Free Lamb by Bernard Maclaverty

radio was angled for the least interference. The news came on.
    In Northern Ireland a girl of five had been shot dead in crossfire, but there was nothing about them.
    â€˜Might we be on the news?’
    Michael nodded. The boy was delighted with this idea.
    â€˜Why do you think I bought the radio?’
    In any case he was glad of it because it eased the silence between them as they ate. After a while ceilidh music came on and they both lay down, Michael his face to the sun, the boy on his belly.
    Michael couldn’t help feeling slightly annoyed at the boy, annoyed that Owen had not once thanked him for any of the presents that he had bought – the watch, nothing. He argued with himself that the boy had never been taught to thank people, that he had rarely, if ever, been given presents before. Nevertheless he felt irked that the boy had not the spontaneous goodwill to say thanks.
    The ceilidh music drummed on at his ear. The tunes all seemed to be the same.
    â€˜Is there no good music on that thing?’ said Owen, as if echoing Michael’s thought.
    â€˜Hold it,’ said Michael, getting up into a sitting position. He took a piece of still tacky Sellotape from the wrapping round one of the parcels and stuck it on to the perspex waveband of the radio to coincide with the pointer at Radio Eireann.
    â€˜Now we’ll never get lost,’ he said and twiddled the knob until he heard sounds of rock music.
    â€˜That’s better,’ said Owen.
    Michael gathered up the litter they had created and stuffed it into a bag. He was on his knees and pretending to jive to the music.
    â€˜Hey, Michael.’
    â€˜What?’ It was the first time Owen had used his real name.
    â€˜Here’s something for you.’
    The boy extended his hand to Michael. In it was a cardboard and cellophane pack. It was a Papermate pen. He broke open the cellophane and took it out.
    â€˜It’s a beauty. Thanks.’ The boy grinned. Michael’s voice suddenly dropped a tone. ‘Where did you get it? You have no money.’
    â€˜In the shop. Where you bought the cash book.’
    â€˜But you have no money.’
    The boy shrugged and smiled.
    â€˜You can wipe that smile off your face,’ shouted Michael. ‘Do you realize the risk you took? Jesus, Owen, if you’re caught at that game and hauled into the manager’s office it’s the police. COPS . They’ll be swarming all over us asking questions and THAT’S IT . Prison for me and an express trip back to the Home for you.’
    Michael shook his head in disbelief and shuddered at what had nearly happened to them. When he looked back at the boy he saw he was crying. It was the first time he had ever seen him cry. Not even after the beatings in the Home, or the time his collar bone was broken had he seen tears come out of his eyes. He fiddled with the pen, not knowing what to do. The boy came towards him and Michael put his arms around him, He was still kneeling and the boy came to the height of his head. He encircled him with his arms and hugged him. He felt Owen relax into his hug and cry more bitterly, shuddering with each breath.
    â€˜O.K., Mister,’ Michael said. ‘It’s the nicest present I ever got. But why didn’t you nick a better one?’
    The boy laugh-cried into his shoulder. Michael groped for a hanky and gave it to him. He noticed a park keeper walking in their direction. He held the boy at arm’s length.
    â€˜Dry up and let’s go,’ he said. Owen stopped crying and turned to watch the uniformed keeper walk past them.
    â€˜Never again?’ asked Michael.
    â€˜Never again,’ said Owen. ‘Your chin is rough.’
    In the hotel before tea, listening to the Radio Eireann News, Michael heard that a man was wanted by the Gardai to help them with their enquiries into the disappearance of a twelve-year-old boy, Owen Kane. The Gardai, said the newscaster, were treating it as a