Free Crying in the Dark by Shane Dunphy Page A

minds what you’d like to do now.’
    I motioned to the three staff members and we left the room.
    ‘Do you think it was wise to let them know they hurt us?’ Olwyn asked, as Karena led the way to the TV room.
    ‘Why not?’ I said. ‘We aren’t robots. We’re people. People get hurt when you punch or scratch them. They need to understand that. By the look of them, they’ve had plenty of violence directed at them. They were probably expected to take it and pass no remark. The real world isn’t like that. Cut me, and I bleed. I have no problem with the Byrnes knowing it.’
    We all took chairs (I chose a wooden one, since my jeans were by now reeking of urine) and Bríd went to get the first-aid kit. Karena turned on the television with the volume down low, and we waited.
    Fifteen minutes later, two dejected-looking figures appeared in the doorway. Olwyn silently went past them to fetch their pyjamas.
    ‘Now, kids,’ Karena said gently, ‘would ye like some supper or have you had enough to eat?’
    ‘We’d liken some tay, so we would,’ Francey said, eyeing me with real venom.
    ‘I’ll put the kettle on,’ Bríd said.
    They drank their tea quietly and went to bed without much protest. I watched them all the while, still unsure of what I was really seeing. They were an enigma. I just hoped that I would be able to unlock the secret that was hidden within these untamed, violent children.

5
    One week later
    Through the kitchen window, I watched Bobby and Micky Walsh talking to something that wasn’t there. It was a disquieting experience. The kitchen, as always, was in semi-darkness. With Biddy’s permission, I had been through the house to see if I could do anything about the pervasive gloom that seemed to cocoon it. It was a beautiful summer’s day outside, but inside was dark and actually a little chilly. I had washed all the windows thoroughly, made tie-backs for the curtains and aired the place, but the eternal twilight remained and there was a peculiar smell I just couldn’t get rid of. I had finally put it down to a design flaw in the building. The sun always seemed to be shining just at the wrong angle.
    I watched the two boys closely. This was the first time that Biddy had allowed me to see them when they were with ‘him’, and permission had been granted only when I promised not to intrude upon whatever was happening.
    The boys’ eyes were fixed at a particular point in the air. The brothers were different heights; Micky, as I’ve already mentioned, was significantly smaller than Bobby. He had to angle his head much more than his sibling, and I thought he would surely get bored with it and look away, but he didn’t. They both continued to focus on a patch of air, around six feet above ground level. I looked to see if there was some point of reference for them, a mark on the wall at that point or a branch from the ditch adjacent to them, but, if there was, I couldn’t see it. It was simply a patch of empty air.
    I couldn’t hear what was being said. The windows were double-glazed and no sound came through, but I could see from the boys’ body-language that they were having an animated conversation – although not with each other. Bobby would speak, and there would be a pause. Both boys, seated cross-legged on the ground, would talk together, just as they would if they were speaking to me or their mother, but then one would shout the other down, finish saying his piece, wait again, all the time looking at something I couldn’t see. It really did look for all the world as if they were talking to, listening to, responding to an invisible person.
    The play-work had so far produced nothing. I’d tried a range of different methodologies – sand and water, clay, role-play, storytelling – but I was beginning to see that the boys were not going through a grieving process at all, because, as far as they were concerned,
their father was not dead!
Their behaviour with me was always pleasant and