“Are you worried about what Frank is going to say?” she said, not being able to bear the sound of her own pounding thoughts.
Rose turned to look at her, eyes clearing. “Nope.”
“Really? He’s going to be piiissed.” Mia drew out the word, trying to show just how pissed off Frank would be.
Rose laughed and already Mia felt herself floating back up to the surface.
“It’ll be worth it.”
Rose looked back at the paper. Mia knew Rose well enough to know exactly what she was thinking: this was it. That it didn’t matter if she pissed off Frank; soon she would be out of here. The darkness closed over Mia again. Too much was going on. As soon as they were done with the Hanes she’d go home and have a shower. It was her little ritual. She’d lock the door and turn the shower on, making sure the water was the perfect temperature. Then she’d dim the lights. Take off her clothes and sit down naked on the porcelain floor, pulling the curtain closed around her. It was one of the few things that made Mia feel better when she was totally overwhelmed like this. The gush of the showerhead blocking out all other sounds. The rich black around her. It felt like she was engulfed in darkness and water. She’d let herself prune, put her arms around her knees and try to sort her thoughts out. Sometimes she’d even speak out loud. Hearing her own voice soothed her. Sometimes she’d cry. When she came out of the shower, pink and clean, her head would be clear. It was her own sort of therapy. After, she’d feel better and she could go back to being her sunny, happy self. Even the idea of it made her feel brighter.
It was her secret. If anyone found out she would be in so much trouble. There’d been water restrictions in Colmstock for as long as she could remember.
“Are you sure about this? I feel like we’re intruding,” she asked.
“Yeah. Or would you prefer to go to the Cunninghams’ instead?”
“The Cunninghams got one too?”
Soft-spoken Steve Cunningham was nice enough; Mia liked his accent. His bustling loud wife, Diane, however, was a force to be reckoned with. She’d given Mia an absolute death stare when she’d laughed in church that morning.
“Yeah,” Rose said, sniggering.
“Did Bazza tell you that too?”
“I can’t reveal my sources.” Rose smiled.
Mia turned onto the street, passing five For Sale signs in a row, all in different stages of decay. The last sign was so faded you could barely even see the pictures on it anymore. About a quarter of the houses in Colmstock were empty. Once in a while a hired thug from the real-estate agency in the city would be sent down to throw out the squatters.
“Is this it?” Mia asked, as they stopped outside a well-kept white house.
“Yeah. Look, there’s their fugly car,” Rose said, pointing toward the burnt-orange Auster they’d seen Mrs. Hane get into earlier.
“Do you think we’ve given them enough time?” Mia asked, idling.
“Yeah, I think she probably just wanted to clean up a bit. Hope she knows there aren’t going to be any photos.”
“She probably just wanted to talk to her daughter, make sure she’s all right with it.”
Rose snorted. “Come on—she’s just excited. Probably thinks this will be her fifteen minutes of fame.”
“You always think the worst of people,” Mia said, laughing, although deep down she thought Rose was being overly harsh.
“And you always think the best of people, so together we’re even,” Rose said, smiling.
Mia pulled in to the curb, the car braking with a squeal and clunk. She loved her rusty old car, but even she could see it didn’t have a lot of life left in it. She patted the bonnet softly as they got out, feeling the hot steel under her fingertips.
The Hanes’ place looked like most of the other houses on the street, except for a few toys scattered in the front yard. They walked up the drive shoulder to shoulder. Mia had no idea why Rose wanted her there, but she could never bring herself to say no to her.
Rose knocked. No answer.
“Maybe no one’s home,” Mia said quietly, just as the door swung open.
* * *
To some, the interior of the Hane residence might look like a sort of domestic bliss. Everything was warm and homey from the family portraits to the worn-out floral sofa. To Rose, it looked like some sort of hell. They sat on the sofa, staring at the Hanes. Mrs. Hane looked a lot like her husband. They were both flabby with short limbs, like two panting corgis. Dopey eyes and big dumb smiles. Somehow, they had managed to conceive an angelic little daughter, Lily, who sat between them staring at her lap. Behind them was a snotty-nosed little boy, Denny, they’d said his name was, who lay on the floor playing a particularly violent video game.
“We were very surprised, weren’t we, hun?” Mr. Hane was saying.
“Very surprised,” Mrs. Hane added. “Last thing you expect to see on your doorstep.”
Rose looked down at her notepad for her next question. “You called the police right away?”
Mrs. Hane thought about it, her ugly little face squishing up like a fist. “Not till we heard from our friend Liz, right, hun?”
“That’s right. When we heard that the Rileys’ kid had gotten one too, we thought it was odd, didn’t we?”
“We thought it was strange.”
If her life ended up like this, Rose thought, she’d kill herself. She stared behind them at that little shit Denny. He was bashing a man to death on whatever game he was playing.
“So when she wanted to call the police, we thought it was a good idea,” continued Mr. Hane.
“And we’re glad we did. The thought of that thing in our house all week. It’s enough to make you sick, isn’t it?”
“It is, hun. You’re right about that.”
Rose tried to make her face look calm. She didn’t want her growing irritation to show. She forced herself not to look over at Mia. If she did she was sure she would start laughing.
“Okay, great.” She may as well just cut to the chase—she needed them to say something with a bit more bite. “And do you feel like the police are doing enough?”
“Well, no, not since I read your article this morning,” Mrs. Hane said, her brow furrowing in concern, looking like a row of sausages.
“It really knocked us for six.”
“But you’ve already called some other fathers, haven’t you, hun?”
“I’ve been talking to every bloke I know who has a young girl.” His voice was low and serious. “I mean, these are our children.”
“Our children!” wailed Mrs. Hane.
“I was telling your stepdaddy just last night, it’s us fathers who are going to have to get this sorted.”
Her stepdaddy? “Rob? He’s on a haul,” Rose said, confused.
Mr. Hane looked at Rose before his eyes slid away. “Yes, that’s right.”
He was lying. Badly.
“Did you run into him at the pub?” she fished.
“That’ll be it. Had a pint together there last week.”
Rose knew she should stop asking him about this; it wasn’t why she was here. But what he’d said made no sense, and she wanted to know why he was lying to her.
“But Laura hadn’t even gotten the doll last week.”
Mr. Hane put his hands up in the air and smiled. “I guess I had a few too many that night—I can barely remember it.”
If Rob was cheating on her mum, she’d kill him. Although that would definitely help her housing problem. Behind them, Denny was shooting a lifeless body on the ground in his game.
Before Rose could aim another question at Mr. Hane, Mia leaned forward next to her. “What about you, honey?” She looked into Lily’s eyes. “How do you feel about the doll?”
That was good thinking. It could be great t
o get a child’s perspective. Rose needed to focus on why she was here; Mr. Hane definitely didn’t seem like he was going to spill the beans on Rob. She smiled at the little girl, waiting for her to answer Mia’s question. Rose was fairly sure the Star’s editor would eat up a little kid saying she was scared. But Lily said nothing.
“Oh, she can’t hear you, honey,” Mrs. Hane said lightly.
“She’s deaf,” Mr. Hane added, just in case they didn’t get it. “We’ve been saving for one of them cochlear implants.”
“Every dime,” said Mrs. Hane and patted Lily lightly on the head. “First sound she’s going to hear is my dulcet tones.”
Lily turned and looked at Rose right in the eyes, as though she knew exactly what was in store for her.
“Well,” Rose said, standing, “thanks so much for your time.”
Mrs. Hane heaved herself up to walk them out.
“Anytime, honey. We all want the same thing here.”
Denny looked up from his game as they passed. He shot Rose a dirty look, and she shot him one right back. Mrs. Hane opened the front door.
“Say hello to your father for me,” she said to Mia, patting her arm. “Poor man.”
“Okay,” said Mia awkwardly.
“You are doing right by him. You’re a good girl.”
“Thanks,” said Mia, looking at her feet.
“We hope our kids will do right by us when our time comes,” she said, then called, “Don’t we, hun?”
Rose stepped outside into the air. She could not bear one more second of that stifling house.
12
Since she’d got the email from the Star, Rose’s shifts at Eamon’s had felt even longer than before. They seemed to drag endlessly. This was probably because she felt so different now. She was bursting with excitement and energy. The chicken factory and the fossickers shanties seemed laughable. It was crazy to think that just a few days ago they had felt like the only two options.
On the inside, she was dancing. But on the outside, everything was the same. The same heat, the same aggravating customers and bad tips and sticky bench tops. Mia yabbering on as usual by her side in that unbreakable sunny demeanor she had; Jean barking orders through small smiles. It was as though no one could see that she wasn’t the same Rose anymore, that everything had changed.
Her feet dragged walking to work. She knew it would be the same tonight. Already, she felt tired and she hadn’t even started the shift. All day at home she’d typed frantically at her computer. She’d transcribed the Hanes’ interview carefully, trying to remember everything. Hoping there would be something interesting she could cobble together out of their stupid quotes. She needed a new angle, a new way to make what had happened seem compelling. But all she kept thinking about was what Mr. Hane had said about talking to Rob. The more she thought about it, the more strange the whole conversation was. It didn’t really make sense. He had definitely been hiding something.
The air blew hot against her skin, the decaying smell of the courthouse riding on it. Her bag slipped off her sweaty shoulder, and she hiked it back up, quickening her pace so she wouldn’t be late. She put up a hand to shield her eyes; the wind was blowing dried leaves and bits of fluff at her, flicking against the bare skin on her shoulders. The lake stank particularly badly today, blowflies buzzing around its surface. Soon she wouldn’t have to look at the ugly scene every day. Soon she’d be walking through the city, skyscrapers on each side, and she’d leave this place to its steady decay.
As she reached Union Street she checked her watch. She was actually going to be a few minutes early for once. Although, as she waited for the traffic lights to change, another idea came to mind. The lights to the pub down the road were on; she could see them from where she stood. It was a bit of a long shot, but perhaps worth a try.
Inside, the pub made Eamon’s look like a palace. It stank of vomit, the sound of the dog races drowned out the commercial playing on the radio and the men who looked up when she entered appeared as though they’d been sitting there so long their ample arses had fused with the stools.
“Hey,” she said to the barman, “how’s it going?”
“All right,” he said, as he wiped down the counter. “You here to scope out the competition?”
She smiled at him. She was pretty sure he was one of Bazza’s uncles. She’d seen them chatting before at church. Plus, he had the same broad shoulders and dumb eyes.
“Nah,” she said, leaning onto the bar, “I’m looking for someone. You know Rob James?”
His smile disappeared, and he turned to restock the pint glasses. “I have nothing to say about all that. You’re barking up the wrong tree.”
“What?” she asked, but he didn’t turn around.
“Look,” she said, “Rob’s my stepdad—I’m just trying to get ahold of him because his mobile’s off.”
He looked over his shoulder at her, his face softening again. “Sorry, darl. Didn’t realize that.”
She shrugged. “Has he been in here the last couple of weeks?”
“Nah,” he said, “haven’t seen him in yonks.”
He turned back to the glasses. She looked around; all the men in the bar weren’t even bothering to hide their gawking. All except for one man, right in the corner, who was closely surveying his beer. It was Mr. Riley. She turned back to the barman.
“Well, if he comes in—”
“Sure, sure, no wukkas,” the bartender said. She stared at the back of his head for a second, trying to think of a way to make him tell her what he obviously didn’t want to say. She couldn’t, so she left, feeling all the men’s eyes prickle into her back.
* * *
Pulling open the door to Eamon’s, she felt her frustration mount a little. Mia was clicking on the taps, singing along to “The Promised Land”; Jean was emptying change loudly into the register. The beer signs were flickering on, the sky was beginning to darken and it was going to be another shift just like yesterday’s.
“Hey, girl,” Mia said, smiling up at her, happy she was there. Rose felt like a real bitch.
“Only five minutes late,” Jean said, eyes on the clock. “Must be a record for you, Rosie.”
She smiled back, resigning herself, and went back to the storeroom to get a fresh keg ready for the night. As with every shift, when she first arrived at Eamon’s the whir of the fridges was loud. By the end of the shift, her ears would get used to the noise. She wouldn’t be able to hear it even if she listened for it.
She threw her bag into the tiny office next to the toilets on the way, walking past Will’s room without a glance at his door. It was unspoken between the three of them that Rose did most of the behind-the-scenes work, while Mia focused on the bar. This suited her fine; she’d prefer heavy kegs to drunk men any day.
The hot wind had blown some dead leaves from outside into the hallway, and they crinkled under Rose’s shoes as she went to the storeroom. They’d only be replaced with more if she swept them back outside. She pulled a keg onto its side and began rolling it out of the tight space at the doorway.
She heard a crunch as it went over something in the corridor, something that felt more solid than a dry leaf. She pulled the keg toward her and looked over the top of it.
“Fuck!”
It was a rat. Its fat belly exploded and flattened against the cement. At least it wasn’t squished into the carpet.
“What’s up?”
It was Will, standing in his doorway, trying to see what she was looking at. She rolled the keg back over the rat to hide it, wincing at the wet sound of its tiny bones crackling.
“Nothing.”
He laughed. “Then why’d you swear?”
She straightened up, keeping one foot on the keg so it wouldn’t move. “I didn’t.”
“Okay.” He w
as still grinning, and she found herself grinning back.
“This place is haunted—maybe it was a ghost you heard.”
“Haunted?” He laughed.
“You haven’t heard?” She looked at him as if it was the biggest surprise of her life.
“No,” he said, then, playing along, “Did something bad happen?”
“I shouldn’t really be talking about it.”
“I won’t tell.” Will leaned against the doorway and crossed his arms.
“All right, since you insist. Did you know that before it was a tavern it was owned by the richest family in town? The Eamons.”
“Them?”
He looked over her shoulder, at the framed photograph that she’d cracked.
“That’s right.”
She waited for him to ask her to continue, but he didn’t. He just watched her, still grinning.
“Round here, wealth can rub people the wrong way,” she started, “but not the Eamons. Their children were the cutest, sweetest kids. The mother made blankets for the poor. And the Colonel, he was a war hero.”
“So they died here?”
Rose let her voice go dark and somber. “They were murdered.”
“Really?”
“The Eamon house always had people coming and going. After three days, when no one answered the door, people started to worry. They cracked the locks with a sledgehammer. What they saw was so barbaric, at first they thought it was an animal that had done it—but it wasn’t. It was the Colonel. He’d come back from the war not quite right. Mrs. Eamon and the kids had done everything to hide it, to pretend all was normal. They had played happy families right up to the morning that he ripped them apart, one at a time, trying to find their souls. But he didn’t find anything. Only blood and brains. So he ate his own gun.”
“Wow. That’s pretty intense,” Will said, but he didn’t look worried in the slightest. In fact, he was still smiling. Was he some sort of psychopath? Usually people flinched at that last line, asked if it was really true. Sometimes they even looked around the tavern like a ghost was about to jump out and yell Boo.
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