‘What are you so happy about?’ asked Hugh.
‘I was just looking at wino-man over there with his bug eyes and it reminded me of this fruit-fly experiment. It was for some research on alcoholism, because fruit flies live on fermented fruit and even though they can still go hyper or pass out like we do, they never get addicted.’
‘Can people sign up for those experiments?’ asked Hugh. ‘I’d say they’d give you a rake of pints.’
Frank Deegan sat by the door of Danaher’s, watching his wife, Nora. Gruff, opinionated, fiercely intelligent Nora. She had a brandy in her hand and an imaginary cigarette between two bony fingers. She was ranting at her friend Kitty about an artist who had hung up on her when she asked him would he show his work at the gallery she was planning for the village.
‘The little shit,’ she said, then looking at Frank, ‘excuse my language. Trying to cultivate this image of himself as some unpredictable genius. When he’s just a reasonably talented, broke, borderline-alcoholic, shoeless dwarf. And – predictably – he called me back and said he’d do it. And I know it’s because he needs the money. Possibly for sandals and a smock.’
Frank and Kitty laughed. Nora knocked back the last of her drink, her short, blunt strawberry-blonde hair swishing across her high cheekbones.
‘Brandy, sarge,’ she said, handing out her glass, winking at her husband.
‘Back at the house,’ he said. ‘Look at the time.’ It was eleven-thirty, unstrictly closing time.
Nora glanced at Kitty. ‘Sorry,’ she said, ‘it’s never pleasant.’
Frank stood, not quite reaching his slender wife’s five feet eight. He ran a hand through his thick grey hair, smoothed down his dark green golf sweater and stretched his arms out by his side. Nora had seen him perform the same routine for forty years. He caught her watching him and he winked.
Ray, Joe and Hugh were leaving at the same time and stopped in front of him.
‘Uh-oh,’ said Ray, putting an imaginary bullhorn up to his mouth. ‘People, step away from your glasses. Please put down your glasses. We are now three point four seconds past closing time. I repeat. Step away from your glasses.’
Frank smiled.
‘You need any help clearing the place, sergeant?’ said Ray. ‘You could cuff a few of these guys. Joe would probably get a kick out of frisking them, wouldn’t you?’
Frank and Joe laughed.
Mick Harrington pushed through them on his way out with a large brown paper bag full of bottles.
‘Jesus Christ,’ said Hugh. ‘It’s Fr Merrin.’
Mick looked at him. ‘You know, the Exorcist. He comes in, he takes away the spirits,’ Hugh explained.
Mick gave one of his hearty laughs. ‘I’ve got about twenty pissed Spaniards down at the harbour that I have to keep lubricated,’ he explained. ‘This is my second bar run of the evening. Their boat’s being worked on and they’re hanging off it, singing shite drinking songs.’ He turned to Joe. ‘By the way, if Robert is with Shaun, tell him to go home. Someone better keep the wife company.’
‘They’re out,’ said Joe.
‘Looks like there’ll be a big black mark beside both our names, then,’ said Mick.
Katie stopped and held her head back, squeezing the corners of her eyes. The tears still fell. She started walking again, quickly, desperate to be home in her bed. Suddenly, a set of tail lights came to life in front of her, the car tilted across the ditch. She squinted into the glare and slowed her pace until she was close enough to know something was very wrong.
Stinger’s Creek, North Central Texas, 1980
Mrs Genzel looked out at her fifth-grade class. They were bent over a history term paper, arms hooked around their answers. Duke Rawlins sat with his head bowed, his pencil moving furiously. She could see the pages he’d finished, crisp on his desk with the pressure of his strokes. He looked up, searching for something and she wondered what was behind those pale eyes. Then he stopped, suddenly ripping out pages and scrunching them up. He threw one or two on the ground. The rest of the children stared. A giggle broke the silence.
‘Shh,’ said Mrs Genzel. She turned to Duke, ‘Is everything OK?’ She spoke softly.
He gave a quick, jerky nod. His mouth was shut tight. The fingers of his left hand were drumming the desk.
‘Do you want to start over?’ she said.
He shook his head again, slower this time. ‘No, ma’am.’
Then he leaned back and squeezed his eyes closed. His chest was heaving.
She studied his expression. ‘Could I see you outside, Duke?’
He got up from the desk and walked out the door.
Mrs Genzel tried to look at him, but he kept his head down.
‘Things don’t seem like they’re going too well for you,’ she said.
‘I’m OK,’ he answered.
‘What happened back there?’
‘Nothin’, ma’am.’ She waited.
‘Stuff,’ he added.
‘What kind of stuff?’
‘Don’t know, ma’am.’
‘Were the questions too difficult?’
‘No,’ said Duke. ‘I just …’ He looked away.
He caught her off guard then, lifting his head to stare right at her. Her heart leapt. She was close enough now to see the struggle behind his eyes. Duke saw only kindness in her face, but it flickered quickly and changed to darker images of faces he couldn’t trust, of reactions he couldn’t predict.
‘Nothin’,’ he said, retreating. ‘Couldn’t spell somethin’.’
She didn’t realise she had been holding her breath until she let it out.
‘OK,’ she said. ‘Come on back inside.’
The office was tidy and homely, cream walls and floral wallpaper, sunflower chair rails and base boards. Children’s drawings covered a small bulletin board. Mrs Genzel sat behind her desk, short grey hair cut like a man’s around her soft, warm face.
‘Mrs Rawlins—’
‘Miss,’ said Wanda. ‘Can’t live with ’em …’ She shifted in the wide chair, withdrawing into it, making her crossed legs and the black scab on her knee the first thing the teacher could see.
‘Yes,’ said Mrs Genzel. ‘Miss Rawlins, I’ve called you in here today to talk about Duke.’
‘That boy’ll be the death of me,’ said Wanda, blinking slowly, her head loose on her neck.
‘He was crying yesterday. He said his dog was dead. Someone had killed his dog.’
‘Sparky,’ said Wanda. She began scratching hard, her nails travelling up and down her thighs, trailing hot red lines. ‘Poor Sparky.’
Mrs Genzel watched her, frowning.
‘Is that true?’ she asked.
‘’Fraid it is. I came out in the yard Monday and found the little critter lying there, cold as a witch’s tittie – oops!’
‘What had happened to him?’
Wanda leaned forward. ‘No idea.’ She sat back again,