Your year took on a definite pattern. Summers in Ireland, the rest of the year back in London. Your mother died, leaving your father a ghost of the man he had been. Somehow, once school ended each year, it seemed preferable to return to Ireland and the Wolf's Head instead of spending the summer in that haunted South London flat with that stumbling, empty-eyed old man, unable to say any of the things he wanted to say. Ballyavon was a refuge from all of that, and Glenkildove its cool green heart, a place of respite and sanctuary.
Until that day when you saw one of your friends die in blood and horror and Ballyavon became a safe haven no longer.
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