Dublin, Ireland. 1981.
"Hurry the fuck up, will ya? I haven't got all bleedin' night. I've to meet the boys in half an hour." Tommy Ryan banged the table with his fist, making his young son jump with fright and his daughter roll her eyes.
Margaret Ryan took a steadying breath before placing her husband's plate of Shepperd's pie in front of him. "Not this muck again? Jesus, do you not know how to make anything fuckin' else?" Tommy roared as he reluctantly dug his fork into his meal. Margaret served the children and sat down, opposite her husband, with a cup of tea. "Thanks, Ma." Frances offered a smile to her mother who returned a small one. She winked at her daughter and cleared her throat. Frances could see the sadness in her mother's eyes. "Make sure you eat your carrots, Michael." Michael happily lapped up his dinner, blissfully unaware of the tension building around the table.
The family sat around the small square kitchen table and ate in silence, save for the intermittent sighs of displeasure and annoyance coming from the head of the table. "What are you looking at?" Tommy snapped at his daughter who narrowed her eyes in disgust. Frankie was only eleven, but had learned to keep her mouth firmly shut when it comes to her father's treatment of her mother. Margaret had stood up to him not so long ago when Tommy came home pissed one night and convinced himself that she had been carrying on with some fella from the pub. Frances had always disliked her father, but that night she realised just how much of an evil bastard he truly was. That night, a bitter seed was planted deep inside Frances. She fucking hated him.
It was a few months ago when Frances had woke to shouting. Oh God, he's at it again, will he actually kill her this time? She thought as she ran downstairs and burst into the sitting room. She jumped in front of her mother, screaming at her father in anguish. Margaret was covered in blood and trembling on the floor, begging him to stop. Frances launched herself in front of her father, feeling the wrath and full power of his leather belt. It stung her face as it tore into her skin above her eye. At least it's me, now and not her.
He did show some form of remorse the last time it happened. The night when his, then, ten-year-old daughter held her bloody face while trying to protect her mother from him. He stopped eventually. Frances could never understand why her mother never really tried to fight back or leave him. Whenever she confronted her mother about it, her mother always just said to leave it. She told her young daughter that she would never understand and that she would never leave her father. She told her daughter that night, through painful tears, that he would kill her if she ever left him and that Tommy Ryan was not a man to be challenged.
Frances pushed the food around her plate and unconsciously touched the inch long scar just above her right eye, remembering that night in anger. Her father was a pig. A brut of a man with no respect for his wife or family. But he was powerful. Frances didn't really know what exactly he did for work but she did know that whatever it was; her father was in charge. Men would pass them in the street and jump off the pavement out of his way. They would stop talking when he walked by or avert their eyes, not daring to look at him straight on. He never put his hand in his pocket whenever we went into a shop and he was always had a few fellas walk by his side when we went to town.
Tommy met with the fellas every night after dinner. They're all just as bad as him. Just as mean and horrible. Except Paul. Paul was the only one of her father's friends that Frances actually liked. He would call to the house, often, to speak with Tommy or to collect him in his car and he would always bring little presents for Frances and Michael. He even brought chocolate for Margaret some times. He was a nice man.
Some nights, Tommy would stay out till all hours, falling in the door, drunk. Some nights he wouldn't return at all and Margaret would sit at the kitchen table all night, smoking and hugging her mug of cold tea. Frances had always thought her father would just go the pub night after night and get pissed, but for the past few months, something inside was telling her that her father did more than that.
Tommy threw his knife and fork on the plate and stands up, grabbing his coat from the back of his chair. "Right, I'm off. I probably won't be home tonight," he says, as he smoothed his hair down in the small mirror in the hallway. "Where you going, da?" Michael asked, his soft, babyish voice full of genuine interest. Frances stared at her baby brother. Just six years old and full of love and kindness. Frances always felt extremely protective of her brother. She would always step in whenever some arsehole started teasing him in the school yard. Her father had smacked her so hard across the face a few months ago when she was sent home from school for kicking the shit out of one of the older lads for taking Michael's teddy bear and ripping it in half. Her father was screaming at her when the doorbell rang. It was the older boy and his father, coming to apologise to Michael for what he had done. The older boy's father looked terrified and assured Tommy that it would never happen again, that his son didn't realise who Michael was. Frances wasn't surprised by this. The older she got, the more she realised just how feared her father was.
Tommy glared at his son before smiling. "Just a bit of business, son. Don't you be worrying." He winked at Michael and heads out the door, whistling.
Frances glanced at her mother as she cleared away the plates and notices a visible change in her body language. It looks like her mother had just released a breath she didn't realise she was holding. "Thanks, love. You're so good," Margaret grabbed her daughter's hand and pulled her into a loving hug. "I don't know what I'd do without you, the two of you." She held Michael's hand while burying her face in Frances's jumper. Frances gently pulled her mother's shoulders back and searches her face, worryingly. "Ma, what's wrong?" Frances struggled to hide the fear in her voice. Margaret released her grip on her children and stood up, wiping away the tears that were forming in her eyes.
Her mother rummaged deep in the cupboard and pulled out something shiny and purple and threw it to Frances. "Here, you two go watch the telly. I have to telephone someone." She kissed Frances on the cheek and walked out of the kitchen, sighing.
Frances stared after her mother. She felt a knot forming in her stomach and swallowed, hard. I don't like this. Something isn't right. She thought.
Her thoughts were interrupted when Michael yanked the chocolate bar out of her hand and ran into the sitting room, giggling. Frances couldn't help but smile as she stared after her beautiful baby brother. So innocent and good. I hope he stays that way forever. Sadness suddenly engulfed Frances. She'd always felt so unhappy living in this house. She never really got to be a proper child. She felt like she could never really let her guard down because all she wanted to do is protect her mother and her brother. But that feeling, that feeling causing a pain in her stomach was making her feel very uneasy.
Frances plonked herself onto the couch as Michael turned on the television and lay across the floor, scoffing the chocolate. She could see her mother's reflection in the mirror just behind the T.V. She was sitting on the bottom stair, whispering frantic words through the phone and chewing the nail of her thumb. The knot in Frances stomach was growing bigger by the minute. Tonight wasn't any different from every other night in this house. They would eat in tense silence after her father's comments about the shit food. Her mother would would sip her tea, absentmindedly and then her father would leave. But tonight. Tonight feels different. Frances can't help but study her mothers face in the mirror. She looked nervous, frightened. More than ever. And so tired. She looked like she's sixty-five, not thirty-five. Who is she talking to? Frances thought.
Michael, once again, pulled her back when he leapt into her lap and held out a couple of squares of chocolate. Frances smiled down at her brother. His bright blue eyes; full of love. She took the chocolate and popped it into her mouth, making a funny face as she did so. Michael giggled and cuddled into his big sister, yawning. Frances felt her eyes getting heavy as they darted back and forth between the television and her mother's reflection. Their eyes met for a split second as Frances desperately tried to fight the sleep. She caught a few of her mother's agonised words before succumbing. "No, you must be mad! We can't. He'll kill us. We can't. I can't leave them."