Darkhouse. Alex Barclay

for, like, twenty minutes.’

      ‘I was busy. I’m trying to pack.’

      ‘You forgot.’

      ‘No, I didn’t. Just get in, Shaun.’

      ‘What’s your hierarchy of things to remember, Dad? Like on a scale of one to ten, where do I come in?’

      ‘Here we go,’ said Joe.

      ‘Yeah, well, it’s a pain in the ass. You can remember everything for work, but—’

      ‘Drop it,’ snapped Joe.

      ‘Jeez, relax, would you? I’m the one who got stood up here. Again.’

      ‘I said, drop it,’ said Joe, too loud. They drove the rest of the way in silence.

      They were just in the door when the phone rang. Joe picked up.

      ‘Come back, all is forgiven,’ said Danny Markey.

      ‘Please stop calling me at this number,’ said Joe. ‘I told you. It’s over.’

      ‘Yeah, yeah, I know the drill,’ said Danny. ‘It’s not me, it’s you.’

      They laughed. Shaun made a face at his father’s transformation.

      ‘So things that bad?’ asked Joe, ignoring Shaun.

      ‘You’ve no idea,’ said Danny. ‘I’m with Aldos Martinez or All Doze – guaranteed to help you sleep or your money back. And if that’s not enough, I’m out last night, date with Maria, and my wife calls looking for me. And this rookie on the TS tells her I’m finished hours ago. I go home telling her the hard night I’ve had and she knees me in the downtown area. I swear to God. What happened to, “He’s out on the road, I’ll get him to call you.” I’m gonna rip the guy’s rookie head off next time I see him. He’s a retard. Clancy called to fuck with him, pretended he was some pimp looking for his girl Juanita Sophia Marguerita whatever and the guy leaves his desk to go check. I shit you not. Anyway, it’s like everywhere I look I’m getting screwed.’

      ‘Wish I was there to offer my support,’ said Joe.

      ‘Yeah, yeah, sure,’ said Danny. ‘So how are those ugly Irish broads?’

      ‘They’re doing great,’ said Joe. ‘Want me to pass on your regards?’

      ‘Sure,’ said Danny. ‘I’ll come over, wrap myself round one of those wide backs.’

      ‘Hey, Shaun isn’t doing too badly with his Irish girl.’

      ‘Yeah, but I’ve seen the pictures. Katie’s an exception. Let me tell you, if he ever gets tired of her …’

      ‘You’re a sick man, Danny. A sick man.’

      ‘True,’ said Danny. ‘Anyway, I was wondering if you’re coming back for your birthday.’

      ‘What are you, a girl?’

      ‘It’s a big deal. When I’m old like you I’ll want you to make a big deal over me.’

      ‘I don’t know what I’m doing for my birthday, Danielle, but maybe we could have a sleepover—’

      ‘You sound like me. A guy tries to do the right thing …’

      ‘Look, I don’t know what I’m doing for my birthday. But I’m in New York tonight.’

      ‘What?’

      ‘Giulio is getting married tomorrow. Don’t ask. I don’t know if I’ll make it into the city. I’m only there a couple a days.’

      ‘Call me. I’ll come to the airport, meet you for a drink or something.’

      ‘Sure.’ He saw Anna walk in. ‘Danny, I gotta go catch a flight. Here – maybe you should talk to my lovely lady wife about any birthday plans.’

      ‘Hmmm, French accent …’

      ‘Jesus Christ. No-one is safe.’

      Anna smiled and took the phone from Joe.

      ‘Bonjouuur,’ she said. Joe could hear Danny whooping.

      The taxi driver guided the red saloon along the winding tree-lined road. One hour ago, he had picked up his first fare of the morning at Shannon airport. He had been talking ever since.

      ‘That’s what we need over here – Rudy Giuliani. The guy cleans up a whole place like New York and our politicians can’t clean their own backsides.’ He looked in the rear-view mirror. He got no response. He kept talking.

      ‘I ended up in Harlem once, you know. Only white guy there, I swear to God. And I’m from Cork and in Cork, we call everyone “boy”. We say, “How’s it goin’, boy?” Or, “What’re you havin’, boy?” Well, I tell you, one night in Harlem straightened me out fairly quickly. My mate, this big black guy, tells me, “Someone will pull a gun on you here if you call them boy.” So I started calling everyone “man” instead. “Hey, man, how’s it goin’, man?” Now I’m back here and I’m saying “man” and they all think I’m nuts.’ He turned back to his passenger. He drove on. ‘Right,’ he said after two quiet minutes, ‘here we are. Will this do? They usually seem to have a few good deals.’

      ‘This is great,’ said Duke Rawlins.

      Brandon Motors stood on a winding back road, sloping down a field by a red-brick bungalow. New and used cars lined the grass, fluorescent green and pink price tags wedged behind their windscreen. The Car of the Week was mounted on a slanted wooden platform edged with green and gold bunting. The dealer stood beside it, nodding to the car and then to Duke. Duke shook his head.

      A white ’85 Ford Fiesta van stood out from the shiny rows, battered, dull and cheap. Duke walked around it, looking through the windows, then came back around to the bonnet, leaning on it with both hands. He pushed himself upright.

      ‘You take cash?’ he asked.

      ‘I do,’ said the dealer.

      Duke handed over the money and scribbled a signature on the forms. He sat in the van, reached up and yanked a swinging pine tree from the rear-view mirror. He threw it out the window as he pulled away. After a twenty-minute drive, he stopped at a petrol station and bought a black felt-tip pen and a map. He circled where he needed to go, then traced his finger along the route. He turned the key in the engine and headed for Limerick. On the outskirts of the city, he stopped at a Travelodge, slept and showered.

      It was dark by the time he was on the road again, this time on a busy stretch to Tipperary. He was soon caught between two huge sixteen-wheelers; he twitched at the wheel, swerving right to find an opening. The line of cars ahead was constant. He pulled back and saw a large sign for a town called Doon. Turning the wheel sharply, he took a last-minute left onto a narrow, winding road. His headlights picked up a black-and-white sign for Dead River. He crossed its stone bridge and drove through pitch-black into the small town. He took a right at the corner onto Doon’s main street, a tidy row of houses, shops and pubs. It was eleven-thirty p.m. and deserted. He kept driving, then brought the van to a stop alongside the iron gates to a field. He clung to the steering wheel and breathed deeply. Then he got out to walk back towards town. He wanted a beer. But another opportunity presented itself.

      The driveway was long and curved, bordered on each side by tall sycamores. Giulio Lucchesi was waiting for his son in the marble foyer. He was fit, tanned and groomed, his grey hair combed glossy and neat. His navy blazer was crisply cut, his pale blue shirt and beige pants perfectly pressed, his suede loafers brushed.

      ‘Joseph,’ he said, clipped and anglicised.

      ‘Dad.’ They shook hands.

      ‘You remember Pam,’ said Giulio.

      ‘Yeah, hi,’ said Joe. ‘It’s great to see you again. Can’t believe he’s finally got you to say yes.’

      She