SIX

Outside the hospital Kyle stood patiently behind a scrawny old man shuffling in through the door, a parka over his hospital gown, dragging his IV pole with brown-splotched hands and reeking of pipe tobacco. Finally he pushed past the old geezer, near hooking his coat on the pole. Jaysus. Inside, he caught sight of a purple toque and a long grey braid vanishing inside the elevator doors.

“Kate!”

She turned, the light glancing off her glasses, and the door shut. She’d seen him, he was sure. He reached the doors but the elevator was already rising. It went straight up to the sixth floor and stopped. He jabbed the down button and it came directly back down and he stepped inside and stared hard at the sixth-floor button. He hit third.

At the nurses’ station they told him his mother was still in recovery. Perhaps another half hour. He went back to the elevator and took it to the sixth floor. It opened onto a small square foyer bared of everything but a barred window and time-dulled walls. Before him was a double-wide door with a small, wire-meshed window. He gripped the handle; the door was locked. He peered through the window and down a long corridor. An orderly dragging a trolley banked with linen. A couple of old-timers tottering about in pyjamas. One of them reached for the arms of a nurse who was hustling past with a stethoscope swinging from her neck. She spoke to him, smiling kindly. Kyle heard nothing because of the soundproofed doors. It was the psych ward.

He drew back. Some things weren’t his business. Just as quickly he leaned forward again—Kate was coming from one of the rooms. She simply stood there. Her toque was off and her jacket too. Her knees buckled and she slumped against the wall as though needing its strength to hold her up.

What the hell? He raised his hand to rap on the window but his view was suddenly blocked by a young man about his own age with a wide nose and wider smile.

“Get away, move!” Kyle yelled, but the fellow kept staring at him, his voice sounding like a low moan through the glass. Ooopen the doooor ooopen the doooor.

“Gawd-damnit, get outta the way!” The face vanished and Kate had vanished and Kyle jiggled the door handle, again to no avail. He blew out a deep breath and walked about the foyer, his arms stretched over his head to open his lungs. What did he know? He knew nothing. Her name was Kate. She played guitar beside a fire at night. He knew nothing. It wasn’t his to know. Else she’d have told him by now.

He jabbed the elevator button, suddenly anxious to get away before she saw him. On the third floor he dawdled, wanting to go back up to the sixth, but felt he shouldn’t. His mother would be back by now.

The orderlies are still with her, they told him at the nurses’ station. He caught his breath and moved towards her room, dragging his feet, heart kicking. They were moving her from the gurney onto her bed. Her head was lolling like an infant’s and she gagged.

“Hold on, my love, hold on now,” a nurse soothed in a loud voice as she held a small steel pan beneath Addie’s mouth. “There you go, there you go, my love.” She glanced at Kyle gripping onto the door frame with the apprehension of a dog being lured into an unfamiliar house. “Are you family?”

“Her son.”

“Perhaps you can get us a cold cloth from the washroom.”

He bolted into the washroom and flushed cold water onto a white cloth and brought it to the nurse, dripping.

“Perhaps another squeeze,” said the nurse and he twisted back into the washroom, squeezed the thing mercilessly. The nurse was easing Addie’s head back onto her pillow. Her face was the colour of putty. The shower cap was nowhere to be seen.

“Hold the cloth to her forehead,” said the nurse. “How are you, Mrs. Now? Are you feeling better? I’ve got the pan right here—just tell me if you’re sick again.”

Too loud, the nurse’s voice was too loud, but kind, as if she was coaxing a reluctant youngster to the supper table. She’d hate it, his mother would hate it, and he was quick to her bedside, wanting to quiet the nurse. He sat in the chair close to her pillow and held the cloth awkwardly to Addie’s forehead. She turned into it, so pale, so wretchedly pale. He felt himself go faint. She groped for his hand and he wrapped his hand around hers and it felt small and soft like a handful of cotton. Her eyes were closed and she was drooling and he dabbed it with the cloth and refolded the cloth back onto her forehead.

“You okay, Mom? You look fine. The cap thing is off your head.”

“Is the nausea gone, Mrs. Now? I’m still holding the pan here. How’re you feeling, my love?”

“Shh.” Kyle shushed the nurse and silently urged her out of the room. Then he looked to his mother’s chest, all flat and bandaged, and he clutched the nurse’s sleeve so she wouldn’t leave.

“I’ll be right outside,” said the nurse. “Put the pan to her mouth if she gets sick. Push that button if you need me and I’ll be back in a flash.”

Addie opened her eyes, a pairing of blue.

“Here. Here’s the pan, throw up if you need to. I got the pan right here.” He held the pan firmly beneath her chin as she spat up, and then he wiped the fluid seeping down the side of her neck. “You’re done? All right then, lie back. Got the pan right here if you needs it agin, just let me know, I’m right here,” and he crooned some more and kept crooning and he didn’t know himself. He heard her sigh; he put his ear to her mouth and heard her sigh again and he felt her coming back to him, coming through the darkness and emerging into the light. She opened her eyes onto his—hope already in them, dawning like the sun through morning shadow. Then a scent all too fragrant twitched his nostrils and he drew back. Bonnie Gillard stood at the foot of the bed, a bunch of yellow daffodils in her hands. She looked from Addie to Kyle and opened her mouth to speak but her lips wobbled as though she might cry.

“She’s not ready for visitors,” he said coldly but Bonnie stepped closer, offering the daffodils like an entrance fee. His mother tugged his hand and smiled faintly at the flowers.

“They were selling them downstairs. How are you, my love?” Bonnie asked but Addie was drifting again and Bonnie fitted the flowers into a vase and sat on his mother’s other side, her eyes level with his, her mouth compressed like a stalwart convict defying the tightening of the rope.

Jaysus. He got up and paced the small room, stretching out his back and shoulders, and then looked about for the first time. Faded green curtains half drawn around his mother’s bed. On the other side of the curtain someone was deep-breathing through a heavy sleep. There were no other beds, semi-private. Small blessings.

“Suppose I should offer you my condolences,” he said, sitting back down and facing Bonnie.

She fixed her eyes onto Addie’s blanket, started fussing with it.

“Must’ve been hard news to get,” he said. “Clar ending up like that.”

“Death is always hard news.”

“What do you know of it?”

She looked at him. “Know of what?”

“Of what happened to Clar.”

She shook her head. “I’ll not think of him right now. My mind is with your mother. Someone who’s shown me kindness.” She went back to fussing with his mother’s blanket.

“Where’s your car?” he asked.

“In the garage.”

“What’s wrong with it?”

She gave him an impatient look. “It needs a new carburetor, I think. Not getting her gas or something.”

“What garage?”

“What garage? I don’t know what garage. You asks a lot of questions. Garage in Deer Lake somewhere. Marlene took her in.” She stood up abruptly, pulling back his mother’s blanket. “How’s her tubes—they draining okay? I helped a friend through this some years ago.”

“Don’t touch her.”

“ ’Course I will. We’ve already planned I’ll help her with her tubes. You all right?”

Kyle had blanched upon seeing a white tube looking like a fat translucent worm creeping from beneath his mother’s bandaged chest, gorged with a pinkish red fluid. A rush of heat flooded his face and he stood up, gripping the bed so’s not to faint.

Bonnie looked to him apologetically and he cursed her cunning.

“They’re not hurting her,” she said. “Just tubes for draining. The cups at the end there—they collects the drainage and it’s a healthy thing for it to drain.”

He forced himself to sit back down.

“Your car—”

She folded Addie’s blankets in place. “I told you, it’s in the garage. I got a ride in with Kate Mackenzie.”

His senses sharpened; he felt like a dog seized by two scents. “What—when did Kate drop you off?”

“Half hour ago, I suppose. On her way to Port au Choix.”

“Port au Choix?”

“I think she got people there. Don’t nobody know much about Kate, and by Jesus I envies her that,” she added, her tone mirroring victory on Kate’s behalf.

Addie stirred, her eyes fluttering awake, and Bonnie smiled, gripping the bed railing with hands that were chapped and red-knuckled from hours of shaking crabmeat out of shells, her nails chewed like his. “How are you, my love?”

Addie fluttered back to sleep and Kyle rose. “There’s always somebody who seen something. Count on it.”

“Who thinks they seen something,” said Bonnie evenly. “That’s only the half of anything, that is—seeing something.”

“Did Kate say when she was coming back?”

“Said she’d pick me up around suppertime if I wanted. But I told her I was staying the night. Sleep out on the road if I got to, but I’m not leaving her.” She gave him another bold stare and then her red-boned hand touched his mother’s silken fingers and he was struck by the loyalty in which Bonnie Gillard stationed herself by his mother’s bedside.

“Kyle.” Addie’s voice was feathery soft but stronger.

“I’m here. I’m here,” he said, but she was looking at Bonnie. Her brow wrinkled with concern and Bonnie gave a slight nod of reassurance and they both turned to him. He watched the brazen communication going on between them and was about to get up and march the Gillard woman out of the room and choke the truth out of her but was stalled by a nurse pushing back the curtain, dragging a trolley of metal instruments.

“Are you awake, Mrs. Now? I’m going to take your temperature. How are you feeling?”

“Go home now,” Addie whispered to him. “See to your father. Bonnie will stay with me.”

He shook his head, then averted his eyes as the nurse pulled back his mother’s blanket.

“That looks good,” said the nurse. “Looks good, Mrs. Now. We’ll check the other one.”

“They’re filled,” said Bonnie. “Perhaps you can watch me change one? Make sure I do it right?”

“Hold on, now. I’ll loosen those bandages.”

“The surgeon,” whispered Addie. “He said he left me a little cleavage.”

“That he did, my love,” said the nurse. “He always leaves a little near where your top button comes undone.”

Kyle backed out of the room, out of that secretive place of women, and headed for the elevators.

—

He drove through the brightening afternoon light. Blue patches of sky widening through thinning cloud. His window was partly down, cold air rushing past his brow. His thoughts were too spastic to follow and he sped faster down the highway with an eye on the rearview for cops. He slowed, passing the restaurant at Hampden Junction and thinking he’d catch a cup of coffee, but released the brake and kept going. Twenty minutes later he cruised through Bayside and passed Clar Gillard’s house, its windows dark and curtains drawn. The Lab was sitting on the front steps, his ears perked towards the door as though waiting to be let in.

Coming to Bottom Hill, Kyle hesitated. A cup of coffee, he’d go home for a cup of coffee, then drive down to the Beaches and work a few hours with his father. Turning off the pavement onto Wharf Road, he braked, a speedboat cruising just offshore catching his attention. It was Hooker in his old man’s boat. And Skeemo sitting at the bow. Wasn’t right for the boys to be cruising the shallow waters of the mud flat. Farther out he saw several more boats, two just off the wharf from his house. Last time he’d seen this many boats on the water was during squid jigging season last year.

He drove past the gravel flat, eased around the turn in the road where the incident with Clar Gillard took place, and then braked hard. Ahead he could see yellow tape fluttering in the breeze. The wharf and his house were cordoned off. To the side, near the shed, was a parked police car. Hooker had spotted him from his speedboat and was now heading towards him, the arse of his boat spitting foam. Kyle threw the truck into park and got out, standing on the rocks and dropping to one knee as Hooker cut his motor and drifted in way too fast.

“What the hell’s going on?” yelled Kyle. He leaned forward, grabbing hold of the nose of the boat and pushing it sideways to keep it from bouncing off the rocks.

“Where you been at?” Hooker asked.

“With Mother in Corner Brook. What’s going on?”

Skeemo moved forward. “They found a swatch of Clar’s shirt hooked on your wharf, buddy. Just below the water mark. Right by your door. He was stabbed on your wharf. He was stabbed and either fell or was pushed over and caught on a nail going down.”

“Hey? How the fuck’s that? His truck was on Hampden Wharf.”

“Yeah, so what the fuck, hey? Cops already searched your house. And they had Syllie down Deer Lake for questioning this morning.”

“Like that got them somewhere. Our wharf—how the—” Kyle went silent. Bonnie. She’d been sitting with his mother. He’d been going for Bonnie Gillard. “What time did he get killed?”

“Don’t know. They got a police boat out there and divers looking for the knife,” said Skeemo. “Here they comes, then.” The cruiser parked by the shed had kicked into life and was now pulling a U-turn and coming towards them. Kyle looked to Hooker, who was still sitting in the boat, unnaturally quiet, eyes fixed on the police car.

“What’s with you?” asked Kyle.

“Nothing, buddy. Keep her cool.”

The cruiser hauled alongside, two policemen getting out. One of them Canning and the other much younger—clean-shaven, big eyes, small nose. Looked like an oversized sixth grader.

“How’s this going to work,” said Kyle, going towards Canning, “the house ribboned off like a fucking crime scene?”

“Mind parking your truck, sir? We’re taking you to Deer Lake for questioning.”

“Sir! Yesterday I was your son. And yeah, I bloody mind. Where we all going to sleep tonight? Unless you found something in your search—”

“Get in the car, Kyle,” said Canning. “We’ll talk at the station.”

“What, we can’t talk here?”

“The car, sir.” It was the new cop.

“Constable Wheaton,” said Canning by way of introduction.

Kyle glanced at Hooker and Skeemo bobbing just off shore and stepped up to Canning, voice low, urgent.

“My mother just had surgery. My father, he needs to know how things went. Can we talk driving to the Beaches? He’s on the job site—where you spoke to us yesterday.”

“Send a message with your friends.”

“I can’t tell my friends. She’s keeping it private about her operation. She has cancer, it’s bad.”

“Send a message that she’s okay,” said Wheaton. “Get in the car.”

“Look, I just need to make sure the old man’s all right. And what the hell, where’s he going to sleep? You can’t bar us from the house.”

“Get in the car, sir,” ordered Wheaton once more. He held open the door of the cruiser, beckoning him inside.

“Christ, my mother just had serious surgery and I can’t go tell the old man she’s all right?”

“Don’t worry, bud,” Hooker called out. “We’ll go see Syl. We’ll tell him she’s okay.”

Kyle faced his friends with a fierce look. “Any fucking chance of privacy here?”

“Relax, bud.”

“Go on, b’y,” said Skeemo. “We’ll see to your old man. Meet you for a beer after.”

“Don’t open your fucking mouths.”

“Tell you what,” said Hooker. “We needs to blab, we’ll go yodel to the dead on Miller’s Island. Arse.”

Kyle bent to get into the police car. “Don’t put your fucking hand on my head,” he ordered Wheaton.

“Hey, Ky,” Hooker yelled, “meet you at the bar! I’ll wait.”

Inside the cruiser Kyle stared resentfully at Hooker and Skeemo picking up speed and foaming their way towards the Beaches. Everybody in the whole stinking outport would know about that operation before the night was done. He stared hard at the backs of the cops’ heads, his jaw hurting from grinding his teeth.

—

Forty-five minutes later they drove off the highway into Deer Lake, where everyone from Hampden, Beaches, and the rest of White Bay went to see a doctor, fix their teeth, pick up groceries and shoes, and all else. He’d passed the cop shop hundreds of times. This was the first time he’d entered its white wooden doors.

They led him down a short hall and into a square room. He recognized the scene from cop shows. Only this one had no two-way mirror. And the chairs were cushioned and a coffee pot was percolating on the little square table. As Wheaton poured himself a cup, Canning beckoned Kyle to one of the two chairs at the table. Kyle sat and rubbed his face and stretched out his back. He was tired. He thought about asking for a lawyer but he didn’t know fuck about getting lawyers.

The door opened and Sergeant MacDuff shuffled in, white shirtsleeves rolled up, top button undone, wattle sagging, belly sagging, pants sagging. Looked like a half-stuffed laundry bag.

“Evening, boys.” His eyes crinkled into smiles as though they were sitting in some kitchen sharing tea and muffins. Taking the seat across from Kyle, he flipped through his notebook, settling on a clean page. “Sorry to hear about your mother’s troubles.” He held up a reassuring hand to Kyle’s surprised look. “Chatted with your father this morning. He was concerned.”

“You’re so concerned, haul that fucking tape off our door so’s he got a bed for the night.”

“Let’s work on that, son. Let’s go back to the day Clar Gillard blocked the road to your house. Tell me what happened.”

“Check buddy’s notes there,” said Kyle, indicating Canning. “I’ve told him everything.”

“Now you’ll tell me, Kyle. I need to know in exact detail what happened during that altercation between your father and Clar Gillard.”

Jaysus. Kyle dragged both hands down the sides of his face. He sat back and told again about Clar blocking the way while playing fetch with his dog and his father pushing Clar’s truck off the road.

“Your father had a heart attack—when?” MacDuff said, riffling back through his pages.

“Three years ago. What’s that got to do with anything?”

“Would’ve been a lot of strain on his heart, pushing that truck.”

“Seen him straining harder than that.”

“He must’ve been mad.”

“Seen him madder. Expect Saint Peter had a temper. And his mother and the sweet baby Jesus too if his arse was rubbed raw. You thinking it was my father now who knifed Clar?”

“What words were exchanged between the two?”

“None.”

“None? Are you sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure. Clar got in his truck and drove off.”

“When did you see him again?”

“At the bar.”

“What time was that?”

“About eleven, I suppose. Like I already told you, I had a few, I needed air. I went outside and he—Clar—looked to be waiting.

He never spoke, just punched me in the jaw, and I woke up in the ditch a few minutes later.”

“Then what did you do?”

“I started walking home. Got picked up by Kate and sat by her fire for a bit. She always has a fire going.”

“What time did you leave the fire?”

“Around midnight. Hooker drove the old man up in his truck and I went home shortly after and took a nap on the wharf and the old man came home and woke me up. Around half-past twelve.”

“You were drunk, half asleep. How would you know the time?”

“Saw the clock on the stove when we went inside. It was the only thing lit up. The clock. Big yellow numbers. Twelve-thirty or twelve-forty. One or the other.”

“Why didn’t you drive your father home from the bar?”

“Forgot him. Was stupid. Took a blow to the head and wasn’t thinking.”

“Why didn’t your father leave the fire and go home with you?”

“Wasn’t finished his beer.” He rubbed his eyes tiredly. The room was stuffy. MacDuff wiped at his brow, half moons of sweat damping the underarms of his shirt.

“Kate Mackenzie. What time did you say she picked you up?”

“Jesus, you’re kidding me, right? I’ve told you that a dozen times.”

“Tell me again.”

“Eleven-thirty-five.”

“Is that a.m. or p.m.?”

Kyle stared blankly. “Trick question, right?”

“Answer the question, sir.” It was Wheaton who spoke. He and Canning were standing on either side of MacDuff like matching mannequins.

“Eleven-thirty-five p.m.”

“What time did you say you left the bar to go outside?”

“Look, we’ve covered this.”

“What time did you leave the bar, sir?” It was Canning now.

“I don’t exactly know, sir. Around eleven is what I’ve figured.”

“When were you punched by Clar Gillard?”

“Soon as I stepped outside.”

“What did you do then?”

“I was knocked out.”

“How long were you out?” asked Wheaton.

“Don’t know.”

“Minutes? Hours?”

“Minutes. Band was still playing the same song when I woke up.”

“When exactly do you think Kate Mackenzie picked you up?”

“Like I haven’t already answered that? Man, the time’s not going to change. It already happened.”

“What time did Kate Mackenzie pick you up?”

“Eleven-thirty-fucking-five p.m.”

“How’re you suddenly clear on the time?” asked Canning.

“The clock on her dash.”

“When did you first see your father after that?” asked Wheaton.

“About fifteen, twenty minutes later. About midnight.”

“Where?”

“At the fire on the flats.”

“But he was passed out in his truck down by the bar.”

“Hooker drove him up from the bar.”

“How do you know what the time was?”

“What the time was when? What the fuck are ye all talking about?” Both Canning and Wheaton were leaning towards him now, staring hard into his eyes as though practising some ancient Asian art of lie detection based on the size of his pupils.

“How do you know what time he drove home that night?”

“What time who drove home?”

“Your father.”

“I don’t know. Did ye all do Dale Carnegie? Because you’re all starting to sound and look alike.”

“You just said midnight.”

“I said about midnight—who the fuck cares what time it was. He showed up at the fire about midnight and then he showed up at the house around twelve-thirty or twelve-forty, like I said.”

“There’s blood on the doorknob of your house. How did it get there?”

“What? I dunno—oh right. My jaw was bleeding.” He looked at MacDuff who was easing back in his chair, scribbling in his book. “Is that what this is about? My mouth was bleeding from where Clar punched me. I was sleeping and drooled over my hand. Must’ve got on the knob. Hey!” He flicked his tongue around the inside of his mouth, searching for a cut. Couldn’t find one but stretched his mouth open anyway. “Here—have a look. You wanna see the scab, man?”

Both cops stared at his open mouth. MacDuff kept writing.

“Tell us about your father and Bonnie Gillard,” said Canning.

“What about them?”

“The nature of their relationship?”

“The nature—what’s that mean?”

“Are you aware of anything going on between your father and Bonnie Gillard?” asked Canning.

“Are you fucking nuts?”

“You got a short fuse, sir.”

“You got a filthy mind, sir.”

“Your father and Bonnie Gillard were seen in your father’s truck around ten the night of the murder.”

“So what? He was giving her a ride.”

“Ride where?”

“Ask them.”

“We’re asking you, sir.”

“How would I know?”

“You just said he was giving her a ride. A ride where?”

“Where the hell did he pick her up? That’s what we do around here, you see someone walking and you pick them up.”

“Did you see Bonnie Gillard that night?”

“No.”

“When did you last see her?”

“She was at the hospital, sitting with my mother.”

Canning flicked a look to MacDuff and Kyle kicked himself.

“When did she get to the hospital?” asked Wheaton.

“I dunno.”

“What time did you see her?”

“I dunno.”

“Were you there when she showed up in your mother’s room?”

“Yes.”

“Around what time was that?”

“I dunno.”

“Why don’t you know?”

“Cuz I was taking care of my mother. Cuz I didn’t give a fuck about Bonnie Gillard or the time.”

“You don’t give a fuck about Bonnie Gillard,” said Canning, “and yet she sits with your mother during this private time?”

“What’s your question?”

“Why don’t you like Bonnie Gillard?”

“I neither like nor dislike Bonnie Gillard. She’s my mother’s friend.”

“Is she your father’s friend?”

“No.”

“Did you see your father with Bonnie Gillard the night of the murder?”

“No. Why don’t you ask Bonnie Gillard where she was? Why don’t you ask her sister where she was? Ask anybody in the whole fucking town where she was. Somebody always knows something. You haven’t got that figured out yet?” Christ but he was mad, mad at the whole fucking works of them, and Canning and Wheaton kept bearing down on him like dogs, barking out questions they’d already asked and he snapping back answers, Yes, I seen Father earlier that night, we does what we always does, drives around for a bit—I drives and he drinks. Yes he was drunk and passed out. Yes I parked the truck behind the club. Yes, he was passed out and it’s what he does, he drinks and passes out and we’d gotten hard news about Mother that night and he was drunk, stoned drunk, and he should’ve been home with Mother and that’s what you should be nailing him with, getting drunk when he should’ve been home, and not following some shit story like—like…He faltered, his throat raw, his heart pounding, his face on fire. Gawd-damn. His mother all hacked up in the hospital and they hunting up some story about his father and Bonnie Gillard. He should tell them about the car, about her bawling in his mother’s house, but now he couldn’t tell them nothing about that because they’d want to know when he found the car and where his father was when he found the car and they’d know he wasn’t with his father like he said he was and smothering Jesus, he had himself all sewn into his own lie. He stopped talking. He simply stopped talking and stared at the cops. They stared back. They were waiting. Waiting for what? Him to break like some arsehole scene from some arsehole cop show? “We done here?”

MacDuff flipped back through his pages, tutting like an old woman, sweat gathering on his brow like he was coming down with something. He put down his pencil and gave a tired smile.

“We’re sorry about the timing, Kyle. We put off talking to you earlier out of respect for your mother’s hospital procedure.”

“Yeah? You’re touching my heart. Who’s driving me home?”

“This way, sir,” said Canning. Kyle pushed past MacDuff, who was looking sadder than a lost cow, and followed Canning down the hall to the door.

“We’ll be calling soon,” said Canning, showing Kyle out. “Evening, now.”

“What—you kidding me? No one’s driving me home?”

“Sorry, sir. We don’t taxi people.”

“Taxi? You haul me forty miles from home and I’m to walk back?”

“There’s a bus in the morning, sir.”

“You got a bed for me somewhere? Oh, right, you’re not a hotel service, either.” He went outside, kicked at the door closing behind him, hurt his foot. Bastards! He limped to the highway and looked west towards Corner Brook—there was lots of traffic; it’d be easier to hitch a ride and spend the night in the hospital sitting room. But he had to see his father. What the hell had they done to his father this morning with their arsehole questions?

He stuck out his thumb pointing east. Ten, fifteen minutes passed and a scattering of cars. He was shaking from the cold and shaking from rage. A trucker swept past, nearly blowing him off the road. Jaysus. He walked half a mile west to a gas station and lucked into a ride with a closed-mouthed old fellow from Jackson’s Arm. Eb Langford. Second cousin to some uncle on his father’s side. They rode in silence—Kyle too tired to talk and Eb having never strung two sentences together in his life. They took the cut at Hampden Junction and ten miles later came to a split in the road: one leading another twenty-five miles to Jackson’s Arm, the other leading ten miles to Hampden. It was dark, darker than old jeezes, and more bears around these parts than gulls snatching at roadkill. When Eb pulled over to let him out, Kyle offered him twenty bucks for the extra ten-minute drive to Hampden. He was met with the same stony eyes as Wheaton and Canning’s.

Fucking Langfords. Low-life fucking Langfords. Wouldn’t give you a rhubarb stalk if it was rotting in their yard. He got out of the car and started walking. The woods bordering the roadside were black, the road a greyish hue before him. His blood was pumping hard, motoring his step and keeping other stuff from creeping in—like the shadows of darker things up ahead against the already darkened skyline. Another thirty minutes and there’d be stars and a rind of moon. He pricked his ears for bears and the night pressed around him like a great, smothering blanket. And silence. Fucking silence. Where the saints reside. Where God is. A blessed thing. A scary thing, a thing of peace. He hated silence. Nothing made more noise than silence, hovering before your face like a pent-up scream. Dead people. That’s who were silent, dead people. Stillness. That’s what he remembered most about Chris, his stillness in that coffin. His sealed mouth and sealed eyes. And the stillness of his face, no matter all that sobbing and suffering going on around him. Except for Sylvie. She wasn’t sobbing. She was as silent as Chris. Her face the same pallor. He’d wanted to touch her, but couldn’t. She must’ve felt him thinking of her for she looked up at that instant, meeting his eyes, and he closed his. Closed her out. Couldn’t look. Couldn’t bear what her eyes might tell him. Christ, there he was again, stuck inside his head and thinking about things, all those things his mother and sister were wont to talk about and he would have nothing to do with. He picked up his step and hurried as he always did from Sylvie, from silence, from the whispers wriggling like insects through his ears, forever driving him out the door and down the road to the bar where there was noise and people whose loud chatter shushed his tiresome whispers and tiresome thinking about things. He walked harder, pushing through the dark, pushing through the night, pushing through the rest of this day where so much had happened and was happening still.

The throbbing of a truck sounded from behind, yellow headlights sweeping over him. Dougie Gale. Getting back from his cabin down Rushy Pond and with his wife and youngsters in the cab with him. Kyle shook with relief, climbed aboard the back, and roared out “The bar!” Ten minutes later he was kicking at the tire of his father’s truck parked outside. Hooker’s car was next to it. He went in. He needed a drink—gawd-damn, he needed a drink.

The bar was almost empty. Curses from the corner where the old-timers jabbed pegs into a crib board, air blue with smoke from their homemade rollies. Julia leaned over the pool table, ponytail coiling like silken rope onto the green felt. Fellow from Bayside chalking up his stick beside her. She missed her shot and cursed. A few of the boys from Sop’s Arm were sitting at the back of the bar and Hooker was sitting amongst them. He shoved back his chair upon seeing Kyle and Kyle rapped the bar for the bartender who was feeding quarters into the flashing face of a one-armed bandit. He scooped a handful of nuts from a bowl sitting on the table and shucked them into his mouth, near choking as Julia appeared before him. White T-shirt, low-hung jeans. She tucked her foot between his on the rung of his stool, cue stick staffed beside her.

“How’s everything, Ky?”

“Holding your cue too tight,” he told her, brushing nut crumbs off his mouth.

“You think?”

“Cue jerks when you holds it too tight. Screws up your aim.”

“You giving lessons?” Her smile was saucy. Her eyes lazy as she scanned his face. Big grey eyes, clean and healthy.

“Your break, doll,” called her pool chum and she winked at Kyle and turned, her ponytail sweeping his face with scent. He scooped another handful of nuts into his mouth, salty and crunchy. He finished off the bowl.

“What’s up?” said Hooker, taking the stool beside him. “Couple of whiskies,” he called to the bartender who was still sitting and feeding the bandit, “when you’re not too busy, that is. Arse.” He turned to Kyle. “How’s she going, bud?”

“See the old man?”

“He went off awhile ago. Tried getting him to Father’s place for the night, but hell, when Syllie gets like that.”

“Figures.”

“I tried to keep him here.”

“Yeah, don’t worry, I knows where he is.”

“He come in for one, and then walked away from it. Whaddya think of that? Had it poured and stared at it and then walked away. I followed after him, but he faced me down. Swear to jeezes, he would’ve clocked me if I took another step. Sorry, bud.”

“Did he say anything? About what the cops asked him?”

“Nothing. Not a word. But he was dark around the gills. He was after going through something.” Hooker paused, looking worried. Hooker always looked worried.

Kyle spat out a bit of nail from where he was chewing on his thumb. “What’s everybody saying?”

“That it’s weird Clar was on your wharf. But they thinks Bonnie Gillard done it. Except they don’t know how she’d get the strength to knife down Clar if they were in a fight. Unless she surprised him with the knife.”

“Who else the cops questioning?”

“Everyone they sees on the road.”

“They take anybody else in?”

“Don’t think. Nobody knows where Bonnie is.”

“The cops knows now. I’m after telling them she’s at the hospital.”

“That’s where she’s at, with your mother? Good one. Never thought of that. By the way, word’s out about your mother’s operation. And it weren’t me or Skeemo, you got that?”

“Yeah. Sorry.”

“Arse.”

“Me today, you tomorrow.”

“Yeah. Always somebody wagging their chin. Joanie Jenkins was in visiting her mother and seen Andrew Stride in there. He works in X-rays or something. You can’t keep nothing here, bud.”

“Yeah, well, that’s it now.”

“Anyway, buddy, listen. I got something to tell you, all right? Fuck.” Hooker blew out a hot breath of air. He reached for the shot of whisky that wasn’t there. “Anybody working in this hole?” he yelled at the bartender.

“Calm ’er down, bud. What’s going on?”

Hooker fixed his eyes on the drink the bartender was pouring. He reached for it as the bartender landed it none too gently before him. He took a gulp, calling for two more.

Kyle’s mouth went dry. “What’s the matter? What’s going on?”

Hooker took another gulp. Something softer than a spring leaf touched Kyle’s hand. Julia. Touching his hand goodbye as she was passing with her pool chum. Her eyes the glistening grey of wet beach rocks.

“I haven’t told one cock-sucking soul about this,” said Hooker. He leaned towards Kyle, speaking quietly. “The second I tells you, it’s gone, got it? Out the window. Got it?”

“Got it.”

“Good, then. The night of the killing, I found Syl down on Hampden Wharf in his truck, parked next to Clar’s. He was soaked from the waist down. He was in the water that night.”

Kyle nodded. He remembered waking up on the wharf, his father standing there, his pants damp, stiff. “So? So, what? Perhaps he pissed himself. You think of that, he pissed himself?”

“His boots were soaked. A horse couldn’t piss that much. He was in the water. It don’t mean nothing. He was drunk, staggered on the beach into the water or something.”

“That’s what he done then—went for a piss and staggered. Fell into the water. Or perhaps he heard something and tried to see. It was foggy. Leaned too far and staggered—anything could’ve happened. I mean, did anybody see him?”

“Haven’t heard nothing. Might be nobody seen him. She was thick, buddy, the fog was thick, but she was thinning in spots. I drove down, could see a bit with the fog lights on.”

“How come you were there?”

“Word circled the bar Clar punched you out. I went looking and seen both trucks parked on the wharf. Syllie’s was running—likely he was trying to dry off. He was out of it. Empty forty-ouncer beside him. He never spoke, his eyes were open, but it was like he was comatose. Can’t figure how he drove, drunk as he was. Unless he got drunk while he was there. I parked my truck and got in his and drove him up to the gravel flat hoping Kate had her fire going and you’d be there. Kate said you’d just left. I had a beer with her and left Syllie sleeping in the truck. Kate said she’d keep an eye on him.” Hooker opened his mouth to say more, hesitated.

“What?”

“I ain’t never going to say this agin, you got that?”

“Just say it.”

“He said something about Clar being dead.”

“Jesus.”

“He didn’t do it.”

“Jesus. Jesus, fuck.”

“It don’t mean nothing. Syllie ain’t got it in him. I’m only telling you because you should know that, and it don’t mean dick, but I thought you should know it.”

“What, then? What the fuck, then?”

“Think about it. Clar was on your wharf. If Syl done it, he wouldn’t have got aboard his truck and drove down to Hampden Wharf and parked by Clar’s. Unless he was wanting to get caught. In which case he would’ve just phoned the cops himself. Said it was self-defence or something. And if he followed him along the beach and done it, he wouldn’t have come back to his truck and passed out there. Not if you killed somebody. Naw!” Hooker was shaking his head. “Syl wouldn’t knife nobody. He hasn’t got it in him. And it don’t matter dick what I seen because I just forgot it. If anybody else seen, they’d be yakking before now. All right, buddy? We got it forgot, all right?”

The old-timers in the corner scraped back their chairs, their cards a mess on the table, hollering to the bartender to tally up.

“Right, buddy?”

Kyle nodded.

“Right, then. Let’s do some figuring.” He inched his stool closer to Kyle. “Clar parked on Hampden Wharf. He’s figuring nobody can see because of the fog. He climbed around the cliff to your wharf—for what? What was he up to? This was after punching you out. Must be Syllie he was after. Why else would he go to your wharf?”

Bonnie Gillard. He was after Bonnie Gillard, not his father. Kyle opened his mouth but closed it again. They weren’t his words to speak. They were his mother’s.

“Your mother—did she see anything?”

“She got too much going on.”

“Yeah, sorry. She’s all right, is she?”

“Yeah. She’s going to be fine. Look, I gotta go. See to the old man.”

“I’ll give you a ride.”

“Appreciate it, but I’ll walk. One thing: Kate coming up with an alibi for all of us that night. Was that your doing?”

“We both come up with it. Next morning I was up to your house before the cops came. And you and Syl were already gone. I talked to Kate—didn’t tell her about Syl being on the wharf or anything. Just that he was drunk behind the wheel and we both come up with the story. She said she was going down Beaches for a drive and would fill you in. Which was good because the cops showed up right after I left, talking to her. Then they hauled me over by the post office—picking up a parcel for Mom—and I seen Kate driving past. On her way to tell ye what we worked out.” Hooker grinned, proud of himself.

“Lying to the police. You don’t need that kinda trouble, Hooker.”

“None coming. Syl was drunk and passed out behind the bar. I drove him home.”

“Right. And Kate—why’s she lying? Why’s everybody lying to the cops about the old man?”

“Because Syllie got enough going on. He don’t need extra shit. And we understands what the cops won’t.” His voice dropped. The old-timers were shuffling to the bar now, arguing about who owned the last round.

“What’s ye hooligans cahootin’ now?” one of them asked.

“Mind your own beeswax,” snipped Hooker.

“I’ll be going,” said Kyle. “See you later, bud.”

“Sure. Hey, Ky?”

“What’s up?”

Hooker took on a pained look, then shook his head. “Nothing. Go on.”

“Let it out.”

“It’s stupid. Too fucking stupid.”

“Can handle something stupid right now.”

“Forget it.”

“Spit it out, b’y, what’s going on?”

Hooker shrugged, wiped at his mouth. “Fucking Roses.”

“What about her. What, I gotta choke it outta you?”

“I think she likes you.”

Kyle sank back on his stool.

“I knows you’re not after her, man—don’t get me wrong—aw, told you this was stupid. It’s just—I dunno. The way she was fawning over you at the dance.”

“You nuts? You fucking nuts?”

“Yeah, I’m nuts.”

“She’s playing you, fool!”

“Yeah, I know. I know. Aw, hell, this is bad.”

“Yeah, it’s bad. You’re getting soft, all right? Soft in the head.”

“I hates my head. Hates my fucking head.”

Kyle slapped Hooker’s shoulder. “It’s all right, buddy. Women does that to you. All right? I gotta go.”

“Sure, you go. See to your old man. You knows where I am, right?”

“Take ’er easy, hey.”

“I loves you, man.”

Kyle thumped Hooker’s back and followed the last of the old-timers out the door. The moon was out and a smattering of stars. He looked over at his father’s truck. He was soaked. He was in the water. He knew Clar was dead. He started walking. End of the road he turned left up Bottom Hill and crested the top and started down the other side. He was tired, bone tired. The moon offered scant light on the underbrush crowding the roadside and he judged from habit the opening to the shortcut and started down the choked path, to hell with squeamish fears. A smell of rot and he more felt than saw the ground sinking away to his right and the charred flooring of the Trapps’ burned-out sawmill, the smut-blackened skeleton of a corner post rising like a crucifix over some apocalyptic ruin. A loose piece of wood dangled from a half-collapsed beam like a charred effigy, its creaking in the stirred air sending chills down his neck. The path steepened, trees walling each side. He grasped at prickly branches, easing his way down, and was soon breaking through the woods behind his house.

The windows were unlit. He crept along the side. A gull cried out, its shadow fluttering across the lemon track of the moon over the sea. Wavelets fretted against the piles. Something shuffled down on the beach rocks and he drew back, near yelping as a black shape leapt onto the wharf. Clar’s dog. Eyes burning yellow with moonlight. It stood staring at him, head down, tail down, whining deep in his throat.

“Go,” Kyle ordered in a throaty whisper. “Get home.”

The dog whimpered and flopped on all fours, looking up at him like a dejected child. Kyle crept towards the front of the house, pricking his ears. Drafts of wind snatched at the yellow ribbon that flickered like candlelight amongst the shadows. No cop cars. But he’d take no chances. Slipping to the back of the house, he hissed at the whining dog again to get home. He pushed open the window to Sylvie’s room, remembering too late his bruised ribs and near crying out as he levered himself across the sill. Dropping onto the floor, he picked himself up and slipped off his boots so’s not to soil his mother’s clean floors, and then cursed as he stepped into a puddle of water.

“She’ll shoot you,” he said, walking down the hall. “What, you couldn’t kick off your boots?”

His father was sitting by the window at the kitchen table, a cigarette burning in the ashtray, his lungs rattling like a croupy youngster’s. He was looking out over the water, his face carved in ridges by moonlight.

“We’ll be thrown in jail if we gets caught in here.” Kyle hauled out a chair and sat beside him. “She come through it fine. She was sitting up when I left, ordered me to drive home and take care of you.”

“When’s she coming home?”

“Another day or two. They don’t keep them long these days. She got them tubes in her. We’ll go see her in the morning.”

His father lifted his smoke to his mouth, scorched tobacco burning red through the dark.

Kyle jiggled his foot. “You’re going to see her, right?” His father’s collar chafed against his neck. He supposed it was a nod. “Get the footings finished today?”

“Ready for pouring. Harvey Rice gave us a hand. Some of the boys.”

“Good, then. They said they might. You had a time of it then. In Deer Lake with the police?”

“Doing their job, I suppose.”

“They talked about the blood on the doorknob, right? What did you tell them?”

“Nothing.”

“It was mine from where Clar hit me. Loosened a tooth or something. I drooled over my hand when I was sleeping and must’ve got it on the doorknob.”

Sylvanus butted out his smoke.

“I seen Bonnie Gillard here that night. Sitting here and talking with Mother.”

He felt his father stiffen. “When was that?”

“Before you got home.”

“What else did you see?”

“Nothing. That’s it. Was she still here when you got home?”

Sylvanus pulled another smoke from his pack resting on the table. His hand was shaking. He struck a match, an awful light burning in his eyes. He took a deep suck and hacked, smoke skittering from his mouth. Kyle gnawed on his thumb. His father was frightened, he could smell it like dung from a horse. How did you know Clar was dead, why were you in the water…

“So, was she?”

“Hey?”

“I asked if Bonnie was still here when you got home.”

“Never seen her. You?”

“I told you, she was sitting here with Mother. What the fuck’s wrong with you?”

“That’s it now.”

“That’s it now, what?”

Sylvanus took a deep drag on his smoke. Kyle shifted with unease. Felt like he was sitting with an unyielding stranger before a forced supper.

“So, you never seen her?”

“What was she doing?”

“When I seen her? Nothing. She was bawling. Mother had her by the shoulders, like she was shaking sense in her. I think she did it.”

“Who?”

“Bonnie. Who the fuck do you think?”

Sylvanus butted out his half-smoked cigarette and rose.

“Hold on, brother, we needs to talk,” said Kyle.

“Go to bed.”

“No, we don’t go to bed, we’ve got to talk.” Kyle was on his feet, chasing after his father who was heading for his bedroom. “Look at this!” He’d pulled the keys to Bonnie’s car out of his pocket and dangled them now in front of his father. But it was too dark to see. “Bonnie’s car keys. I found her car half in the river in past the old park ground. Not long after she left here. Either Clar got her car from her somehow and tried to get rid of it or she was trying to off herself. What do you think? I happened to see it when I was walking to the bar, after I left you in the shed. Keys still in the ignition.”

Sylvanus touched the keys. “You tell that to the police?”

“No. I never told nobody, for Mother’s sake. I’m thinking Mother’s covering for her. I think she tried to off herself and couldn’t do it and then come here bawling to Mother about it. I’d like to know when Clar was killed—the timing of it. What do you think?”

“Less we knows the better, I think. Go to bed, now.”

“Hold on. Jesus, old man.” His father had gone into his room. “Dad?” The room door closed. “Dad, we need to talk.”

The bedsprings groaned beneath his father’s weight. Kyle stood there, listening. Fighting the urge to push open the door and go kneel by his father’s bed and ask straight out what the hell he was doing in the water that night and how did he know that Clar was dead. He lifted his hand to the doorknob, drew it back. He couldn’t. Better he didn’t know. Didn’t want to know.

He went to the fridge, broke off a chunk of cheese, buttered a heel of bread and ate it, washing it down with cold tea from the pot his mother had made that morning. Felt like a fortnight ago. Finishing off the bread and cheese, he went to his room and fell across his bed, his body sinking beneath its own weight into the comfort of the mattress. His ribs ached. Silence ruled the house. The first night his mother wasn’t in her bed.