Darkhouse (7 page)

‘I would have supported you.’

‘With what, for Christ’s sake? You do not live in the real world. Regular people have budgets. The magazine has a budget. I have a goddamn budget. But that’s no good, right? That’s too normal for you, right?’

‘That’s not true.’

‘What you’re doing is selfish.’

‘In the end, it will work out. I’ll be making a lot of money. I’ll buy you some nice things.’ She tried a smile. Joe ignored it.

‘I have everything I want right here, Anna. I’m not always looking for something better.’ He finished his meal in silence.

John Miller leaned heavily on the bar, his hand clamped on a pint of Guinness, a glass of straight whisky beside it. Ed Danaher was nodding patiently at him. Usually, he was cranky and brusque. Yet people opened up to him because if they were lucky, he could bark out a useful truth. He rubbed the ends of his black moustache, then pushed up the sleeves of his white shirt.

‘Is that so, John?’ he was saying. ‘That’s a dreadful thing altogether. What did you do?’

‘I got drunk,’ smiled John. ‘And I haven’t looked back since.’

Ed laughed with him.

‘Seriously,’ said John. ‘I stayed with a friend. But he was a bigger loser than me. The two of us just drank ourselves into oblivion, morning, noon and night. That was when my brother, you know, Emmett, came to get me. Sally had a restraining order against me, I couldn’t see the kids.’ Tears welled up in his eyes, sorrow quickly shifting to anger. ‘I still can’t see my own fucking kids.’

Ed had learned to say nothing when the barflies were on their rollercoaster.

‘Oh, don’t worry,’ said John. ‘I may be bitter, but I haven’t quite twisted yet.’ He swayed on his chair, looking around the bar, his elbows
against the back of the chair, his movements loose.

Joe arrived in and walked up to the bar.

‘Hey, Joe,’ said Ed. ‘How’re things, how’s the woman herself?’

‘Things are good. Anna’s run into a few problems with the lighthouse, but you know her—’

‘Now, here’s a man,’ said John, gesturing wildly, ‘who has it all.’

Joe stared at him. John thrust an arm his way.

‘John Miller,’ he said.

‘Joe Lucchesi.’

‘I know who you are, all right,’ said John, ‘Anna’s husband. Shaun’s father…’

‘You in local intelligence?’ said Joe, smiling briefly.

‘Once you’re a local, you’re in,’ said John.

‘Really?’ said Joe tightly, trying to get Ed’s attention again.

‘I’m only messin’ with you,’ said John.

‘Sure,’ said Joe.

‘Don’t be gettin’ funny on me now,’ said John, pushing lightly against Joe’s chest.

‘Let me get you a drink,’ said Joe. ‘Ed, a Guinness for me and a Jameson for Mr Miller here.’

‘Keep your fucking money,’ slurred John. ‘Keep your fucking wife and your son and your lighthouse and your perfect—’

‘Whoa, buddy…’ said Joe.

‘Do you hear this shit?’ said John.

Ed put Joe’s pint on the bar and turned to John.

‘That’s enough now. Maybe you should take a walk out to the jacks, get a bit of air in your lungs.’

John snorted, but got up and left.

‘Don’t mind him,’ said Ed. ‘His wife left him, he can’t see his kids. They’re at the other side of the world, he’s pretty cut up about it.’

‘No shit,’ said Joe. ‘But I wasn’t the one who changed the locks.’ He smiled and headed for the snug. He watched John Miller lose his footing on the stool when he came back from the mensroom. His eyes were buggy and shot off in opposite directions like a fly. Joe was smiling to himself when Ray and Hugh walked in to join him.

‘What are you so happy about?’ asked Hugh.

‘I was just looking at wino-man over there with his bug eyes and it reminded me of this fruit fly experiment. It was for some research on alcoholism, because fruit flies live on fermented fruit and even though they can still go hyper or pass out like we do, they never get addicted.’

‘Can people sign up for those experiments?’ asked Hugh. ‘I’d say they’d give you a rake of pints.’

Frank Deegan sat by the door of Danaher’s watching his wife, Nora. Gruff, opinionated, fiercely intelligent Nora. She had a brandy in her hand and an imaginary cigarette between two
bony fingers. She was ranting at her friend Kitty about an artist who had hung up on her when she asked him would he show his work at the gallery she was planning for the village.

‘The little shit,’ she said, then looking at Frank, ‘excuse my language. Trying to cultivate this image of himself as some unpredictable genius. When he’s just a reasonably talented, broke, borderline-alcoholic, shoeless, dwarf. And –
predictably
– he called me back and said he’d do it. And I know it’s because he needs the money. Possibly for sandals and a smock.’

Frank and Kitty laughed. Nora knocked back the last of her drink, her short, blunt strawberry blond hair swishing across her high cheekbones.

‘Brandy, sarge,’ she said, handing out her glass, winking at her husband.

‘Back at the house,’ he said. ‘Look at the time.’ It was eleven-thirty, unstrictly closing time.

Nora glanced at Kitty. ‘Sorry,’ she said, ‘it’s never pleasant.’

Frank stood, not quite reaching his slender wife’s five feet eight. He ran a hand through his thick grey hair, smoothed down his dark green golf sweater and stretched his arms out by his side. Nora had seen him perform the same routine for forty years. He caught her watching him and he winked.

Ray, Joe and Hugh were leaving at the same time and stopped in front of him.

‘Uh-oh,’ said Ray, putting an imaginary bullhorn up to his mouth. ‘People, step away from your glasses. Please put down your glasses. We are now three point four seconds past closing time. I repeat. Step away from your glasses.’

Frank smiled.

‘You need any help clearing the place, sergeant?’ said Ray. ‘You could cuff a few of these guys. Joe would probably get a kick out of frisking them, wouldn’t you?’

Frank and Joe laughed.

Mick Harrington pushed through them on his way out with a large brown paper bag full of bottles.

‘Jesus Christ,’ said Hugh. ‘It’s Fr Merrin.’

Mick looked at him. ‘You know, the Exorcist. He comes in, he takes away the spirits,’ Hugh explained.

Mick gave one of his hearty laughs. ‘I’ve got about twenty pissed Spaniards down at the harbour that I have to keep lubricated,’ he explained. ‘This is my second bar run of the evening. Their boat’s being worked on and they’re hanging off it singing shite drinking songs.’ He turned to Joe, ‘By the way, if Robert is with Shaun, tell him to go home. Someone better keep the wife company.’

‘They’re out,’ said Joe.

‘Looks like there’ll be a big black mark beside both our names, then,’ said Mick.

Katie stopped and held her head back, squeezing the corners of her eyes. The tears still fell. She started walking again, quickly, desperate to be home in her bed. Suddenly, a set of tail lights came to life in front of her, the car tilted across the ditch. She squinted into the glare and slowed her pace until she was close enough to know something was very wrong.

Stinger’s Creek, North Central Texas, 1980

Mrs Genzel looked out at her fifth grade class. They were bent over a history term paper, arms hooked around their answers. Duke Rawlins sat with his head bowed, his pencil moving furiously. She could see the pages he’d finished, crisp on his desk with the pressure of his strokes. He looked up, searching for something and she wondered what was behind those pale eyes. Then he stopped, suddenly ripping out pages and scrunching them up. He threw one or two on the ground. The rest of the children stared. A giggle broke the silence.

‘Shh,’ said Mrs Genzel. She turned to Duke, ‘Is everything OK?’ She spoke softly.

He gave a quick, jerky nod. His mouth was shut tight. The fingers of his left hand were drumming the desk.

‘Do you want to start over?’ she said.

He shook his head again, slower this time. ‘No, ma’am.’

Then he leaned back and squeezed his eyes closed. His chest was heaving.

She studied his expression. ‘Could I see you outside, Duke?’

He got up from the desk and walked out the door.

Mrs Genzel tried to look at him, but he kept his head down.

‘Things don’t seem like they’re going too well for you,’ she said.

‘I’m OK,’ he answered.

‘What happened back there?’

‘Nothin’, ma’am.’ She waited.

‘Stuff,’ he added.

‘What kind of stuff?’

‘Don’t know, ma’am.’

‘Were the questions too difficult?’

‘No,’ said Duke. ‘I just…’ He looked away.

He caught her off guard then, lifting his head to stare right at her. Her heart leapt. She was close enough now to see the struggle behind his eyes. Duke saw only kindness in her face, but it flickered quickly and changed to darker images of faces he couldn’t trust, of reactions he couldn’t predict.

‘Nothin’,’ he said, retreating. ‘Couldn’t spell somethin’.’

She didn’t realise she had been holding her breath until she let it out.

‘OK,’ she said. ‘Come on back inside.’

The office was tidy and homely, cream walls and floral wallpaper, sunflower chair rails and base boards. Children’s drawings covered a small bulletin board. Mrs Genzel sat behind her desk, short grey hair cut like a man’s around her soft, warm face.

‘Mrs Rawlins—’

‘Miss,’ said Wanda. ‘Can’t live with ’em…’ She shifted in the wide chair, withdrawing into it, making her crossed legs and the black scab on her knee the first thing the teacher could see.

‘Yes,’ said Mrs Genzel. ‘Miss Rawlins, I’ve called you in here today to talk about Duke.’

‘That boy’ll be the death of me,’ said Wanda, blinking slowly, her head loose on her neck.

‘He was crying yesterday. He said his dog was dead. Someone had killed his dog.’

‘Sparky,’ said Wanda. She began scratching hard, her nails travelling up and down her thighs, trailing hot red lines. ‘Poor Sparky.’

Mrs Genzel watched her, frowning.

‘Is that true?’ she asked.

‘’Fraid it is. I came out in the yard Monday and found the little critter lying there, cold as a witch’s tittie – oops!’

‘What had happened to him?’

Wanda leaned forward. ‘No idea.’ She sat back
again, twisting in the chair, leaning on her elbows, raising her body up, then sliding it back down.

‘I know Sparky was important to Duke,’ said Mrs Genzel. ‘He brought a photograph of him to show and tell in third grade, he used to draw pictures of him. He must be very upset.’

‘Yup,’ said Wanda.

‘Is there anything we can do to make this easier for him?’ said Mrs Genzel.

‘He’ll get over it.’

‘It’s not that simple…’

Wanda was already struggling up from the chair. She offered a limp wrist to the teacher.

‘Is everything OK for Duke? At home?’ said Mrs Genzel.

Wanda kept moving, towards the door.

‘I’m on my own, but I look after my boy.’

‘Of course you do. I was just…concerned.’

Wanda took a dramatic step forward. ‘Tsss!’ she said, stamping an imaginary branding iron onto her forehead. ‘Bad. Mom.’

Mrs Genzel stared at her. Wanda’s laugh ended with a small sigh.

‘Anyway, I gotta go.’

She left the office and checked her watch. It was late enough to wait for Duke. She slouched at the school gate and lit up a cigarette. She saw Duke trudge out behind the other kids. He walked over and she ruffled his hair, giving him a playful punch on the shoulder.

‘That Mrs Genzel sure is an ol’ dragon,’ she said.

‘I like her,’ said Duke. He walked home ahead. Wanda finally spoke, reaching out and spinning him by his shoulder towards her.

‘Jeez, Duke. I told you! I’m sorry about the damn dog, OK?’ She threw down her cigarette end and stamped it out with her boot and a twist of her leg. ‘Who’d a thought a few kicks would have sent it to its grave? Yap, yap yap, the damn thing.’

Duke stopped, rigid. He glared through her. All she did was smile.

The tiny mongrel reappeared through the powdery dust. When it settled around him, he flipped again, sending up another cloud. Duke couldn’t speak. He just watched. Wanda was waiting for a reaction.

‘Honey?’ She waited. ‘Honey?’ Her voice was razor sharp in his head.

‘Honey!’

‘What?’ he said, too loud.

‘What do you say?’

Duke’s heart was thumping. Sweat trickled down his back. He looked up at Boo-hoo, who stood tall over him, his legs spread, his hands on his hips, nodding and smiling. Then he looked back at the miserable creature skipping about in front of him. It was all so wrong.

‘Thank you, sir,’ said Duke.

‘Whatcha gonna call it?’ asked Wanda.

‘Fucker,’ said Duke. Wanda hit him hard across the side of the head.

‘You tell him what you’re gonna call that lovely new dog!’ she shouted. ‘That’s a very kind thing someone’s done for you, Duke. You need to show some respect.’

‘It’s OK,’ said Boo-hoo. ‘He’ll know soon enough.’ He patted the boy’s head and went inside to wait with Wanda.

Duke didn’t follow. He picked up the skinny animal, held his wriggling body under his arm and walked to Uncle Bill’s house. Bill was standing in a clearing, his arm outstretched after releasing a young hawk.

‘That Bounty?’ shouted Duke. ‘That baby hawk?’

‘Yup,’ said Bill. ‘Just lookin’ after her a short while ’til Hank gets back.’ He glanced over at the dog. ‘Is that yours? A new one already?’

‘Mama got him for me.’

‘Oh. OK. Well just be careful—’

‘I’m not gonna let him go if that’s what you mean,’ said Duke.

‘It’s important because—’

He was interrupted by a car pulling up around the front of the house. He handed Duke the leather glove.

‘She won’t be doin’ anything,’ he said, nodding
to Bounty. ‘I’ve got the meat in my bag. I’ll be back in a minute. We’ll start with her then.’

Duke put the dog down and held him between his calves as he slipped on the glove. Then he released his grip and the dog sprung into the clearing, dashing wildly from tree to tree. Bounty’s wings shot open. Her head darted from side to side. In a flash, she rose and swooped, fear driving her to an unlikely prey. The dog howled as her talons sank in. Duke’s eyes glazed over. He was only dimly aware of noise, flapping wings, frantic blurred activity. He brought his eyes back into focus for the final moments. Then silence.

‘What the hell is goin’ on here?’ said Bill, batting branches away as he ran through the trees by the house. He stopped when he saw the dead dog.

‘Did Bounty…?’

Duke nodded. He stared at the blood pooling out from under the body.

‘I’m mighty sorry that happened,’ Bill said. ‘After Sparky an’ all. I’m mighty sorry, little fella. The damn bird’s a dog-grabber, too young to know any better, got scared, probably—’

‘It’s all right,’ said Duke.

‘I shoulda told you the young ones can be like that—’

‘You did, Uncle Bill. You told me last week.’ He patted the man’s big hand.

They stood in silence. Eventually Bill went
inside. He returned with a stack of newspapers and set a slim layer on the dirt to soak up the blood. Then he picked up the lifeless body and laid it across the rest of the stack, folding the pages tightly around it. He heard a sob behind him. He turned and saw tears streaming down Duke’s face, shudders cutting through his breath.

Uncle Bill wiped his hands on his overalls, then pulled Duke close, holding him tight as the little boy wept for a dog called Sparky.