Darkhouse. Alex Barclay

said Donnie. ‘How you doin’?’

      Duke tried to talk, but his lips stuck together. He wiped his mouth.

      ‘I’m OK,’ he said. ‘My throat hurts.’

      ‘How’s that?’ said Donnie. ‘I thought you hit your head.’

      ‘Just does,’ said Duke.

      ‘You fall from a tree?’

      Duke hesitated. He opened his mouth, then closed it just as quick.

      ‘Yup. What an idiot.’

      Wanda slid her thumb under her nose and pushed herself up from the kitchen chair, slipping her feet back into her mules. She picked up the baking tray and went to the doorway of Duke’s room.

      ‘Look what I made for you, sweetie.’ She laughed, her eyes wide. ‘To cheer up my little soldier.’ Duke lifted his head to see her. She looked crazy. ‘They didn’t quite work out,’ she explained, looking down at the cookies. ‘Mama fucked up.’ She laughed again.

      ‘I’m talkin’ to Donnie,’ said Duke.

      ‘Aren’t you even gonna thank your mama?’ she pouted.

      ‘Thank you, Mama,’ he said flatly.

      ‘Aw,’ she said, walking over to the bed. She let the tray hang by her side, dropping the cookies onto the floor. She leaned down to look at them and picked something up.

      ‘Found you a chocolate chip!’ she said, holding up a burnt cookie crumb. She put it up to Duke’s mouth. He buried his head back into the pillow.

      ‘No!’ he said. ‘I don’t want it.’

      ‘Jeez, Duke, no need to shout. You want this, Donnie?’ she said as it crumbled between her fingers. ‘Oops!’

      Then she held up her hand. ‘Shush,’ she said, trying to focus. ‘Shh.’ They heard twigs cracking as someone walked up to the front of the house. A shadow passed over the blind in the bedroom.

      ‘Donnie, you stay right where you are, sweetheart. I have myself a visitor,’ said Wanda, smoothing down her hair, leaving black crumbs on the blonde.

      She left the room and went to the kitchen. Westley Ames stood at the door.

      ‘Hey, Wanda,’ he said. ‘Is this a good time?’

      ‘You know, Westley? You shoulda called, but I guess it’s OK.’

      ‘I have some excellent produce for you,’ he said and she could see his hand flex in his jacket pocket. ‘You look mighty interested,’ he chuckled.

      ‘Duke’s taken a knock, Westley,’ she said. ‘He’s resting.’

      Westley’s eyes flashed anger and the smile disappeared. He clenched the bag again. Wanda looked up at him.

      ‘Come back tomorrow, Westley,’ she said and closed the door. She turned back. ‘Or later tonight,’ she shouted from the open window.

       FIVE

      ‘Surprise!’ said Joe, carrying a large box into the kitchen. ‘Magic paint stripper. A tip from Danny. It will get through all that crap on the lantern-house walls. I hope.’ He put it down by the back door. Anna ran towards him and jumped into his arms, wrapping her legs tightly around his waist.

      ‘Hellooo,’ she said. ‘Welcome home to your wife!’

      ‘This is great,’ he said. ‘I gotta go away more often.’

      She shook her head. ‘No, no, no. Never again.’ She kissed him all over his face.

      ‘I missed you,’ he said. ‘Way too much.’

      She climbed down. ‘How did Giulio take to you leaving early?’

      ‘What could he do? He knew he’d screwed up. He always knows.’

      ‘He’s an oddball.’

      ‘I know. And I’ve got some of his genes.’

      ‘Don’t worry. I could never forget that.’

      ‘That’s going to take a while,’ said Joe, pointing to the paint stripper. ‘You have to put it on, cover it with paper, then wait a couple days, see what happens. It’s a big job for one little lady.’

      ‘Well, I’ll get some of the guys to help, if I can. But I couldn’t just hand the whole thing over to anyone.’

      ‘No,’ said Joe. ‘That would be a disaster.’

      She gave him one of her looks. Joe laughed.

      ‘I’m going out to the workshop,’ he said. ‘Petey’s waiting.’

      ‘Already?’

      ‘I know. I can always sleep later.’

      He was barely in the door when Petey started. ‘Did you ever hear how some lighthouse keepers earned extra money?’ he asked, not waiting for an answer. ‘They turned to shoemaking, prostitution and distilling. In 1862—’ He stopped suddenly.

      ‘What’s prostitution?’

      ‘Whoa,’ said Joe, searching his face to see if he was kidding. He wasn’t. ‘Uh, do you know what sex is?’

      Petey went red. ‘Yeah,’ he muttered, his eyes downcast.

      ‘Well, some men pay to have sex with women called prostitutes. That’s prostitution. I guess those lighthouse keepers were renting some of their rooms out to these ladies.’

      ‘Oh,’ said Petey and moved quickly back to his comfort zone. ‘Around Waterford, smugglers used to come ashore with alcohol, candles and building materials and the keepers would store them until they needed to sell them on—’

      ‘Even in smaller lighthouses like this one?’ said Joe.

      ‘Yes,’ said Petey, ‘they would—’

      ‘Petey,’ called Anna, waving a ringing mobile phone at him. ‘Did you leave this in the house?’

      ‘Thanks a million,’ he said, answering the call. When he hung up, he looked traumatised. ‘My mother’s driving Mae Miller somewhere. She wants company for the trip back. I always have to go stupid places with her.’

      ‘That woman needs to give him more independence,’ said Anna when Petey had left. ‘She shouldn’t be dragging him around all the time like a child.’

      It was three p.m. when Duke parked his car and headed down the main street in Tipperary town. As he stared in the window of a hardware shop, a tiny grey terrier trailing a tartan lead bounced over to him and looked up expectantly. Duke paused, then hunkered down to pet him.

      ‘Hey, little fella,’ he said, picking him up, holding him against his chest and letting the dog nuzzle him. ‘Aren’t you a beauty?’

      The owner, a young mother, rushed over with a toddler on her hip.

      ‘Thank you so much. He’s unbelievable,’ she said. ‘Nuts.’

      ‘He’s a friendly little guy.’

      ‘Don’t I know it?’ She laughed. ‘Thanks again.’

      Duke stared after them, then turned and went into the shop. Minutes later, he came out with a yellow-and-green plastic bag under his arm. He walked further into the town and stopped outside a fast-food restaurant. A group of teenagers were inside, slumped on yellow bucket seats screwed to the grimy floor. He looked up at the sign: American Heroes was printed between two stars and stripes across a faded blue background. He walked in and a buzzer sounded. The waitress glanced his way, then turned back to her notebook. Her