MARK
Eighteen years earlier
Dublin, New Year’s Eve 2000
Keegan’s was a popular, family-friendly pub with a pretty back garden boasting three picnic tables and enough room for kids to run around. Mark’s earliest memories were of the pub filled with Celtic music, dancing, and raucous laughter. His dad, Finn, played guitar and sang in a band that performed Beatles and Van Morrison covers twice a week. Customers raved about his wonderful voice. When Mark was five and Grace was eight, Niamh became pregnant and had their baby brother, Kieran.
Like his older brother, the littlest Keegan was smiley and wouldn’t stay still. Grace gave him the nickname Squig because he was always ‘squiggling about’, inquisitive and playful. She abandoned all her stuffed animals and colouring books to dote on him, smothering him with kisses. Mark tried to protect Kieran from Grace’s overzealous efforts—having experienced them himself as an infant—and would cart him away to his room, showing off his toy cars and football posters. Their male bonding would end, though, when Grace showed up in Mark’s doorway, and their loving tug of war over their adorable brother would begin again. A day didn’t pass that the pub wasn’t filled with the sweet sounds of the three Keegan children laughing.
When Kieran began walking and talking, Mark and Grace would rope him into their adventures, splashing around in their wading pool or hiding in the nooks and crannies of their large flat above the pub, jumping out to surprise him. He would squeal with a hilarious high laugh and beg his siblings to do it over again.
By the time he turned three, Kieran was Mark’s constant shadow. He couldn’t escape to the bathroom without Kieran banging on the door. Eight-year-old Mark loved him to bits and always made time to watch his silly TV shows, play with his cars, and make him laugh.
New Year’s Eve was one of the busiest nights of the year for Keegan’s. Before opening for the lunchtime crowd, Finn and his two sons enjoyed the crisp morning sunshine, kicking around a football in the frost-coated garden. Niamh and Grace were out on the hunt for a party dress, so the Keegan boys took full advantage, shouting and getting covered in dirt without female interference.
“Quick, Mark, pass it over!” Finn darted in front of their impromptu goal—two well-spaced flowerpots—but before he could claim the ball from his eldest son, his phone rang. “Oh, slipped my mind. Food delivery’s out front.” He waved at his boys. “You lads carry on. Kick it like Georgie Best! I’ll be but a minute. Mark, look after your brother.”
Mark kicked the ball softly to his mini-me.
“Mine, now!” Kieran giggled and ran after the rolling ball.
“Oi, Keegan!” The older boy living next door shouted from his bedroom window. “You’re shite! Betcha a Mars bar you can’t do ten keepsie upsies.”
Mark squinted into the sunlight. The ten-year-old kid always picked him last for neighbourhood footy games and would rag on him non-stop in front of mutual friends: ‘What do ice skates and Keegan have in common? They’re both useless on a pitch’…‘I don’t know why coach compared you to Roy Keane. Keane’s not crap.’
Mark had to show him. He had to wipe that smug grin off his fat, pimply face. “You’re on, you tool!”
If I concentrate enough, I can do it!
He hopped over to his brother and claimed the football. “Hey, Kieran, watch this!” Mark went at it, bouncing the ball up in the air from foot to foot, keeping it off the frozen ground. He counted each strike aloud. “One…two…three…four…five…” He didn’t take his eyes off the ball. “…eight…nine…TEN…ELEVEN…!”
He kicked the ball higher for a header then caught it in his hands. “YES!” He shouted towards the house next door. “See that, ya idiot?!” The mouthy neighbour responded with a sneer and his middle finger then slammed his window closed.
Mark tossed the football in his hands, his smiley eyes looking over his shoulder. “Squig, whatcha think of—”
The garden was empty…and silent.
“Squig?” Mark spun around. “Where’d ya go?” Mark peeked under the picnic tables and glanced over the leaf-filled wading pool. “Are you hiding again, Squig? Okay…this time, you’ve really got me.” He opened the small garden shed and looked under the shelf where Kieran would sometimes curl up into a ball, playing hide-and-seek…but he wasn’t there. Mark backed up, scratching his mop of black hair.
“Squig? Okay, you can come out now. You win!” He chuckled as his eyes swept the garden. “You can have that Mars bar…if I ever get it…” Mark looked over the back fence into the neighbour’s yard. “Kieran…where are you?” He dropped the football and jogged around the side of the pub.
Mark’s dad wasn’t there. He must have gone back inside, putting away the pies that had just been delivered. Maybe Kieran was with him? But Mark didn’t dare ask…if his dad found out he wasn’t watching his brother like he had asked—no, he would find him, himself and avoid being told off.
Mark swung around, his eyes darting down the street and across the road. “Kieran! Kieran! Stop playing hide-and-seek—NOW.”
A cheeky giggle rose from…somewhere. Mark leapt towards the small garden in front of the pub. No sign of Kieran. He turned back to check next door.
BEEP, BEEP, BEEP. The delivery truck lurched into reverse in the pub’s driveway.
Mark’s stomach dropped.
I wasn’t watching Kieran…Keiran wasn’t watching me…
Mark’s eyes widened as he froze in horror.
“WAIT! STOP!”