Darkhouse. Alex Barclay

the quail, it scrambled desperately towards the scraggy borders of scrub along a row of mesquite trees. Then it stopped suddenly. Solomon overshot his target, too late to change his course, and was forced to land high in one of the trees ahead. But Sheba had been moving along perpendicular to the quail and before it could react, she was on it, puncturing its flesh. Solomon was down an instant later, securing the quail by its head, both hawks savaging their quarry.

      ‘Like Jekyll and Hyde,’ said Bill. ‘One minute they’re on top of the world lookin’ down on creation, next minute they’re tearin’ that creation apart. And helpin’ each other to do it.’ Bill nodded, proud.

      Wanda Rawlins used to be the star attraction at the Amazon. Drunken, toothless men who had never been out of state swore she was better than any of those Broadway bitches, but were just glad she stayed in a backwater like Stinger’s Creek to dance for them. Ten years later, when her breasts went south, the most she had to offer was a port in a storm. Ten dollars got you a hand job, twenty dollars covered straight sex, no funny business, and for twenty-five dollars, her mouth was all yours. Everything was free for acid; you could stay the weekend if you had coke. And two minutes over one weekend was all it took for one of her loyal fans to create the burden of little Duke, now eight years old, but making her feel like a hundred.

      The first time Duke walked in on his mother, he was four years old and he thought she was being strangled. Then he realised she was being strangled, but she didn’t seem to mind. A huge naked man was kneeling behind her, thrusting into her, his thick arm leaning on the wall above her head, the other fiercely gripping a pink silk scarf, twisted and pulled tight around her neck. Her face was crimson, her eyes glazed, her lids heavy. The man looked up at Duke, leering drunkenly, blissfully, continuing what he paid good money for. Duke turned around and walked out. His mother came into the kitchen minutes later, naked under her faded bathrobe. She threw Duke a look. ‘What?’ she snapped as she moved to the work-top. Then ‘Scram!’ right in his ear as she walked by with her coffee. Duke jumped with an innocence that disappeared forever when her next john came to call.

      Westley Ames was a squat, rheumy-eyed, sniffly man, with an apologetic hunch. He had a mousey wife who lay down from the start to be walked over and who bore him three watery daughters. For years, he fought a battle inside, too weak to ever act out the sick fantasies that consumed him.

      He picked his way slowly around the debris in Wanda Rawlins’ yard, a half-gram of coke in a neat folded square of paper in his suit pocket. ‘Howdy, Westley,’ said Wanda, leaning against the doorway, her free hand arced across her brow against the sun. She had been a pretty teenager, tanned and curvy, with a sweet smile that wrinkled the bridge of her upturned nose. Now her body was pale skin stretched across thin bones, her face sharp cheeks and empty blue eyes. Her scrawny legs curved backwards and rocked against the sides of her scuffed white ankle boots.

      This was Westley’s second visit and this time he was here for the weekend. After the last encounter, Wanda thought she may just find herself bored to death before Monday came.

      In a burst of head-to-toe red and blue, four-year-old Duke came running out from the side of the house. ‘Well, who do we have here?’ said Westley, his urges swelling in his chest. ‘You must be Superman! Aren’t you the handsomest little fella?’ He smiled. Duke stared up at him and moved behind his mother’s leg. Westley looked at Wanda and the panic dancing in her eyes. Then he focused on her dilated pupils. He turned back to Duke. ‘Let me talk to your mama a while.’

      Wanda Rawlins was alone in the kitchen, radio blaring, singing along to Tony Orlando and Dawn. Beside the unfolded square of paper on the counter top, she bent low to take in her treasured lines, choosing to ignore the raw, agonising screams from the bedroom.

      Two weeks later, when Duke was walking through the schoolyard, he saw the stooped form of Westley Ames at the front gate, a startling silhouette against the bright sun. He began to shake violently. His stomach flipped, then lurched and he threw up all over his trainers.

      ‘Hah! Pukey Dukey!’ said Ashley Ames as she skipped past him and ran ahead, jumping into her daddy’s arms.

      Duke walked back from his Uncle Bill’s with a smile on his face. He had never seen the hawks before, let alone held them. He loved hanging out with Uncle Bill. No-one got hurt at Uncle Bill’s house. Except that poor quail. Bam! Bam! Dead! He could think of a few people he’d like to do that to. And as he turned the corner up to his house, one of them was standing there, waiting for him, combing back his thin brown hair with taut fingers. He was in his early thirties with a soft, boyish face. He took everything in, his blue eyes sliding back and forth across the yard behind black lenses. Everything else was still. His hands were firm on his hips, his feet rooted in polished black shoes, his shirt and pants neat and close-fitting. Duke stopped and cocked his head to one side to watch him. He shivered. This guy was a total freak.

      Duke called him Boo-hoo – during his first visits, he always tried to stop his tears. Only the name remained. The tears had dried up long ago.

       THREE

      Anna was sitting on the sofa with a book on Irish lighthouses open on her lap; almost two thousand miles of coastline and eighty major lighthouses to guard them. She turned to Joe.

      ‘You know, the motto of the Commissioners of Irish Lights is in salutem omnium, for the safety of all. It’s funny, I look at our little lighthouse and I feel safe. I can’t imagine how intense it feels when you’re out at sea in a storm, thrown up on massive waves and your whole life depends on that flashing light.’

      ‘You’ve gotta admire those keepers.’

      ‘Sam has some great stories. Some of the keepers used to play poker with the locals and used Morse code to tap out their hands.’ The phone rang and she jumped up to take it in the kitchen.

      ‘Oh, hi, Chloe,’ she said. She listened for a minute and then she was pacing, stretching the yellow cord across the room. Joe followed her in. He saw her frown.

      ‘No. I need someone who’s not going to come over here and get traditional. Greg’s work on Iceland was three Björks by an igloo. Not good enough. I was thinking of this Irish guy, Brendan—’

      She rolled her eyes up to Joe at the interruption.

      ‘No, no, listen! I’ve seen his work, it is completely different. And he’ll avoid all those terrible clichés. I’ve made a few calls and apparently he’s amazing—’

      She stopped again.

      ‘I didn’t say I wanted Irish models! We’ll use American or French girls, that’s fine. But this is an interiors spread, Chloe. They should not be the focus.’

      She held the phone away from her ear, then brought it back when Chloe stopped.

      ‘OK, OK. I’ll call him, get him to send you his book and the spread I saw in the Irish magazine. Then you make your informed decision.’ She hung up.

      Joe looked at her, amazed. Miles away from the office, she was still secure enough to stamp her feet.

      ‘What’s for lunch then?’ he said, teasing.

      ‘Chloe is so stupid,’ said Anna as she walked to the fridge. ‘Meatball sandwiches with barbecue sauce.’

      He squeezed her tightly, wrapping his arms around her from behind. ‘I love your balls.’

      She laughed in spite of herself. ‘Tragique. Oh, by the way, the doors should be here today,’ she said.

      ‘If they were still together and Jim Morrison wasn’t dead.’

      Anna simply shook her head.

      ‘Come on, you love the bad ones,’ said Joe.

      She stared at him. ‘Quel curieux caractère.’ He recognised the quote, from the French version of Toy Story. In the English version it was, ‘You sad,