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MARK
Thirteen years earlier
Dublin, August 1, 2004
“You awake, ya monkey?” A few hours before sunrise, Finnigan Keegan popped his head around his twelve-year-old son’s bedroom door.
Mark was half awake, hoping to catch his father before he left on a three-day trip delivering local beer to Germany. “Yeah, I wish you didn’t have to go…”
“I wish I didn’t have to either, son, but if you want to see Keano and United play in London, it’s off to work I go! All these extra shifts will pay for that holiday, right? Think of it this way: by the time I’m back, London will be less than a fortnight away.”
“I can’t believe we get to see United play at Chelsea’s ground—and fly on a plane!”
Finn perched on the edge of his son’s bed. “Well, you and your sister have waited long enough for a proper holiday, not just another day trip to Killiney. Besides, I think Gracie’s excited enough for all of us. She didn’t stop for breath at dinner, yammering on about Buckingham Palace, all her Prince William stuff…thank Christ us boys’ll have the footy, eh?” Finn smiled warmly. “Look, I don’t like being away either, Mark, but money doesn’t grow on trees. I promised we’d go, and us Keegans always keep our promises, right, ya rascal?”
Mark nodded with a yawn. “Yes, Dad.”
“Now, listen, while I’m gone, you’re to be good, and look after your mum, okay?”
“I will, but Dad…this lupus thing Mum’s got now…” Worry clouded Mark’s eyes. “Is she…going to die?”
Finn placed a comforting hand on his son’s foot. “I know it’s scary, but she’s not going to die, son.”
“But she had to quit work…”
“It’s just the…stiffness…it gets to her hands and wrists so she can’t sew anymore. She’ll be okay, lad, but that’s why she needs to take it easy, so you and your sister—best behaviour, yeah? You’re the man of the house while I’m away, right?”
“Right. I’ll look after Gracie, too. I promise, Dad. You can trust me—I won’t let you down.”
Finn smiled at his son, but even through the darkness, his eyes betrayed a flicker of sadness.
“I know you won’t, lad.” Finn stood, ruffled his son’s hair, and kissed him on the forehead then walked to the door. “I’ll see you Saturday in time for your footy match. Good-bye, son. Love you.”
“Love you, too, Dad.”
• • •
The next day
Brring, brring!
Mark’s thumbs clicked away on his PlayStation’s controller, ignoring the non-stop ring of the telephone downstairs.
Brring, brring!
“Gra—ccccie?” He hollered from the edge of his bed, his eyes glued to FIFA 2004 on the tiny television in his room. “Can you get that? I’m…busy!”
A Chelsea midfielder tackled his Manchester United striker. “Shit!” he shouted at the screen. He only had an hour before dinner to play—every second had to count.
Brring, brring!
“Gracie!” Where is she? Helping Mum make dinner? Why aren’t they answering the phone?
With an exaggerated huff, he paused the game and tossed the PS2 controller on his pillow. He lunged off the bed and opened his door as his mother’s voice rose up the stairs.
“Hello? Yes, this is Niamh. How may I help…”
His mum’s tone was kind yet professional, like she was talking to someone selling something.
