Alex Barclay - Darkhouse

And on the grave was a dead white rose.

Frank stood up to let O’Connor know it was time to leave. There was a charge in the room that he didn’t have the energy to take on. He understood what O’Connor said would have crossed anyone’s mind in the same situation. He was just surprised he felt the need to say it out loud.

As Joe walked back through the village, his relief at finding evidence of Katie’s route was overtaken by dread. What if the rose on the grave was not about her father? Maybe it was a statement. Her father was dead, she was planning... Joe shook his head. No-one was safe from the depths of his negativity.

O’Connor sat in his car and watched Frank cross the road to Danaher’s, his head bowed, his hands in his pockets. O’Connor knew he had probably lived up to whatever Frank was expecting from the youngest D.I. in the country. But he tried to convince himself he had said what he had to say.

Joe slid onto the bench beside Frank, opening the map of Mountcannon on the table in Danaher’s.

‘OK,’ he said. ‘Here’s where they were in the village. And here are the possible routes out of town from there.’ Frank frowned.

Richie came back from the mensroom.

‘Is this guy serious? What is this?’

‘Richie,’ said Frank.

‘I’m just looking at where Katie could have gone that Friday night,’ said Joe.

‘Why?’ asked Richie.

‘Because I think I know.’

‘You know nothing,’ said Richie. ‘First of all, flip over that map and look at the date on the back. 1984. That map is ancient. Half the things—’

‘I’ve drawn in or crossed out accordingly,’ said Joe. Richie glanced down at the map, then did a double-take at the neat print in block caps at the edges of the page. He shot Joe a bemused look.

‘Either way, none of this has anything to do with you,’ he said. ‘We’re having a private meeting here. Do you mind?’

‘If you’ll just look for a second. You think she went this way—’

‘The only reason you know anything about what we think is because you’re friends with Martha Lawson. What she does or doesn’t say to you is none of my business. What is my business is you thinking that all this makes you part of the investigation. So you used to be a detective in New York. I used to work in a bar. But you don’t see me pulling pints in here, do you?’

‘Richie, a young girl is missing,’ said Joe.

‘Yes, your son’s girlfriend, I know that. So you should be grateful that every part of the investigation will follow procedure.’

‘I just want to help out here...’

‘You arrogant Yanks think you can save the world,’ said Richie.

Stinger’s Creek, North Central Texas, 1982

‘I think my baby’s gonna kick some butt, today,’ said Wanda. ‘The first Rawlins family jock.’ Duke rolled his eyes.

Wanda climbed out of the pickup and smoothed the legs of her wrinkled jeans down to her yellow high heels. She looked at her son, dressed from the waist down in his football gear.

‘You look real cute, honey,’ she said.

He shrugged and pulled the rest of his gear from the floor of the cab. He slid the shoulder pads and jersey over his head.

‘Cougars. Number fifty-eight,’ said Wanda. It was the first time she’d seen it. ‘What do you have to do, then? What did I pay my thirty dollars for?’

‘I throw the ball back between my legs and make sure the nose guard from the other team doesn’t tackle the quarterback.’

‘Well, that’s wonderful, honey. I’ll be lookin’ out for you,’ she said, pointing at his chest.

Duke’s eyes wandered past her to another family, dressed for church, the father standing behind his son, pressing strong hands on to his shoulders, smiling.

‘Honey, look at all the pretty little cheerleaders!’ said Wanda.

In a corner of the parking lot, a group of teenage girls in dark blue shorts and cropped tops stamped with a white cougar stood in a circle, practising their cheers. Beside them, a slim blonde stood on one leg, while she pulled the other behind her until it almost touched her shoulder. Others were jumping or doing splits, their faces set in wide, static smiles. Duke turned to his mother with the same eerie grin. Wanda frowned.

‘Stop that, honey,’ she said, smacking his arm.

Two men stood in a cloud of cigarette smoke by the entrance to the stadium, laughing loud and hard.

‘Or Wanda Blowjob?’

‘Wanda Cum-in-my-Face?’

‘All I get from Gloria is Wanda Be Held.’ They hooted. One slapped the other’s back. They stopped laughing when Duke walked between them, pushing a small, firm hand into each man’s stomach and continuing into the stadium.

‘Hey, buddies,’ he spat.

The men looked at each other

‘Twelve years old,’ said one, shaking his head.

‘A genuine son of a bitch.’

Duke went to the weigh-in area, then sat with his mother and Geoff Riggs for the last few minutes of the PeeWee game. Donnie jogged off the field, his face red and shiny. His hair was limp with sweat.

‘You shoulda seen him out there today,’ said Geoff. ‘Ran his skinny little legs off catchin’ that ball.’ Geoff rubbed a thick hand across his shaved head, showing the sweat patches on his tank top, letting loose a blast of foul air.

Wanda leaned away. ‘Good for you, Donnie,’ she said. ‘The Midget hero.’

‘Donnie’s in the PeeWees,’ said Duke. ‘I’m Midgets.’

Wanda smiled at Geoff. ‘Duke’s gonna score a touchdown today, aren’t you, baby?’

Duke rolled his eyes. ‘Yeah, Mom... if I turn into a quarterback.’ Donnie laughed.

‘We gotta go,’ said Geoff. ‘Good luck, Duke.’

‘Thanks.’

Duke grabbed his helmet and left his mother alone in the stands. Five rows in front of her, separated by an aisle, groups of parents chatted and laughed, pointing out their kids on the sidelines. Wanda focused on her feet, rubbing the dull pink marks that scarred them. She tilted her ankles and examined the fresh red scabs at her heels. Reaching down, she hooked a nail under the hard, dry flesh and picked one free. Crystal Buchanan walked by her, stiff blonde hair, painted like a stewardess, with a flask of coffee and two plastic cups hanging from her little finger. She sat down beside her.

‘Hi Wanda,’ she said, smiling. ‘Duke playing today?’

Wanda looked at her, curious. ‘I know you’re a good Catholic...’ she said.

Crystal’s smile froze.

‘...but I’m not your Mary Goddamn Magdalene.’

‘I was trying to be nice,’ said Crystal.

‘Nope. Not buyin’ it,’ said Wanda, staring straight ahead. ‘You were lookin’ to rescue the downtrodden. Old folks, handicapped babies and whores. Crystal Buchanan, our Lord and Saviour.’

Crystal stood to leave. ‘You’re truly beyond help.’

‘Well, that’s Crystal clear,’ said Wanda. ‘Oh — and say hi to Mr Buchanan.’ Wanda had never met Mr Buchanan, but she liked the way she could make a good woman flinch.

She turned back to the field, watching as the Braves’ centre started play. He snapped the ball to the quarterback, then blocked the nose guard pushing towards him. The quarterback sprinted, but was tackled to the ground by a chunky defender and the ball popped loose. The referee blew the whistle. The game continued with players piling onto the ball, untangling, piling, untangling.

At half-time, Wanda looked at the scoreboard. The Cougars were in the lead by one point. She watched as Duke straddled his legs and bent over the ball. The players lined up on either side of him. ‘On hut two!’ yelled the quarterback. ‘Blue! Red! Hut! Hut!’ Duke snapped the ball between his legs. In seconds, the nose guard had pushed him aside and tackled the quarterback. The quarterback fumbled the ball and the nose guard recovered it. Everybody dived. The whistle blew. The quarterback turned to Duke. ‘Good job... you fuckin’ retard.’ But Duke’s eyes were on the retreating back of the nose guard as he jogged to the huddle. Duke moved quickly behind him, leading with his helmet, charging low into his kidneys.