Darkhouse jl-1

by Alex Barclay

  ‘The doors are great,’ said Joe, running his hand over the wood.

  ‘Don’t. I’ll get a swelled head,’ said Ray. ‘OK, now how’re we going to get these down? Where’s this back-up of yours, Anna?’

  ‘I’ll get Hugh.’

  Anna disappeared to drag Hugh away from his tea and tabloids. Between the four of them, they hefted the doors to the lighthouse and secured them onto their hinges. Anna bolted them shut.

  ‘Wow,’ she said. ‘I am thrilled. I am so grateful.’

  Ray raised an eyebrow.

  ‘Not that grateful, pal,’ said Joe, putting a firm hand on his shoulder.

  ‘To be honest,’ said Ray, ‘I’m hanging out for the models who’ll be draping themselves over me for the photo shoot. I’ll be the “bit of rough”. Might wear an Aran jumper and tuck my jeans into my boots for the occasion.’

  ‘Anything else you need?’ asked Hugh.

  ‘No, no, thanks for your help,’ she said.

  ‘I’m off, too,’ said Ray. ‘If those doors get unhinged at all, you’ll know where they get it from.’

  Anna didn’t understand. Joe laughed. She turned to him, taking his hand.

  ‘Let me show you my nightmare.’ She unlocked the new doors and led him up the winding staircase. They reached the service room and climbed the sloping ladder to the lantern house.

  ‘Look at this,’ said Anna, hooking the tip of her finger under one of the cracks in the wall. ‘Doesn’t move.’

  ‘Paint stripper?’ said Joe.

  ‘Not a chance,’ she said. ‘It’s taken years for it to get that way. And because of the temperature in here, it…’ she moved her hands in and out.

  ‘Got bigger? Smaller?’ said Joe.

  ‘No, no, the metal…’

  ‘Oh, expanded and contracted.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘So I don’t know what to do.’

  ‘I could get some of the guys, scrape it off.’

  They both shook their heads.

  ‘We’ll think of something,’ said Joe. ‘Do you have to do this part? I mean, the thing doesn’t work anyway,’ he said, looking at the old mercury pedestal, ‘and won’t the shoot be really from the outside?’ She knew he was half serious.

  ‘I’m not even going to answer that,’ she said. And besides, he didn’t know her plan.

  Shaun dropped his bag on the floor of the small Portakabin he had seen lowered earlier that day onto the concrete at the side of the soccer pitch.

  ‘What the hell kind of locker room is this?’ he said.

  ‘Can you see a locker in here anywhere?’ said Robert, looking around the empty room. He liked to tease his friend. ‘It’s called a changing room, Lucky. We change our clothes in here. Even when we think our balls will be frozen off.’

  Shaun discovered early on that teasing was called slagging in Ireland and if you weren’t getting slagged, there was something wrong.

  ‘Out of the way,’ said one of the boys, pushing past him. The rest of the team, miserable in shorts and T-shirts, ran towards the blinding floodlights. The pitch was bald, hard and unseasonably cold. Running in head-to-toe black Nike along the sideline was the coach, Richie Bates. He was twenty-five years old, six foot three and two-hundred-and-ten pounds, every inch of his body carefully toned into hard muscle. His neck was short and thick and the top of his head was Action-Man flat. Richie was a guard, short for garda, singular of gardai, the Irish police force. He worked with a sergeant out of the small sub-station in Mountcannon. After an hour of play, he was still running up and down, roaring.

  ‘Come on, lads! Move it! Move it!’

  ‘It’s freezing,’ said Robert, jogging after the ball.

  ‘If you run, you’ll warm up,’ said Richie. Robert rolled his eyes. He had just come on. Everyone around him had hot red faces and white breath. He was still ghostly pale, but knew the slightest effort would turn him to crimson and make his eyes stream. He was not a sportsman. He sweated too much, he breathed too heavily, his hair fell across his face, his legs were dark and hairy, thick and slow. But he could appreciate the irony. He was the sports writer for the school paper.

  Shaun had the ball and was heading for goal. He stumbled and landed hard.

  ‘Get up, Lucchesi!’ said Richie instantly. Shaun breathed through the anger. Richie blew the whistle. ‘Right, lads, that’s it. Off you go. Well done.’ No-one responded.

  Back in the changing room, Billy McMann, a short, skinny twelve-year-old, was hunched shivering in the corner trying to do up his fly, but his fingers were curled and numb from the cold. He caught Shaun’s eye and gave a weak smile. Shaun stepped over, quickly zipped up the boy’s fly and patted him on the head.

  ‘Thanks,’ said Billy, blushing.

  ‘Don’t worry about it,’ said Shaun.

  ‘Jesus Christ, Billy! Can’t even zip up your own pants?’ It was Richie, standing, laughing in the doorway.

  Shaun stared at him. ‘Give the kid a break.’

  Billy fumbled with his bag.

  ‘You need to toughen up,’ said Richie pointing at him.

  ‘There’s nothing wrong with him,’ said Shaun. ‘His goddamn fingers were freezing.’

  ‘Watch your mouth, Lucchesi,’ said Richie. ‘Or we won’t be calling you Lucky for much longer.’ His look challenged the rest of the room.

  ‘You’re not in uniform now,’ someone shouted from the back.

  ‘You watch yourself, Cunningham,’ said Richie. ‘Or I’ll be waiting outside that off-licence when you’re picking up your next six pack.’ He left.

  A few of the boys groaned. Then Robert said, ‘You’re still a fag, Lucky.’ Everyone laughed.

  ‘Do you need a lift?’ Robert asked Shaun.

  ‘Nah,’ said Shaun. ‘My dad’s coming.’

  He walked out of the school and stood by the gates, watching all the other parents come and go with their sons. Joe eventually pulled up in the Jeep.

  ‘You’re such a loser,’ said Shaun through the window. ‘I’ve been standing out here for, like, twenty minutes.’

  ‘I was busy. I’m trying to pack.’

  ‘You forgot.’

  ‘No, I didn’t. Just get in, Shaun.’

  ‘What’s your hierarchy of things to remember, Dad? Like on a scale of one to ten, where do I come in?’

  ‘Here we go,’ said Joe.

  ‘Yeah, well, it’s a pain in the ass. You can remember everything for work, but—’

  ‘Drop it,’ snapped Joe.

  ‘Jeez, relax, would you? I’m the one who got stood up here. Again.’

  ‘I said drop it,’ said Joe, too loud. They drove the rest of the way in silence.

  They were just in the door when the phone rang. Joe picked up.

  ‘Come back, all is forgiven,’ said Danny Markey.

  ‘Please stop calling me at this number,’ said Joe. ‘I told you. It’s over.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah, I know the drill,’ said Danny. ‘It’s not me, it’s you.’

  They laughed. Shaun made a face at his father’s transformation.

  ‘So things that bad?’ asked Joe, ignoring Shaun.

  ‘You’ve no idea,’ said Danny. ‘I’m with Aldos

  Martinez or All Doze – guaranteed to help you sleep or your money back. And if that’s not enough, I’m out last night, date with Maria, and my wife calls looking for me. And this rookie on the TS tells her I’m finished hours ago. I go home telling her the hard night I’ve had and she knees me in the downtown area. I swear to God. What happened to, “He’s out on the road, I’ll get him to call you.” I’m gonna rip the guy’s rookie head off next time I see him. He’s a retard. Clancy called to fuck with him, pretended he was some pimp looking for his girl Juanita Sophia Marguerita whatever and the guy leaves his desk to go check. I shit you not. Anyway, it’s like everywhere I look I’m getting screwed.’

  ‘Wish I was there to offer my support,’ said Joe.

  ‘Yeah, yeah, sure,’ said Danny. ‘So how are thos
e ugly Irish broads?’

  ‘They’re doing great,’ said Joe. ‘Want me to pass on your regards?’

  ‘Sure,’ said Danny. ‘I’ll come over, wrap myself round one of those wide backs.’

  ‘Hey, Shaun isn’t doing too badly with his Irish girl.’

  ‘Yeah, but I’ve seen the pictures. Katie’s an exception. Let me tell you, if he ever gets tired of her…’

  ‘You’re a sick man, Danny. A sick man.’

  ‘True,’ said Danny. ‘Anyway, I was wondering if you’re coming back for your birthday.’

  ‘What are you, a girl?’

  ‘It’s a big deal. When I’m old like you I’ll want you to make a big deal over me.’

  ‘I don’t know what I’m doing for my birthday, Danielle, but maybe we could have a sleepover—’

  ‘You sound like me. A guy tries to do the right thing…’

  ‘Look, I don’t know what I’m doing for my birthday. But I’m in New York tonight.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Giulio is getting married tomorrow. Don’t ask. I don’t know if I’ll make it into the city. I’m only there a couple a days.’

  ‘Call me. I’ll come to the airport, meet you for a drink or something.’

  ‘Sure.’ He saw Anna walk in. ‘Danny, I gotta go catch a flight. Here – maybe you should talk to my lovely lady wife about any birthday plans.’

  ‘Hmmm, French accent…’

  ‘Jesus Christ. No-one is safe.’

  Anna smiled and took the phone from Joe.

  ‘Bonjouuur,’ she said. Joe could hear Danny whooping.

  The taxi driver guided the red saloon along the winding tree-lined road. One hour ago, he had picked up his first fare of the morning at Shannon airport. He had been talking ever since.

  ‘That’s what we need over here – Rudy Giuliani. The guy cleans up a whole place like New York and our politicians can’t clean their own backsides.’ He looked in the rear-view mirror. He got no response. He kept talking.

  ‘I ended up in Harlem once, you know. Only white guy there, I swear to God. And I’m from Cork and in Cork, we call everyone “boy”. We say “How’s it goin’, boy?” or “What’re you havin’, boy?” Well, I tell you one night in Harlem straightened me out fairly quickly. My mate, this big black guy, tells me, “Someone will pull a gun on you here if you call them boy.” So I started calling everyone “man” instead. “Hey, man, how’s it goin’, man?” Now I’m back here and I’m saying “man” and they all think I’m nuts.’ He turned back to his passenger. He drove on. ‘Right,’ he said after two quiet minutes, ‘here we are. Will this do? They usually seem to have a few good deals.’

  ‘This is great,’ said Duke Rawlins.

  Brandon Motors stood on a winding back road, sloping down a field by a red-brick bungalow. New and used cars lined the grass, fluorescent green and pink price tags wedged behind their windscreen. The Car of the Week was mounted on a slanted wooden platform edged with green and gold bunting. The dealer stood beside it, nodding to the car and then to Duke. Duke shook his head.

  A white ’85 Ford Fiesta van stood out from the shiny rows, battered, dull and cheap. Duke walked around it, looking through the windows, then came back around to the bonnet, leaning on it with both hands. He pushed himself upright.

  ‘You take cash?’ he asked.

  ‘I do,’ said the dealer.

  Duke handed over the money and scribbled a signature on the forms. He sat in the van, reached up and yanked a swinging pine tree from the rear-view mirror. He threw it out the window as he pulled away. After a twenty-minute drive, he stopped at a petrol station and bought a black felttip pen and a map. He circled where he needed to go, then traced his finger along the route. He turned the key in the engine and headed for Limerick. On the outskirts of the city, he stopped at a Travelodge, slept and showered.

  It was dark by the time he was on the road again, this time on a busy stretch to Tipperary. He was soon caught between two huge sixteen wheelers; he twitched at the wheel, swerving right to find an opening. The line of cars ahead was constant. He pulled back and saw a large sign for a town called Doon. Turning the wheel sharply, he took a last-minute left onto a narrow, winding road. His headlights picked up a black and white sign for Dead River. He crossed its stone bridge and drove through pitch black into the small town. He took a right at the corner onto Doon’s main street, a tidy row of houses, shops and pubs. It was eleven-thirty p.m. and deserted. He kept driving, then brought the van to a stop alongside the iron gates to a field. He clung to the steering wheel and breathed deeply. Then he got out to walk back towards town. He wanted a beer. But another opportunity presented itself.

  The driveway was long and curved, bordered on each side by tall sycamores. Giulio Lucchesi was waiting for his son in the marble foyer. He was fit, tanned and groomed, his grey hair combed glossy and neat. His navy blazer was crisply cut, his pale blue shirt and beige pants perfectly pressed, his suede loafers brushed.

  ‘Joseph,’ he said, clipped and anglicised.

  ‘Dad.’ They shook hands.

  ‘You remember Pam,’ said Giulio.

  ‘Yeah, hi,’ said Joe. ‘It’s great to see you again. Can’t believe he’s finally got you to say yes.’

  She smiled.

  It was no surprise that Giulio Lucchesi’s second wife was nothing like his first. Pam was tall, thin and subdued, a Nordic blonde. Maria Lucchesi was dark and fiery.

  Giulio stepped back. ‘I’ll show you to your room.’

  ‘I think I can remember,’ said Joe. He took his suitcase and went alone up the stairs to a room he hadn’t seen in twelve years. He opened the door on the hotel minimalism that had never welcomed him before and didn’t welcome him now. From the age of fourteen to seventeen, he caught a ride with his neighbours to Rye to spend August with his father. And each September his mother would run down the steps of their little Bensonhurst apartment to welcome him back home.

  Pam led Joe to a vast cherrywood dining table. She went to the kitchen and came back with three small plates of blackened asparagus in balsamic vinegar.

  ‘Put some parmigiano on that,’ said Giulio, pushing a small bowl towards Joe.

  ‘This is good,’ said Joe, raising his fork. ‘Is Beck supposed to be here? I couldn’t get hold of her on her cell phone.’ Beck was Joe’s name for his older sister, a movie locations manager.

  ‘Rebecca is on set,’ said Giulio. ‘Quite fittingly, in a lunatic asylum.’

  ‘We’re one big let-down,’ said Joe to Pam. She looked away.

  Giulio ignored him. ‘How’s Shaun?’

  ‘He’s great, settling in—’

  ‘—until he’s uprooted in a few months to come back home.’

  Joe looked at him. ‘Maybe it’s in his genes.’ He turned to Pam. ‘I spent my childhood in Brooklyn, then we all moved when Dad got his job at Louisiana State, then I had to come back to Brooklyn with my mother when they divorced, then split my time between there and Rye when Dad bought the apartment and then this house. I went back to LSU for a few years, then back to New York. And now of course, there’s Ireland.’

  ‘Wow,’ said Pam. ‘That’s a lot of moving. You went to the same college as your father? I didn’t realise.’

  ‘Briefly,’ said Joe. Giulio cleared his throat.

  After dinner, they moved into the living room with its thick carpets, ornate white and gold tapestry sofa and heavy velvet drapes. Anna’s worst nightmare.

  ‘So, you looking forward to the wedding?’ said Joe.

  Giulio and Pam exchanged glances.

  ‘We already got married,’ said Giulio. ‘In Vegas. At the weekend.’

  ‘In Vegas.’

  ‘I know,’ said Pam. ‘It sounds so tacky. But it was wonderful—’

  ‘Jesus, Dad; you know, I’ve never actually been invited to a wedding where the bride and groom have gone ahead and married before I got there. This is really something. A real special day for all of us.’

&
nbsp; ‘What’s done is done. I’m glad you came all this way,’ said Giulio.

  ‘Great,’ said Joe. ‘Look, goodnight, OK?’

  He put down his drink and went to his room. He lay on the bed and flicked on the TV. Later, when he heard his father’s bedroom door shut, he got up and went to the kitchen for coffee. He took his mug and wandered down the hallway, drawn to the study. He looked across the shelves at books that traced his father’s career: texts from the sixties on general entomology – introductions and field guides, then agricultural entomology – tabanids, mosquitoes.

  Joe had just turned four when Giulio started college at Cornell. He was twenty-seven years old and worked three jobs to pay his way through an entomology degree. He was the only father in the neighbourhood who stayed in at the weekends to study. Joe felt an unfamiliar stab of pride. He forgot the boy in the garden bouncing a ball off the wall so he could swing a bat at it.

  The rest of the books covered Giulio’s final specialism, titles just as familiar to Joe – Time of Death, Decomposition and Identification: An Atlas, Entomology & Death – A Procedural Guide, Forensic Entomology: The Utility of Arthropods in Legal Investigations, then four copies of Learning to Tell The Time: A Guide to Forensic Entomology by Giulio Lucchesi. Row after row of books about insects and forensics. At the bottom of a fallen pile, Joe recognised the navy binding and yellowed pages of a thick manuscript that made his heart flip. He pulled it out and wiped down the cover.

  Louisiana State University: ‘Entomology and Time of Death: a field study.’ Three names were printed beneath. The one that leapt out at him was his own. It was 1982. He had been nineteen years old, a sophomore. Because of his father’s friendship with Jem Barmoix, LSU’s medical entomology professor, Joe had been invited to join the team for a groundbreaking new research project.

  ‘Regrets?’ said Giulio from the doorway. Joe jumped.

  ‘No, Dad. No.’

  ‘I don’t think you appreciate what you had.’

  ‘I don’t think you appreciate what I have.’

  ‘But Jem—’

  ‘I know. I know how much the research meant. But instead of squinting down a microscope all day, I’m the one who goes out and finds the fuckers who create the corpses in the first place. No corpses, no decomposition, no maggot and fly timeline. But no murderers, no corpses.’