Darkhouse

‘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.’