I’m sitting in the best seat, upstairs at the front, so you can pretend you’re driving. We’re going up the Noggin Hill, I want to go down it on me bike sometime, it’s massive steep; you’d probably go about a hundred miles an hour. Me cousin Marty’s bringing me home, he keeps turning to look at two girls behind us.

At the top of the hill, the Deer Hunter pub’s massive electric sign isn’t turned on yet, so I can’t see if they fixed that ‘e’ that wasn’t working. I point out the school where I went to Karate before. Then we go through a boring bit that only has houses until we get to the Graduate roundabout. I always feel sad when we get to this bit ‘cause I know we’re almost home. In the van with me Da I always wish he’d turn off towards Dalkey – then there’ll be more driving, more stops, building sites to play on, crisps and lemonade in pubs. The golf course is the last thing to see before we disappear into the trees, into the dark bit between here and the dualer.

We get off the bus halfway down the dual carriageway, outside Colm Kill's school. The two girls get off as well, one of them starts smoking and they both giggle for no reason. We walk through Posh Land, the two-story houses in Oakton. The lads in our street throw stones at their lads whenever they come across to the shop van or to rob the orchard. Around the next corner are the three-story houses. This is Laurel Avenue, which makes sense because our house is tall and skinny like Laurel from Laurel and Hardy.

I jump on the low wall that runs along the green in front of our house. We play football here and I never get to kick the ball. I cry and go into the house and sometimes me Ma goes out and says, “Let him have a go.” Marty’s going to the village and he won’t let me come. I run along the wall then jump off, almost touchin’ our gate. My new red trainers are super-bouncy, so I don’t hurt me feet.

On the right is our square garden. The grass is taller than me knees and it’s got loads of stingers in it. Me big brother can jump from the front wall to the house. The green wire fence at the other side keeps out Noeleen Morrissey’s mad kids. There’s no grass on the left side of the path. There’s a few weeds and three huge rusty girders that me Da left there ages ago. I can’t even lift them one bit and Anto says me face goes purple when I try. Me Ma hates them, they always start shoutin’ when she mentions them to me Da.

The black fence between the front and back gardens has planks running across it, so you can climb over it rapid and pretend you’re on the Krypton Factor. The back door’s locked. Ma’s in the hall on the phone, I can just see her foot bobbing as she talks. I go around the front to ring the bell and get in.

*****

Across the street, Keith sat in his emaculate Granada. He looked across at the metal gate graffiti. ‘Free Nicky Kelly’, ‘I.R.A.’, a depiction of an oversized male member, ‘Bob Marley R.I.P’. Black rubbish bags spilled their guts out beside the path. Keith was immune to the apathy that looked through broken windows, masonry cracks and burnt-out facades. He saw his reflection in the rear-view as he took a drag from his cigarette. His flacid cheeks detracted from distinguished Roman nose and spoke of his weight problem. He stubbed out the cigarette and resolved to give up again.

The house in question had a back yard littered with scaffolding poles and assorted building supplies. A line of hexagonal paving stones placed a stride apart bisected the garden and allowed the walker to avoid treading through mud. There was a dog box but no sign of a dog. The bathroom curtains billowed out revealing the shame of walls that had seen neither paint nor wallpaper.

The boy had just run into the garden. The door would be open soon. Keith crossed the street and passed thriough the gate of number fifty-seven. At the side of the house he tapped the boy on the shoulder. The little one jumped, turned, his eyes and mouth became circles. Keith put finger to lips, gesticulating silence, then the finger pointed to the front door. “I want to surprise your Da,” he whispered. He held up a gift-wrapped box in his other hand. The boy smiled, a willing co-conspirator.

As Keith drove away he realised there were several things that he could have done better. “Ever the perfectionist,” he said aloud. He looked at the canvas sack on the back seat, still and peaceful. A tiny red trainer pertruderd from one end. There were allowances to be made. After all, Keith had never sacrificed anyone before.