by Alex Barclay
‘Joe Lucchesi…Shield Number…, would like to be reinstated, as soon as possible, consider my application…
Anna slammed the drawer shut with a swift kick.
The sky was grey over Mariner’s Strand. Joe walked along the pebbled sand wishing he was one of the people there to enjoy the view. Instead, he was thinking about grief: his for the loss of a perfect marriage, Shaun’s for a beautiful dead girlfriend. He saw Frank and Nora Deegan by the water and walked towards them. Frank nodded at his wife and she went on ahead.
‘I don’t know whether this is good news or bad for you, Joe, but I found out who sent Shaun that email. It was Barry Shanley, a fifth year student in St Declan’s who was trying his hand at being the tough man.’
‘Are you sure?’ said Joe. ‘But—’
‘I’ve gone through everything in detail with the computer teacher at the school. There’s absolutely no question about it and Barry admitted it himself. He was crying by the time I left him. You’ve been through a lot, Joe. It’s understandable things like that would rattle you. Oh, and Richie went to see Mae Miller today and he said there’s not a bother on her. We don’t think she’s suffering from Alzheimer’s, Joe. John Miller can be a funny fish. Probably looking for some sort of sympathy vote.’
Anna walked around the house trying to decide what to do. She didn’t want to waste her anger on a phone call Joe could hang up on. She wanted him to register every bit of hurt and disappointment she was feeling. She had been right – both her boys were lying to her. She had fought for them over and over and this was how they had paid her back.
‘Screw you,’ she said. She was going back over to the drawer when she heard the doorbell ring. She didn’t move. It rang again. She stormed through the hall and jerked the door open. A man stood smiling in front of her. He wore brown hiking boots, skinny jeans, a check shirt and a creamcoloured vest. Anna’s heart rate soared so sharply, she froze. He was reminding her that he was Gary, the replacement gardener. She found herself staring at the tendons in his arms. Then she realised he had stopped talking. She looked up. Their eyes met. His smile died. She started fumbling desperately for the door. She tried to jam her bare foot against it. Duke was already pushing her back, sliding her towards the wall. The rough wood scraped up her foot, dragging splinters through the torn skin. She cried out and jerked her foot away, slamming backwards into the wall. She dropped to her knees and scrambled past Duke. In one stride he was behind her. He wrapped his arm around her waist then wrenched it towards him, crushing her stomach and ribs. She tried to prise his arm away, but he held her rigid. Something inside her sank. As he carried her back through the door, she caught his strange, distorted reflection in the glass. The only thing she could make out were two dilated pupils that made her scream. Windows to the soul…and the soul was black.
Ray and Hugh were standing at the bar having one of their discussions when Joe joined them.
‘To me, faces from those police sketches are like a whole separate species,’ said Hugh. ‘Like, that guy from that American Heroes place. That face doesn’t exist in any reality. Only in a police file or in a newspaper. I mean, the face we see isn’t actually anyone’s face. It’s like a mutant, pulled together from memory. I always picture these two-D faces floating around the place, with these evil eyes, sharp cheekbones and always the creepy, slitty little mouth. “Hi, I’m the sketch from the robbery? The bank job?” “Wow! You are so not like the guy they got for that!”’ He looked from Ray to Joe. ‘Know what I mean?’ he added.
‘Hugh’s PC is in for repair,’ said Ray. ‘It’s been very upsetting for him.’ Hugh nodded sadly.
‘I haven’t seen the one you’re talking about, but I think they’re always shite,’ said Ray. ‘A couple of years ago, there was a rapist around Waterford and the police brought out some composite thing that was the image of me. I swear to God. It was in all the papers. I thought I’d be the only one to notice, but everyone started staring at me—’
‘I’d say Richie Bates drew that just to piss you off,’ said Hugh.
‘I wouldn’t put it past him,’ said Ray.
‘Well, after his road rage moment the other day…’ said Joe.
‘What has he done now?’ said Ray.
‘What do you mean? You’re the one who was there.’
Ray stared at him.
‘With the garbage on the road outside your house?’
Ray and Hugh exchanged glances. Ray snorted a laugh.
Three beers arrived in front of them and the conversation changed.
Robert Harrington climbed out his window onto the conservatory roof, straddling the glass panes, placing his feet carefully on the aluminium. He walked down slowly, then jumped into the garden, sprinting across it and out onto the road.
‘Free gaff,’ said Shaun, when he answered the door. ‘Mom and Dad are out.’
‘You and your Irish expressions,’ said Robert. ‘Shouldn’t you be saying, like “home alone” or something? You look like shit, by the way.’
‘Thanks. Come in. I’ll tell you everything. My life is a mess. I think we should raid the drinks cabinet.’
‘Any excuse,’ said Robert. ‘And I’ve called Ali. She’s on her way.’
The kitchen table was covered with files. Frank sat, leaning on his elbows, studying an open folder. Nora stood in the doorway.
‘I thought I’d tell you about what happened today—’
Frank raised his hand to stop her. Then he looked up with his magnified eyes.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I’m up to my neck trying to work it all out.’ He pushed himself back from the table.
‘I know you are, pet,’ said Nora. ‘You look pale. And your dark circles are huge,’ she smiled. ‘Are you all right?’
‘My stomach is in bits.’ He nodded towards the coffee pot.
‘It’s worth it sometimes,’ she said, smiling. ‘If you’ve got a lot on. To keep you going.’
‘I just…it’s driving me mad trying to work out why Katie picked me out of everyone to call. Why not 999 or the station or Shaun for that matter? Although, they were arguing, so I suppose…’ He sighed. ‘I just don’t know.’
‘Don’t let O’Connor hear you say that.’
They laughed.
‘Don’t worry about the call. You’ll find out soon enough what it was all about,’ said Nora, walking over and squeezing his shoulders. She tilted the lamp beside him.
‘That’s better.’
‘Thanks,’ he said.
‘I’ll leave you to it.’
As Joe swung the Jeep into the drive, his headlights hit the top of the lighthouse, where he saw a figure leaning dangerously over the balcony railings. He reversed the car and the headlights picked up two other people underneath waving at the person above. He slammed his foot on the gas and drove halfway down the lane, cutting the engine and jumping out at the steps down to the lighthouse. A misty, drenching rain was falling and as he approached, he saw Ali rooted to the spot. Robert staggered around to face him.
‘Mr Lucchesi,’ he said, pointing up at the balcony. ‘It’s Shaun. He’s hammered. He says he’s going to jump.’ Robert stank of beer, but had been shocked almost sober.
‘Jesus Christ,’ said Joe. ‘What the hell’s going on?’
‘Ohmygod, ohmygod, ohmygod.’ Ali was hysterical.
‘We were drinking in the house,’ said Robert. ‘Then he wanted to come outside in the rain, so we said yeah and he said he wanted to show us the lighthouse and he ran ahead and he’s been hanging over the railings for ages saying he wants to die. We didn’t know what to do. We couldn’t leave him.’
‘Where’s Anna?’ said Joe.
‘I don’t know,’ said Robert. ‘Shaun said she’s out.’
‘Did he take anything?’ said Joe.
‘Like drugs? No. He just mixed his drinks.’
‘Shit,’ said Joe.
They both watched as Shaun vomited into the wind and it flew back against him.
‘Well, I want to kill you,’ said Joe under his breath.
Robert smiled. ‘I’m sorry, Mr Lucchesi. I had no idea—’
‘It’s not your fault,’ said Joe. ‘He’s been having a rough time. It was inevitable.’
‘You don’t want to die, Shaun,’ shouted Joe. ‘Come on down, for God’s sake. I’ll get you a coffee.’
‘My life is over,’ shouted Shaun, holding onto the railings, swaying backwards. ‘Katie’s gone and everyone thinks I killed her.’
‘No, they don’t,’ shouted Robert.
‘What would you know?’ said Shaun. ‘Your dad doesn’t even want you near me.’
Robert shrugged his shoulders at Joe.
‘Come on, son,’ said Joe to Shaun. ‘This is just the beer talking. I’m gonna come up to you and we’re gonna come down together. Can you stay where you are?’
‘Just fuck off and leave me alone,’ roared Shaun, trying to raise his knee to climb up. He stumbled back, slumping against the wall, his stomach folded in two. He threw up again, wiping the vomit away with his sleeve.
‘Aw, Jesus,’ said Joe. ‘I’m going up, guys. Wait here. He’s not gonna jump. He wouldn’t even be able to get his leg over that railing.’
Joe ran through the double doors and up the stairs into the lantern house, pushing through the open door onto the balcony. Shaun was weeping now, his hands rubbing at his eyes, his shoulders heaving. Joe sat down and pulled him towards him, smoothing his hair down, telling him it was all going to work out just fine. He called down to Robert and Ali to go home.
After half an hour, he managed to drag Shaun to his feet and guide him back down the stairs and out for a walk across the grass to the house. Shaun muttered random thoughts the whole way, swinging wildly from one emotion to the next.
‘Anna,’ called Joe when he arrived in.
‘Mother,’ shouted Shaun in an English accent. ‘Oh, Mother.’ Joe laughed.
‘Did Mother tell you she was going out earlier?’ asked Joe.
‘No,’ said Shaun. ‘I don’t remember. Maybe. But who really knows?’ He sighed.
‘Well, you’re clearly no use to me. Bed. Now. Actually, shower first.’
Shaun slumped to the floor and curled into a ball, his face resting on a bristled mat, his eyes closed.
‘Get up,’ said Joe, hauling him off the carpet. He dragged him towards his room. ‘You can do the rest.’
Joe looked into the kitchen, but it was dark and empty. He went upstairs and called Anna’s name again. He got no answer.
TWENTY-FOUR
Stinger’s Creek, North Central Texas, 1989
The wooden benches were empty and the sprinklers were on. An elderly gardener in a light plaid shirt reached back and pulled the cotton free from his sweaty back. Duke Rawlins stood at a huge sign that told him in fancy green writing that he was outside Pleasance Retirement Home.
In ripped jeans, a black T-shirt and black biker boots, Duke walked the long drive and wiped an arm across his forehead when he reached the cool entrance hall. A smiling nurse pointed him towards the elevator. He got out on the third floor and found the sixth door on the left. It was open. He knocked softly.
‘Mrs Genzel? It’s Duke. Duke Rawlins. From fifth grade?’
‘Still?’ said Mrs Genzel, turning her head briefly from the window. ‘I’d have hoped you moved on.’
Duke smiled.
The room had lilac walls and smelled of perfume and roses. There was no medical equipment, no oxygen tanks, no drips, pills or syrups, no walkers or canes. The double bed at the centre was covered with bright quilted cushions. A string of purple flower-shaped lights were looped through the white iron frame.
Mrs Genzel sat on a straight-backed chair in the window. She hadn’t changed her hairstyle, she hadn’t put on a pound of weight since Duke last saw her, the year she retired, the year he finished fifth grade. She was dressed in grey pants and navy shoes, with a white blouse and a white cardigan with ribbon trims.
‘Sit down,’ she said. ‘I get separation anxiety when I’m away from the window.’
‘It sure is a nice view,’ said Duke, pulling up a soft pink armchair beside her.
‘Yes. Some of the others watch TV all day in there. When hell freezes over, I’ll march right in and join them. I’ve got my regular books,’ she pointed, ‘and my audio books.’ A CD player with oversized headphones lay on the bedside table. Duke looked over.
‘I don’t like those little hearing-aid headphones. They hurt my ears or they fall out…’ She smiled at Duke.
‘I thought you might not remember me,’ he said.
‘I remember you,’ she said. ‘It’s nice of you to come visit.’
‘I heard you were here. How do you like it?’
‘I like it more than you think I’d like it.’
‘Nah. It’s homey. Nice homey.’
‘Yes, it is. And I’ve made some good friends here I get to see every day. And we talk about whatever we want to talk about, books, movies, theatre, their families…’
‘Regular stuff, I guess.’
She nodded.
‘What about you, Duke? What have you been doing? Work-wise.’
‘Aw, different things. You know. I worked in the diner for a while. And at the karting track. That was fun.’
‘Do you still see your friend, Donald?’
‘All the time. He’s doin’ great. Workin’ in a store-room for some big stationery place.’
They spoke about everything they could speak about for two people who didn’t really know each other. Then they sat in silence. Duke eventually leaned forward, rubbing his hands up and down his thighs.
‘It was you, wasn’t it?’ he said suddenly. He spoke without looking at her.
‘What was?’ she said.
‘Who called them that time. After Sparky died. Whatever authority it was…they came to our house, you know. They looked around. They spoke to Mama.’ He squeezed his eyes shut. ‘And they never came back.’
Mrs Genzel reached out and put a hand gently on his arm. ‘I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.’
‘Was it you?’
‘An anonymous caller, I would say.’ She patted his arm.
Duke studied her profile, then turned back to the window.
‘Well, I best be gettin’ along,’ he said, standing up. He pushed his chair into the corner and went back to her.
‘You look after yourself,’ he said.
‘You too, Duke.’
‘Thank you,’ he said from the doorway.
Mrs Genzel pulled her cardigan tightly around her. She took off her glasses and rubbed them with a small square cloth she kept folded in her pocket. She reached back and took a thick travel guide from her bedside table. She slid out the bookmark and tried to read. When that didn’t work, she sat quietly, following the scenes in the gardens.
A young nurse walked through the open door.
‘Well, Mrs Genzel, you are the dark horse of this establishment. Who was he?’
Mrs Genzel didn’t turn around to answer. ‘I wish I knew.’ She shook her head sadly. ‘But who can I call now?’
The nurse shook herself out of her daze. ‘He was cute.’
The yellow tricycle sparkled, its rainbow-coloured streamers hanging limp from the handlebars in the dead heat. Cynthia Sloane opened the back door of her house wide. The sunlight shone through her dress, making silhouettes of her slender legs through the sheer fabric. She was tired and cranky. For three afternoons in a row, each time she tried to nap, she had woken up to the sound of a cat crying like a baby in her back yard. With two toddlers and a newborn, sleep was all she dreamed about and waking up to a whining animal was making her crazy. She held a broom in her right hand and waited. She finally heard the mewling and this time she was ready. She charged to the middle of the yard and stopped. She heard a rustle in the shaded corner that backed onto the lane. She moved quietly forward and pushed the broom into the
brush. She drew back and pushed in again.
‘Go on, git!’ she said. ‘Git, you little—’ Suddenly a hand reached out and grabbed the broom, jerking her forward, then backwards onto the dirt. She cried out. Donnie bolted for her, pressing his hand over her mouth. She reached down, and picked up the broom, smashing it into the side of his face. He tightened his grip, dragging her out into the laneway where Duke was waiting, the car hidden in the shadows.
TWENTY-FIVE
Joe walked through every room in the house and ended up in the den.
‘Aw, shit,’ he said when he saw his application letter on the floor. He shook his head. ‘Shit.’ He felt the heavy weight of guilt in his chest. His first thought was to lie, to pretend the letter was a back-up plan; he could bat the guilt back into Anna’s court by saying he wrote it when she had told him about John Miller. His next thought was that his wife was too smart for that. She wouldn’t have left if she thought there was an explanation for the letter other than the obvious.
Then he felt a surge of annoyance. He fast forwarded to an argument with her and imagined himself shouting, ‘Being a cop is my life, Anna. Why do I have to go along with whatever you want to do all the time?’ Lame. It wasn’t even true. He’d only done that once, when he came to Ireland. And he knew anything he said in an argument would be useless. He knew that there shouldn’t be an argument if she was ever to forgive him. He wondered what he had been thinking writing the letter without telling her.