“It basically means that you’re born with a kind of … natural knack for magic-y things.”
“That doesn’t sound very … specific,” he says, his brows furrowed.
Fiona looks thoughtful. “Nobody could have made that crappy book work,” she says slowly. “Unless they had magic in them already.”
Roe still looks unconvinced.
“I think it’s just an explanation for why … I don’t know…” I’m suddenly flustered. I’m not used to being the special one. They are the special ones.
“Like, how I’m good at tarot, and how the Housekeeper is … attracted to me, and how I can sort of be in Roe’s brain. And the spells. I think I just have, like, one per cent more of a natural flair for it than regular people. That’s all.”
“One per cent!” Fiona says, outraged. “More like, fifty.”
“Eleven, Fiona. Eleven per cent.”
“I won’t take a penny less than thirty per cent.”
We all laugh, and making it into a dumb joke helps me to normalize this strange new fact about myself. It’s a bit like being in some elusive thirteenth house of the zodiac.
“But the woman at Divination, she also said that … bad sensitives exist, and I think Aaron might be one. She seems to think that Kilbeg is at the centre of some kind of energy shift.”
“Like the Housekeeper is throwing everything off,” Roe says slowly.
“Yes! And I guess the Aarons of the world … the bad sensitives, prey on that sort of thing. They get into people’s heads.”
Could it be possible that some grand Jenga match of forces and energy were thrown out of whack when I woke up the Housekeeper? Could the Housekeeper, who was awakened by spite and pain and anger, be feeding everything in the city – even a Christian fundamentalist group that has nothing to do with us?
I picture the river, flowing through the entire city like a blue vein. The river, filled with rainbow trout and cogs and keys. The river carrying the winds and currents and the secrets of a missing girl.
“So Lily’s disappearance doesn’t exist in a vacuum. It’s part of everything else,” Roe says, suddenly. “The Housekeeper is just the start of a big chain reaction. I knew we were right to see a connection between those CoB creeps and Lily.”
Fiona starts to nod slowly.
“Remember when Sylvia said that strong human emotions are what create ghosts and demons?” she says. “Well, what if it can work the other way around, too? What if all this anger and resentment caused the Housekeeper, and now it’s spewing out anger and resentment, too? And Aaron is just … channelling it?”
“Some people are just assholes,” Roe interjects. “Aaron was clearly born an asshole.”
“A sensitive asshole,” Fiona corrects.
“Sure. But what if the Housekeeper just makes everything – I don’t know – more heightened?”
“We have to break the Housekeeper,” I say, nodding in agreement. “I’m not strong enough to do it by myself. We have to do it. Together.”
“How?”
“I don’t know. But I know we’re close. I know it.”
Roe gets a phone call and steps outside, and Fiona checks her Instagram Live from the gig.
“Oh, God, I have like fifteen DMs. Two of them are from journalists.”
“What?”
“Yeah, looks like this thing is going viral already. Or, y’know – Irish viral.”
“Are you going to talk to them?”
“No, Mum would go ballistic. I’ll just say they can use the video.”
Roe steps back into the chipper, and the few people who are having their food in look up, startled. They take in his dress, his black dockers, the blood. It’s amazing how quickly I’ve gotten used to him in his new clothes.
“That was Miel. The band all got out OK.”
“What else did they say?”
“That a few people were hauled off. A couple of the queens were taken into questioning – I think partly because they are all over eighteen.”
“Oh, God. I hope they’re all right.”
“I’m sure they are,” Fiona says. “I’ve never met a drag queen who doesn’t know her rights.”
“We get it Fiona, you know drag queens,” I tease.
They turn the music off at Deasy’s and we take that as our cue to leave. Fiona hugs us both and heads south back to her house, and we head north towards mine. I don’t know what to say to Roe now that we’re alone. Despite all our pacts and promises to one another as a group, I still have no idea where he and I stand.
The feeling is clearly mutual. Roe is suddenly nervous of me. This exotic creature who I just witnessed fighting a Christian fundamentalist while wearing a velvet dress is now too anxious to look me in the eye. As we walk, he daubs at the cut on his lip, touching it with a wet napkin stolen from the chipper. His face is starting to swell. I want to touch the puffy skin, where the crimson of his lipstick meets the flush of new wounds.
“You were incredible back there,” I say, briefly squeezing his arm. “I’m sorry you needed to do it. I mean, I’m sorry those guys crashed the evening. But y’know, you should be proud. I could never be that brave.”
He is silent.
“And the gig!” I burst out, desperate to get him talking. “The gig was so great! I had no idea how good you were.”
“You don’t have to do that,” he says, finally.
“Do what?”
“Pretend like … like you’re still…” He trails off.
“Like I’m still what?”
“Like you’re still attracted to me, I suppose.”
I look at him, clearly confused.
“I saw your face when I was onstage,” he snaps. “I know how it is. When we’re in our school uniforms and we’re on the bus and I have a little bit of nail varnish on, it’s all cute. I can pass for … for boy, I guess. But when you saw me dressed like this, you looked so shocked, and I knew that any chance of us…”
I start to laugh. Roe looks hurt.
“You think I don’t like this?” I ask, pulling playfully at one of the pearl drops hanging from his
