Darkhouse jl-1

by Alex Barclay

  ‘Found the fuckers.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You said you find the fuckers who commit murder, but shouldn’t you have said found? Aren’t you on a break? What are you now, Joseph? Anna tells me you’re a carpenter. How biblical.’

  ‘What the hell is your problem?’

  ‘You could have been an academ—’

  ‘Listen to yourself.’ Joe jabbed a finger at his father. Then he stopped and took a breath. ‘You know something? I’m not gonna bother. We both know what’s going on here. I’m not rising to it, the same conversation over and over.’ He threw down the paper and walked out of the room.

  Pam made a wasted effort over breakfast. Joe gave short, sharp answers through teeth he had been grinding all night.

  ‘I hate to leave on your wedding day,’ he said, getting up from the table and walking out to the bags he had left in the hall. Giulio followed him.

  ‘There’s no need to go after one night.’

  ‘I came for your wedding,’ said Joe. ‘which is now over. Which was over before I got here. Congratulations. Pam is a lovely woman. I’m now going to spend some time with Danny and Gina.’

  ‘As you wish.’

  ‘As I wish. Sure.’

  It was dark when Anna went out to close the gate at the end of the lane. She was about to turn back to the house when she saw the tip of a cigarette light up across the road. John Miller raised a hand for her to stop.

  ‘I definitely lost last night,’ he said, walking towards her with his head hanging, looking at her with sad eyes. He was freshly showered, dressed in a clean but rumpled rugby shirt and jeans.

  She looked at him, confused. Then she remembered. The first night they met, twenty-one years earlier, he was celebrating. France had beaten Ireland by one point in a rugby match in Paris. At the start of the night, John was mourning the loss, but by the end of it, he was drunk and jubilant that the Irish had come so close.

  ‘Whiskey doesn’t agree with me,’ he said, leaning his arms on the gate, staring down, kicking at the loose gravel.

  She shook her head and sighed.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, looking up. ‘I really am.’

  ‘It’s fine,’ she said and tried to walk away.

  ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Please.’

  ‘What do you want me to say? It wasn’t a nice introduction after all this time.’

  ‘I wish I hadn’t met you last night.’

  ‘And how would you have been if you met me today?’

  ‘I’d be sober and you’d still be beautiful.’ There was a familiar sparkle in his eyes.

  She couldn’t help smiling. ‘I better go back,’ she said, nodding towards the house. She locked the front door behind her. When she went into the den, Shaun swung around in his chair.

  ‘Check this out, Mom. I’m live.’

  She leaned over his shoulder and saw Shaun’s smiling face on the screen, beside his G.I. Joe photo.

  His name was printed underneath with a list of vital statistics.

  ‘Your favourite movie is While You Were Sleeping?’ said Anna.

  ‘What?’ said Shaun, panicked.

  ‘Gotcha,’ said Anna.

  Shaun looked at her, deadpan. ‘You’re such a dork.’

  ‘I know,’ she said.

  She read that Shaun’s favourite food was anything American, his favourite drink was Dr Pepper, his favourite sport was baseball, his favourite place was Florida.

  ‘I see you’re becoming a real Irish man,’ said Anna, pointing to the screen.

  ‘Ah, but my favourite girl is Irish,’ said Shaun. ‘That’s the difference.’

  She scrolled down further and saw question marks in the career section.

  ‘Don’t you know what you want to do?’ said Anna.

  ‘No,’ said Shaun. ‘It’s like I look at my future and it’s blank, you know? Like living on the edge of this cliff, but not being able to see a thing.’

  ‘Have you been watching Dawson’s Creek again?’

  FOUR

  Stinger’s Creek, North Central Texas, 1979

  Flakes of rust flew from the battered white pickup as it lurched from side to side along the twisted road out of Stinger’s Creek. It was after midnight and Wanda Rawlins was slumped, disorientated, against the passenger door, her skinny legs splayed under the dashboard. Her face was pale and her white blonde hair with its dark roots lay in damp strands across her cheeks. Duke’s eyes flickered open. The sickly smell of pine air freshener flooded his nostrils. He looked up at his mama, his fingers clawing listlessly at her arm. He could see flashes of light across her face and black pools of mascara under her eyes. She was staring out the window. He tried to speak, but his throat was dry and raw from screaming. The only colour on his face was the redness that flared at the centre of his forehead. Slow throbs pulsed through his head and a cold tingling sensation moved in waves down his arms to his fingertips. Darts of pain spiked beneath him and he slowly shifted his tiny frame onto its side, his navy shorts twisting around him. He passed out with the effort.

  ‘I think he moved, I think he moved,’ cried Wanda. ‘Come on, baby, come on, baby, come back to me,’ she began to sob. She clutched his head to her stomach, spilling tears onto his face. She got no response.

  ‘What’s happening to him? What’s happening to him?’ she screamed, shaking Duke’s shoulders, too wasted to know any different.

  ‘Calm down, Wanda,’ said the driver, ‘calm the fuck down or we won’t be taking him any further than the end of this road.’

  Wanda sat in silence for the rest of the journey, rocking Duke jerkily back and forth, his bare legs dangling over the seat edge.

  Ten minutes later, they screeched into a parking lot and came to a stop. Wanda pushed open the door and hauled herself out, pulling Duke with her, taking his limp body in her arms. She staggered through the double doors in front of her into a brightly lit hallway. Duke’s eyes opened again, fleetingly. Hospital, he thought.

  ‘What the fuck you doin’ bringin’ him through the house, you dumb bitch?’ hissed Hector Batista, pulling shut his living room door behind him. His accent was thick. ‘Told you to bring him around back. Who you think you are?’ He glanced down at the vomit on Duke’s T-shirt, shook his head and grabbed Wanda’s elbow, guiding her roughly out the door she came in. Hector nodded at the driver of the pickup to follow them around.

  A fluorescent light pierced the darkness in the filthy room, swinging low over a metal table at the centre. Wanda lay Duke down and began to sob again, spreading herself across her son’s body. Hector pulled her aside and reached over to lift the boy’s eyelids, shining his light in.

  ‘Pupils OK,’ he said. ‘What happened to him?’ No-one answered.

  ‘You say on the phone he hit his head. Is that all I look for?’ said Hector.

  ‘Yeah,’ said the driver.

  Hector wrung cold water out of a grimy cloth at the sink and turned back to place it on Duke’s forehead. His eyes opened.

  ‘Can you remember what happened?’ asked Hector.

  Duke tried to shake his head.

  ‘You know what day it is?’ asked Hector.

  ‘Friday,’ whispered Duke.

  ‘Tell me who is your president.’

  ‘He wouldn’t—’ said Wanda.

  ‘Jimmy Carter,’ said Duke, proud.

  ‘He’s just fine,’ said Hector. ‘Little concussion. Wake him up some times during the night, make sure he don’t get any worse and keep him away from jumping around for the next weeks. He must rest.’

  Duke moved his head slowly to look at his mother. From behind her, the driver of the pickup stepped out. Duke’s eyes shot wide in alarm and he opened his mouth to scream. Hector’s hand was quick as he clamped it over the little boy’s cracked lips. Duke was writhing underneath the pressure, his eyes darting everywhere. He couldn’t breathe.

  ‘You stop, I let go,’ said Hector, his face two inches from Duke’s. He held his hand firm until
Duke calmed down, the energy draining from his shuddering body.

  Hector leered at the driver. Los niños pequeños hacen mucho ruido,’ he said.

  ‘No speaky the Spanish,’ said the driver.

  Hector walked over and whispered to him: ‘Little boys make lots of noise.’ He laughed.

  Duke had curled into a ball on his side and began to cry. He felt the hand of the driver in the small of his back.

  ‘No more boo-hoos, Dukey. No more boo-hoos.’

  Duke shivered. All he could remember was Boohoo coming into his room. What he couldn’t remember was the man’s weight bearing down on him, pushing harder each time, slamming his forehead into the wall over and over again, until he crumpled and lay face down, unmoving on his bed.

  Wanda Rawlins heard a faint knock on the screen door and pulled it open carefully. Smoke billowed out around her. She flicked her hand at it.

  ‘Mornin’, Mrs Rawlins,’ said Donnie. ‘Duke about?’

  ‘Duke had an accident yesterday, he’s resting.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘Nothin’ much. He had a knock to the head.’ She smiled. ‘You boys. You sure know how to scare the livin’ hell out of a mother.’

  ‘Can I see him?’ asked Donnie.

  ‘For a few minutes,’ said Wanda, stepping back to let him in.

  Donnie walked in to the kitchen and was hit with a smell that caught at the back of his throat. The oven was wide open and a baking tray lay diagonally across the folded-down door. Cracked black circles steamed on the surface. More had fallen to the floor.

  ‘Tray was hot,’ laughed Wanda. ‘And I didn’t quite make it in time,’ she said.

  ‘Well, I’m sure they’ll taste just fine,’ said Donnie.

  Wanda laughed out loud. ‘And I’m Julia Child.’

  Duke lay on his side, covered by a thin sheet. His face was pale and beads of sweat gathered on his forehead.

  ‘Hey,’ said Donnie. ‘How you doin’?’

  Duke tried to talk, but his lips stuck together. He wiped his mouth.

  ‘I’m OK,’ he said. ‘My throat hurts.’

  ‘How’s that?’ said Donnie. ‘I thought you hit your head.’

  ‘Just does,’ said Duke.

  ‘You fall from a tree?’

  Duke hesitated. He opened his mouth, then closed it just as quick.

  ‘Yup. What an idiot.’

  Wanda slid her thumb under her nose and pushed herself up from the kitchen chair, slipping her feet back into her mules. She picked up the baking tray and went to the doorway of Duke’s room.

  ‘Look what I made for you, sweetie,’ she laughed, her eyes wide. ‘To cheer up my little soldier.’ Duke lifted his head to see her. She looked crazy. ‘They didn’t quite work out,’ she explained looking down at the cookies. ‘Mama fucked up.’ She laughed again.

  ‘I’m talkin’ to Donnie,’ said Duke.

  ‘Aren’t you even gonna thank your mama?’ she pouted.

  ‘Thank you, Mama,’ he said flatly.

  ‘Aw,’ she said, walking over to the bed. She let the tray hang by her side, dropping the cookies onto the floor. She leaned down to look at them and picked something up.

  ‘Found you a chocolate chip!’ she said, holding up a burnt cookie crumb. She put it up to Duke’s mouth. He buried his head back into the pillow.

  ‘No!’ he said. ‘I don’t want it.’

  ‘Jeez, Duke, no need to shout. You want this, Donnie?’ she said as it crumbled between her fingers. ‘Oops!’

  Then she held up her hand. ‘Shush,’ she said, trying to focus. ‘Shh.’ They heard twigs cracking as someone walked up to the front of the house. A shadow passed over the blind in the bedroom.

  ‘Donnie, you stay right where you are, sweetheart. I have myself a visitor,’ said Wanda, smoothing down her hair, leaving black crumbs on the blonde.

  She left the room and went to the kitchen. Westley Ames stood at the door.

  ‘Hey, Wanda,’ he said. ‘Is this a good time?’

  ‘You know, Westley? You shoulda called, but I guess it’s OK.’

  ‘I have some excellent produce for you,’ he said and she could see his hand flex in his jacket pocket. ‘You look mighty interested,’ he chuckled.

  ‘Duke’s taken a knock, Westley,’ she said. ‘He’s resting.’

  Westley’s eyes flashed anger and the smile disappeared. He clenched the bag again. Wanda looked up at him.

  ‘Come back tomorrow, Westley,’ she said and closed the door. She turned back. ‘Or later tonight,’ she shouted from the open window.

  FIVE

  ‘Surprise!’ said Joe, carrying a large box into the kitchen. ‘Magic paint stripper. A tip from Danny. It will get through all that crap on the lantern house walls. I hope.’ He put it down by the back door. Anna ran towards him and jumped into his arms, wrapping her legs tightly around his waist.

  ‘Hellooo,’ she said. ‘Welcome home to your wife!’

  ‘This is great,’ he said. ‘I gotta go away more often.’

  She shook her head. ‘No, no, no. Never again.’ She kissed him all over his face.

  ‘I missed you,’ he said. ‘Way too much.’

  She climbed down. ‘How did Giulio take to you leaving early?’

  ‘What could he do? He knew he’d screwed up. He always knows.’

  ‘He’s an oddball.’

  ‘I know. And I’ve got some of his genes.’

  ‘Don’t worry. I could never forget that.’

  ‘That’s going to take a while,’ said Joe, pointing to the paint stripper. ‘You have to put it on, cover it with paper, then wait a couple days, see what happens. It’s a big job for one little lady.’

  ‘Well, I’ll get some of the guys to help, if I can. But I couldn’t just hand the whole thing over to anyone.’

  ‘No,’ said Joe. ‘That would be a disaster.’

  She gave him one of her looks. Joe laughed.

  ‘I’m going out to the workshop,’ he said. ‘Petey’s waiting.’

  ‘Already?’

  ‘I know. I can always sleep later.’

  He was barely in the door when Petey started. ‘Did you ever hear how some lighthouse keepers earned extra money?’ he asked, not waiting for an answer. ‘They turned to shoemaking, prostitution and distilling. In 1862…’ He stopped suddenly.

  ‘What’s prostitution?’

  ‘Whoa,’ said Joe, searching his face to see if he was kidding. He wasn’t. ‘Uh, do you know what sex is?’

  Petey went red. ‘Yeah,’ he muttered, his eyes downcast.

  ‘Well, some men pay to have sex with women called prostitutes. That’s prostitution. I guess those lighthouse keepers were renting some of their rooms out to these ladies.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Petey and moved quickly back to his comfort zone. ‘Around Waterford, smugglers used to come ashore with alcohol, candles and building materials and the keepers would store them until they needed to sell them on—’

  ‘Even in smaller lighthouses like this one?’ said Joe.

  ‘Yes,’ said Petey, ‘they would—’

  ‘Petey,’ called Anna, waving a ringing mobile phone at him. ‘Did you leave this in the house?’

  ‘Thanks a million,’ he said, answering the call. When he hung up, he looked traumatised. ‘My mother’s driving Mae Miller somewhere. She wants company for the trip back. I always have to go stupid places with her.’

  ‘That woman needs to give him more independence,’ said Anna when Petey had left. ‘She shouldn’t be dragging him around all the time like a child.’

  It was three p.m. when Duke parked his car and headed down the main street in Tipperary town. As he stared in the window of a hardware shop, a tiny grey terrier trailing a tartan lead bounced over to him and looked up expectantly. Duke paused, then hunkered down to pet him.

  ‘Hey, little fella,’ he said, picking him up, holding him against his chest and letting the dog nuzzle him. ‘Aren’t you a beauty?’


  The owner, a young mother, rushed over with a toddler on her hip.

  ‘Thank you so much. He’s unbelievable,’ she said. ‘Nuts.’

  ‘He’s a friendly little guy.’

  ‘Don’t I know it?’ she laughed. ‘Thanks again.’

  Duke stared after them, then turned and went into the shop. Minutes later, he came out with a yellow and green plastic bag under his arm. He walked further into the town and stopped outside a fast food restaurant. A group of teenagers were inside, slumped on yellow bucket seats screwed to the grimy floor. He looked up at the sign. American Heroes was printed between two stars and stripes across a faded blue background. He walked in and a buzzer sounded. The waitress glanced his way, then turned back to her notebook. Her uniform was hospital-scrubs style and strained across her back, twisting into her thick thighs. Her dark hair was scraped into ridges across her skull and ended in a dry ponytail at the base of her neck. Duke watched as one of the boys pulled her notebook down, so he could read what she had just written. He laughed.

  ‘Spell glass, Siobhán,’ he said flatly.

  ‘G.L.A.A.S,’ she said.

  They all laughed.

  ‘G.L.A.S.S.,’ he said. ‘As in ass.’

  ‘That’s just ’cos I was writing too quickly,’ she said, blushing. She went back to the counter.

  ‘As in big fat ass,’ the boy whispered, loud enough for everyone.

  The waitress stopped when she saw Duke. ‘Hiya,’ she said, awkward and eager. ‘I’ll be with you in a minute.’

  She poured juice for the boy, then squeezed back behind the counter.

  ‘Now. What can I get you?’ she said.

  ‘Could I get a beef taco and Coke?’ Duke said, smiling as he looked into her eyes. He squinted at her name tag: Siobhán. ‘Sy-o-ban? Is that your name?’ he asked.

  She laughed. ‘It’s pronounced Shiv-awn,’ she said. ‘It’s Irish.’