Darkhouse. Alex Barclay

he shouted to her.

      She jogged over to the bottom of the steps.

      ‘I’ll need to call in back-up,’ she said, laughing.

      ‘Love that cop speak.’

      ‘Can I have a look?’ she said, nodding at the van.

      ‘You can indeed,’ said Ray. He opened the back doors and lifted a layer of green tarpaulin.

      ‘Oh my God,’ she said, her hand to her mouth. ‘They’re beautiful!’

      ‘They’re wooden doors,’ said Ray.

      ‘No, no. They’re beautiful. You did an amazing job.’

      ‘Thank you. I had the picture of the old lighthouse doors pinned to my board the whole time.’

      ‘They’re magnifique,’ she said.

      ‘They could almost be magnificent,’ he said.

      ‘Stop that!’ She laughed. ‘You’re always making fun of me.’

      ‘I always used to make fun of the girls I fancied in school,’ he said, winking.

      ‘You flirting with my wife again?’ said Joe, coming up beside them. ‘I’m pushing forty here, Ray – thirty-year-old charmers worry me.’ Ray was the same height as Anna, but looked shorter because he was so broad. His dark eyebrows and constantly furrowed brow could make him look either incredibly sensitive or just plain stupid. He was neither.

      ‘The doors are great,’ said Joe, running his hand over the wood.

      ‘Don’t. I’ll get a swelled head,’ said Ray. ‘OK, now how’re we going to get these down? Where’s this back-up of yours, Anna?’

      ‘I’ll get Hugh.’

      Anna disappeared to drag Hugh away from his tea and tabloids. Between the four of them, they hefted the doors to the lighthouse and secured them onto their hinges. Anna bolted them shut.

      ‘Wow,’ she said. ‘I am thrilled. I am so grateful.’

      Ray raised an eyebrow.

      ‘Not that grateful, pal,’ said Joe, putting a firm hand on his shoulder.

      ‘To be honest,’ said Ray, ‘I’m hanging out for the models who’ll be draping themselves over me for the photo shoot. I’ll be the “bit of rough”. Might wear an Aran jumper and tuck my jeans into my boots for the occasion.’

      ‘Anything else you need?’ asked Hugh.

      ‘No, no, thanks for your help,’ she said.

      ‘I’m off, too,’ said Ray. ‘If those doors get unhinged at all, you’ll know where they get it from.’

      Anna didn’t understand. Joe laughed. She turned to him, taking his hand.

      ‘Let me show you my nightmare.’ She unlocked the new doors and led him up the winding staircase. They reached the service room and climbed the sloping ladder to the lantern house.

      ‘Look at this,’ said Anna, hooking the tip of her finger under one of the cracks in the wall. ‘Doesn’t move.’

      ‘Paint stripper?’ said Joe.

      ‘Not a chance,’ she said. ‘It’s taken years for it to get that way. And because of the temperature in here, it …’ she moved her hands in and out.

      ‘Got bigger? Smaller?’ said Joe.

      ‘No, no, the metal …’

      ‘Oh, expanded and contracted.’

      ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘So I don’t know what to do.’

      ‘I could get some of the guys, scrape it off.’

      They both shook their heads.

      ‘We’ll think of something,’ said Joe. ‘Do you have to do this part? I mean, the thing doesn’t work anyway,’ he said, looking at the old mercury pedestal, ‘and won’t the shoot be really from the outside?’ She knew he was half serious.

      ‘I’m not even going to answer that,’ she said. And besides, he didn’t know her plan.

      Shaun dropped his bag on the floor of the small Portakabin he had seen lowered earlier that day onto the concrete at the side of the soccer pitch.

      ‘What the hell kind of locker room is this?’ he said.

      ‘Can you see a locker in here anywhere?’ said Robert, looking around the empty room. He liked to tease his friend. ‘It’s called a changing room, Lucky. We change our clothes in here. Even when we think our balls will be frozen off.’

      Shaun discovered early on that teasing was called slagging in Ireland and if you weren’t getting slagged, there was something wrong.

      ‘Out of the way,’ said one of the boys, pushing past him. The rest of the team, miserable in shorts and T-shirts, ran towards the blinding floodlights. The pitch was bald, hard and unseasonably cold. Running in head-to-toe black Nike along the sideline was the coach, Richie Bates. He was twenty-five years old, six foot three and two-hundred-and-ten pounds, every inch of his body carefully toned into hard muscle. His neck was short and thick and the top of his head was Action Man flat. Richie was a guard, short for garda, singular of gardai, the Irish police force. He worked with a sergeant out of the small sub-station in Mountcannon. After an hour of play, he was still running up and down, roaring.

      ‘Come on, lads! Move it! Move it!’

      ‘It’s freezing,’ said Robert, jogging after the ball.

      ‘If you run, you’ll warm up,’ said Richie. Robert rolled his eyes. He had just come on. Everyone around him had hot red faces and white breath. He was still ghostly pale, but knew the slightest effort would turn him to crimson and make his eyes stream. He was not a sportsman. He sweated too much, he breathed too heavily, his hair fell across his face, his legs were dark and hairy, thick and slow. But he could appreciate the irony. He was the sports writer for the school paper.

      Shaun had the ball and was heading for goal. He stumbled and landed hard.

      ‘Get up, Lucchesi!’ said Richie instantly. Shaun breathed through the anger. Richie blew the whistle. ‘Right, lads, that’s it. Off you go. Well done.’ No-one responded.

      Back in the changing room, Billy McMann, a short, skinny twelve-year-old, was hunched shivering in the corner, trying to do up his fly, but his fingers were curled and numb from the cold. He caught Shaun’s eye and gave a weak smile. Shaun stepped over, quickly zipped up the boy’s fly and patted him on the head.

      ‘Thanks,’ said Billy, blushing.

      ‘Don’t worry about it,’ said Shaun.

      ‘Jesus Christ, Billy! Can’t even zip up your own pants?’ It was Richie, standing, laughing in the doorway.

      Shaun stared at him. ‘Give the kid a break.’

      Billy fumbled with his bag.

      ‘You need to toughen up,’ said Richie, pointing at him.

      ‘There’s nothing wrong with him,’ said Shaun. ‘His goddamn fingers were freezing.’

      ‘Watch your mouth, Lucchesi,’ said Richie. ‘Or we won’t be calling you Lucky for much longer.’ His look challenged the rest of the room.

      ‘You’re not in uniform now,’ someone shouted from the back.

      ‘You watch yourself, Cunningham,’ said Richie. ‘Or I’ll be waiting outside that off-licence when you’re picking up your next six pack.’ He left.

      A few of the boys groaned. Then Robert said, ‘You’re still a fag, Lucky.’ Everyone laughed.

      ‘Do you need a lift?’ Robert asked Shaun.

      ‘Nah,’