Contents (48)
- PAST LIFE
- David Mark
- PART ONE
- PROLOGUE
- ONE
- TWO
- THREE
- FOUR
- FIVE
- SIX
- SEVEN
- EIGHT
- NINE
- TEN
- ELEVEN
- TWELVE
- THIRTEEN
- FOURTEEN
- FIFTEEN
- SIXTEEN
- SEVENTEEN
- EIGHTEEN
- NINETEEN
- TWENTY
- TWENTY-ONE
- TWENTY-TWO
- TWENTY-THREE
- TWENTY-FOUR
- PART TWO
- TWENTY-FIVE
- TWENTY-SIX
- TWENTY-SEVEN
- TWENTY-EIGHT
- TWENTY-NINE
- THIRTY
- THIRTY-ONE
- THIRTY-TWO
- THIRTY-THREE
- PART THREE
- THIRTY-FOUR
- THIRTY-FIVE
- THIRTY-SIX
- THIRTY-SEVEN
- THIRTY-EIGHT
- THIRTY-NINE
- FORTY
- EPILOGUE
- ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
‘It’s just how it goes.’
‘Well it’s bloody stupid.’
Roisin Teague sits on the sofa, legs drawn up, hugging a cushion. She’s scowling into the cold, smoke-wreathed air that fills the ugly little flat where she has been staying with her Auntie Eva-Jayne for three excruciatingly dull weeks. She’s sick of it. Sick of keeping her head down, of having nobody to talk to, of worrying constantly about her mammy, her sisters – even Daddy, in the moments when she’s not consumed with fiery temper. She feels trapped. Feels like a prisoner. It’s as if the air around her is thick and stale: as if she could scoop handfuls of it like gone-off batter mixture. Even in the moments when she stares out of the window across the grey expanse of road, she can see nothing that gives off any kind of spark.
She broods. Chews on her thoughts as if they are all fat and gristle. Jingles the charms on her bracelet.
‘Rings on her fingers and bells on her toes,’ says Eva-Jayne with a smile. ‘That’s a beautiful thing, so it is. A present from your daddy?’
Roisin shrugs, grumbling into her lap. She folds her arms so she isn’t tempted to play with the pretty silver charm bracelet that Daddy gave her two Christmases ago. Antique, or so he said. French-made. Six charms already, just to get her started: a teddy bear, a bowtop wagon, a teapot, a cauldron, an open book and a star. She’s added two horseshoes and the head of a pony since then. It makes a lovely noise when she shakes it, like the sound of a nearby Christmas sleigh.
‘You’ll give that to your daughter one day, I shouldn’t wonder,’ says her aunt. ‘Nothing’s clear when it comes to you, my girl, but there’s a shape in your future – a lovely wee lassie with dark hair and fierce eyes and a love for her mammy that could start fires.’
Roisin wrinkles her nose, hiding the smile. Forces herself to stay cross. Thinks upon the Heldens, and curses every last one of them. Hating the Heldens is something the Teagues learn at the breast. Childhood in her family is marked by first words, first steps, and first curse against the dirty thieving murdering bastards with whom her men have been at war since long before Daddy’s granddaddy was small. She understands that the Heldens and Teagues are cousins, after a fashion. She can’t help but seeing them as mirror images of each other. Both are Galway families. Both are clans to be reckoned with; to be respected and feared. Both are led by formidable patriarchs who’ve served lengthy stretches inside. United, they could be bloody terrifying. But to be a Teague is to hate the Heldens, and to be a Helden is to hate the Teagues. That’s the top and bottom of it, apparently, and anybody who asked questions about what any of it actually matters, could expect accusations of rank disloyalty, and of being a little bit sweet on the enemy. Her sisters and brothers understand this. They have no doubt that when their best men clash in bare-knuckle bouts down damp, dirty country lanes, victory feels like Christmas and defeat brings damnable shame. She’s seen them coming home: uncles, cousins, her father. Seen them with faces bashed in, ribs taped up, face the colour of uncooked beef, smoking cigars and swigging whiskey from the bottle, celebrating a slight avenged.