The Changeling (7 page)

‘Yes – see, look at the ground – you can see the treads of our shoes, going in under the hawthorn— What’s that?’

‘What?’

‘
That!
’

Not far from their footprints, a small dead animal was lying covered by wind-blown blossom. No, not a dead animal – but not a living one, either. Aoife fell to her knees on the grass, gently brushing aside the flowers. A rabbit, with long grey ears and a fluffy white tail, and round black eyes. A child’s toy. She sobbed in horror: ‘She
was
here!’

Shay crouched beside her, his hand on her shoulder. ‘Ssh, don’t be worried. This doesn’t mean anything. Any child could have dropped it.’

‘
How?
’

‘Any family could have stopped by to look at the fairy fort.’

Aoife swallowed and wiped her face with her sleeve. ‘All right. I know. When I’m thinking straight like you, I
do
know she wasn’t real. But the minute I stop thinking about it, I go back to feeling like she was. I just keep going round and round, and every time I have it sorted in my mind, everything gets mixed up again.’

There was a long pause. She turned her head to look at him. He had dropped his hand from her shoulder, but was still squatting on his heels beside her, gazing straight at her. There was an odd expression in his green-brown eyes, like he wanted to say something to her, but wasn’t sure quite how to put it, or how she would take it.

She said defensively, ‘What? I know I’m an idiot.’

Shay said, ‘I saw a sheóg myself once, when I was a kid.’

‘
A sheóg?
’ For a moment Aoife was seriously angry with him. It was bad enough Killian taunting her about leprechauns, or Darragh going on about goblins. ‘Oh, of course, stupid me – why didn’t I think of that – a fairy child, of course, that explains everything.’

But instead of laughing at her burst of temper, or getting annoyed himself in return, he just settled himself down on the green hill beside her, his arms clasped around his faded jeans, and stared out over the endless orange-lilac sweep of bog, saying nothing at all.

Aoife sat grumpily beside him until her irritation subsided. After few minutes she even started to feel bad about having snapped at him. He’d only been saying something to comfort her – that any fool can make mistakes about what they see. She lowered her head and examined the rabbit, and stroked its well-chewed ears. It had been well-loved once, before it had been forgotten. The toy looked back at her with small dark eyes, the black plastic scuffed with rough patches like the pale cataracts of old age. She sighed and shoved the rabbit into the pocket of her hoodie. Some child had loved it once. It seemed wrong to leave it outside, lonely and cold in the rain.

Shay said, ‘I was out helping my father with the lambs, and a little girl came walking towards me along the cliff top, out of the early mist. She was even younger than me, not even old enough for school, and she was wearing a little red shawl, the way they used to on the islands. When she saw me, she seemed to get a big fright and turned and ran off again. I would have chased after her, but for my dad stopped me.’ His voice softened when he spoke of Eamonn Foley. ‘He said I should never, ever follow a sheóg. He said they liked to lure human children out across the bog to drown, to keep them company as ghosts.’

Aoife suggested softly, ‘Maybe he was telling you a story to stop you running off on him.’

‘No, he really believed it. A young woman disappeared out of the next valley soon after, and everyone said she’d run off with a travelling man, but my father said the sheóg had fetched her away.’ Shay raised his dark green eyes and looked straight at her.

She looked straight back at him, saying nothing. She was remembering mad John McCarthy in the graveyard, and how he’d said Eamonn Foley was convinced his wife was a lenanshee.

The softness went out of Shay’s face, like he knew full well what she was thinking. He turned his face away. ‘Sure, my father believed in a lot of things.’

Instantly Aoife felt terrible. Shay Foley never spoke to anyone about anything, and now here he was opening up to her about his father, and she had just stared blankly at him like he was talking nonsense. She said quickly, putting her hand on his arm, ‘Your father was an artist, wasn’t he?’

He glanced at her in surprise, and his expression softened again. ‘Where did you hear that? I didn’t think anyone remembered that.’

‘They do, of course. Is that where you get your own talent from?’

‘My . . .? Oh . . .’ He became suddenly self-conscious, more his old withdrawn self. ‘No, that’s nothing. I’m no good, not compared to him.’

‘You are – the drawing of the dog was brilliant.’

He shook his head, flushing slightly across his cheekbones. ‘Seriously, he was a real artist. Other people thought so too, people who knew, but he never would sell to them. After he died some Galway fellow auctioned his paintings for us, and they went for a good amount. I didn’t want to part with them but my brother needed the money to get the farm going again.’

It came to the tip of her tongue to say
I’m sorry for your troubles
like everyone said at funerals. But it seemed stupid and pointless, so long after the fact. Instead, she said, ‘What sort of thing did he paint?’

Shay hesitated. ‘Portraits.’

She nearly asked of who, but John McCarthy’s voice piped up just in time:
Painting and painting her portrait over and over again.
Eamonn Foley painted his wife, nobody else. ‘Did you not keep any of his paintings?’

‘Just one. A small one. I have it in my room.’ His eyes were bright. On impulse, Aoife took his hand; he didn’t pull it away. His palm was hard – a typical farm boy’s hand. He ran his thumb absently over the back of hers. A surprisingly intimate gesture for the boy who usually kept his distance from everyone.

In the silence between them, two lines passed through Aoife’s head:

Her body lies beneath the sea

But in my room she watches me.

She shivered, and Shay looked worried and disengaged his hand as if it might be the touch of him that bothered her. ‘Are you all right?’

‘Fine – just the breeze is a bit cold. I guess you need to get on to Clonbarra.’

He checked his phone. ‘Bit late for the mart now.’

‘Is it? Oh God, I’m sorry . . .’

‘No bother – live chickens don’t go off.’

So there was still no room for the bike in Shay’s car, and Aoife ended up having to push it home after all. That evening, she lay on her bed and had a long conversation with Carla about the amazingness of Killian, who had actually texted Carla to ask how she was.

‘Wasn’t that lovely of him?’

‘Yeah, really nice.’

‘I said I was fine and I’d see him in school tomorrow.’

‘That’s great, well done.’

Carla said suddenly, ‘Aoife, are you all right? Has something happened?’

Aoife flopped over onto her back, stared up at Lady Gaga. ‘Mm. A couple of things.’

‘Well, like what?’

‘I ruined my tyres.’

‘Ugh, bad luck – those potholes in your lane are getting ridiculous.’

That’s what it was! Two days in a row she had ridden right over the growing potholes instead of going round them. No wondered she’d ruined her wheels – nothing strange was happening to her. She said more cheerfully, ‘And I saw Shay Foley. You won’t believe this, but he was driving.’

‘Are you serious? He’s only fifteen!’

‘Nearly sixteen.’

‘So? He’s not allowed till he’s seventeen. I suppose that comes of having no parents.’

‘Yeah, it’s so sad for him.’

‘No, I mean it’s kind of cool not being told what to do all the time. That must be why he’s so independent. I get forced to not even have visitors because I have a stupid cold, and he gets to drive around the countryside in a car. Where was he when you saw him?’

‘On the Clonbarra road.’

‘The main road! Are you sure it was him?’

‘He stopped to talk to me.’

‘No way! What’s he like when he actually opens his mouth?’

‘Nice.’

‘Serious or funny?’

‘Serious. Funny. Both.’

‘And gorgeous! Did he ask you out?’

‘No! He was just being friendly. We drove around for a bit.’

‘Oh my God! He wants to ask you out!’

‘Give over, Carla. We had a conversation, that’s all.’

‘So? I’ve never even had a conversation with Killian.’

‘Ah, come on. You must have talked to him about something on the bus.’

‘Not really. To be honest, I think that’s where everyone else has gone wrong with him – he’s not really one for conversation. It kind of tires him out.’

Shay Foley’s first words to Aoife:
Don’t worry about your friend. She’s well able for him, more than you think.
Thinking about it, Aoife found it amazing that the quiet, reserved farmer’s son, who had never spoken to her best friend – who never socialized with anyone – still somehow knew that Carla Heffernan was well able for Killian Doherty. While Aoife, who had known Carla almost her whole life, had in this case got her best friend completely wrong.

CHAPTER FIVE

Just as Aoife was pulling on her grey school coat, Carla called her on her mobile and carried on the conversation as if they’d never left off. ‘This is mank – Mam’s keeping me home in bed.’

‘She is?’ Aoife heaved her concrete-heavy school bag onto her shoulders, swapping the phone from one hand to the other. ‘What’s wrong with that?’

‘I’m so bored and Zoe’s annoying me—’

‘Still, you’re better off in bed if you’re ill.’

‘What are you, my other mammy?’

The front door was standing open and it was pouring, netting the world in silver-grey, flattening the grass. Maeve was waiting in her old Volvo at the gate. Aoife tried to judge whether if she lingered in the hallway for another few seconds the rain would ease off for the time it would take her to reach the car. ‘I’m just off to school now.’

‘Rub it in, why don’t you. Tell everyone “hi” from me.’

Maeve beeped impatiently.

‘Two secs – I’m not hanging up . . .’ Aoife sheltered the mobile under her jacket while she dashed through the rain and threw herself into the Volvo. She got straight back on the phone. ‘Here again.’

Carla said, ‘By everyone, I mean Killian.’

‘I realize that.’

‘Do you think he’s more pretty-boy or more sexy-boy?’

‘My mam’s driving.’

‘I think both. Will you tell him “hi” from me?’

‘Sure.’

‘And don’t let him go off with anyone else till I get out of here.’

‘I won’t.’

‘By anyone, I mean Sinead. She was expecting to go out with him next – it’s why she dumped Darragh.’

‘Carla, I swear on my life I won’t let her lay a finger on him.’

The first lesson was double history. At the lockers Aoife ran into Lois, also late, who checked her up and down with narrowed eyes. ‘God, Aoife, you’re even thinner than you were two days ago. Do you ever eat at all?’

‘Yes . . . no . . . what?’ Aoife was rummaging through the rubbish in the bottom of her school bag. ‘Crap, I’ve forgotten my locker key.’

Lois raised her voice. ‘I dare say it’s just that you feel so guilty about messing up poor Sinead’s birthday and poor Carla being ill. I suppose guilt would make you lose your appetite. You poor thing.’

Yet when Aoife rested her hand on the metal locker, the catch clicked and opened. For a moment she was worried someone had been messing with her stuff, but everything seemed in order – or at least everything was in the exact same total disorder as she had left it. Where were her history books? Right there, as if by magic, neatly on top of the pile.

Lois slammed her own locker shut. ‘I can’t believe you didn’t even give Sinead a present.’

‘Ah Jesus . . .’ It was annoyingly true: the envelope with the ten euros was still on the windowsill in her bedroom, and she’d gone and forgotten it again. She grabbed her books. ‘You’re right, I’ll sort it.’

Pleased with herself at finally getting a proper guilty reaction, Lois said, ‘But don’t imagine that’s going to make up for anything.’

The history class had already started. Mr Vaughan, a thin man with a fierce red comb-over, was writing on the whiteboard. The history room had long fixed desks; the rows near the front were fairly full, growing emptier towards the back. Lois marched up to the front and slid in next to Sinead. Aoife hesitated by the door: no Carla to sit with. Several heads turned towards her, clearly interested to see how she would deal with her first day back in school after making such a show of herself on Saturday. Shay was sitting by himself in the back row, slightly turned away from her towards the window, doodling left-handed on the cover of his copy book, his right hand shielding his face from her view. Lois nudged Sinead and shrieked in a high squeaky voice, ‘Quick, there’s a leprechaun hiding behind that rock! Oh no, it’s a sheep.’

‘Quiet!’ snapped Mr Vaughan, without turning round from the board.

As the laughter died, Shay said loudly without looking up, ‘Quick, there’s a rock. Oh no, it’s Lois’s head.’

‘
Quiet!
’

Grinning, Aoife slipped into the empty row in front of him, scooting along to sit by the window. Yet when she turned to smile her thanks, Shay had twisted the other way so that he was now facing the door instead of the window, resting his face in his left hand instead of his right. Confused, she turned back to her desk and opened her textbook.

At the front of the room, Lois was still trying to get Sinead’s attention with repeated jabs of her elbow. But her friend was having a whispered conversation with the boy on her other side, smiling up at him from under her lashes.
Crap!
Carla was right. Sinead was already trying to move in on Killian. Now it was too late for Aoife to go and sit near them herself, and there wasn’t a lot of point in glaring at them from behind. She raised her forefinger and squinted along it, at a point between Killian’s shoulders. In her head, she said,
Bang.

Killian jerked, gasped, and spun in his seat. ‘What d’you do that for, ya fool?’