The Lost Boy - Chapter 2 – part two - The Cul-de-Sac and the Chaos.

As I said, I don’t remember being received, welcomed, even led into that house.

I don’t remember anything attached to that moment. No feeling, no thoughts. Not a thing.

From here, my memory jumps.

One of the first things I recall was my cousin sitting on his PC, flicking between radio stations from around the world and telling me how much he could do on it. I don’t remember what exactly — just the music part. It didn’t really interest me that much.

What I do remember is him saying some weird shit.

He had a very odd personality.

“What’s the point in washing if you’re just going to get dirty again!”

He laughed way too hard at his own jokes.

He was always a bit like that growing up.

I had a flashback while writing this — them visiting us back in the village, back when they still lived in the UK.

All of us cracking up because a bird had shat directly on the middle of Ben’s baseball cap.

People said it was good luck.

I always found that as strange as I found his sense of humour.

The house was small. So small.

Three cousins.

Four siblings.

Me.

My aunt.

And my mum.

I’ve no idea:

1. How the fuck we all fit in there, or

2. Which moron of the two parents thought this was a good idea

But I also remember knowing — I just had to get on with it.

It was hectic.

I also remember my other cousin having her friends round too.

Girls.

I liked sitting with them — of course I did.

And over time, that turned into more than just sitting with them.

I ended up having more than a friendship with a couple of them.

I became quite attached to one in particular.

She seemed to know what she was doing — if you catch my drift.

She showed me a few things…

The dos and don’ts.

It was a strange thing really — that early kind of closeness.

Confusing and exciting, like everything else in that chaotic little house.

I do remember the look of the street.

A cul-de-sac on a hill, that once you passed through an alley, looked out over one side of the village and the centre below.

My aunt was seeing some guy who lived at the end of the road.

He was what you’d expect from a young Irish lad —

twenties, drink problem — him and his brother… maybe even his mother and father too if memory serves.

I remember going round their house.

They made tea with a strainer — that stuck with me.

Weird at the time, but it was a bloody good cup of tea.

I remember the smell of coal.

That’s probably what created this weird time-warp feeling.

Before we left the UK, electric storage heaters were the thing where we lived.

Coal fires were basically a thing of the past.

But here?

Every house had open fires.

The smell clung to everything — indoors and out.

It was like stepping back in time.

I’m pretty sure one of the brothers worked in an arcade — I think we drank with him once or twice but that bit’s hazy.

He had a couple of old machines in the house he was obsessed with.

You could see the insides and fiddle with the parts — which I loved.

I’ve always liked taking things apart and trying to put them back together.

That reminds me of another memory — not from Ireland though.

From before.

Taking a plug apart to change the fuse.

I was so young.

Decided to test it before reattaching the back — boom.

I flew backwards, completely blasted.

Mum screamed, “What are you doing?!”

Electric gone in the whole house.

Hands smelt like burning.

Anyway — that was long before this chapter. Just came up now.

We befriended some of the other kids on the street.

We’d all meet up, build dens from nicked galvanised sheets or bits of corrugated steel.

One of them would steal shotgun cartridges, strip them down, and make bangers somehow.

And they went off.

We’d light one, then run and hide behind something, waiting for the boom before we burst into laughter.

And stayed low — in case someone came looking.

Now I’m not sure what order these memories come in — and I guess it’s not important.

This is just what I remember.

My aunt wasn’t around much.

And to be fair… who could blame her?

Her house had become a madhouse.

Infested with children — albeit by her own invitation.

But I don’t think she was very keen on any of us.

My cousins didn’t even call her “Mum,” from what I remember.

Maybe one of them did — but definitely not the older ones.

That probably says something. But maybe not.

Either way, she’d had enough.

She told us we couldn’t stay there anymore.

And I can only imagine the stress and fear my mum must’ve felt.

But she didn’t back down.

She stuck fast.

Refused to leave.

So my aunt moved out.

And then — she had the electricity cut off.

Like she was trying to smoke rats out of their hiding place.

That part was rough.

I remember mum cooking noodles with boiled water from a camping stove.

Hotdogs too, maybe.

Basically — anything that could be cooked in hot water.

She somehow managed to make a few decent meals in that situation.

I think she was even proud of herself.

And honestly — she deserved to be.

Eventually, my cousin — the one with the strange sense of humour and the PC — managed to bypass the meter.

We had electricity again.

But we had to be careful.

Mum didn’t want anyone to know — especially not my aunt — in case she found a way to shut it off again.

And she would still turn up sometimes.

Those visits never ended well.

Always arguments. Always chaos.

I remember one visit in particular — and you’ll understand why when I tell you.

There was already tension.

I don’t know if I’d had a drink — maybe a little, maybe none.

But a row kicked off between me and my aunt.

I tried to stop her from barging into the house.

She was charging up the garden path — shouting, wild.

And then she was on my back.

Stabbing me in the head with her car keys. Over and over.

It was madness.

Pure rage.

I snapped.

I got her off me — and I hit her.

One punch.

She went down.

Bloody nose. Out cold.

Whether she actually passed out or just faked it — I’ll never know.

But there she was, laid out.

And me?

I stood there, completely shaken.

That moment has never sat well with me.

It wasn’t something I was proud of — far from it.

I was always raised never to hit a woman.

That line had been burned into me from early on.

But even with the justification… it left something in me.

A mark I wouldn’t fully understand for years.

I was told never to hit a woman.

Drilled into me from young.

Ironic, really —

that it was my dad who told me that.

And yet it was my mum I got it from.

The message came from her.

Not in words — in the way she lived,

and the way she held us together,

even when everything was falling apart.

Now, back to the girl I was seeing — learning from.

I actually liked her.

I remember one night we all went out drinking at a pub.

Yeah, at 15.

Strange when you think about it now, but at the time it didn’t feel out of place. We just did it.

On the way back to my aunt’s house, there were a few of us walking together.

Some guy started chatting to her.

Nothing mad — but I got jealous.

Proper, hot-blooded, drink-fuelled jealous.

I told him she was mine.

Can’t remember exactly how the words came out — probably slurred and stupid — but that was the message.

Next thing I know, this guy kicks off.

And I mean kicked me up the street.

No exaggeration.

I kept getting up and going back at him — again and again.

But I was drunk. And he was a man.

I was more annoying than threatening — and he was doing damage.

We ended up at the end of the cul-de-sac where I was staying, and I stumbled back to the house.

But I wasn’t done.

I went into the shed and grabbed a shovel.

Madness, I know — but at the time I didn’t give a fuck.

I went back out, hunting for him.

Found him.

And I charged — shovel in hand — arms raised high, pulled right back like I was going to take his head clean off.

I swung.

And I missed.

Thank God I missed.

He looked shook.

And fair play — instead of swinging back, he took the shovel off me and tried to calm me down.

Told me to chill out.

I was completely off my head.

Crazed. Wild.

Eventually, he let go of me.

And somehow — I don’t know how — we ended up shaking hands.

Looking back, it’s hard to believe all of that happened in such a short window of time.

The chaos. The newness. The violence.

The strange sense of starting again with no map.

We were just kids — thrown into a life we didn’t choose,

trying to survive it one memory at a time.

But this was only the beginning of Ireland.

There was more to come.

More mistakes.

More lessons.

And somehow, even more to lose.