Darkhouse. Alex Barclay

tomorrow, if that’s OK? Is he doing anything tomorrow? I have a day off. I wouldn’t mind helping him on that table he’s making.’

      Petey liked to reveal every thought that came into his head. He’d had learning difficulties since he was a child and the kids in school were split between those who gave him a hard time and those who defended him fiercely. Anna adored him. He was polite, enthusiastic, sensitive and charmingly innocent for a twenty-five-year-old. From early on, Petey had found a friend in Joe and someone who shared his interest in lighthouses. Although, for Petey, it was his specialist subject and the only thing he would talk about if he could get away with it. When Joe was working on furniture for the house, Petey would come in, lean back against the worktop and talk for hours about the history of Irish lighthouses.

      ‘You’re welcome at the house any time, Petey,’ said Anna.

      ‘Thanks very much, Mrs Lucchesi. That would be great.’

      He hesitated, never knowing quite when a conversation was over.

      The keys to Seascapes were heavy in Shaun’s pocket. His job was to mow the lawns and carry out repairs at the holiday homes, but now it was September and most of the houses were vacant. His plan was to slip away with Katie to one of them later that night. She had told her mother she was going to his house, he had told his he was going to hers. Martha Lawson was a tough woman to get around, but she trusted her daughter.

      ‘There seems to be a bit of a mix-up about tonight,’ said Martha as she approached the pair. ‘I was just talking to Mrs Lucchesi and she says you’re coming to our house.’

      Shit, thought Shaun.

      ‘I thought we were watching Aliens tonight,’ said Katie.

      ‘No,’ said Shaun. ‘Playstation at my house.’

      ‘Well, I’m leaving now, so I’ll give you a lift,’ said Martha.

      ‘Shit,’ Katie mouthed at Shaun.

      Anna stayed for another two hours, tidying up after the performance with some of the other ‘sucker moms’ as Joe called them. It was midnight by the time she left. She walked along by the church, lost in her thoughts.

      ‘Well, if it isn’t the beautiful Anna.’ The tone was all wrong.

      She held her breath, then turned around. She was stunned at how John Miller now looked. The glazed eyes, the mottled red face and the unsteady legs she could put down to drunkenness, but everything else came as a shock: his hair, greying and greasy, his skin, puffy, his shirt straining across his stomach. He swayed in front of her.

      ‘I know I look like shit,’ he said, his arms outstretched.

      ‘No, you don’t,’ Anna said quietly. ‘Not at all.’

      ‘Fuck off! You’re French. You’re fucking perfect.’

      She didn’t know what to say.

      ‘So, it’s Anna Lucheesy now or so I’ve heard. Very nice.’

      ‘Lu-caze-y,’ she said, trying to smile.

      ‘So, you married your cop then? Lucky guy. Lucky, lucky guy.’ He grinned. ‘Any chance of a fuck?’

      ‘Jesus Christ, John!’ she said, looking around. ‘What are you saying?’

      ‘That I want a fuck.’

      ‘And where is your wife?’

      ‘Still in Australia. Kicked me out. Hah! Can you fucking believe it? I’m back here living with Mother. Psycho up on the hill. About to take over managing the orchard. The one thing I swore I’d never do.’

      ‘I’m sorry, John.’ She turned to walk away.

      ‘You’re a great girl. A gorgeous girl,’ he called after her.

      She kept walking. Her hands were shaking, her face burning.

      Suddenly, he was behind her again, grabbing her, forcing her up against the wall, his breath smelling of onions and alcohol, his clothes reeking of fish. There was a shiny smear on his chin and crusty white corners to his mouth. She pushed his heaving drunkenness away.

      ‘John, go home and sober up.’

      ‘You were always a tough bitch, Anna … you little ride.’ She stared at him, searching his face, but she found no trace of the John she used to love.

       TWO

       Stinger’s Creek, North Central Texas, 1978

      ‘He won’t bite you, Duke. It’s not his beak you gotta be worried about. It’s his claws. His claws’re his weapon. ’Bout sixteen pounds’ worth of pressure he can use to tear through your skinny little arm.’ Duke looked up at his Uncle Bill, worried. Bill was smiling.

      ‘Solomon won’t hurt you. You’re givin’ him food. He knows who his friends are. And if he laid a claw on you, I’d shoot him dead.’

      ‘Don’t you dare shoot him, Uncle Bill. Don’t you dare.’

      Bill chuckled, ruffling Duke’s hair. He turned to the Harris’ Hawk perched on his hand, untied the leather straps that tethered him and, with an outward sweep of his arm, released the bird upwards. They watched him land gently on a cottonwood tree high above them.

      ‘How ’bout you, Donnie? You wanna try it? I think Duke here’s a little scared.’

      Duke’s eyes narrowed to a slit, his face hot with anger. He flew past his uncle and went straight for his best friend, Donnie, charging him to the ground.

      ‘Duke Rawlins is never scared,’ he hissed.

      ‘Jeez, Duke. Take it easy, fella. Take it easy. You OK, Donnie?’

      ‘Sure am, sir.’

      Duke got up and dusted down his jeans, putting his hand out for the leather glove. Bill handed it to him, pulling a piece of raw meat from the satchel that hung at his side. He pressed the meat between the thumb and forefinger of the glove and went through the routine.

      ‘Stretch out your left arm, there, the one with the glove, and aim that shoulder at him. Then call him and wait for him to land.’

      Solomon swooped down and landed on Duke’s hand, pulling with his beak at the meat until it gave way.

      ‘Now show him your open palm, so he don’t think you got nothin’ in it that he can eat.’ Duke held out a shaky hand to the bird.

      ‘Now catch a hold of the leather straps on his legs and slip them through your fingers, make sure he won’t get away.’

      Duke fumbled with the straps and Solomon flapped his wings, but stayed where he was until he was secured.

      ‘Well done, Duke. Let him go now, just like I showed you.’ Solomon flew again.

      Bill walked over to the bow perch nearby, where his second Harris’ Hawk was tied.

      ‘Come on, Sheba, now it’s your turn.’ He released the second bird, who landed high on another cottonwood, flicking her head from side to side.

      Bill was eyeing both hawks. ‘Always checkin’ out what’s goin’ on,’ he said. ‘Always watchin’, waitin’.’

      Suddenly, Solomon dived from his perch, swooping low, parting Duke and Donnie. A second flap of wings and Sheba was gone, in determined flight behind him. Bill moved after the hawks, calling to the boys to follow.

      ‘They’ve seen somethin’. You can tell by the way they’re flyin’.’

      They arrived at an open patch of dry ground and saw a lone Bobwhite quail.

      ‘That’s what they have their eye on,’ said Bill.