Darkhouse. Alex Barclay

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      ‘Yeah,’ said the driver.

      Hector wrung cold water out of a grimy cloth at the sink and turned back to place it on Duke’s forehead. His eyes opened.

      ‘Can you remember what happened?’ asked Hector.

      Duke tried to shake his head.

      ‘You know what day it is?’ asked Hector.

      ‘Friday,’ whispered Duke.

      ‘Tell me who is your president.’

      ‘He wouldn’t—’ said Wanda.

      ‘Jimmy Carter,’ said Duke, proud.

      ‘He’s just fine,’ said Hector. ‘Little concussion. Wake him up some times during the night, make sure he don’t get any worse and keep him away from jumping around for the next weeks. He must rest.’

      Duke moved his head slowly to look at his mother. From behind her, the driver of the pickup stepped out. Duke’s eyes shot wide in alarm and he opened his mouth to scream. Hector’s hand was quick as he clamped it over the little boy’s cracked lips. Duke was writhing underneath the pressure, his eyes darting everywhere. He couldn’t breathe.

      ‘You stop, I let go,’ said Hector, his face two inches from Duke’s. He held his hand firm until Duke calmed down, the energy draining from his shuddering body.

      Hector leered at the driver. Los niños pequeños hacen mucho ruido,’ he said.

      ‘No speaky the Spanish,’ said the driver.

      Hector walked over and whispered to him: ‘Little boys make lots of noise.’ He laughed.

      Duke had curled into a ball on his side and began to cry. He felt the hand of the driver in the small of his back.

      ‘No more boo-hoos, Dukey. No more boo-hoos.’

      Duke shivered. All he could remember was Boo-hoo coming into his room. What he couldn’t remember was the man’s weight bearing down on him, pushing harder each time, slamming his forehead into the wall over and over again, until he crumpled and lay face down, unmoving on his bed.

      Wanda Rawlins heard a faint knock on the screen door and pulled it open carefully. Smoke billowed out around her. She flicked her hand at it.

      ‘Mornin’, Mrs Rawlins,’ said Donnie. ‘Duke about?’

      ‘Duke had an accident yesterday, he’s resting.’

      ‘What happened?’

      ‘Nothin’ much. He had a knock to the head.’ She smiled. ‘You boys. You sure know how to scare the livin’ hell out of a mother.’

      ‘Can I see him?’ asked Donnie.

      ‘For a few minutes,’ said Wanda, stepping back to let him in.

      Donnie walked in to the kitchen and was hit with a smell that caught at the back of his throat. The oven was wide open and a baking tray lay diagonally across the folded-down door. Cracked black circles steamed on the surface. More had fallen to the floor.

      ‘Tray was hot,’ laughed Wanda. ‘And I didn’t quite make it in time,’ she said.

      ‘Well, I’m sure they’ll taste just fine,’ said Donnie.

      Wanda laughed out loud. ‘And I’m Julia Child.’

      Duke lay on his side, covered by a thin sheet. His face was pale and beads of sweat gathered on his forehead.

      ‘Hey,’ said Donnie. ‘How you doin’?’

      Duke tried to talk, but his lips stuck together. He wiped his mouth.

      ‘I’m OK,’ he said. ‘My throat hurts.’

      ‘How’s that?’ said Donnie. ‘I thought you hit your head.’

      ‘Just does,’ said Duke.

      ‘You fall from a tree?’

      Duke hesitated. He opened his mouth, then closed it just as quick.

      ‘Yup. What an idiot.’

      Wanda slid her thumb under her nose and pushed herself up from the kitchen chair, slipping her feet back into her mules. She picked up the baking tray and went to the doorway of Duke’s room.

      ‘Look what I made for you, sweetie.’ She laughed, her eyes wide. ‘To cheer up my little soldier.’ Duke lifted his head to see her. She looked crazy. ‘They didn’t quite work out,’ she explained, looking down at the cookies. ‘Mama fucked up.’ She laughed again.

      ‘I’m talkin’ to Donnie,’ said Duke.

      ‘Aren’t you even gonna thank your mama?’ she pouted.

      ‘Thank you, Mama,’ he said flatly.

      ‘Aw,’ she said, walking over to the bed. She let the tray hang by her side, dropping the cookies onto the floor. She leaned down to look at them and picked something up.

      ‘Found you a chocolate chip!’ she said, holding up a burnt cookie crumb. She put it up to Duke’s mouth. He buried his head back into the pillow.

      ‘No!’ he said. ‘I don’t want it.’

      ‘Jeez, Duke, no need to shout. You want this, Donnie?’ she said as it crumbled between her fingers. ‘Oops!’

      Then she held up her hand. ‘Shush,’ she said, trying to focus. ‘Shh.’ They heard twigs cracking as someone walked up to the front of the house. A shadow passed over the blind in the bedroom.

      ‘Donnie, you stay right where you are, sweetheart. I have myself a visitor,’ said Wanda, smoothing down her hair, leaving black crumbs on the blonde.

      She left the room and went to the kitchen. Westley Ames stood at the door.

      ‘Hey, Wanda,’ he said. ‘Is this a good time?’

      ‘You know, Westley? You shoulda called, but I guess it’s OK.’

      ‘I have some excellent produce for you,’ he said and she could see his hand flex in his jacket pocket. ‘You look mighty interested,’ he chuckled.

      ‘Duke’s taken a knock, Westley,’ she said. ‘He’s resting.’

      Westley’s eyes flashed anger and the smile disappeared. He clenched the bag again. Wanda looked up at him.

      ‘Come back tomorrow, Westley,’ she said and closed the door. She turned back. ‘Or later tonight,’ she shouted from the open window.

       FIVE

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