The Aftermath (The Hurricane, #2) by R.J. Prescott
Prologue
Cormac O’Connell—Twelve Years Earlier
“Whatcha cryin’ for?” I asked the skinny blond kid. He was sitting with his legs dangling over the side of the riverbank. I could tell he’d been crying because he was sniffling and rubbing his eyes with the back of his arms.
“Feck off,” the kid told me. Fucking charming. I’d only been in my new school a couple of weeks. Since me da left, Ma had been moving us from place to place, looking for a replacement husband I guess. I didn’t want a replacement da. I just wanted to stay in one place for a while so she could clean herself up. Some clothes that fit me would be nice as well. I was getting sick of scavenging about in Ma’s loose change when she’d passed out after a drinking binge, then stretching the money between food and charity shop clothes. Every new school meant new kids making fun of the way I looked. I didn’t like talking much so, when they started on me, looking for an easy mark, I punched them in the face and stopped them talking. I was a pretty big kid, and you didn’t have to punch that hard to shock most people.
“There’s no need to be a dick about it. I was only trying to help,” I said to him. I don’t know why I was wasting my time with this kid, ’cept maybe because he was Irish too. I’d heard him and a couple of other boys talking in class, and they all had Irish accents. Outside of my parents, I’d never met any Irish before. He looked me up and down then stared at me hard. Finally he said, “You can sit down if you want.” I don’t know why I shrugged and took a seat next to him. I wasn’t looking for a friend or anything. I was just curious I guess. This kid usually looked like he didn’t have a care in the world.
“Where are you going?” he asked me.
“Me ma’s out so I was going to try and get something to eat.” I didn’t explain that I was looking for some food to steal. There was no money left in Ma’s pocket when I found her passed out this morning.
“You can come to my house for dinner if you like. Me ma always cooks enough for about five people when she’s stressed.”
“Okay,” I agreed. I didn’t know this kid or his ma, but no way was I turning down a free meal, especially if it was hot.
“Why’s she stressed?” I asked. He kicked at some stone embedded into the grass, and I didn’t think he was going to answer.
“We just found out that me da’s sick. His chest is bad from breathing in some shite at work. Doctors don’t think they can fix him,” he explained quietly.
“That blows,” I said. I didn’t know what else to say. There was a gravel path behind us so I gathered up a pile of stones and dropped them down between us. He looked at me sort of confused
“See those beer bottles down there?” I asked indicating the empty bottles someone had thrown down the bank. “You wanna see who can smash them first?”
“Why?” he asked.
“Why not?” I answered. “Breaking shit always makes me feel better. Might work for you too.” I don’t know if it did, but he didn’t talk about his da anymore. Instead he talked about his friends and the stuff they got up to, what comics and television shows he liked. I didn’t say much. The picture on our television was shite, and I didn’t have money for food let alone comics. I liked that he didn’t push me to talk. Hell, when this kid got going, you couldn’t get a word in edgeways anyway. When I’d smashed all the bottles, ’cause he couldn’t throw for shit, we got up and walked back to his house for dinner. I was so hungry that I was practically dragging him. “What’s your name anyway?” he asked me.
“Cormac O’Connell. But everyone just calls me Con.”
“I’m Kieran,” he replied. “And me mates at school are Tommy and Liam. You can sit with us tomorrow if you like,” he offered.
“Okay,” I said. “What’s for dinner?”
“Chicken, roast potatoes, and veg, I think,” he told me. He turned his nose up at the last part, like veg was something disgusting that he was forced to eat. My mouth watered, and I dragged him a bit faster.
*
That was pretty much the day that Kieran Doherty became my best friend. The sicker his da got, and the worse things got for me at home, the more trouble we got into, mainly ’cause we were letting off steam. That and I never let anybody fuck with us. Hitting someone who deserved it made everything seem better. I couldn’t or wouldn’t hit me ma, and Kier couldn’t hit the people who made his da sick, so we hit anyone else who gave us shit.
“You ever been to that gym John Callaghan trains at?” I asked Kier one day.
“John Callaghan in year six?” he said.
“You know any other John Callaghans?” I replied sarcastically.
“Seven others, including him,” he shot back straightaway, and I rolled my eyes.