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Although Dad isn’t due for another ten minutes, Jack is already keeping vigil at his dormer bedroom window.

            “You can put toys in there.” Mum says, unzipping the pocket of his weekend bag.

            “I wanna hold him.” The five-year-old hugs a bedraggled toy dog to his chest.

            “I don’t mean Scooby; I mean your other toys.”

            “I’m only taking Scooby,” the boy retorts, reluctantly abandoning his vigil, “Me and Dad won’t have time for playing with toys: we’ll be too busy doing man stuff.”

            Shane could hardly believe his luck at Marie’s response to his plea for an extended term with their son. ‘The weekend after next,’ was her instant answer ‘from Friday afternoon until teatime on Sunday.’

            Shane’s only access to his son in the five-months since acceding to Marie’s request for ‘space’ has been limited to alternate Saturday afternoons. Now, as he watches the little figure race towards him, he is certain that he has made the right decision. He sweeps the child into his arms, calling out Marie’s name as he pauses on the threshold; her faint reply sounds from somewhere beyond the stairs.

            “Come in; I’ll be down in a minute.”

            “Come on, Dad; wait ‘til you see how big Nemo is.” Shane allows himself to be towed through to the kitchen where a glass bowl incongruously shares shelf space with miscellaneous culinary publications. The father winces at his son’s obvious attachment to the solitary fantail goldfish which stares back impassively from between the turrets of a submerged gothic castle.

            “He’s had a good lunch; he won’t need feeding for a while.” Marie announces as she drops a black holdall at her husband’s feet.

            “Are we going for burgers, Dad?” The boy asks hopefully.

            “You both know the rules: no junk food!” Marie says, smoothing her son’s flaxen cow’s-lick with spittle-dampened fingers. “We’ll have burgers when you come home on Sunday. Off you go, and be good for Julie.”

            “It’s Judy, but we won’t be…” Shane begins.

            “Who’s Ju…?” The boy interjects.

            “Julie is your dad’s new girlfriend; you must be nice to her.”

            “There is nothing between…” Shane tries again.

            “Come on, you don’t have to lie to me anymore. It’s bad example for the child!”

            “I’ve never…”

            “Look, you’ve got your weekend; just go!”

            Still smarting, Shane edges out of the picturesque suburban cul-de-sac and faces his Land Rover back towards the town centre.

            “Dad, have you really got a girlfriend?”

            “No, of course I don’t.”

            “But Mum said…”

            “She was only joking…”

            “Dad, I’m getting my summer holidays next week.”

            “Would you like to get them this week?”

            “Dad, what are summer holidays?”

            “It means you won’t have to go to school for the whole summer.”

            “I know, but will I be going on holiday?”

            “We’ll be going on holiday tomorrow; just you and me.”

            After a take-away supper of burger, chips and coke, Jack is soon fast asleep on the tattered sofa in his father’s tiny bedsit. Tenderly, Shane transfers the peaceful innocent to the comparative comfort of his solitary single bed, and then starts to empty his wardrobe. After a couple of restless hours on the uncomfortable couch, Shane, heavy-eyed and fuzzy-headed, conjures an omelette from the dregs of his fridge and cuts two slices of buttered toast into soldiers before gently rousing his son.

            “Dad, are we going on holiday now?” The boy enquires sleepily. Forcing a smile, Shane nods exaggeratedly.

            “Yes, eat up; we’ve got a long journey ahead.” Shane checks his watch; there will be ample time to catch the next B&I sailing.

            The rain begins as Shane packs the last of his gear in the Land Rover. Just my luck, he muses, after three weeks of sunshine. With a final glance at his passport, he ruffles his son’s hair before switching off his mobile phone and starting the engine. 

***

            When Marie’s doorbell chimes an hour later, she is fed, dressed, made-up, packed and ready for road. Although their embrace is brief, both knew that in a matter of hours they will be just another couple, invisible among anonymous strangers. If only Shane had somebody to turn to, it might lessen his pain when the truth of her relationship with Tom finally surfaces. Even after a year, she still feels a pang of guilt; but what is she to do? She’s not at fault; Shane isn’t at fault; nobody is at fault… it’s just… but deep down, Marie knows that Shane will never understand…

            “Marie, we agreed.” Recoiling at the echo of his words, she gapes at the phone that seems to have materialised in her fist. They can surely survive one day without us, she affirms and biting her lip, disables the phone and returns it to her handbag.

***

            From the outset, Jack has been giving a running commentary on the variety of farm and wild animal life visible from the elevated windows of the vehicle. As the Land Rover scales the steep mountain passage through the spruce forestry, the boy continues to invent new games where Scooby broadens his portfolio to star in a variety of roles from The Lion King and Wolfwalkers to White Fang and Belle and Sebastian. At the click of a released seatbelt, Shane glances in his rear-view mirror and is shocked to see Jack crawl across the back seat.

            “Jack!” Shane calls as they cleared the summit.

             “I’m only…” the boy says, retrieving his favourite toy.

            “All right, but you must keep your belt on.”

            “Dad, why does Tom sleep in your bed?”

            “Wha…aah…” The question becomes a howl of horror as the jeep veers across the road. Standing on the brake pedal, Shane wrestles the steering wheel violently to the left. Tortured rubber screams in vain as the tyres slide across the greasy surface. Rudderless, the 4X4 careers through an aged sheep-wire fence, and scythes through a wall of pine saplings before slewing downhill to eventually cannon into the broad trunk of an ancient beech tree. Had Jack been strapped into his seat, he might well be already dead. As it happens, the left rear door bursts open at the first impact, catapulting the little figure free of the plunging wreck.

***

            “The driver is still unconscious; what do we know about him?” The Garda Inspector asks of nobody in particular.

             “Not much.” Without turning back from the mangled vehicle, the sergeant clears his throat. “He has a British passport and driving licence; we’ve been trying to…”

            “I’ve run a check on the vehicle,” a female officer interjects, “the name of the owner tallies with that on the documents, but it’s registered to an Irish address!” She hands her notebook to her boss.

            “Have you contacted his local station?” The inspector asks.

            “Yes, they did a house call, but there was nobody home. I’ve been phoning the landline but keep getting the voicemail of somebody called Marie.”

            “Did you leave a message?” The sergeant feels obliged to say something.

            “I must have left about six.”

            “Keep trying,” the inspector says, returning her notebook, “but no more messages until we hear from the hospital. Well done, Deirdre.”

***

            Jack’s hurtling body finally comes to a bouncing stop on a narrow ledge above a steep incline. Though muddied and disorientated, the boy is miraculously uninjured and, once upright, instantly sets about brushing layers of dead pine needles from his T-shirt. Dry-eyed, he surveys his new surroundings: he’s in the country. Jack has wanted to see the country ever since Rascal disappeared a year ago. He’s gone to the country, Mum had explained, dogs belong in the country. But where is Scooby? Not only had his real puppy vanished but now he has lost Scooby as well. Suddenly, Jack’s eyes focus on a ball of brown fluff. His heart leaps, Scooby isn’t lost; he can see him now… just a few more steps… But Scooby is moving, Jack calls out, but Scooby is too fast. Realisation dawns: it isn’t Scooby; it’s a real dog… or something very like a dog…

***

            The inspector raises his brows as his sergeant enters the office, laden dawn with items of child’s clothing.

            “These are from the vehicle,” the sergeant explains, easing his burden onto his superior’s desk. The inspector does a quick sift through the pile.

            “These are all brand new; a sales rep?”

            “No” The young lady officer enters the office holding a black weekend bag aloft. “Look; these are not new.” One-by-one, she listed the bag’s contents. “A rain jacket, a pair of pyjamas, some pants, T-shirts, socks, underwear… and a toilet bag. There’s a small child out there somewhere, and we’ve missed him.”

***

            “Not again!” Tom chides, dropping the trolley case on the king-size hotel bed.

            “But there are messages on my landline.” Marie protests.

            “Are there any missed calls or messages on your mobile?” Her head shakes slowly. “Well then; don’t you think he’d call your mobile if there was a problem?” She nods, switched the phone off and returns it to her bag. “Relax, I’ll run you a bath.” Tom turns towards the en suite bathroom.

***

            “This is proof enough for me.” The young Garda declares, plucking a dishevelled toy dog from a thick clump of brambles and presenting it to the Inspector.

            “That could have been there for weeks.” The sergeant shrugs dismissively.

            “It rained buckets this morning; this is perfectly dry.” She counters; the sergeant raises a hand in acknowledgement.

            “Okay, listen up;” the Inspector says, “we’re going back out! Mike and Jason, you two check the wood back towards the village. Jim and Kevin, you work towards town. Deirdre, you do a house-to-house.”

***

            Jack is tiring now, he is hungry and his eyes burn from the constant wiping of his tears. His throat is parched and his meagre clothing is losing its battle against the evening chill. After what seems like an age, he thinks he detects the sound of running water. The trees are different now, not nearly as plentiful as before, but the few that grow at the edge of the wood seem bigger, wider…

            Strawberries! They are smaller than what he is accustomed to, but sweeter. The edge curbed on his hunger, he soon reaches a brook. Dropping to his knees, he imitates what Rascal used to do, and lowers his lips to the water. It tastes funny, like fallen leaves or old grass clippings but it is cold… soothing… and most importantly: wet. His thirst slaked, he cups his hands and douses his face with the refreshing liquid. There’s a new sound: the distant barking of a dog. Rascal? The boy steels himself for one final effort and totters off towards the sound.

***

            Deirdre studies the barking collie for a moment before abandoning the safety of her patrol car. Her instincts are validated as the dog ignores her progress towards the unlit farmhouse and starts to spray the tyres of her vehicle. After fruitless minutes of knocking and calling, she is just about to concede when the animal’s demeanour suddenly changes. After completing a few excited wheels around her, he gives a series of sharp yelps before squeezing between the bars of the paddock gate. Again, Deirdre’s rustic roots stand her in good stead. Bypassing her car, she vaults the gate and rushes through the scrubby field in the collie’s wake. Through the gathering gloom, she sees the dog suddenly flop to its belly and then notices a tiny figure jogging determinedly towards her. Moments after she reaches the boy, her phone jangles. 

            ‘It seems you were right;’ the sergeant’s voice crackles, ‘the driver is conscious; there is a boy, his name is Jack.’

            “I know”, Deirdre says, using her free hand to adjust her jacket on the shivering child’s shoulders, “he has just told me.”