lackeen,’ he said.
‘Y’ain’t found one,’ she said.
He spoke of the taint that was on the town. He spoke often of premonition. He said it came to him as a cold quiver at the base of the spine. He said that it came in the hour before dawn. He said if he stayed in the creation, he’d come to a bad end sure enough. He said there was no gainsaying that. He said he had the feeling – he said it was in the blood.
‘Sounds to me like a rez boy gettin’ spooked,’ she said, and she traced the tips of her fingers along the creases of his hunched neck.
‘I got a feel for these things,’ he said.
The Bohane river blackly ran. They fell into its spell. It became official in the Trace that summer that Macu from the Aliados was the Gant Broderick’s clutch. He told her that he loved her and that his love caused the fear inside to amplify.
‘Before was like I ain’t had so much to lose,’ he said.
‘Y’breakin’ me fuckin’ heart, pike,’ she said.
‘Don’t want to miss seein’ what you turn into,’ he said.
He said that already they were conspiring against him in the Fancy. He said he was watchful of more than one.
‘Like who?’
‘Like the skinny boy. You know who.’
He talked about leaving the peninsula behind. He asked her to come with him.
‘But go where , G?’
‘Maybe … Go across over?’
‘That fuckin’ scudhole?’
‘I won’t go without you, girl.’
‘I dunno, G …’
‘I could set us up, girl. You could follow me over …’
In the New Town, at the hour of the paseo, she looked carefully over her shoulder – sketch? – and it was clear: she had not been followed by a Fancy scout today. She turned into the quietest of the Endeavour Avenue cafes. Ol’ Boy Mannion waited for her there on a high stool. He smiled but she did not answer the smile.
‘What’s this about, Ol’ Boy?’
‘I’d say you know or you wouldn’t be here.’
‘I won’t see him, Ol’ Boy.’
He passed across the letter.
‘Just read what he’s written to you, Macu.’
8
Night on Nothin’
Midnight.
Big Nothin’.
A trailer home.
And Jenni Ching was butt-naked on the sofa bed.
The trailer was a double-wide aluminium, twenty-two-foot long, and it contained the fold-out bed, a pot-belly stove, an odour of intense sadness, a set of creaking floorboards, and the Gant Broderick. The Gant also was naked, and he was straining, with his eyes tightly shut, to recall the darkest of all his dark times – this so as not to come.
Hardwind was up, and it raged across the bog outside, and it made speeches in the stove’s flue; threats, it sounded like, in a spooky, hollowed-out voice: an eerie song for the Gant as he grimly thrusted.
Jenni Ching was on her hands and knees, with her slender rump in the air, and a brass herb-pipe clamped in her gob. She cast over her shoulder a bored glance at the Gant. He looked as if his heart might at any moment explode. His face was purpled, blotched, sweaty.
‘If y’wanna take five,’ she said, ‘jus’ holler.’
The mocking tone was too much for him, was too delicious, and the Gant spent himself. He fell onto his back and was ashamed then. His heart was a rabid pit bull loose inside his chest.
Jenni Ching consulted the wall clock.
‘Three minutes even,’ she said. ‘You’re comin’ on, kid.’
She turned and sat back against the sofa bed’s headrest. She drew her legs up about her. She relit her herb-pipe, sucked on it deep, and blew a greenish smoke. The Gant risked an eye at her. She smiled at him, so feline.
‘This what it feel like?’ she said.
‘What?’
‘Love.’
‘Sarky for your age, girl.’
She placed her tiny feet on his wheezing chest. He laid his hand across her feet and it covered them entirely. She wriggled her toes, the ten, taunting tips of them. Sighed.
‘So what’s the script with Ganty-boy?’ she said. ‘An’ no more bollick-talk about settlin’ in the countryside an’ growin’ cabbages.’
‘Why
‘Y’ain’t found one,’ she said.
He spoke of the taint that was on the town. He spoke often of premonition. He said it came to him as a cold quiver at the base of the spine. He said that it came in the hour before dawn. He said if he stayed in the creation, he’d come to a bad end sure enough. He said there was no gainsaying that. He said he had the feeling – he said it was in the blood.
‘Sounds to me like a rez boy gettin’ spooked,’ she said, and she traced the tips of her fingers along the creases of his hunched neck.
‘I got a feel for these things,’ he said.
The Bohane river blackly ran. They fell into its spell. It became official in the Trace that summer that Macu from the Aliados was the Gant Broderick’s clutch. He told her that he loved her and that his love caused the fear inside to amplify.
‘Before was like I ain’t had so much to lose,’ he said.
‘Y’breakin’ me fuckin’ heart, pike,’ she said.
‘Don’t want to miss seein’ what you turn into,’ he said.
He said that already they were conspiring against him in the Fancy. He said he was watchful of more than one.
‘Like who?’
‘Like the skinny boy. You know who.’
He talked about leaving the peninsula behind. He asked her to come with him.
‘But go where , G?’
‘Maybe … Go across over?’
‘That fuckin’ scudhole?’
‘I won’t go without you, girl.’
‘I dunno, G …’
‘I could set us up, girl. You could follow me over …’
In the New Town, at the hour of the paseo, she looked carefully over her shoulder – sketch? – and it was clear: she had not been followed by a Fancy scout today. She turned into the quietest of the Endeavour Avenue cafes. Ol’ Boy Mannion waited for her there on a high stool. He smiled but she did not answer the smile.
‘What’s this about, Ol’ Boy?’
‘I’d say you know or you wouldn’t be here.’
‘I won’t see him, Ol’ Boy.’
He passed across the letter.
‘Just read what he’s written to you, Macu.’
8
Night on Nothin’
Midnight.
Big Nothin’.
A trailer home.
And Jenni Ching was butt-naked on the sofa bed.
The trailer was a double-wide aluminium, twenty-two-foot long, and it contained the fold-out bed, a pot-belly stove, an odour of intense sadness, a set of creaking floorboards, and the Gant Broderick. The Gant also was naked, and he was straining, with his eyes tightly shut, to recall the darkest of all his dark times – this so as not to come.
Hardwind was up, and it raged across the bog outside, and it made speeches in the stove’s flue; threats, it sounded like, in a spooky, hollowed-out voice: an eerie song for the Gant as he grimly thrusted.
Jenni Ching was on her hands and knees, with her slender rump in the air, and a brass herb-pipe clamped in her gob. She cast over her shoulder a bored glance at the Gant. He looked as if his heart might at any moment explode. His face was purpled, blotched, sweaty.
‘If y’wanna take five,’ she said, ‘jus’ holler.’
The mocking tone was too much for him, was too delicious, and the Gant spent himself. He fell onto his back and was ashamed then. His heart was a rabid pit bull loose inside his chest.
Jenni Ching consulted the wall clock.
‘Three minutes even,’ she said. ‘You’re comin’ on, kid.’
She turned and sat back against the sofa bed’s headrest. She drew her legs up about her. She relit her herb-pipe, sucked on it deep, and blew a greenish smoke. The Gant risked an eye at her. She smiled at him, so feline.
‘This what it feel like?’ she said.
‘What?’
‘Love.’
‘Sarky for your age, girl.’
She placed her tiny feet on his wheezing chest. He laid his hand across her feet and it covered them entirely. She wriggled her toes, the ten, taunting tips of them. Sighed.
‘So what’s the script with Ganty-boy?’ she said. ‘An’ no more bollick-talk about settlin’ in the countryside an’ growin’ cabbages.’
‘Why
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