Page 13 of The Beginning and End of Everything
I didn’t want to explain it to Connor. He and Poppy didn’t have a dad who beat on them or their mum. Their lives were perfect. And that was exactly why I needed them, so I could pretend like mine wasn’t messed up.
By the time I got back to the camp, my stomach felt like a pit of snakes, slipping and coiling around each other. Dad was usually down at the pub by this time on a Sunday afternoon, but today, I knew he would be waiting for me.
Sean barked the same way he always did whenever anyone approached the caravan, growling and snipping until he realized it was me. My lungs filled on a deep breath as I pulled open the door, the unoiled hinges squealing when I stepped into the dreary darkness of the caravan.
A thick haze of cigarette smoke hung in the air, along with the stale scent of cheap whiskey. Dad sat on the couch, a beer bottle hanging lazily from his hand while the Sunday races commentary buzzed from the TV. No doubt, he had money on the race.
Ma poked her head around the corner. Her eyes darted between the back of my dad’s head and me. The black eye he’d given her the week before had faded to a mottled green and yellow. The tension pulsing in the room made the tiny caravan feel even smaller.
“Go wash up and get changed, Brandon,” she said, her voice tense.
By the time I came out of my room, the TV was off, and Dad was waiting for me by the door. When his bloodshot eyes met mine, I knew he was drunk. Though in truth, I couldn’t recall what he looked like sober. My shoulders grew tense, and I released a shaky breath.
“Let’s go.” He jerked his head toward the door, and I followed him outside.
His beaten-up Transit van was parked out back, the wheel arches crumbling beneath rust and the locks hanging off from being jimmied with a screwdriver one too many times. Most of the white paint had peeled away, leaving behind rust, and every panel was dented. The door opened with a strained creek before he dragged himself into the driving seat.
With a cough, the engine ticked over, and I hopped in.
We drove the few miles down the road to the neighboring camp. It was a miracle my dad had never been pulled over by the cops, but he was so used to being drunk, I guessed he drove better than most people did sober.
We pulled up to a gate where an old man nodded and let us in. Far too soon, I was out of the van and taking in the space around me.
The McKinnley brothers’ camp was bigger than ours. Vehicles littered the field along with a janky swing set, an abandoned mattress, and a tattered sofa. Dogs barked at us, tugging on the chains that bound them to the caravans as we wound our way through the camp until we finally reached a clearing.
A blazing fire crackled from an oil barrel where a large group of men had gathered. Some stood, others laid sprawled out in garden chairs—all with buckets of beer bottles dotted between them. My father guided me toward a cluster of men leaning against the side of a shiny, new caravan. There was even fancy decking by the front door. My ma would have loved a caravan like that.
“Jonny,” Dad greeted one of them.
“Des.” The man shoved away and pulled my dad into a bear hug. “This your boy?”
I looked up at the grey-haired man and his smile full of crooked teeth.
“Ay. He’ll be in the ring next year.”
The man laughed. “He got a swing on him?”
My dad squeezed my shoulder.
I wanted to shrug away from him, but I didn’t.
“Of course. He’s cut from the same cloth as his old man.”
My stomach sank, fast and hard. I didn’t want to be the same as my dad. In the blink of an eye, my whole future flashed before me, and it looked like days and nights in the pub, a shitty caravan, and hopelessness.
“Nah,” Uncle Darren strolled toward us, “He’s like his uncle.” His massive frame strained against the faded hoody he wore. His red hair was combed, and for Uncle Darren, he almost looked smart. He clapped a hand on my back as he came to stand beside me, dwarfing everyone around him. “He’s gonna be a champ. Aren’t ya, Brandon?”
I gave a meek nod.
The men talked a while before heading over to a ramshackle-looking barn at the back of the site. Inside, a layer of straw covered the dirt floor, and several wooden pallets had been tied together with bailing twine to form a pen.
People gathered around all four sides, from the way they swayed and stumbled, I didn’t think there was a sober one here, including the woman across the pen who leaned over the pallets, her boobs nearly falling out of her top. Then an older, bearded man stepped into the pen, tugging his jeans over his gut. Something about him carried a frenzied, infectious excitement across the crowd.
“We have a treat for you tonight.” He spread his arms wide and turned in a slow circle. “These two have been waiting to go at it since the championship last year.”
I didn’t see anyone other than more men that looked just like my dad until the announcer stepped aside.
“Thomas O’Leary and Jimmy Gregor.”
