Wilderness

The dog stared back at them. Most of the other
dogs in the pen were howling and making noises that
sounded quite like foreign words. They were rattling
and stretching their chains. But this dog in front of
them was different. He stood there in the dirty snow,
as calm as anything, and looked at the boys, at Tom,
and then at Johnny, at Tom, then Johnny.

They weren't really like dog's eyes at all. At least,
they weren't like the eyes of any of the dogs the boys knew at home. Lots of their friends had dogs, and
their aunt had two of them, but all of those dogs had
proper dog eyes. But this dog looking at them had eyes
that seemed to belong to a different animal, maybe
even a human.

“It's like there's someone trapped in there,” said
Tom.

Johnny nodded. He knew exactly what his brother
meant.

They stepped back, still looking at the dog. They
were afraid to turn their backs on him. They stepped
back again, into thick, clean snow. They did it again,
and bumped into something hard. They turned, and
looked up at the biggest, tallest, widest man they'd
ever seen.

The man was a solid wall in front of them. The dog
was right behind them.

“Why â are â you â here?” said the man.

Â
CHAPTER ONE

Johnny Griffin was nearly twelve and his brother,
Tom, was ten. They lived in Dublin, with their parents
and their sister. They were two ordinary boys. And they were being very ordinary the day their mother
made the announcement.

They were in the kitchen, doing their homework.
It was raining outside, and the rain was hammering
on the flat roof of the kitchen. So they didn't hear
their mother's key in the front door and they didn't
hear her walking up the hall. Suddenly, she was
there.

They always loved it when she came home from
work, but this was even better, because she was
soaking wet. There was already a pool at her feet.

“I'm a bit wet, lads,” she said.

She shook herself, and big drops of secondhand
rain flew at the boys and made them shout and laugh.
She grabbed them and pressed their faces into her soggy jacket. Tom laughed again, but Johnny didn't.
He thought he was too old for this.

“Let go!” he yelled into the jacket.

“Say please,” said his mother.

“No!” said Johnny.

But she let him go, and his brother too.

“There'll be no rain where we're going, lads,” she
said.

That sounded interesting.

“Only snow.”

That sounded very interesting.

So she told them what she'd done that day, at
lunchtime. She'd been walking past a travel shop
and something bright in the window caught her eye.
She stopped and looked. It was a hill in the window,
made of artificial snow, and there was a teddy bear
skiing down the hill. It was an ad for winter
holidays.

“It was really stupid, lads,” she said. “The poor
teddy was wearing a crash helmet that was way too big
for him and his skis were on back to front. But, sure
anyway, I went in and booked a holiday for us.”

“Where?” said Johnny.

“Finland.”

The boys went mad. Tom ran down the hall, up the
stairs, jumped on the beds and came back.

“Where's Finland?” he asked.

They got Johnny's atlas out of his schoolbag and found Finland. Their mother showed them the route
they'd be taking. Her finger went from Dublin, over the Irish Sea.

“We've to fly to Manchester first,” she said.

And her finger turned at Manchester, and headed
north across the page.

“And then to Helsinki.”

They liked the sound of that place.

“Helsinki! Helsinki!”

They thumped each other and laughed.

“And then,” said their mother, “we change planes
again and fly even further north.”

Her finger went up from Helsinki, and stopped.

“To a place that isn't on the map,” she said.

“Why not?” said Tom.

“It's probably too small,” said Johnny.

“That's right,” said their mother.

“What's it called?”

“I can't remember,” said their mother. “And I left
the brochure at work. But it looks lovely.”

“When are we going?” said Johnny.

“In two weeks,” she said.

“Deadly,” said Tom.

“But we'll still be in school,” said Johnny.

He'd worked it out. It was the middle of
November. Add two weeks and they'd be at the
beginning of December, still three weeks before the
Christmas holidays.

“No, you won't,” said their mother. “I already
phoned Ms Ford.”

Ms Ford was the principal of their school. Johnny
was in sixth class, and Tom was in fifth.

“She said she was inclined to look favourably at my
request, because it'll be such an educational
experience for both of you.”

“Does that mean we can go?” said Johnny.

“Yes,” said their mother. “She said fire away, but to
be sure to bring her home a present.”

So that was it. They were going to Finland.

“Coo-il!”

That much was true. But some of the things their
mother had told Johnny and Tom weren't true at all.
She'd told them she'd left the brochure on her desk at
work. But she hadn't. It was in her bag. But she didn't
want them running off and rooting through her bag.
There were things in there that she didn't want the boys to see. She'd told them that the teddy in the
window was wearing a helmet that was too big, and
skis that were back to front. That wasn't true. Because
there was no teddy. And she'd told them she'd gone
straight in and booked the holiday. But that wasn't
true either. She
had
booked the holiday at lunchtime
that day. But she'd been thinking about doing it for
weeks.

Johnny and Tom's mother was called Sandra.
Sandra Hammond.

“Is Dad going with us?” Tom asked later, when they
were having their dinner.

Their father's name was Frank. Frank Griffin.

“No,” said Sandra.

“Why not?”

“Well,” said Sandra. “It's an adventure holiday. And
you know your dad. His idea of an adventure is going
to the front door to get the milk.”

“What about GrÃ¡inne?”

GrÃ¡inne was their sister.

“No,” said Sandra. “She won't be coming either.”

“How come?” said Johnny.

“She wouldn't want to,” said Sandra.

Tom and Johnny didn't mind. Their mother was
right. GrÃ¡inne wouldn't want to go with them, even to
as cool a place as Finland. GrÃ¡inne was much older than the boys. She was eighteen. And Tom and
Johnny didn't like her much. Mainly because she
didn't like them.

Their father came home. They heard the music. He
always played it loud, with the car windows down, but
only when he turned into the drive. He did it to annoy
their neighbour. It was a long story. Or, at least, it went
back a long time. It went way back, to when GrÃ¡inne
was only three, and Frank was married to a woman
called Rosemary, and they were moving into the
house. Frank was helping the removal men carry a
couch into the house. But he wasn't being much help. Actually, he was in the way. He was standing at the
door watching GrÃ¡inne. She was talking to a woman
who was cutting her side of the hedge. This was Mrs
Newman, their new neighbour, although she wasn't
new at all â she was at least forty. And GrÃ¡inne was
talking to her.

“Hello,” she said.

But the new neighbour wasn't talking back.

“Hello, lady,” said GrÃ¡inne.

Mrs Newman just kept chopping the hedge.

“Hello, lady,” said GrÃ¡inne.

Frank hopped over the couch and went straight
over to the hedge.

“My daughter has been saying hello to you,” he said.

“What?” said Mrs Newman.

“She's been saying hello to you,” said Frank.

“I didn't hear her,” said Mrs Newman.

She didn't really look at Frank. She leaned out and
chopped a bit of hedge with the shears. It fell at
Frank's feet.

“I'm a bit deaf,” she said.

“Oh,” said Frank.

He put his hand out, over the hedge.

“I'm Frank Griffin, by the way.”

But Mrs Newman didn't shake Frank's hand. In
fact, she nearly chopped his fingers off. He took his
hand back just in time. He felt the breeze on his fingertips as the two blades snapped together.

He picked up GrÃ¡inne and carried her into their new
house. He didn't speak to Mrs Newman again, but he
didn't start playing the music loud until much later,
about three years after they'd moved into the house. It
was the sad part of the story. Frank and Rosemary
weren't happily married any more. He didn't know why
not, and neither did she. It just seemed to happen.
They didn't love each other any more. And they argued.
About small things, about stupid things. They had a big
argument about a rotten apple Frank found in the
bottom of GrÃ¡inne's schoolbag. The apple mush had
seeped into two of her copy books, and he blamed
Rosemary for it. He knew he was being mean. But he
couldn't help himself. That was what it felt like â he
wanted to stop but he couldn't.

“If you had any interest in her education you'd have
found that apple before it exploded in her bag,” he
said.

He was shouting.

“And what about you?” said Rosemary.

She was shouting back. They were in their
bedroom, at the front of the house. It was a nice
night, in September. The window was wide open.
Frank saw it, the open window, and he didn't care.

“Where's
your
interest in her education?” said
Rosemary.

“I'm more interested than you,” said Frank. “That's
for sure.”

The argument went on like that. It was really stupid
and pointless.

The doorbell rang. Rosemary looked out the
window and saw the police car.

“Oh, God,” she said.

They both went down to answer the door. The two
Guards, a man and a woman, looked embarrassed and
very young. There'd been a complaint about noise,
they told Frank. The woman, the Bean Garda, did the
talking. Rosemary was right behind Frank, looking at
the Guards over his shoulder. Frank apologized, and
Rosemary behind him nodded too. They were both
very sorry.

“Yes, well,” said the Bean Garda.

She was looking carefully at both of them, Frank
suddenly realized, and he wanted the floor to open up
and swallow him. She was looking for bruises, or red
skin, proof that they'd been violent.

“It was just a row,” said Frank. “Sorry.”

The Bean Garda had finished her examination.

“Well,” she said. “We all have them now and again.
But maybe you could close the windows the next
time, Mr Griffin.”

Frank laughed but, really, he'd never felt less like
laughing in his life. He felt so humiliated and awful â
he just wanted to shut the door. And that was what he
was doing when he saw the cigarette. They both saw
it. It was dark out there, especially when the police car turned and went. But there it was, the glowing
cigarette, at the other side of the hedge. Mrs Newman
was behind the cigarette, looking at them. And they
knew. She was the one who'd phoned the Guards.

“She's only deaf when it suits her,” said Frank as he
shut the door.

Frank and Rosemary hugged each other in the hall.
They went into the kitchen, made tea, and agreed that
they couldn't live together any more. It was a terrible
night, and Frank always blamed Mrs Newman for it.
He knew he wasn't being fair. But when he thought
about that night, and the days and months that led up
to it, he always saw that glowing cigarette. Thirteen
years after that night, eight years after Mrs Newman
gave up smoking, Frank still played loud music when
he drove into the drive, just to let her know. He
knew
â she wasn't deaf at all. He wasn't angry any
more. But he still liked to annoy Mrs Newman.

Johnny and Tom met him at the front door.

“We're going to Finland,” said Tom.

“Make sure you're home in time for bed,” said
Frank.

“In two weeks,” said Tom.

“Are you serious?” said Frank.

He took his jacket off and hung it on the bannister.

“Yeah,” said Johnny. “We're going with Mam.”

“Come down to the kitchen and tell me all about
it,” said Frank.

But he knew all about it already. It had actually
been his idea. And the excitement on the boys' faces
was the best thing he'd seen in a long time.

The day after their last argument, Rosemary made
GrÃ¡inne's lunch for school. She helped GrÃ¡inne put
on her coat, and then she walked with GrÃ¡inne down
the road to the school. She kissed GrÃ¡inne, and
hugged her.

“Bye-bye, honey-boo,” she said. “Have a lovely day.”

Then she stood at the school railings and watched
GrÃ¡inne as she walked across the yard and in the door.
She was crying and she didn't care that people were
looking at her. She walked home and packed two
suitcases. GrÃ¡inne's granny collected GrÃ¡inne from
school, and Frank collected her from her granny's
house on his way home from work. Rosemary was
gone when Frank and GrÃ¡inne got home.

“Where's Mama?” said GrÃ¡inne.

“She's gone on a holiday,” said Frank.

That was the question, and that was the answer for
days after that, and then another question was added.

“When's she coming home?”

And another answer.

“In a while.”

And another question.

“When?”

And the answer.

“I don't know.”

Then GrÃ¡inne stopped asking the questions.

For a long time Frank heard nothing about
Rosemary. He found out that she'd gone to America.
Then he heard she was living in New York. She
phoned her parents a few times a year, and sent her
love to GrÃ¡inne. But that was all.

For a long while, it was just him and GrÃ¡inne. And
it was fine. They were lonely, but they were lonely
together. GrÃ¡inne missed her mother, and stopped
believing that she'd ever come home. But she loved
her father and he was always there, smiling, always
downstairs when she was falling asleep, always awake
before her. Always her father.

Then he met Sandra.

They met at a concert. She was there with her
boyfriend, and she was sitting in Frank's seat.

He looked again at his ticket.

“M17,” he said. “You're in my seat, sorry.”

“Really?” she said.

Her boyfriend, on the other side, stood up.

“What's the story?” he said.

“It's my seat,” said Frank.

The boyfriend looked at Frank's ticket. Then he
looked at his own.

“N18,” he said. “We're in the wrong row. Oops.”