Stephen Irwin - The Darkening

Gavin cradled the gun easily in his hands so its rough snout pointed at Nicholas’s midriff.

‘A message,’ said Nicholas, his mouth suddenly full of saliva, his empty cold-jelly stomach threatening to erupt. ‘From who?’

Gavin watched him a long moment. Nicholas thought it was like staring into an insect’s eyes — there was nothing human there. Gavin shrugged again and shook his head as if to say, I just can’t remember . With an easy, firm movement he shifted the gun so that its barrel eye stared at Nicholas’s face.

And suddenly the cold jelly was gone from Nicholas’s gut. In its place was a warm, new idea. Here it is. A way out. And I don’t have to do anything. Just stand here a moment longer and it’s over. And from that warmth bloomed another thought: No more ghosts.

He looked up to Gavin’s eyes. They were brimming full, and his patchy cheeks were wet.

‘Tris loved you coming over. Saturdays. Cheese sandwiches. Watching Combat . Remember?’

Nicholas nodded. The two men looked at each other a long moment. A calm statement formed in Nicholas’s mind. He’s going to shoot me now.

‘It’s okay, Gavin.’

Gavin nodded. With a practised hand, he drew back the gun’s bolt and chambered a round. The street was still. No one had an inkling that in a few heartbeats, a man was going to die.

Nicholas suddenly realised his fingers in his pocket had curled around something — wood beads and stone. The necklace Suzette had given him.

Gavin cocked his head. His eyes lost their sharp focus. His lips trembled. When he spoke, his voice was so soft that Nicholas wasn’t sure he heard right.

‘The message is: He touched the bird. But it should have been you.’

Gavin put the sawn barrel under his own jaw and pulled the trigger. The CRACK was sudden and as visceral as a lightning strike. Nicholas jumped.

The crows wheeling in the sky galvanised and took flight. Gavin was still standing. His lower jaw was mostly gone. He shook his head stupidly and the flaps of skin and white bone shook like a chicken’s wattle. He shrugged, and his cheeks lifted the broken flesh — a macabre, embarrassed smile at his error. He swiftly reloaded, put the gun deep under his chin.

‘Gavin-’

CRACK. This time, the top of his head seemed to levitate slightly. He crumpled to the ground like a dressing gown that had missed its hook. The gun clattered on the stoop.

In the next street over, a dog began barking. To the south, the grey sky became a curtain of slate where rain was falling.

Nicholas watched Gavin’s body for a moment, then let himself fold to sit on the front step. A packet of John Player Specials poked out of the dead man’s jacket pocket. Nicholas leaned forward and pulled it out. Then he fished in the pocket again, found a lighter.

‘Nicholas?!’

Two pairs of bare feet rushed down the hall towards him. Nicholas lit a cigarette. ‘It’s okay,’ he said. ‘I got the door.’

‘Oh my goodness. .’ whispered Katharine.

‘Who is it?’ asked Suzette. Her face was as white as paper.

‘Gavin Boye.’ He sucked in lungfuls of smoke. His hands shook. ‘He was a smoker.’

‘Oh my goodness.’

Nicholas fought the urge to cough. He could feel his sister and mother standing, staring. ‘Maybe phone someone?’ he suggested.

‘I’ll go,’ whispered Suzette.

Heads were poking out of the doors and windows of neighbouring houses. Nicholas waved cheerlessly to them. Then he felt something on his lip and wiped it off. The gobbet was hard white and soft pink. He retched dryly between his knees.

‘I’ll get a cloth,’ Katharine said thinly, and walked away on unsteady legs.

As Nicholas wiped the ropy spittle away, his eyes were drawn to the truncated rifle that lay neatly beside Gavin’s body. Something was carved into the stock. The gouges in the walnut were fresh, pale against its darker burnished surface. The figure was a rough oval. From it sprouted two jagged lines like antlers. Within the oval was a symbol: a vertical slash with a half-diamond arrowhead on one side.

Nicholas flipped the rifle over so Suzette wouldn’t see it.

By ten o’clock, Nicholas had counted eleven police officers step through the front gate, and Katharine Close had made tea for all of them. Four had arrived — lights and sirens — in answer to Suzette’s telephone call, then another two who left soon after discovering the claim had already been staked, then the police photographer accompanied by the scientific officer who phoned an armoury specialist. Finally, two plain-clothes officers introduced themselves, a man and a woman. Nicholas instantly forgot the man’s name, but the woman’s was Waller, and he thought she would look quite pretty had her face not been saddled with a heavy scowl. By the time these last two arrived, Nicholas had told the story of Gavin’s unexpected arrival and even more unexpected departure five times. He told it yet again to the detectives.

All through the recounting, the large male detective took notes and Detective Waller watched Nicholas and scowled. As usual, and without questioning himself, he omitted the bulk of the conversation he’d had with Gavin, restricting it to Gavin saying that he’d heard Nicholas was back, and that he felt it should have been Nicholas, not Tristram, who died in 1982.

‘Died?’ asked the male detective.

‘Murdered,’ answered Nicholas. ‘Like the Thomas boy. You guys should keep records. They’re quite handy-’

‘You were involved in a homicide when you were a child?’

‘I nearly was the homicide when I was a child,’ said Nicholas.

He touched the bird, but it should have been you.

He was awfully tired. Shock, he knew, could weary a person, but this was just fucking tedious.

‘I hadn’t seen Gavin in more than twenty years. I don’t know how he knew I was back, but it’s not commercial in confidence. I’m sure he was resentful that Teale murdered his brother instead of me. And yes, these are his smokes.’

Nicholas lit another one, and offered the open pack to the detectives. They refused, and he saw them exchange a glance.

Katharine arrived quietly at the lounge room doorway with a refreshed tray of tea and cups, placed it, and just as silently retreated. Nicholas just wanted to sleep.

‘Jesus Christ,’ he said. ‘You guys. .’

‘Is that it?’ asked the male detective.

‘I really fucking wouldn’t mind if it was.’

He rubbed at his stubbled chin and felt a lump come away. It was a piece of pinkish bone the size of a match head. He felt his tongue sink back in his throat. He just wanted to shower and get to bed.

‘Okay.’ The male detective folded his notebook, then looked again into Nicholas’s face. ‘Why do you think he didn’t shoot you?’

‘Well,’ said Nicholas, ‘it took him two shots to hit his own brain. Maybe he was afraid he’d miss.’

‘What sort of a relationship did you have with him?’

Nicholas sank his head in his hands. ‘What relationship?! Christ, I thought we were done!’

‘What sort of a relationship did you have with Gavin Boye as children?’

Nicholas smoked, and shook his head. ‘He was my best friend’s older brother.’

‘Were you lovers?’ asked the female detective.

Nicholas felt his eyebrows rise. He was almost delighted to be surprised. ‘No. I lost my virginity at nineteen to a girl named Pauline McCleary who could probably have spent those three minutes much more productively. I’ve never had nor wanted to have sex with a male of any age, although if I was going to turn I think that Sean Connery has a nice voice but Robbie Williams looks like a harder fuck.’