by Alex Barclay
Joe’s heart thumped as he looked closely at the pins. He studied the faces of the men. They would all be – he checked the year – in their late 60s by now.
‘What are you doing at this time of the morning?’ asked Anna, walking over to him.
‘Research,’ said Joe, batting his hand behind him to keep her back.
‘OK,’ she said. ‘But…it’s been horrible today.’ She spoke softly. ‘Do you want to come to bed?’
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘No.’
She closed the door gently behind her. John Miller flashed into Joe’s mind. Then he remembered being seven years old, hearing his mother’s raised voice boom against the floorboards of his room.
‘What do you think I do here all day, hah?’
‘You tell me!’ shouted his father.
‘You tell me,’ snorted Maria. ‘I bring up our children. I cook for our children, for you. I clean for our children, for you…that’s what I do all day, every day. But what do you do, Giulio?’
‘I am building a future for our children.’
‘What future?’ said Maria, her voice pitched high. ‘You think this is a future? Parents who never see each other from the start of the week to the end of the week? You’re not the man I want my son to be.’ Everything had gone silent. Then he could hear his mother’s soft footsteps on the stairs, then along the hall to his bedroom. She pushed open the door quietly and slipped into the bed beside him and hugged him close. He could feel her tears on his hair.
He turned back to the screen. Apart from Larry and his wildlife buddies, at least two other people got their hands on those pins and kept them almost twenty years. Donald Riggs would have only been a boy. Why would the same pin be in his hand when he died? Who left the pin outside the bar? He picked up the phone again and followed through this time.
‘Two things, Danny,’ he said. ‘I need you to pull Donald Riggs’ file.’
Silence.
‘The guy, Bowne Park, the explosion…’
‘I know who he is,’ said Danny. ‘I’m just wondering why you’re asking.’
‘I just need his known associates, back in Texas,’ said Joe. ‘If he had any.’
‘Sure,’ said Danny. ‘I can do that. But from what I remember, the guy wasn’t in much trouble before he, you know—’
‘Humour me,’ said Joe. ‘And, uh, would you mind checking the evidence bag for that gold pin, the hawk.’
‘The fact that you’re even trying to make that request sound casual says a lot about you,’ said Danny. ‘What’s going on here?’
‘I’ll tell you when I know myself,’ said Joe. ‘Listen, take care.’ He put the phone down and sat in the darkness before he walked out and upstairs towards the guest bedroom. He was pushing open the door when Anna came out into the hall, hope flickering across her face. He stopped. She was so beautiful, so sexy in everything she did, even now, drawing her hand through her dark, tangled hair. His stomach heaved at the thought of another man touching her. She saw it in his eyes. And the hope died. Joe walked into the strange room and closed the door behind him.
SIXTEEN
Corpus Christi, Texas, 1985
A red banner flapped between two wooden poles at the entrance to Hazel Bazemore County Park: ‘Welcome to Wildlife’.
‘Sounds like a porno,’ said Duke under his breath.
‘Yeah,’ said Donnie.
‘What you boys whisperin’ about?’ said Uncle Bill.
‘Nothin’,’ said Duke. He looked around. ‘This place looks great.’
‘I think you’re gonna like it,’ said Bill, slapping down notes at the booth. ‘You’ll get to see pretty much anythin’ Texas has to offer in the way of wildlife.’
Children were running around, laughing and shouting, pulling their parents in different directions. A giant furry chipmunk and owl were waving and handing out green balloons. Crammed onto every stall were books, toys or information on Texas wildlife. A photographer in a creamcoloured vest pushed through the crowd.
‘Picture, anyone? Take your picture, anyone?’
Four men in what looked like army fatigues, stood like war reporters with their binoculars, cameras and bags strapped across their bodies.
‘Go on, then,’ said one of them. ‘Might as well get one of all of us together. Today is a special day, we saw ourselves a few hundred different birds.’
The photographer stepped back and framed his shot. One click and the moment was preserved.
‘Would you like a picture, boys?’ said Uncle Bill.
‘Nah.’ Donnie ran his hand over his spotty jaw.
‘Nah,’ said Duke.
‘Well, maybe we can commemorate our big day some other way,’ said Uncle Bill.
‘Look,’ said Donnie, pointing to a small stall.
‘I’ll leave you boys to it,’ said Bill. ‘Here’s a few dollars.’
An elderly woman stood shuffling a handful of black rubber rings like they were playing cards. In three rows, like steps behind her, small prizes were mounted on upturned mugs. She looked at the two boys.
‘All you gotta do is hook one of these rings over them and it’s yours!’
‘We know that,’ said Duke.
‘One dollar, five rings.’
Duke handed her two dollars. He looked across the rows and saw a silver digital watch with a flashing red face. He pointed at it.
‘That’s mine,’ he said to Donnie. The woman chuckled. Duke stared at her as he raised his right hand.
‘Like skimmin’ stones,’ he said, turning to Donnie. ‘Simple.’ He focused on the watch, flicked his wrist and the ring landed high, bouncing off the step above. Duke shuffled his feet and steadied his hip against the counter. The rings flew again and again until he had no more left. He was furious.
‘This game’s rigged,’ he said.
‘You watch your mouth, boy,’ said the old woman.
He began to raise his knee up on the counter to climb over. She stepped wide and stood in front of him, her hand poised to hold back his chest. His arm flew up and he hit her hard on the palm, jerking her hand back.
‘Fuckin’ bitch,’ he said. ‘Don’t you fuckin’ touch me.’ He walked away. Donnie followed.
‘It’s three o’clock, boys,’ said Bill. He put his hand on their shoulders and pointed to a low dais where a tall, thin man dressed in beige was straightening a triangular sign on a wooden table.
‘Cool,’ said Duke and Donnie. They walked over to join the crowd gathered in front.
The man tapped a narrow microphone and began to speak.
‘Afternoon, everyone. The name’s Len and I’m here to talk to you today about the Harris’ Hawk, one of the most popular falconry birds in North America.’ Bill nodded at Duke.
‘First things first,’ said Len. ‘The Harris’ Hawk’s official title is Parabuteo Unicinctus, part of the family Accipitidae. It’s a buteo, a soaring hawk, found in the wild from Arizona through Mexico right the way down to Chile and Argentina. It’s a medium-sized hawk, typically weighing in between 1.25, 2.5 pounds. The female is larger and more powerful than the male.
‘Now, on to the fun stuff. Wolves with wings.’ He looked around the crowd. ‘Anyone know what I mean by that?’ Duke knew. His eyes were bright.
‘What I mean,’ said Len, ‘is the Harris’ Hawk hunts co-operatively, like a wolf, like a lion. It is exceptionally rare for a bird of prey. Two, three or even more Harris’ Hawks will work together to capture their quarry. They attack with military precision. This is not a free-for-all. They know what they’re doing. First they will thoroughly sweep the area to locate their quarry. After that, there are many ways the combined force of the hawks can pursue it. An example is that one bird will flush it out – whether it’s a jack rabbit, a rodent, a lizard – and then will take turns with the other to, verycleverly, chase that prey until it’s weakened, exhausted and ready to be killed. The creature doesn’t stand a chance. The Harris’ Hawks’ talons can grip, crush and kill instant
ly and they won’t release until the prey has stopped moving. Remember this is a bird designed for hunting. It can spot a mouse in motion a mile away. It has a third eyelid that is drawn over the eye when flying at speed to protect it from injury or – once its feet touch the prey – to protect it from a thrashing victim. Its talons are immensely powerful. If you could create the ultimate commando, what would he be? He would be focused. He would be intelligent. He would be accurate. The Harris’ Hawk is all of these things. But where your commando would be happy under cover of darkness, the Harris’ Hawk hunts in daylight. His night vision is no better than ours.’ Duke’s attention was fixed on the skinny, hunched man and the controlled hand gestures he used to make his points.
‘Yes, the Harris’ Hawk is a pretty impressive killing machine. And yet it’s hard to find a bird that looks more elegant and graceful in flight.’ He smiled. ‘But,’ he said, drawing out the word, changing his face to serious, ‘it pains me to hear those falconers out there who can only talk about the number of kills their bird has made.’ Duke was distracted, staring past him, focused on something in the distance. ‘That’s not what falconry is all about,’ continued Len. ‘Killing for the Harris’ Hawk or any bird of prey is about survival. And we all do what we have to do to survive.’ Uncle Bill stayed for the rest of the talk, but Duke was on his feet, dragging Donnie away.
‘Wasn’t that amazing?’ said Duke.
‘Sure was,’ said Donnie.
‘Aren’t they awesome? The way they work like that?’
‘Yeah, a real team.’
‘We could be like that.’
‘We’re a team, Duke, ain’t we?’
‘But can you imagine what we could do?’
‘Like what? Kill varmin?’ Donnie laughed.
‘No. You know, get what we want, work as a team to get what we want.’
‘What do you want?’
‘I dunno. Maybe, I dunno. What do you want?’
‘That girl over there,’ laughed Donnie. ‘Check her out.’ He pointed to a girl in a short blue skirt with a tight yellow T-shirt.
‘Well, you know if that’s what you wanted and for some reason you couldn’t get it, we could help each other get what the other one wants. Say if I wanted somethin’ else, like…’
‘Like what?’
‘I don’t know. I’ll think about it. But whatever it was, we could do it together.’
‘Like when I roll my dad over when he’s drunk and you pick out his wallet?’
‘Well kinda, yeah. You’d never be able to do that on your own. ’Member the first time we saw them? When they went for that quail? I’ll never forget that as long as I live.’
‘It’s just what they do though, isn’t it, to survive?’ said Donnie.
‘Survivin’ is bullshit. I’ve done all my survivin’. It’s time to go out and just get.’
Uncle Bill studied the plastic tray on the table in front of him. It held three rows of pins, each separated into four small compartments.
Uncle Bill picked one up. Duke and Donnie walked over and leaned in to look at it.
‘That there a Harris’?’ said Bill, squinting at the pin in the sunlight.
‘Sure is,’ said the old man selling. ‘Rare, so it’ll cost ya. Not many manufacturers gettin’ that far into the breeds. Only a couple left, made by one of the locals.’
‘How much are they?’
‘Ten dollars.’
‘Well, I’m afraid all’s I got is a twenty,’ said Bill, taking out his wallet and winking at the boys. He put the notes on the table. ‘So I’m gonna have to take two.’ The man reached out across the rows. ‘No, no,’ said Bill. He pointed. ‘The maroon and gold.’
Duke and Donnie sat cross-legged in the dark by the creek, a flashlight by their sides. Donnie held out his palm. The small pin shone.
‘Close your fist,’ said Duke. Then he reached his hand around it and crushed it hard until the flesh was pierced and his friend cried out.
‘Now do it to me,’ said Duke, clutching his own pin. Donnie wrapped his hand around and squeezed until Duke nodded. They opened their fists and saw the same three cuts where the bird’s beak and wings had penetrated. They pulled the pins free and clasped each other’s bloodied right hands.
‘Loyal to the end,’ said Duke.
‘Loyal to the end,’ said Donnie.
SEVENTEEN
Joe watched Anna from the doorway. She was standing in the living room in front of a large rectangle wrapped in layers of brown paper and leaning against the back of the sofa. She put her knee on one of the cushions and started ripping off the paper, revealing each time more of a deepframed acrylic painting – white with a thick slash of teal down the right-hand side, roughly edged and textured. When she was finished, she stood back and smiled, then jumped as Joe came up behind her. He grabbed a piece of packaging that hung from a corner.
‘The Hobson Gallery,’ he said. He picked up the invoice before Anna could get to it and held it up high in front of him. He read it and shook his head.
‘Please tell me I will not be billed three hundred and seventy five euros for this.’
She looked up at him. ‘You will.’
‘For Christ’s sake!’
‘I ordered it weeks ago, before anything. Brendan is coming again to take shots. I need one big piece—’
‘I need. I need,’ he mimicked.
‘You’re not creative,’ she said angrily. ‘You don’t understand any of this.’ She gestured towards the painting, the furniture, the perfect white floorboards.
‘I understand what you do. I love what you do,’ he said calmly. ‘I love how you’re so determined – just don’t be so determined to ruin us financially.’ He walked away. ‘And actually, I think the painting is great,’ he called back.
Shaun saw the group of boys as he turned the corner, but he quickly pulled back behind the wall when he heard his name. Three of them were talking.
‘It’s fucking nuts in the States though.’
‘I know. We should be lucky he didn’t come in here in a trenchcoat and blow us all to shit.’
‘Oh, for fuck’s sake, grow up. Those guys were total losers.’
‘Well, who knows? He could be nuts behind it all. It’s always the quiet ones.’
‘But he’s not even quiet! He’s just normal.’
‘Exactly. What I’m saying is it’s always the ones you least suspect.’
‘That would make you bottom of the list.’
‘Ha. Ha.’
‘Combats, shaved head, knows the scripts of Full Metal Jacket, Good Morning Vietnam and Black Hawk Down off by heart. Has seen Platoon twenty-five times.’ He made an alarm sound.
‘Well no-one’s come knocking on my door to take me in.’
‘No-one’s come knocking on Shaun’s either, you fuckwit. It’s so embarrassing, though. Apparently his dad’s going around asking people questions, doing a Jessica Fletcher on it.’
‘Jessica Fletcher.’
‘Anyway, people are getting fairly pissed off. Richie’s going apeshit. People are saying things to Lucky’s dad, then not saying stuff to Richie or else they’re just getting fed up saying the same things over and over again. And maybe the guy should be looking a lot closer to home. Mr Lucchesi, I mean.’
‘There’s no way Lucky had anything to do with this.’
‘We’ll see.’
‘You sound like my mother.’
‘We’ll see.’
‘Shut up.’
‘Lucky, though. Could his nickname be any more ironic?’
Shaun turned back and walked home.
‘I hate to have to do this again,’ said Frank, trying to smile at Martha. ‘But you never know what you might find that would help.’
‘It doesn’t feel right,’ said Martha. ‘She was so private.’ She pushed open the door to Katie’s bedroom. It was a wet, grey morning and the room was dark. They both looked up, drawn by the fluorescent stars on the ceiling. Martha turned on the li
ght and the glow disappeared. She sat down on the bed, a tissue up to her nose, thinking: that’s all I seem to have been doing for weeks, sitting, rubbing my nose raw.
‘Oh, I’m sorry, Frank,’ she said, getting up quickly, ‘I’m dreaming.’ She closed the door gently behind her.
Frank looked around. The room was a little girl’s doing its best to be a teenager’s. The wallpaper was pink and girly, but a strip had been torn away for notes to be scribbled on it. The quilt was floral and faded, but the lamp by the bed was simple and modern. Her wardrobe should have been brown, but had been sanded and repainted white with a bright pink border. There were no teddies or dolls anywhere. He walked towards the mirror. A piece of ribbon stretched across the top with tiny clips attached to hold photos. He didn’t see Katie’s face in any of them. He saw Ali and a few other girls from around the village, he saw Shaun and he saw a tiny little girl at the zoo, holding a man’s hand and looking up at him, smiling. He looked closer and realised it was Katie and her father, taken a few years before he died.
A box on the dressing table was filled with hair pins, scrunchies, makeup and cheap jewellery. He turned around and pulled open the doors of the wardrobe, running his fingers across the clothes. He bent down and saw piles of old shoes and two old tennis rackets. Then he saw an envelope, from an oversized greeting card, stuck into the side. He pulled it free from its slot in the wood and laid it on the bed. The big card was a birthday card, signed by several girls, love hearts and circles dotting the ‘i’s. The messages were all innocent. He reached his hand to the bottom of the envelope and pulled out more cards and letters from her girlfriends and from Shaun, birthday cards stretching back to her childhood and a few Valentine’s cards. One of them, in a soft pink envelope had a teddy on the front, holding a flower. He opened it. ‘Roses are Red, Violets are Blue, Sugar is Sweet and So are You.’ It was a child’s writing. A big question mark filled the left-hand side. Frank was surprised anyone would write such a clichéd poem. But how old was the card? He flipped the envelope over. It was postmarked the previous year. Why would a child be sending Katie a Valentine’s card? Or was it someone trying to appear like a child? But that didn’t make sense. He flicked through the rest of the cards, had one last look around the room and walked down the narrow stairs to the living room. Martha got up expectantly.