Trunk Story

A plastic wheelie bin had just gone skittering down the road when Colly Glennon heard his son roaring.

“Daddy, dad-eeee.”

It was just after 10pm and his six-year-old Cillian should already have been asleep. They stayed up late watching Despicable Me 2 for what could easily have been the thirteenth time. They feasted on popcorn with the lights dimmed low as the storm outside sent almost every loose object in Dublin 7 tumbling and toppling over.

“Daddd-eeee.”

Colly had just poured out a bottle of Leffe, a perfect froth peeping over the rim of his goblet glass. He was letting the beer sit. His wife Niamh was away home down the country until Sunday with their daughter Méabh. A boy’s weekend loomed. Jumps racing, Dublin GAA, and Match of the Day on one TV. Disney movies and YouTube on another. There would be no screen time limits enforced.

“Dadddddd-eeeeeeeee.”

“What is it Cillian?” he roared.

He could hear his son was saying something, but not the words themselves.

“Alright, alright, I’m coming,” he said taking an enormous slug of the beer.

How long would he have to lie beside Cillian waiting for him to fall asleep? That was never part of his plan for the evening. The boy should have been asleep already, but Colly had a foolproof mantra for times such as these.

‘What else better would I be doing?’ he said to himself.

“Daddy, I think there’s something in my room.”

“It’s just the storm little man. It’s wild out there.”

“No, I heard something inside.”

Colly turned on the light on the landing, padded gently into his son’s bedroom. Cillian had the quilt pulled up high so that it was covering his face, his eyes red.

“Now, what’s all this about something in your room?” he said, rubbing his son’s forehead.

“I heard something scraping,” said Cillian.

“It’s just that crazy wind. You know the weatherman said it was the tail end of a hurricane from America.”

“What’s a hurricane?”

“It’s like a big big storm, only even bigger.”

“Is it dangerous?”

“Not if you’re curled up nice and cosy in your bed.”

Colly stood up and walked across the room, tapping the old toy trunk with his hand. He pulled back the curtain and looked out the window. The sycamore tree in the back was quivering, its leaves pogoing away even though it was only June. It was lucky his wife and daughter had made it up to Mayo before the wind really picked up. He imagined what it must be like out along the wild Atlantic coast, waves crashing, the rain coming downwards, sidewards, and every other wards.

“There’s nothing up here,” he said to his son. “Now, I’m going to go downstairs but I’ll leave the doors open and if you need me, just shout.”

“Okay daddy,” Cillian said, his eyelids drooping.