Even the Dead by Benjamin Black

he? Medical, or some other kind? He had a hospital air about him, but there was something else, too, something of the dark.
    “Could we step inside for a minute, do you think?” Hackett said. “We need to have a word.”
    The landing where they stood smelled of bad air and fried food, and of the communal lavatory down on the ground floor.
    “What exactly is it you want a word about?” Sam asked.
    “It’s a delicate matter,” the detective answered gently. He was holding his hat in front of him, turning the brim in his fingers.
    Corless deliberated for a moment, then stood back, opening the door wide. The two stepped past him, and he shut the door and led the way into the tiny living room. There was a sofa and an armchair, and a folding table with the leaves down. A big wireless stood on a smaller table by the window. The lino in places was worn through to the floorboards. In one corner stood a sink and a draining board and a black iron gas stove. Everywhere there were books—on shelves, on the table, on top of the wireless, stacked on the floor. In the cramped space the three men stood awkwardly, hearing each other breathe.
    “Your son is named Leon, is that right, Mr. Corless?” Hackett said.
    Corless was silent for a moment. This wasn’t what he had expected. A shimmering chill passed across his shoulder blades.
    “That’s right,” he said. “Why?”
    Hackett was still fiddling with his hat.
    “I’m afraid there’s bad news,” he said. “Very bad news.”
    Corless’s mouth went dry, as if it had suddenly filled with dust. He waited. The other one, the doctor, was watching him steadily, out of an odd, deep stillness.
    “Your son,” the detective said, “was involved in an accident, a car accident, in the Phoenix Park, in the early hours of this morning. I’m sorry to have to tell you, but he’s dead.”
    At once Corless saw waves, the sea with the sun on it, a blinding glare, and a small figure coming towards him, carrying something. What was it? A crab, its legs waving, one claw opened wide and the other vainly snapping. Look, Da, look what I caught! The detective was saying something else, but Corless couldn’t make out the words. There was a sort of blaring in his ears. He stepped past the detective and strode to the sink and picked up a mug from the draining board and filled it at the tap and drank, and filled it again, and drank again. His thirst seemed unslakable.
    The detective was asking him a question.
    But why had they sent a detective? Usually they gave this kind of job to some poor rookie on the beat. And why the doctor?
    He turned to Hackett, the mug still in his hand. “What? I’m sorry, I didn’t hear what you said.”
    “I was asking, when was the last time you saw him, your son?”
    Corless put a hand to his forehead. He was a short, muscular man, with a bus driver’s broad chest and tight-packed shoulders. His black hair was oiled and combed in a sideways slick. He wore cheap glasses with transparent frames, the left earpiece held in place with a wad of sticking plaster. He was in his late forties, maybe fifty. Quirke watched him. Quirke in his own life had known this moment and how it felt, knew that sudden, raw, tearing sensation in the chest, knew the dry mouth, the wet palms, the breathlessness. “You should sit down, Mr. Corless,” he said. “Here, I’ll move these books from the chair.”
    He put the books on the floor and Corless sat down, very slowly, gingerly, as if he thought the chair might collapse under him.
    “Thank you,” he said.
    Corless felt shaky and infirm. His heart was racing. He saw the sun shining in the window and was amazed. How could the sun be shining? It should be night, it should be night and darkness and deepest winter. It should be the last night of the end of the world. He braced his hands on his knees. He called silently to his dead wife, saying her name in his head, saying it over and over.
    The detective was speaking to him again,