THIRTEEN

Bordering the nearby Queen’s Quarter, the Village was a place that was always busy; a motley crew of students, yahoos and hard-faced locals constantly moving through its grey paved streets. It sat opposite the hospital, endless rows of housing running parallel with the train station. Steam filled the air, creating a thin veneer from which stores and cheap diners appeared like two-dime tricks.

Janice got off the train.

The rain beat down, puddles gathering like black holes at her feet.

It was almost 4.30 p.m. and Janice realised she’d stayed longer at work than she’d intended. But she’d been enjoying herself, chatting to Billy the doorman. Talking to Billy took her mind off things.

Janice struggled daily with real life, and real life was winning. She lived with her son, Kenny, tried her best for them. But her part-time cleaning job didn’t cut it when it came to paying the bills. Janice was behind with her landlord, the bank and just about anyone else silly enough to lend her money.

She was even behind with Paul McBride.

Her heart sank as she saw his truck parked outside her house, growling like a rabid dog, smoke pouring from its rusty exhaust. The engine was still running, McBride, himself, behind the wheel, two of his boys beside him.

He gave her a big wave.

Janice nodded solemnly, moving to the door of her house and unlocking it quickly.

‘Terrible weather,’ McBride said as he climbed out of the truck. ‘You should be wearing a coat, Janice.’

‘Hello Paul,’ Janice replied, curtly.

She moved into the house, leaving the door ajar as she went.

‘Not going to ask me in?’ McBride said, moving on through despite the lack of invite. ‘Look, what do you want?’ Janice asked.

McBride lit up, took a long drag then said, ‘Right down to business, Janice? Just like old times.’

But Janice didn’t want to revisit any ‘old times’ with him. Paul McBride was one night she had tried damn hard to forget. That was twenty years ago and not one of those years had been kind to her.

‘Got a new shipment in,’ he said. ‘Can you stash some of it for me?’

‘Are you asking me or telling me?’ Janice said.

Paul stubbed his cigarette out in a crystal ash tray by the door.

‘Telling you,’ he said. ‘Unless you’ve got seven thousand dollars handy. Plus interest.’

Janice took her pinafore off. Reached for her housecoat, hanging from a peg on the nearby wall, and pulled it on. She moved through to the kitchen, busied herself with some dishes steeping in the sink. They were still dirty, remnants of food ground in.

‘Stick it under the stairs,’ she said, hands sinking into the lukewarm water.

‘Christ,’ McBride said. ‘Bit of an obvious place, that.’

He tutted, shaking his head, picked up a photo from her mantelpiece. It was one of Kenny and Janice in happier times, before he started going off the rails. He was wearing a baseball jersey.

‘We need to be more creative. Thought I’d get some of the boys to pull up the carpet, maybe do a little floor refurbishment, then relay the carpet for you. In the bedroom, maybe?’ He was still looking at the photo. ‘You wouldn’t mind that, Janice, would you?’

She said nothing, her hands shaking and rubbing the dishes furiously.

‘Good girl,’ McBride said.

He picked up another photo, this one taken only a couple of years ago. Kenny sat in the stalls of some stadium. Janice had taken him there for his birthday. He was smiling in the picture. She hadn’t seen him smile like that in quite a while.

‘This your boy?’ McBride asked.

‘Yeah,’ Janice answered, uncomfortably.

He stared at the photo, studied it carefully.

‘Tell him to come down and see me,’ he said. ‘I want to talk to him.’