Page 129 of Beautiful Scars

Chapter 9

CILLIAN

This place brings back memories.

The red brick walls have been rendered over and given about six coats of Pure Brilliant White. There’s a new extension on the side of the house, painted pictures of rainbows in every square pane of glass.

It’s had a facelift.

But some things are still the same.

Same wooden climbing frame on the right side of the building, with the compartments and hidey-holes and the weathered green slide. I was too big to play on that when I lived here, but it was a decent place to get fired into a girl on a Friday night. Definitely not the site of my first kiss, but I did French a few girls for the first time out there.

I chuckle as I walk past it and head for the entrance, pushing the buzzer four times, and then an extra one for luck like I always did.

There’s a knocking sound on the other end of the intercom before the “Hello-oh.”

It’s Anne-Marie.

I’d recognize that voice anywhere. The manager of Richbrae’s Children Home has the accent of a coal-miner, but she says ‘hello’ like the queen of fucking England might be on the other end of the line.

“It’s Cillian.”

The phone slams down, and a few seconds later I see her glasses through the lightly frosted strip of glass on the front door.

She swings it open, and I take a few steps back.

“Well.” That’s all she says.

“Well,” I say right back to her.

“If you’re here for a trip down memory lane, I can’t let you in. New child protection laws...everyone has to be disclosure checked or a registered visitor.”

I smile at her trying to act all formal. “I’m not here for the memories, so don’t fash yourself.”

A smile creeps on her lips as she takes a step out and closes the door behind her.

She’s Anne-Marie, but she’s shorter than I remember her. A little heavier, too. She must be in her mid-sixties by now. Hair that used to be bleach-blond is cut into a gray pixie, matching her silver glasses. But she still wears the colorful necktie over her cashmere sweatshirt, and the big dangly earrings.

And her perfume smells the same. Overpowering roses.

She looks me up and down, doing what I was just doing to her. “Christ you’ve filled out. Look at the size of you.”

I try to act all bashful. “I was always a big laddie. You used to complain about the cost of feeding me.”

“I didn’t think you’d keep growing.”

“It was thestoviesrecipe you gave me,” I tell her. That was always my favorite. Corned beef, onions, and potatoes. I can’t remember the rest of what goes into it. The day me and Cole left, she gave me sixty pounds to fill my new freezer, my high school exam results, and a stovies recipe.

“You kept that?”

“Make it every Sunday,” I lie.

She smiles, showing her age when the creases around her eyes deepen. She looks up at me like I’m a sight for sore eyes.

“Do you want a fucking cuddle or something?”

I don’t get an answer to that. Just a hug. “Never too big to cuddle your auntie Anne. God, I missed that rumbly voice.”