Darkhouse

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Suddenly, he was behind her again, grabbing her, forcing her up against the wall, his breath smelling of onions and alcohol, his clothes reeking of fish. There was a shiny smear on his chin and crusty white corners to his mouth. She pushed his heaving drunkenness away.

‘John, go home and sober up.’

‘You were always a tough bitch, Anna … you little ride.’ She stared at him, searching his face, but she found no trace of the John she used to love.

TWO (#ulink_b7adac5b-63ff-5a5b-8cd5-e9dc1e5795fd)

Stinger’s Creek, North Central Texas, 1978

‘He won’t bite you, Duke. It’s not his beak you gotta be worried about. It’s his claws. His claws’re his weapon. ’Bout sixteen pounds’ worth of pressure he can use to tear through your skinny little arm.’ Duke looked up at his Uncle Bill, worried. Bill was smiling.

‘Solomon won’t hurt you. You’re givin’ him food. He knows who his friends are. And if he laid a claw on you, I’d shoot him dead.’

‘Don’t you dare shoot him, Uncle Bill. Don’t you dare.’

Bill chuckled, ruffling Duke’s hair. He turned to the Harris’ Hawk perched on his hand, untied the leather straps that tethered him and, with an outward sweep of his arm, released the bird upwards. They watched him land gently on a cottonwood tree high above them.

‘How ’bout you, Donnie? You wanna try it? I think Duke here’s a little scared.’

Duke’s eyes narrowed to a slit, his face hot with anger. He flew past his uncle and went straight for his best friend, Donnie, charging him to the ground.

‘Duke Rawlins is never scared,’ he hissed.

‘Jeez, Duke. Take it easy, fella. Take it easy. You OK, Donnie?’

‘Sure am, sir.’

Duke got up and dusted down his jeans, putting his hand out for the leather glove. Bill handed it to him, pulling a piece of raw meat from the satchel that hung at his side. He pressed the meat between the thumb and forefinger of the glove and went through the routine.

‘Stretch out your left arm, there, the one with the glove, and aim that shoulder at him. Then call him and wait for him to land.’

Solomon swooped down and landed on Duke’s hand, pulling with his beak at the meat until it gave way.

‘Now show him your open palm, so he don’t think you got nothin’ in it that he can eat.’ Duke held out a shaky hand to the bird.

‘Now catch a hold of the leather straps on his legs and slip them through your fingers, make sure he won’t get away.’

Duke fumbled with the straps and Solomon flapped his wings, but stayed where he was until he was secured.

‘Well done, Duke. Let him go now, just like I showed you.’ Solomon flew again.

Bill walked over to the bow perch nearby, where his second Harris’ Hawk was tied.

‘Come on, Sheba, now it’s your turn.’ He released the second bird, who landed high on another cottonwood, flicking her head from side to side.

Bill was eyeing both hawks. ‘Always checkin’ out what’s goin’ on,’ he said. ‘Always watchin’, waitin’.’

Suddenly, Solomon dived from his perch, swooping low, parting Duke and Donnie. A second flap of wings and Sheba was gone, in determined flight behind him. Bill moved after the hawks, calling to the boys to follow.

‘They’ve seen somethin’. You can tell by the way they’re flyin’.’

They arrived at an open patch of dry ground and saw a lone Bobwhite quail.

‘That’s what they have their eye on,’ said Bill. ‘That’s their quarry – whatever they’re lookin’ to kill. Like another word for prey.’

Solomon flew in low and just as he reached the quail, it scrambled desperately towards the scraggy borders of scrub along a row of mesquite trees. Then it stopped suddenly. Solomon overshot his target, too late to change his course, and was forced to land high in one of the trees ahead. But Sheba had been moving along perpendicular to the quail and before it could react, she was on it, puncturing its flesh. Solomon was down an instant later, securing the quail by its head, both hawks savaging their quarry.

‘Like Jekyll and Hyde,’ said Bill. ‘One minute they’re on top of the world lookin’ down on creation, next minute they’re tearin’ that creation apart. And helpin’ each other to do it.’ Bill nodded, proud.

Wanda Rawlins used to be the star attraction at the Amazon. Drunken, toothless men who had never been out of state swore she was better than any of those Broadway bitches, but were just glad she stayed in a backwater like Stinger’s Creek to dance for them. Ten years later, when her breasts went south, the most she had to offer was a port in a storm. Ten dollars got you a hand job, twenty dollars covered straight sex, no funny business, and for twenty-five dollars, her mouth was all yours. Everything was free for acid; you could stay the weekend if you had coke. And two minutes over one weekend was all it took for one of her loyal fans to create the burden of little Duke, now eight years old, but making her feel like a hundred.

The first time Duke walked in on his mother, he was four years old and he thought she was being strangled. Then he realised she was being strangled, but she didn’t seem to mind. A huge naked man was kneeling behind her, thrusting into her, his thick arm leaning on the wall above her head, the other fiercely gripping a pink silk scarf, twisted and pulled tight around her neck. Her face was crimson, her eyes glazed, her lids heavy. The man looked up at Duke, leering drunkenly, blissfully, continuing what he paid good money for. Duke turned around and walked out. His mother came into the kitchen minutes later, naked under her faded bathrobe. She threw Duke a look. ‘What?’ she snapped as she moved to the work-top. Then ‘Scram!’ right in his ear as she walked by with her coffee. Duke jumped with an innocence that disappeared forever when her next john came to call.

Westley Ames was a squat, rheumy-eyed, sniffly man, with an apologetic hunch. He had a mousey wife who lay down from the start to be walked over and who bore him three watery daughters. For years, he fought a battle inside, too weak to ever act out the sick fantasies that consumed him.

He picked his way slowly around the debris in Wanda Rawlins’ yard, a half-gram of coke in a neat folded square of paper in his suit pocket. ‘Howdy, Westley,’ said Wanda, leaning against the doorway, her free hand arced across her brow against the sun. She had been a pretty teenager, tanned and curvy, with a sweet smile that wrinkled the bridge of her upturned nose. Now her body was pale skin stretched across thin bones, her face sharp cheeks and empty blue eyes. Her scrawny legs curved backwards and rocked against the sides of her scuffed white ankle boots.

This was Westley’s second visit and this time he was here for the weekend. After the last encounter, Wanda thought she may just find herself bored to death before Monday came.

In a burst of head-to-toe red and blue, four-year-old Duke came running out from the side of the house. ‘Well, who do we have here?’ said Westley, his urges swelling in his chest. ‘You must be Superman! Aren’t you the handsomest little fella?’ He smiled. Duke stared up at him and moved behind his mother’s leg. Westley looked at Wanda and the panic dancing in her eyes. Then he focused on her dilated pupils. He turned back to Duke. ‘Let me talk to your mama a while.’

Wanda Rawlins was alone in the kitchen, radio blaring, singing along to Tony Orlando and Dawn. Beside the unfolded square of paper on the counter top, she bent low to take in her treasured lines, choosing to ignore the raw, agonising screams from the bedroom.

Two weeks later, when Duke was walking through the schoolyard, he saw the stooped form of Westley Ames at the front gate, a startling silhouette against the bright sun. He began to shake violently. His stomach flipped, then lurched and he threw up all over his trainers.

‘Hah! Pukey Dukey!’ said Ashley Ames as she skipped past him and ran ahead, jumping into her daddy’s arms.

Duke walked back from his Uncle Bill’s with a smile on his face. He had never seen the hawks before, let alone held them. He loved hanging out with Uncle Bill. No-one got hurt at Uncle Bill’s house. Except that poor quail. Bam! Bam! Dead! He could think of a few people he’d like to do that to. And as he turned the corner up to his house, one of them was standing there, waiting for him, combing back his thin brown hair with taut fingers. He was in his early thirties with a soft, boyish face. He took everything in, his blue eyes sliding back and forth across the yard behind black lenses. Everything else was still. His hands were firm on his hips, his feet rooted in polished black shoes, his shirt and pants neat and close-fitting. Duke stopped and cocked his head to one side to watch him. He shivered. This guy was a total freak.

Duke called him Boo-hoo – during his first visits, he always tried to stop his tears. Only the name remained. The tears had dried up long ago.