Page 2

TWO

GRáINNE

Sixteen Years Ago

Aged Seven

I sit on the swing, my legs pushing me higher and higher as I watch the little boy laughing with his mam. Tears fill my eyes as I watch them. My mam used to do that with me. Not anymore. She’s gone.

There was a car crash and she’s gone, and she’s never coming back. Dad hated being in the house we had, so we had to move. He couldn’t stay there anymore without Mam. I’m seven years old and I no longer have a mam.

“Why are you crying?” I hear someone ask. I turn to see a blonde-haired, green-eyed boy looking at me with a frown. “Why are you sad?”

I quickly wipe my eyes, embarrassed to be caught crying. "I'm not sad," I lie, looking away from the boy.

He doesn't leave, instead sitting on the swing next to me. "You look sad," he insists. "Did you fall and hurt yourself?"

I shake my head, still not meeting his gaze. The laughter of the little boy and his mam echoes across the playground, making my chest ache.

"Is it because of them?" the boy asks, following my gaze to the happy pair.

I nod slightly, unable to speak past the lump in my throat.

"Where's your mam?" he asks innocently.

The question hits me like a punch to the stomach. Fresh tears spill down my cheeks as I choke out, "She's gone."

The boy is quiet for a moment, then he says softly, "I’m sorry. Sometimes I wish my dad was gone."

I look at him in surprise. “You do?” I ask, hope blooming in my chest. I wish that too. My dad is mean now that Mam’s gone. He doesn’t play with me. All he does is shout and hurt me.

“Yeah, he’s an asshole.”

I gasp at him. “I’m not allowed to say bad words,” I tell him.

The boy shrugs, kicking his feet in the dirt. "My mam says it's okay to use bad words if they're true."

I tilt my head to the side and watch him, then whisper, "My dad's an asshole too."

The boy grins at me, and I feel a small smile tugging at my own lips. It feels good to say it out loud.

"I'm Connor," he says, extending his hand like a grown-up.

I take it, shaking it solemnly. "I'm Gráinne."

"Want to play on the monkey bars?" Connor asks, hopping off his swing.

I hesitate, glancing back at the mother and child. The ache in my chest is still there, but it's duller now.

"Okay," I say, and follow Connor across the playground.

As we climb and swing from bar to bar, I find myself laughing for the first time in what feels like forever. Connor tells jokes and makes silly faces, and for a little while, I forget about the empty space where my mammy should be.

When it starts to get dark out, Connor takes my hand. “It’s time to go home. I’ll walk you to your house. Do you know where you’re going?”

“I’m seven,” I tell him. “Of course I do.”

He gives me another grin. “I’m nine. Now come on,” he says as he begins to walk out of the park. I tell him where I live and he laughs. “You live a few houses down from me,” he tells me. “That’s good. Now we can play again. Want to go to the park again tomorrow?”

I nod eagerly. "If my dad lets me."

"If he doesn't, I'll come find you," Connor says. "We're friends now, and friends stick together."

My heart races at his words. I have a friend. That’s something I haven’t had before.

As we walk home, Connor chatters away about his favourite games and TV shows. I listen, nodding along, but my mind keeps drifting back to what waits for me at home. Will Dad be angry that I'm late? Will he even notice I was gone?

We turn onto our street, and I feel my steps slowing. Connor squeezes my hand. "It's okay," he says softly. "Remember, I'm right down the street if you need me."

I nod, grateful to have a friend. We stop in front of my house, a place that doesn’t feel like home to me. I can see the flickering blue light of the TV through the front window.

"This is me," I say, my voice barely above a whisper.

Connor looks at the house, then back at me. "Are you sure you'll be okay?" he asks, frowning deeply.

I force a smile. "I'll be fine. See you tomorrow?"

He nods, still looking uncertain. "Tomorrow. I promise."

I watch as he walks away, waving once before disappearing around the corner. Taking a deep breath, I turn back to my house. The path to the front door feels longer than usual, each step heavy with dread.

As I reach for the doorknob, I hear a crash from inside, followed by my dad's angry voice. I flinch, my hand freezing in mid-air. For a moment, I consider running back to the park, or even to Connor's house. But where else can I go? Dad will be expecting me and if I’m late, there’ll be hell to pay.

I open the door and step inside. The house smells of stale beer and cigarettes. Dad is slumped in his armchair, empty bottles scattered around his feet.

"Where've you been?" he slurs, his bloodshot eyes narrowing as he spots me.

I swallow hard. "Just at the park, Dad."

He grunts, turning back to the TV. "Make yourself useful and get me another beer."

As I hurry to the kitchen, I think about Connor and his promise. Tomorrow, I tell myself. Tomorrow will be better. And for the first time in a long while, I actually believe it might be true.

I sit on the swing and wait for Connor. My eye has a really bad bruise, and everyone keeps staring at me. I hate it. Dad was so angry last night when he ran out of beer. I didn’t hide in time. I couldn’t.

I close my eyes, trying to block out the memories of last night. The sound of shattering glass, Dad's angry shouts, the sharp sting of his hand across my face. I shudder, wrapping my arms around myself.

"Gráinne?"

I look up to see Connor standing in front of me, his green eyes wide with horror. He reaches out, his fingers hovering near my bruised eye.

"What happened?" he asks, his voice barely above a whisper.

I look away, shame burning in my chest. "I fell," I lie, the words tasting bitter on my tongue.

Connor is quiet for a moment. Then he sits on the swing next to me, his hand finding mine. "My dad hits me sometimes too," he says softly.

I whip my head around to look at him, wincing at the sudden movement. "He does?"

Connor nods, his eyes fixed on the ground. "That's why I said he's an asshole. Remember?"

I nod slowly, feeling a strange mixture of relief and sadness. Relief that I'm not alone, that someone understands. But sadness that Connor has to go through this too.

"Does your mam know?" I ask.

Connor shakes his head. "She works a lot. I don't think she notices."

We sit in silence for a while, gently swinging back and forth. The playground is mostly empty today; just a few younger kids with their parents on the far side.

"I’ve thought about running away," Connor says softly.

I look at him, my heart racing. "Running away? Where would you go?"

He shrugs. "Anywhere. I don’t want to be a freak anymore."

"You’re not a freak," I say adamantly. "You’re my best friend."

Connor squeezes my hand. "Trust me, I’m a freak. My dad only likes me because I’m super smart and able to make him loads of money."

I smile at him. “You’re a genius?” I ask and he nods. “That’s so cool. I’m kind of dumb. At least, that’s what Dad tells me. He says I’m dumber than a box of nails.”

Connor’s eyes narrow. “Your dad’s an asshole.”

A giggle escapes me. “Yeah, he is. He wasn’t always. When Mam died, he became mean and hurt me.”

“What was your mam like?” he asks.

I smile, remembering her warm hugs and gentle voice. "She was the best," I say softly. "She always smelled like flowers and cookies. She'd sing to me every night before bed.”

Connor listens intently, a sad smile on his face. "She sounds amazing."

"She was," I whisper, feeling the familiar ache in my chest. "I miss her so much."

"I'm sorry," Connor says, squeezing my hand again. "I wish I could bring her back for you."

I nod, wiping away a stray tear with my free hand. "Me too. But..." I hesitate, glancing at Connor. "I'm glad I met you. You make things a little better."

His face lights up with a grin. "You make things better for me too, Gráinne."

We sit in silence for a while, gently swinging back and forth. The sun is warm on our faces, and for a moment, I can almost forget about the bruises and the fear waiting for me at home.

"Hey," Connor says suddenly, his eyes bright with excitement. "I have an idea. What if we made a secret hideout?"

I tilt my head, curious. "A hideout? Where?"

He jumps off the swing, pulling me with him. "I know the perfect place. Come on!"

Hand in hand, we run out of the playground and down a nearby alley. Connor leads me through a maze of backyards and narrow passages until we reach an abandoned lot overgrown with weeds and bushes.

"It's back here," he says, pushing aside a tangle of branches to reveal a small, hidden clearing.

I gasp as I step into the open space. It's like a tiny, secret world. There’s a run-down old shed that’s behind loads of big trees, keeping it hidden from the world.

"This is amazing," I breathe, spinning in a slow circle to take it all in.

Connor beams with pride. "I found it a few weeks ago. I've been coming here when things get bad at home. But I wanted to share it with you."

I feel a warmth spreading through my chest. "Really?"

He nods. "We can make it our own special place. Somewhere safe, just for us."

I throw my arms around him in a tight hug. "Thank you," I whisper.

As we spend the afternoon clearing space and planning our hideout, I find I’m not as sad as I was when I woke up this morning. I finally have someone who isn’t going to hurt me.