The Drowning Child. Alex Barclay

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       16

      Seth Fuller stood on the bottom step of The Crow Bar, clutching the handrail. Eyes closed, he sucked air through his nose, held it, exhaled slowly through his mouth – 7-11 breathing: he had been taught how to do this by the psychologist at BRCI. He had been embarrassed at first, sitting in front of this nerdy guy, Lockwood, in his brown round-neck sweater and red shirt, closing his eyes and counting in for seven, counting out for eleven.

      ‘You’ve got this, Seth,’ Lockwood used to say. ‘And if you’ve got this, you’ll see … you’ve got the rest of your life.’

      Seth thought it was a pretty sweeping statement, but he liked the idea of having the rest of his life. He just wasn’t sure if he really did, and that, if so, he’d ever be able to breathe properly through it.

      He leaned hard on the handrail and vaulted up the steps. He walked into the bar, pulled a fifty-dollar note out of his back pocket and slapped it on to the counter in front of Shannon. He nodded toward Clyde Brimmer.

      Shannon frowned. ‘Where did you get that?’

      Seth smiled his lazy smile. ‘I choose to take no offense at the tone of your remark.’

      ‘I’m serious.’

      ‘Don’t be,’ said Seth. ‘A friend of a friend of a friend.’

      Shannon rolled her eyes, but there was anger in them. ‘You better not be—’

      ‘I’m not be,’ said Seth. ‘Don’t worry.’

      ‘Goddammit,’ said Shannon. ‘The town is crawling with police.’

      ‘Well, if it helps,’ said Seth, ‘I won it playing pool with the police. Gil Wiley. You can ask him yourself.’

      ‘Jesus, Seth – why do you have to create mysteries for no reason?’ said Shannon. ‘What’s the point? “Friend of a friend of a friend.” Why would you want to cause more stress for me than I’m already under?’

      ‘I’m sorry, Aunt Shannon. I wasn’t thinking …’

      ‘I worry,’ she said. ‘So easily now. I get these spikes of anxiety in my chest and once they’re dug in there, they’re real hard to get rid of.’ She touched a hand to his cheek, but didn’t let it stay there long. ‘And shouldn’t Wiley be taking care of things at home instead of out playing pool with—’

      ‘It’s escaping home that Wiley’s interested in,’ said Seth.

      ‘Not to mention he has an investigation to run.’

      ‘Wiley is no investigation-runner,’ said Seth. ‘He’ll never be anything more than a sidekick. And he knows it.’

      He pushed the fifty closer to Shannon.

      ‘And why are you paying for Clyde’s drinks, anyway, big shot?’ said Shannon.

      ‘Out of pity,’ said Seth. ‘But Clyde doesn’t mind pity. He is unconcerned with the emotion behind a gesture. A fresh drink materializes before his swimming eyes? Well, that’s as pure a gesture as anything, far as he’s concerned – a single, welcome moment that doesn’t need to be weighed down by history or motive or rationale. A beer’s a beer.’

      ‘A beer’s a beer,’ said Shannon. She put a bottle of Bud down in front of him. ‘How did the search go today?’

      She poured a whiskey for Clyde.

      ‘Well, no one found anything,’ said Seth. ‘But you get the sense they put the volunteers in places where they don’t really think they’re going to find anything, so they won’t screw up the evidence.’

      ‘Probably,’ said Shannon.

      ‘And I got nothing out of Wiley afterward,’ said Seth. ‘Even when he was wasted. I tried to pump him for information, but nothing.’

      ‘You shouldn’t be showing so much interest,’ said Shannon. ‘You know that doesn’t look good.’