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12:I[5500,["/_next/static/chunks/2fkis9t5zs13j.js","/_next/static/chunks/2wy1f87iyex6h.js"],"Image"] 13:I[5517,["/_next/static/chunks/2fkis9t5zs13j.js","/_next/static/chunks/2wy1f87iyex6h.js"],"default"] c:C 14:Te3c,Eve began to search for the plastic blow-up bed as a loud whoop burst through the floorboards and circled the landing. It was followed by the rupture of laughter, the scraping of chairs across the kitchen tiles. 'Get out ta fuck,' her dad said, fun brimming at the edge of each word. Eve could picture his wide toothy grin, his head of grey curls thrown back laughing at something Julie Broderick had said. It was her brother Conor's ninth birthday. All afternoon the house had been filled with the high-pitched play of his classmates, their footsteps running through the hall downstairs. Now, close to midnight, Eve could hear the stragglers in the kitchen: the estate kids, whose parents, like her own Dad, were drawing the nine-year old's birthday party into an all-night drinking session. Eve gripped the edge of the blow-up bed and began to pull. The bed, still folded like a gigantic plastic sheet, came sliding towards her carrying a six pack of beer and the mouldy crust of a half-eaten cheese sandwich tucked into its top fold. Eve nudged the beer back into the airing-press and ignored the rotten sandwich. As Dads go, Eve's wasn't bad at cleaning, but Conor's discarded lunches could turn up anywhere. And it seemed to Eve, as she shut the door tight with the sole of her Nike Air Max, that the airing-press was as good a place as any for Conor's sandwich to finish decomposing into a cloud of dust. 'Eve! What the hell? I need a bed for Joey,' her dad said, his boots rounding the top of the stairs, his wiry frame towering over her. Eve looked down at the plastic blow-up bed. She had successfully unfolded it, tried to manoeuvre its large limp form between Conor's bed and his wardrobe, making room for Joey, the intended occupant of the bed, and Julie Broderick's youngest son from her second marriage which ended in an ugly row one day when Eve, Conor and Joey returned home from school. Eve still remembers the clothes strewn across Julie’s driveway, the sound of sobbing from inside her front door. ‘How was I to know?’ Eve heard her whisper over and over to Eve’s dad later that night. ‘He was so good with Joey. So attentive...’ Now, five years on, Julie had moved up north but made the occasional visit back to Sycamore Grove where she and Eve’s Dad continued drinking, and Joey ran wild and free to torment Conor, Eve’s little brother. 'Come on now, we'll set up the beds. Then we can relax,' her dad said, his voice softening. He rested his can of Heineken on Conor's bedside locker and bent over the plastic monstrosity at his feet. Eve continued to hold one corner of the bed, thinking as she did that when her dad said *we can relax*, he meant *we can drink*. But Eve's Dad had standards too, she would give him that. When someone came to stay - Julie Broderick, or Eve's aunt Bernie - they always got a bed with clean sheets for the night. There was no slipping in beside Conor or Eve, no robbing other people's pillows. And Eve's Dad always cleaned the house before a party: scrubbing the bathroom and kitchen with bleach; hoovering the stairs and bedrooms. This was before the cooking began and he prepared a tray of lasagne and garlic bread for the adults and set the kitchen table with colourful paper plates and large bowls of sweets for the kids. It was there, amongst the home cooking, when the sweets had been exhausted and the cake passed round, her dad's drinking started, and when it did, Eve thought it was like pulling a thread on a careful knit sweater and watching the stitches unravel at the seams, until the whole creation her father had tenderly put together fell asunder.15:T90b,Conor came hurtling up the stairs, his mouth opened wide in a primal howl that tore through Eve and made her dad turn then stand reluctantly from where he had been crouching by the mouth of the blow-up bed, pumping it with air. ''What is it now, Conor?' her dad barked before Conor could speak. Conor stood at the door of his room and stared in horror at the plastic blow-up bed. 'Joey says he's sleeping in my room tonight,' he sobbed, his narrow chest heaving. A line of drool clung to his chin. 'What's wrong with that? *Why not?*' her dad said. 'I don't want Joey to sleep in my room!' 'Why not? What's wrong with you?' 'I DONT WANT ...*JO*...*EY*...to sleep in my room!' Conor said, his words coming in short spurts, loud at first then low and scratchy as panic set in. ‘Why not, what’s wrong with you? It’s just for one night,’ Her dad turned away from Conor and crouched back down to the pump that had been slow to start, slow to push air into the plastic mouth of the bed. Conor rubbed his eyes with balled fists and howled. The thing is, Eve thought, Julie Broderick never stayed for one night. It was always two, sometimes more; the days always dragging on. Tonight, there would be hours of waiting for Conor and Eve, until the party ended and everyone fell away to bed. And when Conor woke early next the morning, as he always did, Joey would be sprawled out on his bedroom floor, his oversized limbs claiming Conor's space, knocking off his Lego creations and the row of stuffed toys Conor still kept by the end of his bed. That wouldn't be so bad if Julie Broderick picked up her coat then and left. But their dad would not want that: he would pull a beer from the fridge, pop the silver ring and ask Julie if she wanted something cold. And Julie Broderick never came alone. She always brought Joey (being her youngest) and one of the older two - Jack or Ciara, both teenagers now - who Eve knew as you might know cousins, and who used to run freely in and out of Eve's house when Julie Broderick lived across the road. 'Come on now,' her dad said to Conor, 'it's just for one night,' and Eve turned away and began to dress the blow-up bed in a pink duvet that was once her own. She felt sorry for Conor; sorry her father did not have something more to say that would comfort him.16:Tbbc,At the top of the stairs Eve heard the heavy beat of a drum and bass tune vibrate through the floorboards. She counted six adults when she came through the kitchen door. At the table sat Eve's Dad, her aunt Bernie and Bernie's boyfriend Tim, Kevin and Laura from next door, and Julie Broderick. That's not including Jack, Julie's eldest, who was sort of an adult having turned seventeen last month, and who was now slouched over with a can of Heineken in one hand, occasionally mumbling into the iPhone he kept tucked under his chin with the other. Only last year Jack used to sit with the kids, Joey, Eve and Conor, during his visits back to Sycamore Grove. He would stay in the living room wrestling with the boys, or playing pool with Eve while the adults drank in the kitchen. Except for the Christmas three years back when Eve got an Xbox from Santa, and they all, kids and adults, fed off the screen for three whole days. Tonight, Jack's eyes were showing the effect of his four Heinekens, and he kept them trained on the open can in front of him, looking now and then from the beer to Julie Broderick then back to the beer again, sometimes with a nod of approval to something she might say. Julie Broderick sat in the opposite corner, barely twice Jack’s age, her pretty mouth set into a gentle half smile that rarely changed. She wore black shorts and a cream camisole underneath a light silver cardigan. Her blonde hair was pulled back from her pretty face and pinned up in a loose bun on top of her head. The whole effect made Eve think of her occasional babysitter Mindy, who was sixteen and had long legs that she liked to dress in shorts, no matter what the weather. But Eve knew that Julie Broderick wasn’t sixteen, and outside there was no sun nor sand, but a westerly breeze shaping up to be an unseasonal storm that could keep them all indoors for the weekend. Eve pulled out a cereal bowl, filled it with Cheerio’s and flattened herself against the kitchen wall. ‘A packet of cigarettes will cost you €18,’ Julie said, in a large sort of way. ‘Will it?’ Tim asked, disbelieving. He fiddled with an empty in his hand. Tim was not a big drinker. ‘Yeah, I never buy them,’ Julie said, shifting in her seat. She had just returned from her car, to where she retreated every half hour for a cigarette. ‘What would you smoke then?’ asked Bernie, Eve’s aunt. Big Bernie, her dad liked to call her for a laugh, but really, he worshiped her every word. Bernie was his only sister, and clever. There was talk of a high IQ. She had been to medical school, trained to be a doctor, almost qualified except for the final exam when something terrible happened, something that kept her from the exam hall and drew a look, a silent exchange, between Eve’s Dad and Bernie each time they recalled their youth. Now, every so often, Bernie sat amongst Eve’s neighbours dispensing medical advice, until she took it too far and someone eventually told her to shut up.17:Td59,‘Rizlas,’ said Julie, ‘€22.95 a packet. But I always ask the girls to bring me back a pack when they’re away. You can get thirty for less than €25 that way.’ Everyone nodded their agreement. ‘You still have to buy the filters yourself, but it’s a lot cheaper than buying cigarettes,’ Julie said, then waited for everyone to nod. ‘And you can buy the filters now in Dealz.’ ‘*Dealz!* Are you sure?’ asked Bernie, examining the side of the wine bottle she shared with Laura. Bernie knew a deal when she saw one, had no choice Eve’s Dad would say. She could never manage money; an inflated sense of her own ability meant that she kept taking on debt she couldn’t afford to pay back. Eve’s Dad thought it likely that Tim was paying Bernie’s rent now, although Tim would never say. ‘Aha, 13% alcohol!’ Bernie exclaimed loudly, interrupting the flow of conversation, and holding up their wine bottle as if she had always suspected wine to have a high alcohol content, but only now uncovered the truth. She looked inquisitively at Julie’s can: a pink and silver gin and tonic mix that Eve saw Julie drag from the boot of her car in a twelve-can slab around 4 p.m. ‘2.7%?’ Bernie asked, nodding to Julie’s drink. Faces turned; heads started to calculate the difference in alcohol content. ‘This is nearly five times as much alcohol,’ said Bernie, laughing lightly when the others were slow to churn the numbers. She placed the wine bottle back down on the table with a clunk and took a sip from her own glass. ‘So, I’ve drunk five times as much as you, but you’re still the pretty one.’ Eve stood silently eating the last of her Cheerios that had turned soft and coloured the milk yellow. She kept watch on her aunt’s eyes trained on Julie Broderick’s face, the edges of her mouth turned down, as if the last sip of wine had left a bitter taste. Bernie's face glistened with sweat and the uneven globs of foundation she had rubbed on in her usual haste before coming over for Conor’s party. Around her neck was a cheap chemist-shop necklace that had started to turn green. Bernie pulled the necklace from the hollow between her breasts and started to play with it. A basketball team of nine-year-olds came hurtling through the kitchen and veered towards the front door led by Joey, who was waving a long stick high above his head, his mouth held open in a continuous Titan like roar. Each of the other boys waved their hands high in the air and made similar, if less enthusiastic, noises. Conor trailed at the end, his eyes unnaturally wide, his limbs jerking about wildly after a day of fizzy drinks. Eve’s Dad looked up from his beer and watched the boys go, then thought better of it and rose from his chair, yanking his jeans where they had started to slip, revealing two inches of faded blue boxer shorts above his belt. ‘Hey lads, don’t go out the front this late. The neighbours will be on to us again!’ he called then laughed softly and shook his head as if the boy’s night-time antics were a thing of wonder. The boys ignored Eve’s Dad, so Eve followed them hoping to pull Conor back indoors. But Conor shrugged her off on the doorstep, carried along by the commotion, and the boys who faded into the night, the odd strip of neon ribbing on their hoodies flashing like tiny spectres in the half light of Sycamore Grove.18:T7b9,Eve returned to the kitchen as Julie Broderick held up her iPhone displaying a message received while driving on the M50 that morning. ‘Monday at 10 a.m. I’m just going to ignore it,’ she said, resolutely. ‘Twenty months I’m waiting for an eye appointment. Twenty *fucking* months, and now they send me a cancellation for the Monday I’m away.’ Her words were pointed towards Bernie, she had the medical connection, but all the occupants of the kitchen table gave Julie Broderick an audience. You couldn’t go far in Sycamore Grove without hearing a story of woe about the health system. ‘What’s the problem with his eyes anyway?’ asked Bernie, leaning in. ‘Hyperopia? Julie looked confused. ‘A squint corrected through patching?’ Bernie said, when Julie said nothing. ‘Do they use plasters to correct Joey’s squint?’ The corners of Julie’s mouth turned down slightly. ‘Well, his squint is almost gone now...but yah, I used plasters,’ she said. Bernie nodded but did not say any more. Joey's right eye was always pointing north-east. If Julie Broderick was using plasters, she was sticking them somewhere other than Joey’s eye and everyone in the kitchen knew it. No one spoke for a moment or thought to tell Julie Broderick that she could still go to the appointment, that there was little to stop her leaving on Sunday night, or early Monday, to travel north. But there is a gentle balance to drinking for long hours Eve has noticed, that must be maintained at times by silence. And certain subjects are to be avoided: personal failings, for example, especially in parenting. Eve has also noticed, although she is unlikely to put it into words, that there is always one in the group less liked than the others, one who can go on the session then rise the next morning, unlike her dad, and go out to work. Nobody was going to single out that person tonight, but Eve thought it might be Tim, Bernie’s live-in boyfriend.19:T136a,Eve stuck a slice of bread into the toaster and started to clear away the empty cans that had migrated from the table onto the kitchen counter. If any of the adults noticed her standing there, taking stock of the evening, they did not say. She peered through the slats in the blind to keep watch over the heads of the boys who had returned now and were running up and down the road in front of her house. Eve could hear their shrieks of laughter, the clash of their sticks when they walloped them hard. Across the road a light came on in Mrs Ahsan’s bedroom and Eve thought she could see a curtain part but turned quickly, unwilling to catch sight of her kindly old neighbour as she frowned at Joey and the boys. ‘It could be an Arrhythmia,’ her aunt Bernie said now. ‘They can be different for everyone, but it will feel like a fluttering in your chest.’ ‘That’s it,’ said Kevin, ‘it was like my chest was racing. And I had a pain all over like I was going to collapse right there, in the bed section of Harvey Norman’s. Then it just stopped. Just like that. Gone!’ Kevin ran his hand across his chest as if remembering the pain, the sudden onset of butterflies and sweats. A few faces at the table smiled nervously then punctuated the moment with a sip from their drinks to avoid Kevin’s worried face. ‘Did you feel lightheaded?’ Bernie asked, a thin line appearing between her brows. She leaned her folded arms onto the kitchen table. ‘Yah, I said it to Laura! Didn’t I Lau? I said *JESUS*... I need to sit down! ‘It was the price of the beds Kev. You didn’t want to fork out for a new one,’ Laura said, laughing in a high uncouth way that had little sympathy for Kevin, and felt wrong to Eve for that time of the night, and Kevin’s chest pain. ‘You need to have that checked out,’ Bernie said, making the conversation serious again. She shifted back in her chair and the legs strained against the kitchen tiles, sending a high-pitched scraping sound into the night. Kevin nodded and silence fell over the table. Eve noticed Julie had become quiet too, quieter than the time her second husband left. She pulled herself away from the kitchen window and went outside. The boys had disappeared from the road, but she could see that Laura and Kevin’s front door was thrown open now, and a raucous sound was spilling out onto the street. Eve crossed the road, wanting to bring Conor home. It was after midnight. On the doorstep she hesitated; crossing the threshold into Laura and Kevin’s house while they sat in her kitchen felt a step too far, too familiar, even for Sycamore Grove. She turned to leave. Back home she would catch Laura’s eye, she thought, she would tell her about the open door and the boys running rampant through her rooms, made feral by sugar and lack of sleep, their sticks held high like Warlords in full flight. A shrill squeal, hysterical and animal-like shot, through Laura and Kevin’s hall to where Eve stood. She listened until she was certain it was not Conor’s voice she could hear, then turned on the doorstep, ready to leave. Reluctant to witness the game that caused that sound to emerge from the play of nine-year-old boys. ‘*Laura, the boys…,*’ Eve began, back in her own kitchen again. But her words were drowned out by Laura’s laughter, and the continued jokes about Kevin’s failed shopping trip. ‘Dad, Conor is over in...’ ‘What, Eve? What do you want now?’ her dad said, looking at Eve for a moment, his eyes not settling on her face but occupied by some memory, some thought that lingered and made him turn back quickly to the table and to Julie Broderick who had started to speak and shed delicate tears. Eve turned away from the table as Julie began to tell her story, and she understood then her dad’s insistence that Julie Broderick stay the night. Julie had a dilemma, a problem she needed to share, and the audience in her dad’s kitchen was the reason she had returned to Sycamore Grove. She walked back into the hall as if to follow the boys outdoors, but Eve’s legs felt tired now, her eyelids heavy. She climbed the stairs and threw herself onto her princess bed, so called for its short wrought-iron frame gifted to her the same year her Mum passed. Eve can still remember the hospital ward, the sterile smell of antiseptic, the high-backed chair with blue plastic seating she was forced to sit on during her final visit. Her limbs are too long for the princess bed now, but Eve is reluctant to part with its flimsy frame. Outside, the streetlights shone bright, brighter than she remembered. High in the sky a thin crescent shaped moon, little more than a toenail clipping, held vigil over the estate. Eve thought to rise, to close the curtains on the light that drenched her room, turning everything to a sickly grey. But her eyes started to close again, and she felt herself pulled headlong into sleep.1a:T4cd,A door opening downstairs woke her. When Eve listened, she could hear her dad's voice, talking slow and carefully, then a foot placed on the bottom step of the stairs, making the timbers creak. The familiar sound caused Eve to turn in her warm spot and half listen to each step climb the stairs until they stopped outside her bedroom door. Her dad likely, Eve thought, coming to check up on her, or to give out that she had left Conor to the antics of the estate boys, and worse Joey. Eve’s eyes felt heavy, but she could not sleep, and after a moment the door to her room inched open, allowing a sliver of light from the landing. Were a dim forty-watt bulb shines night and day, so that Conor will never feel alone. She raised her head, saw a shape at the end of her bed, half-curled around her feet, eyes wide open and watching. ‘Dad?’ she whispered, before recognising the curl of Jack’s shoulders, the slouched gait of the boy-turned-man as he stood quickly, splintering the light from the landing, and stepping onto her princess rug. 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