Darkhouse. Alex Barclay

      She couldn’t help smiling. ‘I better go back,’ she said, nodding towards the house. She locked the front door behind her. When she went into the den, Shaun swung around in his chair.

      ‘Check this out, Mom. I’m live.’

      She leaned over his shoulder and saw Shaun’s smiling face on the screen, beside his G.I. Joe photo.

      His name was printed underneath with a list of vital statistics.

      ‘Your favourite movie is While You Were Sleeping?’ said Anna.

      ‘What?’ said Shaun, panicked.

      ‘Gotcha,’ said Anna.

      Shaun looked at her, deadpan. ‘You’re such a dork.’

      ‘I know,’ she said.

      She read that Shaun’s favourite food was anything American, his favourite drink was Dr Pepper, his favourite sport was baseball, his favourite place was Florida.

      ‘I see you’re becoming a real Irish man,’ said Anna, pointing to the screen.

      ‘Ah, but my favourite girl is Irish,’ said Shaun. ‘That’s the difference.’

      She scrolled down further and saw question marks in the career section.

      ‘Don’t you know what you want to do?’ said Anna.

      ‘No,’ said Shaun. ‘It’s like I look at my future and it’s blank, you know? Like living on the edge of this cliff, but not being able to see a thing.’

      ‘Have you been watching Dawson’s Creek again?’

       FOUR

       Stinger’s Creek, North Central Texas, 1979

      Flakes of rust flew from the battered white pickup as it lurched from side to side along the twisted road out of Stinger’s Creek. It was after midnight and Wanda Rawlins was slumped, disorientated, against the passenger door, her skinny legs splayed under the dashboard. Her face was pale and her white-blonde hair with its dark roots lay in damp strands across her cheeks. Duke’s eyes flickered open. The sickly smell of pine air freshener flooded his nostrils. He looked up at his mama, his fingers clawing listlessly at her arm. He could see flashes of light across her face and black pools of mascara under her eyes. She was staring out the window. He tried to speak, but his throat was dry and raw from screaming. The only colour on his face was the redness that flared at the centre of his forehead. Slow throbs pulsed through his head and a cold tingling sensation moved in waves down his arms to his fingertips. Darts of pain spiked beneath him and he slowly shifted his tiny frame onto its side, his navy shorts twisting around him. He passed out with the effort.

      ‘I think he moved, I think he moved,’ cried Wanda. ‘Come on, baby, come on, baby, come back to me,’ she began to sob. She clutched his head to her stomach, spilling tears onto his face. She got no response.

      ‘What’s happening to him? What’s happening to him?’ she screamed, shaking Duke’s shoulders, too wasted to know any different.

      ‘Calm down, Wanda,’ said the driver, ‘calm the fuck down or we won’t be taking him any further than the end of this road.’

      Wanda sat in silence for the rest of the journey, rocking Duke jerkily back and forth, his bare legs dangling over the seat edge.

      Ten minutes later, they screeched into a parking lot and came to a stop. Wanda pushed open the door and hauled herself out, pulling Duke with her, taking his limp body in her arms. She staggered through the double doors in front of her into a brightly lit hallway. Duke’s eyes opened again, fleetingly. Hospital, he thought.

      ‘What the fuck you doin’ bringin’ him through the house, you dumb bitch?’ hissed Hector Batista, pulling shut his living-room door behind him. His accent was thick. ‘Told you to bring him around back. Who you think you are?’ He glanced down at the vomit on Duke’s T-shirt, shook his head and grabbed Wanda’s elbow, guiding her roughly out the door she came in. Hector nodded at the driver of the pickup to follow them around.

      A fluorescent light pierced the darkness in the filthy room, swinging low over a metal table at the centre. Wanda lay Duke down and began to sob again, spreading herself across her son’s body. Hector pulled her aside and reached over to lift the boy’s eyelids, shining his light in.

      ‘Pupils OK,’ he said. ‘What happened to him?’ No-one answered.

      ‘You say on the phone he hit his head. Is that all I look for?’ said Hector.

      ‘Yeah,’ said the driver.

      Hector wrung cold water out of a grimy cloth at the sink and turned back to place it on Duke’s forehead. His eyes opened.

      ‘Can you remember what happened?’ asked Hector.

      Duke tried to shake his head.

      ‘You know what day it is?’ asked Hector.

      ‘Friday,’ whispered Duke.

      ‘Tell me who is your president.’

      ‘He wouldn’t—’ said Wanda.

      ‘Jimmy Carter,’ said Duke, proud.

      ‘He’s just fine,’ said Hector. ‘Little concussion. Wake him up some times during the night, make sure he don’t get any worse and keep him away from jumping around for the next weeks. He must rest.’

      Duke moved his head slowly to look at his mother. From behind her, the driver of the pickup stepped out. Duke’s eyes shot wide in alarm and he opened his mouth to scream. Hector’s hand was quick as he clamped it over the little boy’s cracked lips. Duke was writhing underneath the pressure, his eyes darting everywhere. He couldn’t breathe.

      ‘You stop, I let go,’ said Hector, his face two inches from Duke’s. He held his hand firm until Duke calmed down, the energy draining from his shuddering body.

      Hector leered at the driver. Los niños pequeños hacen mucho ruido,’ he said.

      ‘No speaky the Spanish,’ said the driver.

      Hector walked over and whispered to him: ‘Little boys make lots of noise.’ He laughed.

      Duke had curled into a ball on his side and began to cry. He felt the hand of the driver in the small of his back.

      ‘No more boo-hoos, Dukey. No more boo-hoos.’

      Duke shivered. All he could remember was Boo-hoo coming into his room. What he couldn’t remember was the man’s weight bearing down on him, pushing harder each time, slamming his forehead into the wall over and over again, until he crumpled and lay face down, unmoving on his bed.

      Wanda Rawlins heard a faint knock on the screen door and pulled it open carefully. Smoke billowed out around her. She flicked her hand at it.

      ‘Mornin’, Mrs Rawlins,’ said Donnie. ‘Duke about?’

      ‘Duke had an accident yesterday, he’s resting.’

      ‘What happened?’

      ‘Nothin’ much. He had a knock to the head.’ She smiled. ‘You boys. You sure know how to scare the livin’ hell out of a mother.’

      ‘Can I see him?’ asked Donnie.

      ‘For a few minutes,’ said Wanda, stepping back to let him in.

      Donnie walked in to the kitchen and was hit with a smell that caught at the back of his throat. The oven was wide open and a baking tray lay diagonally across the folded-down door. Cracked black circles steamed on the surface. More had fallen to the floor.

      ‘Tray was hot,’ laughed Wanda. ‘And I didn’t quite make it in