Fiadh's life is turned completely upside down on a night out in Belfast. Pretty soon everyone has heard about what happened; it is impossible to keep the rumours from spreading, the gossip from spiralling out of control. And just as she was beginning to finally figure everything out: she was feeling positive about her move to Liverpool, she was starting to get on top of her uni work and had made some new friends. Now her life is in freefall and Fiadh is helpless to do anything about it.
It happens just as it did every weekend, more or less, since I hit puberty. The sun is beginning to dip below the horizon for the night, transforming the sky to a deep purple. Our car turns the corner onto Donegall Square North, with the back of City Hall looming large. Saturday night traffic moves slowly, as if each of the drivers is in awe of the architecture. Its grandness sharp against the gummed footpath beneath. Red brake lights shine on our faces, as taxi drivers pull into the tight space in front of our car. Ma says nothing, happy to let them out in the hope that by that time I will change my mind and make the return journey home with her, to hot chocolates and matching jammies on the sofa, spooning melted marshmallows around big, bowled mugs. This is her fantasy. We don't even speak when we’re in the gaff. No chance of change now though; my stomach has already begun to feel that nervy flutter, the ripple moves up from the seat to my belly. I try my best to ignore the sensation, hoping that it’s not a bout of the runs after the feed of Chinese food I shovelled into me earlier. Swear, lining my stomach never does any actual good; it is inevitable that the girls will get a visual of my dinner as it makes its second coming into some pish-splashed bog at 2 a.m.
In my hands, the papery foil of Wrigley’s Extra unwraps easily from its wee silvery jacket. Like Eucharist, the gum is placed into my mouth to avoid disturbing my freshly Juicy-Tubed lips. I move my arm to extend the packet across the car. Ma shakes her head. It’ll put her off her dinner, she tells me.
—And have you your taxi booked? Ma asks into the silence.
—I’ll book one when my free calls come through tonight. I’ll be grand. Aisling will have minutes on her phone anyway.
—Will you be sure to call me if you have any trouble getting home?
A light flickers on, bringing a yellow glow to my face. Blue glitter on my eyelids glints like a disco ball. I lean towards it, pushing my chin to my chest to assess the hastily streaked eyeliner, before adding another confident swoop of deep black kohl to the waterline. The visor bangs shut, like an oyster slamming its shell together in escape of some nearby danger. Swivelling to fully turn in my seat, I watch my ma’s face as she drives through the city, her hands at ten and two, her back straight as a board. After a moment or so, I test my luck.
Exile is published by John Murray Press
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