop.

‘Is that it, then? We’re really leaving now?’ DJ said.

‘Yes.’ Her culpability crippled her. She had promised him that they were done moving around when they had found this flat four years previously. But she made that promise without the knowledge that eviction lay in their future.

‘I never liked it here anyway. It’s a dump,’ DJ lied.

‘I liked it,’ Ruth answered softly. ‘And while it was not much, it was our dump.’

‘So what next?’ His voice made a lie of his earlier bravado, the tremor showing his truth. He was a scared kid who didn’t want to leave his house, his bedroom, his life.

‘Right now you need to go back to school. We have talked about this. I will collect you later on. After my meeting with the council in Parkgate Hall. I will come and get you. You have my word,’ Ruth said.

‘I’m not going to school today.’ DJ was matter-of-fact, and when she didn’t answer him he turned to her. ‘You can’t make me go in.’

‘Yes I can,’ Ruth replied.

‘Well, maybe, but you need me with you, Mam. You know how you get when you’re stressed. Let me help. Let me go with you to the council.’

‘I will not say the wrong thing.’

DJ had heard his mother rehearse possible scenarios for this day dozens of times. He’d watched her struggle to stay calm, with the sound of her pops cracking in the air, as her knuckle-cracking habit exacerbated. The fear that the council would not have somewhere safe for them danced around them both. But DJ could not give in to that. He was no longer a baby. He had to be strong for his mam. She needed him.

‘It’s not fair to expect me to sit through double maths when all I’m thinking about is you and where we will sleep tonight,’ DJ whispered.

Ruth nodded in agreement. ‘None of this is fair.’

Her reasoning that it was better for him to miss all of this was perhaps misguided. She took in every part of him, from the frown on his face to the hunch of his shoulders, and felt her love for him overtake everything else. ‘Do you need a hug?’ Ruth asked, taking a step backwards.

If he said yes, she would pull him into her embrace and whilst she did so, she would count to ten, before letting him go. That’s just the way it was for them, and on a normal day that didn’t bother him. But today was not normal. For once, just once, DJ wished she would hug him without question. Without a raffle ticket.

‘It’s OK.’ DJ turned away from the look of relief on her face.

‘You can stay with me. I will write a letter for your teacher tomorrow morning,’ Ruth said.

‘Thanks.’ He felt some of his irritation slip away.

Their Uber arrived and the driver jumped out of the car, looking at their luggage with dismay. ‘This all yours, love?’

‘Correct.’

‘We’ll be doing well to fit this in the boot,’ he complained, picking up the black sacks. ‘You should have ordered a people carrier.’

‘Put the suitcases in first and you will have adequate space,’ Ruth pointed out what seemed startlingly obvious to her.

‘Listen to my mam. She’s good with stuff like this,’ DJ said, when the driver ignored her. DJ helped him do as Ruth suggested. With one last shove, the boot closed with a loud bang.

‘Told you,’ DJ said. He liked proving his mother right. Had she even noticed? He didn’t think so.

Ruth and DJ turned to look one last time at the home they had lived in for the past four years. Anger flashed over DJ’s face once more and Ruth shuddered as his features changed. Cold. Angry. Disappointed.

‘Stop staring at me,’ he complained.

Ruth ignored him and only looked away when his face returned to normal.

That’s better. He looked just like his father again. They got into the car and she turned her head to look out the window. Had things been different, if she had never met DJ’s father, his namesake, they might not be in this situation. But then she would have no DJ – arguably a fate much worse, because without her son, she had nothing.

As the car moved away from their old life, she said, ‘I am so sorry.’

‘You keep saying that,’ DJ said.

‘Because it is true.’

DJ sighed, something that Ruth noted he did with increasing regularity. The stress of the past month had made sighing part of his new normal. It was funny how sounds could bring you back to another time. Back to her childhood home where life had been full of sighs. The thing was, despite their regularity, they had the power to cut her each and every time.

The first sigh she could remember was at her four-years-old developmental check-up in the local health centre in Castlebridge, Wexford. Her mother had dressed Ruth in her best dress, a burnt-orange tweed pinafore. She had thick black tights on underneath, which scratched her legs and made her cry. Her mother had sighed and asked, ‘Why must you always be so difficult?’

Ruth did not like seeing her mother upset so she pinched herself hard and tried to make the tears stop. She wanted her mother to look at her with different eyes. With love.

On the way to the health centre, her parents coached her. They were second-guessing what the nurse would ask Ruth. She had tried to listen to her parents’ instructions, determined to succeed, to win, to not be a loser again. But with every question they threw at her and every answer Ruth offered up, she saw her parents throw furtive glances at each other. She could sense that something was not quite right. She wanted to be at home again in her bedroom, wearing her soft pyjamas that were made of pink fleece. She liked how they felt on her skin. They did not itch or scratch like her tights and dress, and they made her feel safe. She wanted to go back to her picture book and read about Angelina Ballerina. Instead she had to sit in a cold waiting room with hard plastic chairs and dirty floors while her parents told her to act like a normal child.

‘I want to go home,’ Ruth decided, and she felt her arms begin to fly. She wished she was a bird so she could disappear into the blue sky. Back home. Back to safety. Back to her normal.

Her mother’s exasperated sigh filled the air with tension. ‘Oh, Ruth, stop that right now. People will stare! Why must you always be so difficult?’

Ruth had sat on her hands, shamed, scared and tearful.

A lifetime of sighs and sorrys. Now her son was in on the act, too.

‘DJ,’ she whispered, and her hand hovered in the centre of the car, in the space between them. Only a few inches away from each other yet it felt like an unbridgeable gulf. She let her hand drop into her lap and she looked back out through the window.

3
RUTH

‘It’s not your fault,’ DJ said, finally, in a voice that was older and more knowing than it had any business to be. ‘It’s Seamus Kearns. I hate him. The … the … fucker.’

Ruth looked at her young son in shock. Had he just said that? DJ’s honest, innocent face jarred with his foul language. She was not naïve enough to believe that he had never used bad language before, but this … this really was out of character. One of the rules of their family was that they had a swear-free home. As much for her as him because, in truth, she enjoyed a good expletive.

Ruth wanted so much for DJ: an education, friends, social acceptance, a life without offence. Because offending people had been, and still was, a regular occurrence for her.

‘Hate is a strong word, DJ,’ Ruth said. Had it been any other day, she would have been cross with him. But she had to concede that on a day that involved losing your home, a few concessions had to be made.

‘You hate him, too,’ DJ said.

‘That is incorrect. I would say I abhor his actions. But hate is a negative, angry and all-encompassing emotion. He is not worthy of taking up that much space in my head. Or yours.’

DJ’s resentment filled the air between them, contaminating their close unit. She felt at a loss, knowing that she must, as the adult, find a way for them both to get through this. She turned to face him, then moved her hand an inch closer to his, letting her fingertips brush the top of his. He looked down and she saw a ghost of a smile inch its way back onto his face. He squeezed her hand for a moment then released it back to her lap.

It was a start. She would find a way to do better.

DJ turned his attention back to the blur of Dublin as they drove through the city. Their taxi came to a halt at a pedestrian crossing. Ruth looked up and watched an old man, unshaven and dirty, wearing a long grey overcoat, begin to cross the road. By his side was a dog with a long and silky strawberry-blonde coat. The man raised his hand in small salute to the taxi driver, thanking him for waiting. He walked slowly, with a slight limp on his right leg. He had a rucksack on his back and something about him – his clothes, his hair, the collar of his coat turned up to protect him from the chill in the air – brought a lump to Ruth’s throat.

Where is he going? Does he have a home?

Then a car behind them blasted its horn, impatient to get on with its journey. They all jumped in unison, including the dog, who stopped suddenly, causing the old man to crash into it. Like a deck of cards, he tripped and fell to the ground, his rucksack spilling its contents onto the road.

‘Probably pissed,’ the Uber driver said, looking with annoyance in his rear-view window at the car behind, whose driver continued to blast the horn.

‘His dog tripped him up,’ Ruth said, feeling the need to defend the old man. She watched a red-and-white flask escape his rucksack and roll towards their car.

‘Where you going?’ DJ asked in surprise when Ruth opened her door.

‘To help.’ She ran over to the flask and picked it up before it disappeared under their car.

‘That’s mine!’ the old man shouted at her, back on his feet again.

Ruth shook the flask gently to see if it had broken, relieved to hear only the swoosh of liquid inside, not broken shards.

‘It is unharmed,’ she said, handing it over to him. His boots were brown. Scuffed and worn. Like him.

He stuffed the flask back into his rucksack, looking at her curiously. Was she imagining it or did he look surprised? Without any further comment, Ruth counted the steps back to their Uber.

‘I don’t know why you bothered, love. His kind would stab you as soon as look at you,’ the taxi driver said. ‘Only last week I saw one of his lot robbing a handbag from a woman. Witnessed it from this very car.’

Ruth glanced towards the man still standing on the side of the road, watching her intently, his head tilted to one side. For a split second their eyes met and he raised his hand and saluted her. And in that gesture, Ruth had the strangest feeling she knew him. She had seen that salute before, she was sure. The memory teased her but refused to show itself. It was gone. And so was he when he turned away and walked in the opposite direction, his dog by his side. Her imagination was playing tricks on her.

‘Why did you do that?’ DJ asked.

‘Because it was the right thing to do,’ Ruth replied. She nodded towards the back of the Uber driver’s head. ‘Do not write off people based on how they present themselves to the world. You should know that better than anyone. Everyone has a story, if you take the time to listen.’

As their car moved on, the old man disappeared from her view but not from Ruth’s mind. She supposed he could have a home. But something about the way he retrieved his fallen items and put them back into his rucksack made her think that his home was in that bag. His face looked weathered in a way that suggested it had been exposed to the outside elements twenty-four-seven. Had life changed as quickly for this man as it had for her and DJ? In only four weeks, they had gone from home to homeless. Four short weeks that had been the longest of her life. When their landlord, Mr Kearns, gave them notice to leave their two-bedroomed flat, he set their life into a tailspin. Ruth was never late paying the rent, even by a day, which meant some months were leaner than others. But Mr Kearns did not care about that.

He had walked into her kitchen and opened up a cupboard above the sink, two months previously. Then pulled out a mug, laughing as he said, ‘It’s a mug’s game, this landlord malarkey. I’m getting out. Selling up.’ His eyes narrowed as he turned to look at Ruth. ‘Make me an offer if you like. Can’t say fairer than that.’

Ruth knew when someone was making fun of her. She recognised the tone, one that she had heard many times in her life.

‘I can’t maintain the rent. Not at the levels they are at,’ Mr Kearns said, in a manner that implied he was talking about the weather, not their eviction.

‘You raised the rent by twenty per cent only a year ago,’ Ruth interjected.

‘You can blame our government for the mess they’ve landed us all in. I can’t raise the rent for another two years, because of these new laws they’ve made,’ Seamus replied, picking up cushions on their sofa and examining them, before tossing them back.

Ruth had been relieved when she’d read about the changes to the Irish rent laws. Naïvely, she believed it meant that she would not have to worry about a further increase until 2020. By then she would have a council house. Only she realised now that although they were on the housing waiting list with Fingal County Council, they were as likely to win the lottery as they were to get a house. Ruth had heard the phrase ‘You are only two pay cheques away from the streets.’ As it happened, for them, the number was one.

Ruth felt panic begin to mount inside her once again, as she sat in the back of the car. Then Odd Thomas’s voice whispered to her, as it had done for over a decade whenever she needed help, calming her, supporting her:

Perseverance is impossible if we don’t permit ourselves to hope.

It was his name, ‘Odd’, that made her choose the book in the first place at her local library in Wexford. She had been called that on more than one occasion in her life. For different reasons from his, she found out soon enough. Odd could see and talk to dead people, and used this skill to help the Chief of Police in Pico Mundo to solve murders. Odd’s world in the USA became as real to her as the one she herself lived in in Ireland. She read the book in one glorious sitting the first time, then picked it up to read again the following day. Then something extraordinary happened on a damp, grey morning in spring. She watched her classmates playing basketball in the school yard, chatting in groups of twos and threes, happy cliques. A thought crept into her head, insidious and mean. If she disappeared, faded to nothing, who would miss her?

And that was when Odd Thomas spoke to her for the first time. Be happy. Persevere.

That very line was one of her favourites from the book. And she knew immediately what it meant. Ruth would have to work extra hard to be happy. But if she never gave up hope, she could find happiness. Thank you, Odd.

And so their friendship began: she trying her best to be happy; he reminding her that perseverance was necessary to achieve that end. Of course, Ruth knew that Odd was not real. She was neither stupid nor delusional. Just alone.

She looked across the seat to her son. For him, she would fight. She would find them a home again. He would never feel alone.

4
TOM

Bette Davis nuzzled Tom’s hand again, her apology for knocking him off his feet earlier. ‘It’s OK, girl,’ he said to his dog, ruffling her coat behind her ears, the way she liked. He leaned back into the curve of his park bench. His home now, he supposed, as it was where he spent most of his nights. Bette rested her head on his feet. Tom closed his eyes. His breathing slowed down and his lids flickered, heavy, until every sense lost its place in the now and went back in time to his dreams, to his happy place, to his home …

Tom stretched his aching muscles upwards, knowing that a locum was a priority. He couldn’t keep this pace up for much longer. His bones ached, older than his forty years. His small general practice had grown to the point that Tom had to turn new patients away. And patients were beginning to complain that the usual twenty-minute waiting time for their appointment was stretching towards an hour. That didn’t sit well with him.

His receptionist, Breda, poked her head through his door. The sound of the Spice Girls singing their Christmas hit ‘Too Much’ drifted in towards him. He stood up and heard his knees click in protest. He needed to get out for a run. He’d been saying that to himself for the past two months. But somehow or other, another day would go by and he’d find himself falling onto his couch, tired and hungry, exercising his fingers with the TV remote.

‘What’s the plan for the weekend?’ Breda asked.

‘Not listening to the Spice Girls. That’s for starters,’ Tom said.

‘Would suit you well to find a Spice Girl for yourself.’

‘Would be a lucky lady to get me,’ Tom said, smiling. ‘But if she’s out there tonight she’ll have to wait. Because my only plan is to head to Tesco. I need to replenish my poor cupboards, then it’s home to catch up on some sleep.’

‘It’s no life you have,’ Breda said. ‘Good-looking man like you.’

‘Stop flirting with me,’ Tom joked.

Breda waved her hands at him and grinned, ‘Oh, you, you’re such a messer.’

‘What are you up to this weekend, Breda?’ He watched her tidy her reception desk, switching off the computer. She looked as tired as he felt. Was he expecting too much from her? Probably.

‘I’m going dancing. Don’t laugh. I told you not to laugh!’ Breda said when Tom’s face broke into a grin. ‘Himself has it in his head that we should learn how to ballroom dance. I’m not sure I’ll ever be Ginger to his Fred, though.’

Tom walked over to Breda and grabbed her hand, spinning her around 360 degrees. ‘I don’t know. I reckon you have all the moves.’

She laughed as she pushed him away. ‘Get away out of that! Maybe thirty years ago. But I’m nearly sixty now!’

‘Never, you don’t look a day over forty!’ Tom didn’t miss a beat and she beamed. They had formed their mutual appreciation society nearly fifteen years previously, when he’d opened the practice. He would be lost without her.

They both groaned when the doorbell rang. Who on earth was calling at this late hour? They had cleared all appointments and it was now twenty minutes past their closing time.

‘Is it Ben, maybe?’ Breda asked. Sometimes Tom and his solicitor friend had a drink together after work.

‘Not tonight. He’s got a hot date with a new woman called Orla. Right now he’s dousing himself in aftershave.’ He unlocked the front door to a young mother with a young child in her arms, wrapped in a blanket.

‘Siobhan!’ Breda exclaimed, walking towards the woman.

‘I saw the light on. I hoped you were still here,’ Siobhan replied.

‘We were just about to walk out the door,’ Breda answered.

Siobhan’s face clouded with anxiety. ‘I’m worried. Daniel’s chest is really bad. His wheeze has gotten worse.’

Breda looked at Tom, ready to take his lead. Technically they were closed. Surgery hours were explicit on the sign at the front of their office.

‘You did the right thing coming,’ Tom said, shrugging his jacket off. Daniel looked smaller than his four years, his face bleached white.

Breda was unsurprised. Her boss had a big heart. It was one of the reasons she loved him like her own son.

Once they got into Tom’s office, Daniel climbed off his mother’s lap and stood in front of the doctor. Daniel knew the drill – he’d been here so many times before. He lifted his top up before he was asked, so that Dr Tom could listen to his chest.

‘Good man. Big deep breath for me. Hold it. And exhale,’ Tom said. ‘You’re a great fella. Do that again for me.’

Tom took his temperature, which was high, and looked in his ears and throat. ‘His left lung doesn’t sound good. The wheeze is particularly bad there.’

Siobhan wrung her hands back and forth. ‘I knew I should have brought him in earlier today. But Lulu has a bad cold. And I didn’t like to bring her out. She’s been so bad-tempered with it all. Gerard was away working. As soon as he came home, I told him I had to bring Daniel to see you. I rushed here as fast as I could. I’m so sorry …’

Tom put his hand up to stop the apologies. The woman would have a heart attack if she didn’t let herself off the hook. Nothing like a mother’s guilt. Unnecessary in this case. Her children were idolised and well looked after. ‘You were right to come to me.’

An hour spent on Tom’s new nebuliser made Daniel a new boy. Tom walked them both to the door with a prescription in hand. ‘If anything happens during the night that worries you, just go straight to A&E. But I think he’s going to be OK at home with the steroids.’

‘Bye, Dr Tom,’ Daniel said. He looked better already and was walking beside his mam now, holding her hand. Seeing how much improved the little fella was made the late night worth it. He locked up and jumped in his car. With a bit of luck, with traffic on his side, he’d make the supermarket before it closed.

The store announced its imminent closure as Tom raced up the escalators. He grabbed a trolley, ignoring the look of annoyance on the spotty-faced store assistant, who was restocking the baskets and trollies. The last thing he wanted was a last-minute trolley dasher like Tom to delay closure of the store. ‘Sorry, buddy,’ Tom said. ‘Promise I’ll be quick.’

He went straight to the pre-packed meal counter to cut out any procrastination on what to buy or, indeed, cook. Not quite home cooked but marginally better than living in the chipper all weekend. If he was fast he could hit the booze aisle to grab some beer too. It was Friday night, and while he was planning a weekend of little else but a book and maybe a bit of TV, alcohol would play a part, too.

His parents would be horrified if they knew he wasn’t going out this weekend looking for love. They were obsessed with his social activities and he found himself making up events that he’d been to just to satisfy them. Not that he was short of social opportunities. He just didn’t want any of them right now.

Tom was one of those people who always had lots of friends. He was born with charisma. His mother used to say that from the moment he arrived into the world people would stop and stare at him. He would lock his big brown eyes onto theirs and they were putty in his hands. In school kids loved him. His easy-going nature, coupled with a quick wit, made him good company. Children and teachers alike gravitated towards him.

This aura that surrounded him followed him through to university. His best friend, Ben, would watch him sail his way through his classes, making friends and finding new girlfriends without breaking a sweat. Whereas he always had to try harder. And whenever he complained, asking him what his secret was, Tom would answer, ‘I’m a charming fecker, that’s how.’

And he was. People liked him.

But even charmers like him need a chance to recharge batteries every now and then. The savage hours in work were taking their toll.

But, if Tom had finished his day at 6 p.m., as was originally planned, he would never have met Cathy. And that would have been the greatest tragedy. Cathy liked to think that something else governed their destined meet-up that day. Fate. Tom thought it was dumb luck. Either way, it was the start of everything.

In the shadow of the bench, Bette Davis looked up when she felt her master shift to the right. Even though he had his eyes closed, he was smiling. He was happy. He was home.

5
RUTH

Ruth was never late for an appointment. If she made a commitment to be somewhere, you could rely on her. Even with the unscheduled stop for the old man and his dog, Ruth and DJ were waiting outside the front entrance of Parkgate, ready to see the council, five minutes early. At 10.01 a.m., Ruth began to feel agitated.

She willed the door to open, wondering how many steps there were between the door and their scheduled appointment. When the door swung open moments later, she said to the brown-lace-up-loafer man, ‘You are two minutes late.’

‘Not by my watch, missus,’ the man replied, not one bit put out by her comments.

‘Excuse me? Are we in the 1950s? I am neither Mrs, Ms, nor Miss. I am Ruth.’

His bewildered face gave DJ a fit of the giggles.

Ruth and DJ picked up a black sack each, balancing it on top of a suitcase. Then they wheeled them into the hall following the signs for the Central Placement Service. One hundred and two steps. Ruth and DJ placed their bags against a wall on their left, which seemed as good a place as any to leave their worldly goods. Then they settled down to wait. From previous interactions with the council, Ruth expected that to be at least thirty minutes. She came prepared and placed her headphones on, hoping Westlife’s harmonies would block out the hundreds of horror stories she’d read online in support forums about other families who were in the same predicament as her. They were difficult to silence and over the past twenty-four hours had been, lingering inside her head.

I slept in my car for nearly two weeks. Gas thing is, I woke up at three o’clock every morning, at the exact same time. The cold woke me, or the nightmares, maybe both.

Laoise

We left the kids with my mother. She doesn’t have room for us all. But I can’t have them in the hostel. It’s not right. Not for anyone but definitely not for them.

Jude

They can’t find us emergency accommodation. Hotels won’t take our family of six. We’re too big. They want to separate us. But without each other, what’s the point of anything?

Gerry

I gave away all our clothes and possessions, except for one bag each. Not because I didn’t want them any more. But because I had nowhere to put them.

Ursula

The desperate words of these families kept her awake at night and haunted her during the day.

Plan B was one she could not contemplate. Could she do it? Ask her family for help? Which of them? Her mother, her father or Mark?

Pop, pop, pop.

‘Mam.’ DJ nudged her, unease pinching his face. ‘You’re crying.’

She wiped the tears away, surprised to feel their wetness on her cheeks.

‘Ruth Wilde,’ a voice called out.

They stood up and turned to look at each other. DJ’s head now reached her breastbone. He was getting tall and she surmised that within a few years he would overtake her. But despite his physical appearance, despite the fact that his emotional intelligence was far older than his years, he was just a kid. And she was letting him down. Shame on you, Ruth. Shame, shame, shame.

‘It’s going to be fine, Mam,’ DJ said, sensing her anxiety.

‘Ruth Wilde?’ the voice shouted again.

Not everyone is cut out to be a mother, Ruth. That’s what her mother had said. Had she been right all along?

Eight steps till she reached the counter, and with each one Ruth vowed to make this right for DJ. But as she walked, she looked around the small waiting room that was now almost full. She felt the eyes of the room follow her, judging her, questioning her story. She wrung her hands. Ruth felt blinded by an imaginary spotlight, one that was focused on her inadequacies.

Shame. Shame. Shame.

She wanted to run. Run, leaving behind her suitcases and black sacks. Leaving behind her shame. DJ moved a step closer to her and she felt the warmth of his hand on her back, steadying her. She was not alone. For her son, she summoned every ounce of strength and she focused on the job at hand.

They each took a seat side by side in front of the clerical officer. Ruth looked at the desk in front of her and saw a photograph of a family, taken at a child’s First Holy Communion. Mum, dad and two smiling kids, one of them dressed in white. The woman in the photograph beamed and her hands rested on the shoulders of her two children. She had a kind face and she was a mother. That had to be a good sign. Because right now this stranger in front of them held their fate in her hands.

DJ’s hands covered hers as Ruth began popping her knuckles one by one. She unflexed her hands reluctantly. If I just get through this interview, I can go home and be myself in private … The thought hung unfinished in her mind. She no longer had a home to go to. She forced herself to look up at the woman in front of her and silently begged her to help them. The woman’s eyes were locked on her computer screen and she hit the keyboard a few times, before looking up at them both and smiling.

‘Good morning! I’m Gillian. Nippy out there today, isn’t it? My car nearly skidded on black ice when I left our estate. Put the heart across me!’ She spoke fast, her smile bright and honest, reaching her eyes. Ruth had not been expecting a summary of Gillian’s journey to work and was thrown by it. She had rehearsed what to say all morning and this had not been part of any scenario. So she ignored Gillian and repeated her rehearsed statement in one long breathless sentence.

‘I have a job I always pay my rent on time but our landlord has evicted us as he is selling our flat I have tried everything in my power to find another home for us but there is nothing in my price range we have nowhere to go we are homeless I have a job that I am going to lose if I do not have a home and I have a son who needs a home.’

‘It’s OK,’ Gillian interrupted. ‘Breathe.’

‘I am breathing. I would be dead if I were not.’

Gillian could not work out if Ruth was joking or not. She decided that she was. ‘Good one! Well, don’t worry, I’m going to help you. OK?’

Ruth nodded, looking closely at the woman in front of them whose face only showed sympathy and kindness. She could not see her shoes and that disappointed her. She guessed she was a black-mid-heel-court type of woman. She decided she could trust her.

‘Do we get a house with a garden?’ DJ asked.

‘I can’t guarantee that, I’m afraid. But I’m going to do my best to make sure you have somewhere to go today, until we find you something more permanent. And we need to ensure that you don’t lose your job, Ruth. Let me just double-check that your information on file is still correct.’

‘I cannot lose my job I have worked very hard not to lose this job.’

‘I’m sure you have. You work from home as an online customer advisor?’

Ruth nodded.

‘Your annual salary is 18,000 euro.’

Another nod.

‘You are a single mother. You have one child – DJ, who is aged ten. You do not receive maintenance from his father. All correct?’

Three nods in a row. Ruth felt like one of those nodding dogs in the back of a car.

‘And there’s no family you can call on for help? Somewhere you can stay until your name comes up on the housing list?’

Her family. What would this woman think if she knew the truth about her mother?

‘I have no family support,’ Ruth confirmed. She felt DJ’s eyes on her and looked towards him. She knew what he was thinking. Why? She wished she had an answer to that.

‘I’m going to make a few calls to find emergency accommodation close to DJ’s school. But I must stress that I can’t guarantee that. It’s been a busy month – hell, it’s been a busy year,’ Gillian said.

‘It’s OK if I miss school for a bit,’ DJ said helpfully.

Gillian laughed at this, but stopped when she realised Ruth wasn’t joining in. She was such an odd woman, so serious.

‘We have no car to sleep in. Or friends’ houses to sofa surf. Please help us. I do not want my son to sleep on a bench. Please,’ Ruth said.

Pop, pop, pop.

Gillian leaned in and said, with utmost sincerity, ‘I told you that I would help. And that’s what I plan to do. Try not to worry.’

Twenty minutes later, Gillian looked up from her computer screen and said, ‘I’ve pulled some strings and found you a room in a hotel. It’s a little bit away from DJ’s school, which I know was a priority for you both location-wise, but it’s all I have at the moment. Like I said earlier, it’s been a hard year for many people,’ Gillian said.

‘Thank you. We will take it,’ Ruth said, breathless with relief. She wanted to dance with joy. No park bench for them. They would be safe.

‘I’ll keep the pressure on for you, to try and get your house. You’ve been on the waiting list for a long time. Your turn has to come soon,’ Gillian promised.

‘What’s the name of the hotel?’ DJ asked.

‘The Silver Sands Lodge. It’s small. Really a guest-house or, as Erica, the owner, likes to say, a boutique hotel. We’ve housed a number of our families there over the past couple of years. I think you’ll be comfortable. It’s all booked with Erica, who is expecting you. You mentioned you have no car?’

‘No. I sold our car a few years ago to pay for a deposit on the flat we’ve just been evicted from,’ Ruth replied. She scribbled down Erica’s name and hotel details into her notebook. Fairview. She did not know the area, but knew it was close to the city centre.

‘Just as well maybe. The Silver Sands Lodge does not allow social housing residents to park in their car park,’ Gillian said.

‘That makes no sense. A car park is for cars.’

‘It’s small, so they prefer to keep the spaces there for their paying guests. You understand.’

Ruth did not understand, but thought she’d better keep quiet in case the room was taken from her as quickly as it had been offered.

Gillian turned to DJ, who was listening to their exchange with eyes wide. ‘My priority is to get you that garden, DJ. I promise I’ll do my best.’

DJ’s face was alight with excitement. ‘I’ve never stayed in a hotel before! This is going to be so cool. Our first holiday!’

Gillian looked at him, pity turning her kind face sad. She had visited too many families squashed into one hotel room, with little privacy and no comforts to make themselves a home. Gillian wished she had the power to stop that harsh reality sinking in for DJ. He wasn’t much older than her own kids. Glancing at the photograph of her beaming family, snapped at home, she realised how lucky they were, to live the life they did. And when she got home, she would tell them so.