But then Rosy barked again and there was me and a bit of shut-that-bloody-dog-up, and somewhere, in the middle, the words:
“Okay, look.” The murderer found a way through. “I won’t waste any more time, and I know I’ve got no right, but I came because I live far from here now, in the country. It’s a lot of land, and there’s a river, and I’m building a bridge. I’ve learned the hard way that the river floods. You can be locked either side, and…” The voice was full of splinters, a fence post in his throat. “I’ll need help to build it, and I’m asking if any of you might—”
“No.” I was first.
Again, the Murderer nodded.
“You’ve got some fucking neck, haven’t you?”—Rory, in case you didn’t guess.
“Henry?”
Henry took my cue and remained his affable self, in the face of all the outrage. “No thanks, mate.”
“He’s not your mate—Clay?”
Clay shook his head.
“Tommy?”
“No.”
One of us was lying.
* * *
—
From there, there was a sort of bashed-up quiet.
The table was arid between father and sons, and a hell of a lot of toast crumbs. A pair of mismatched salt and pepper shakers stood in the middle, like some comedy duo. One portly. One tall.
The Murderer nodded and left.
As he did so, he took out a small piece of paper and gave it to that company of crumbs. “My address. In case you change your mind.”
“Go now.” I folded my arms. “And leave the cigarettes.”
* * *
—
The address was torn up straightaway.
I threw it into the wooden crate next to the fridge that held assorted bottles and old newspapers.
We sat, we stood and leaned.
The kitchen quiet.
What was there to say?
Did we have a meaningful chat about uniting even stronger at times like these?
Of course not.
We spoke our few sentences, and Rory, pub-bound, was first to leave. The Naked Arms. On his way out he put a warm and humid hand, just briefly, on Clay’s head. At the pub, he’d likely sit where we’d all sat once—even the Murderer—on a night we’d never forget.
Next, Henry went out back, probably to arrange some old books, or LPs, which he’d amassed from weekend garage sales.