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.

Mark spun back around, quickly closed the door, and leapt onto his bed. Time to finish off Chelsea! Scooping up the controller, he dove back into his videogame, sending Roy Keane and Ryan Giggs up the pitch. Clicking furiously, his thumbs sent the ball sailing past the goalkeeper and into the net.

“YES!” he yelled triumphantly as the animated fans on the screen cheered, celebrating his best ever score: 5-2 United. He couldn’t wait to tell his dad when he called later.

He rifled through the videogames scattered behind him on his bed. What to play next? The on-screen football supporters continued shouting and carrying on.

His door flew open and he threw a perturbed look over his shoulder. “Gracie, don’t you ever knock…” His words and annoyance drifted off.

Gracie was stood there, looking pale and worried, her headphones looped around her neck, but it was their mum who stole Mark’s attention. Her shoulders were bowed as if straightening up would be slow and painful. A shaky hand covered her mouth, partially hiding her damp, red cheeks.

Niamh clasped her fifteen-year-old daughter’s hand and slowly walked into Mark’s room. “Kids, I need to tell you something…”

Mark pushed his videogames away, making room for his family on the single bed.

Niamh wrapped her arms around her frightened kids.

Why is Mum crying? Was that her doctor calling? Is she getting sicker?

“I just had a phone call…from Germany.”

“Dad?” Mark frowned. “Is he going to miss my match, Mum?”

“Mark, Gracie…” Niamh inhaled a shuddering breath. “Your dad…he’s had a massive heart attack.”

“What?” Mark squinted. “Is he going to be all right? Are…Are you going to see him? Can we go, too?”

“Mark, love…” Tears spilled from her eyes. “He died.”

Mark’s body froze in ice-cold shock. His stomach felt like it did just before leaping off the highest diving board at the public pool: scared…sick…alone…

“But…couldn’t they do something?” Grace began to tremble within her mother’s warm embrace. “A girl…at school, her dad had a heart attack. He had an operation…”

Niamh shook her head. “The doctor said he died instantly, darlin’, unloading his truck. There was nothing anyone could have done…”

Grace’s eyes scrunched up, tortured with tears.

Mark struggled to catch his breath, his chest tight and stuttering. Sobs burst from his lips. “H-He’s never…coming back?”

“No, love. He’s with the angels now.” Tears streamed down Niamh’s face as she pulled her broken children closer.