‘Beeootiful, slinky, sunshiny, lickety-spit, wheee, Yaya, wheee!’

I squeeze his hand as the wheel propels itself faster and faster and with a mighty whoosh lifts into the air and soars above our heads, a silver spinning kaleidoscope of sparkles. Is this meant to happen? I don’t think the instructions said anything about it being airborne. The animals howl. A sound of sirens far off in the distance. ‘Fireman Sam,’ Tommy says, two bright spots of colour on his cheeks, his body thrumming with excitement, speed taking hold of him until he has wrestled free of me and is running to a soundtrack of whistles and flickers, crackles and spits, of engines shrieking rescue.

Suddenly, the wheel explodes, like a fireball, and hurtles directly at him. A noise rips out of me, a gargantuan sound I’ve never heard before. Tommy stops in his tracks; the animals are hushed. Please help, and this feels embodied, a current coursing. Is this it, Sister Anne? Energy pulses through me as I launch myself at him, push him behind me, my body a human shield. I stretch my hands upwards and manage to hit out at the burning wheel, connecting with my right palm, deflecting its path. It throws out sparks.

‘A shooting star, Yaya!’

The sirens seem to get closer, a screaming violin concerto, then swerve away until all that’s left is a distant echo.

‘Fuck, that was close, Tommy.’ I look at him, my whole body shaking. What could have happened plays out for a moment.

‘Fuck, fuck, fuckety-fuck!’

His hot hand climbs inside my already blistering palm.

‘Ouchy, Yaya.’ He drops his hand, inspects my palm and traces the blisters with his fingertips, then blows on its surface.

Herbie and Marmie huddle against my ankles.

‘Thank you, thank you, thank you.’

‘Who are you talking to, Yaya?’

Our four faces tilt upwards, as if under a spell. The navy night sky is lit up. We all watch, transfixed, as the wheel of fire skitters off on its new trajectory, trailing in its wake a cloud of fiery glitter. I bend to him, blow the charred fragments off his face, tuck his hair behind his ear and pick him up. He nuzzles into me, his eyelashes brushing my cheeks, his breath in my ear: a divine whisper. Silence falls like a velvet curtain. Swish.

Acknowledgements

Thank you to my wonderful agent, Clare Alexander, without whose support, patience and vision this book would not exist. To Ellah Wakatama Allfrey for introducing us in the first place, I am incredibly grateful. To Lesley Thorne and all at Aitken Alexander, for allowing me to be part of your special team. To Geffen Semach, my most patient reader, my ally and friend, thank you. To the brilliant editor Gillian Stern for helping to unlock the heart of this book with her exceptional insight.

To the Arts Council of Ireland for their invaluable bursary; to Arvon and the Tyrone Guthrie Centre for providing beautiful spaces and inspiration along the way; to Linda Walsh for her generosity and sea view.