‘Um, Lori, what are you doing in there?’ goes Crinkly-Hair from outside.
Lori moves him aside with her hand and walks back into the clearing. A second later Carl limps out after her, pulling his jacket down over his boner. Going up to Barry, he says, ‘Ten.’
At first Barry doesn’t get it, but then he clicks and without a word counts out the ten pills. Lori stands beside Carl not looking at him and holds her hands cupped for Barry to pour the pills into, like she’s waiting for communion. And the pills do look like little communions. Then she puts them in the pocket of her coat and goes back to her friends.
It is completely dark now. Before they go Barry tries to make each of the girls take his number, but they are chattering to each other like he isn’t there, like this is all over and they are already far away. They leave without saying goodbye.
When they are out of sight, Barry lets out a whoop. ‘Our first score! Check it out, dude!’ He opens his fist on a nest of notes and coins. Then he hugs Carl. ‘This is just the beginning, hombre. We are going to fucking rule this neighbourhood!’ Holding his hands up to the sky, he turns to the traffic going by and shouts into the headlights, ‘We are the men! We are the fucking men!’
They start walking towards Burger King. Barry looks at Carl slyly. ‘She sucked your dick, didn’t she?’
Carl says nothing, then slowly nods with a half-smile.
‘Damn!’ Barry laughs, and strikes his thigh. ‘Why didn’t I think of that?’
Carl laughs too, then he looks back – but the girls are gone, of course. They are long gone.
The door opens, the priest’s blackness disappears into the deeper black of the shadows like he’s never been there. Except for the smell of incense that still twists itself through the air. You go to the window to chase it away, cold blasts in to clash against the sick-sweat on your arms and chest and back. The wrinkled sheets thrown back on the bed like shed skin, the taste of pills still in your mouth like you are made of pills.
The five imprints of his fingertips still burning on your cheek.
‘Hello?’ the voice that answers the phone is clipped, hiding, like a spy’s voice.
‘Dad?’
‘Hey there, sport.’ The voice relaxes a little bit, or pretends to. ‘Wasn’t expecting to hear from you tonight. How’s things?’
‘Well, not so good, actually.’
‘Oh no? What’s bugging you, sport?’
Lately Dad’s started doing this thing of calling you ‘sport’. You know he does it to make you feel like everything’s okay. But it doesn’t work. Instead it’s like he’s forgotten who he is, and he’s trying to cover it up with pieces of dads from TV, sunny American dads in sitcoms who go out with you to the yard to throw a baseball back and forth.
‘I got sick today,’ you say.
‘Sick sick?’
‘Yeah, in class.’
‘Did you eat something?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘Must be a tummy bug. How’re you feeling now?’
‘Okay.’
‘You don’t sound great.’
‘I had to go to the nurse.’
‘What did she say?’
‘She just sent me to bed. She said I shouldn’t go to training tomorrow.’
‘You’re going to miss training?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Hmm.’ Behind the patchwork of TV dads you can hear him not knowing what to say. Dad doesn’t like talking on the phone: it’s like the longer he talks the thinner the patchwork is stretched, the more the things they aren’t saying come gusting through. ‘That sounds like a bad dose, all right. Well, keep an eye on it, sport, and let’s see how it goes.’
‘Okay.’ You wait a second and then, like you’ve just thought of it, ‘Is Mum around?’
‘Mum?’ Dad repeats, like she’s a neighbour who moved away long ago.
‘Yeah.’
There is another delay, and then, ‘You know I think she might be taking a nap, slugger. But let me just check.’ He lays down the phone and you listen to him going to check: opening the door of the kitchen, shooing Dogley off the step, calling Mum’s name, then clomping back to the phone to give you the answer you expected. ‘Yeah, she’s just this minute lain down for a rest, Danny. Better not wake her. Maybe she’ll give you a ring tomorrow.’ With this promise he falls silent, waiting for you to wrap up the conversation.
You and Dad are playing a game. There are many rules to the game, maybe an infinite number of rules, all around you like tiny fish-bones or infra-red beams. The most important rule though is that you never ever talk about the game: you act like there is no game, even though both of you know the other person is playing it; you keep yourself very still, you act like everything is normal, and if you can’t remember what normal is you turn yourself into TV Dad and TV Son.
Or that’s what you’re supposed to do. Tonight something has gone wrong and you can’t play it right. ‘I was wondering…’
‘What?’
You know you shouldn’t say it. So you change it. ‘I was wondering what you decided about mid-term.’
‘Oh – you know we haven’t had much of a chance yet to talk about it, buddy. Things have been a bit topsy-turvy lately. But I’m fairly sure it’ll be okay. Fingers crossed.’
‘Oh,’ you say. You go to the window, touch the curtain, like it might have magical powers. ‘Erm,’ you say. You take a deep breath. Are you actually going to say it? Are you? ‘Do you think I could come home this weekend?’
‘This weekend?’ Dad doesn’t understand. ‘What do you mean, sport?’
‘I just thought…’ You are ashamed to hear your voice cracking – this is totally against the rules! ‘Like, because I was sick, it might be good to come home for the weekend…’
‘Hmm…’ Behind his patchwork voice Dad is screaming, What are you doing? ‘Well, sport, we’d both love to see you, but like I say things have been a bit, ah, a bit crazy here lately…’
‘I know, but…’ Your throat is filling up with ashes, sawdust.
‘Obviously if you’re sick, but… you know, I’m just wondering if it would be such a good idea.’
‘Please?’ You are sobbing, great big jags of mucous and tears.
‘I think it’d probably be best to stick to the original plan, sport,’ Dad pretends not to hear, ‘we’re both really looking forward to seeing you at mid-term and I’m certain, I’m nearly ninety per cent certain, that if we stick to that original plan it’ll all be fine. And mid-term, it’s only two weeks away, right? Isn’t that right?’
You aren’t able to reply. So Dad talks instead. ‘Your Mum’ll be kicking herself she missed you tonight. She’s so excited about your next race, we were both so sorry we couldn’t be there on Saturday, but this next one, she’s determined, and Dr Gulbenkian thinks we’re really about to turn a corner here, so you keep your fingers crossed, and keep up the training, and come November we’ll, ah, we’ll…’ He runs out of words and can only wait there for your sobs to burn themselves out. ‘Okay there, Danny?’
‘Yeah,’ you manage to stammer.
‘Okay,’ Dad says. ‘Well, I suppose I should let you get back to it, right?’
‘I suppose so.’
‘Okay. Talk to you soon, sport, all right? We miss you.’
You hang up, wipe your eyes and nose on your sleeve, hover a long time by the window taking long shuddery breaths. Autumn leaves are curled in the casement, tangled up in a fuzz of cobwebs. Ruprecht’s moon map flickers in the draught, the mountains and craters and marshes, the seas that are not seas, Sea of Rains, Sea of Snakes, Sea of Crises, stiff and grey and unmoving like icing on a birthday cake left behind a thousand years ago.