    “Great news!” she said. “It’s a school for gifted children. They
want to talk to you in Dublin, tomorrow, all expenses paid!”
“Can I see it?”
“Oh they sent a check with it. Your Father took it out to cash it.”
“And the letter?”
“He took it too.”
“It was addressed to me,” said Fintan.
“Sorry, we thought it was for your father, so we opened it.”
Right thought Fintan. Like I am stupid enough to believe
everything you tell me.
Mother took his silence as an accusation. “Oh don’t be like that!
He’ll be home in half an hour.”
Half an hour passed, then an hour, and then two hours. Mother
was high and excited, but Fintan was too angry to even think, much
less hang out with the family. His older brother Dermot was smirking
at Fintan’s unease. By midnight Father still wasn’t home, and Fintan
went to bed.
*
Father finally turned up in the small hours, and his drunken
singing and clumsy banging of doors woke Fintan. Finally, when all
was quiet, Fintan crept downstairs.
Father was asleep, snoring loudly on the sofa. The stale, sour
smell of alcohol filled the room. His jacket lay sprawled on the floor
where he had dropped it. Some crumpled papers were sticking out of
the inside pocket. Fintan grabbed them and retreated upstairs before
Mother or Dermot came down.
He straightened the papers out carefully. There was a letter,
addressed to Fintan.
Dear Mr Reilly,
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