The boy leaned his head against the steering wheel and sobbed. Hot, thick tears streamed down his pink, youthful face. It would be years before the first, wisping signs of stubble began to show. He gritted his teeth, scowled at the pedals by his feet. He wasn’t scared, or upset, or panicking. He was a man, he was angry. Full of rage. These were rageful tears.

His dad had left for work. Out delivering Christmas trees in the Jeep and trailer, all the way up to Newry. A bitch of a commute, he’d called it. His mother was in the kitchen, making lunch.

The week before, only four days ago in fact, a frost had settled during the night. The bucket of rainwater outside had frozen solid. One of the dogs had tried to drink from it and went through some sort of existential crisis when he found he couldn’t.

The boy’s father had left the table to give the Renault Kangoo a spin. Turn the engine over, let her warm up and take her down the lane. The boy had wanted to do it himself, but he knew he would be told he was too young. The runt of the litter.

It wasn’t cold today. It had rained all morning and the sun was out, but he’d pretended she needed a spin anyway. He’d strutted out with the bravado of youth. It should have been fine, no one would know. And he could drive. He’d learned last year, his brother had show’d him.

Only, someone had locked the gate at the end of the lane, the lane that led onto the main road out of Gibraltar, towards Athy. The gate was padlocked, so he couldn’t turn the thing around. He’d tried reversing, but the lane was long, two kilometres at least, and the potholes were deep and full of water, so the car kept jerking and shuddering and stalling.

Thoughts rushed through his mind. He feared his mother would see the Kangoo’s absence and come out with murder in her eyes and the wooden spoon in hand. Or worse, she would call his father and he’d come back early and catch him stuck up the lane.

In a fit of panic he reversed the car into the muddy field, wet and squishy from the heavy rain. A small ditch that had been covered by grass caused the Kangoo to dip and sink as the boy manoeuvred. He put her in first but all he got was engine noise. The high-pitched scream of the Kangoo.

The back wheels were stuck. He should have gone in front first, kept the rear wheels on the road. He tried again, the dark feeling of panic rising up inside him. The realisation that the worst had happened. Was happening. He slammed the accelerator down to the floor, the Renault screaming louder, but going nowhere.

In a slump, his body collapsed forward, his head resting on the steering wheel. The boy gave up resisting the hot tears, the choking sobs, from rising up through him. It was getting dark. His mother would be looking for him. His father would be home soon.