Darkhouse

‘Yeah, but I’ve seen the pictures. Katie’s an exception. Let me tell you, if he ever gets tired of her …’

‘You’re a sick man, Danny. A sick man.’

‘True,’ said Danny. ‘Anyway, I was wondering if you’re coming back for your birthday.’

‘What are you, a girl?’

‘It’s a big deal. When I’m old like you I’ll want you to make a big deal over me.’

‘I don’t know what I’m doing for my birthday, Danielle, but maybe we could have a sleepover—’

‘You sound like me. A guy tries to do the right thing …’

‘Look, I don’t know what I’m doing for my birthday. But I’m in New York tonight.’

‘What?’

‘Giulio is getting married tomorrow. Don’t ask. I don’t know if I’ll make it into the city. I’m only there a couple a days.’

‘Call me. I’ll come to the airport, meet you for a drink or something.’

‘Sure.’ He saw Anna walk in. ‘Danny, I gotta go catch a flight. Here – maybe you should talk to my lovely lady wife about any birthday plans.’

‘Hmmm, French accent …’

‘Jesus Christ. No-one is safe.’

Anna smiled and took the phone from Joe.

‘Bonjouuur,’ she said. Joe could hear Danny whooping.

The taxi driver guided the red saloon along the winding tree-lined road. One hour ago, he had picked up his first fare of the morning at Shannon airport. He had been talking ever since.

‘That’s what we need over here – Rudy Giuliani. The guy cleans up a whole place like New York and our politicians can’t clean their own backsides.’ He looked in the rear-view mirror. He got no response. He kept talking.

‘I ended up in Harlem once, you know. Only white guy there, I swear to God. And I’m from Cork and in Cork, we call everyone “boy”. We say, “How’s it goin’, boy?” Or, “What’re you havin’, boy?” Well, I tell you, one night in Harlem straightened me out fairly quickly. My mate, this big black guy, tells me, “Someone will pull a gun on you here if you call them boy.” So I started calling everyone “man” instead. “Hey, man, how’s it goin’, man?” Now I’m back here and I’m saying “man” and they all think I’m nuts.’ He turned back to his passenger. He drove on. ‘Right,’ he said after two quiet minutes, ‘here we are. Will this do? They usually seem to have a few good deals.’

‘This is great,’ said Duke Rawlins.

Brandon Motors stood on a winding back road, sloping down a field by a red-brick bungalow. New and used cars lined the grass, fluorescent green and pink price tags wedged behind their windscreen. The Car of the Week was mounted on a slanted wooden platform edged with green and gold bunting. The dealer stood beside it, nodding to the car and then to Duke. Duke shook his head.

A white ’85 Ford Fiesta van stood out from the shiny rows, battered, dull and cheap. Duke walked around it, looking through the windows, then came back around to the bonnet, leaning on it with both hands. He pushed himself upright.

‘You take cash?’ he asked.

‘I do,’ said the dealer.

Duke handed over the money and scribbled a signature on the forms. He sat in the van, reached up and yanked a swinging pine tree from the rear-view mirror. He threw it out the window as he pulled away. After a twenty-minute drive, he stopped at a petrol station and bought a black felt-tip pen and a map. He circled where he needed to go, then traced his finger along the route. He turned the key in the engine and headed for Limerick. On the outskirts of the city, he stopped at a Travelodge, slept and showered.

It was dark by the time he was on the road again, this time on a busy stretch to Tipperary. He was soon caught between two huge sixteen-wheelers; he twitched at the wheel, swerving right to find an opening. The line of cars ahead was constant. He pulled back and saw a large sign for a town called Doon. Turning the wheel sharply, he took a last-minute left onto a narrow, winding road. His headlights picked up a black-and-white sign for Dead River. He crossed its stone bridge and drove through pitch-black into the small town. He took a right at the corner onto Doon’s main street, a tidy row of houses, shops and pubs. It was eleven-thirty p.m. and deserted. He kept driving, then brought the van to a stop alongside the iron gates to a field. He clung to the steering wheel and breathed deeply. Then he got out to walk back towards town. He wanted a beer. But another opportunity presented itself.

The driveway was long and curved, bordered on each side by tall sycamores. Giulio Lucchesi was waiting for his son in the marble foyer. He was fit, tanned and groomed, his grey hair combed glossy and neat. His navy blazer was crisply cut, his pale blue shirt and beige pants perfectly pressed, his suede loafers brushed.

‘Joseph,’ he said, clipped and anglicised.

‘Dad.’ They shook hands.

‘You remember Pam,’ said Giulio.

‘Yeah, hi,’ said Joe. ‘It’s great to see you again. Can’t believe he’s finally got you to say yes.’

She smiled.

It was no surprise that Giulio Lucchesi’s second wife was nothing like his first. Pam was tall, thin and subdued, a Nordic blonde. Maria Lucchesi was dark and fiery.

Giulio stepped back. ‘I’ll show you to your room.’

‘I think I can remember,’ said Joe. He took his suitcase and went alone up the stairs to a room he hadn’t seen in twelve years. He opened the door on the hotel minimalism that had never welcomed him before and didn’t welcome him now. From the age of fourteen to seventeen, he caught a ride with his neighbours to Rye to spend August with his father. And each September, his mother would run down the steps of their little Bensonhurst apartment to welcome him back home.

Pam led Joe to a vast cherrywood dining table. She went to the kitchen and came back with three small plates of blackened asparagus in balsamic vinegar.

‘Put some parmigiano on that,’ said Giulio, pushing a small bowl towards Joe.

‘This is good,’ said Joe, raising his fork. ‘Is Beck supposed to be here? I couldn’t get hold of her on her cell phone.’ Beck was Joe’s name for his older sister, a movie locations manager.

‘Rebecca is on set,’ said Giulio. ‘Quite fittingly, in a lunatic asylum.’

‘We’re one big let-down,’ said Joe to Pam. She looked away.

Giulio ignored him. ‘How’s Shaun?’

‘He’s great, settling in—’

‘—until he’s uprooted in a few months to come back home.’

Joe looked at him. ‘Maybe it’s in his genes.’ He turned to Pam. ‘I spent my childhood in Brooklyn, then we all moved when Dad got his job at Louisiana State, then I had to come back to Brooklyn with my mother when they divorced, then split my time between there and Rye when Dad bought the apartment and then this house. I went back to LSU for a few years, then back to New York. And now of course, there’s Ireland.’

‘Wow,’ said Pam. ‘That’s a lot of moving. You went to the same college as your father? I didn’t realise.’

‘Briefly,’ said Joe. Giulio cleared his throat.

After dinner, they moved into the living room with its thick carpets, ornate white-and-gold tapestry sofa and heavy velvet drapes. Anna’s worst nightmare.

‘So, you looking forward to the wedding?’ said Joe.

Giulio and Pam exchanged glances.

‘We already got married,’ said Giulio. ‘In Vegas. At the weekend.’