passenger’s side was open, no one inside. He roared out
Hello!
The river roared back. He hauled and slipped his way up the small embankment in front of the car and looked onto the bloated, fast-flowing water of the river. He couldn’t see farther than a few feet downstream. He tried cutting through the brush. Too thick. He went back to the car, saw the keys dangling from the ignition. He walked away, thought about the young boys and their nighttime drinking parties just over the way, and backstepped, taking the keys and pocketing them. Couldn’t trust them little bastards. He headed back across the clearing and onto the swamped, grassy road, coming out beside Kate’s. Her car was still gone. He started towards Bottom Hill, paused—her blind was partly open. He could have sworn it was closed earlier. He yelled out her name.
Silence. A flock of gulls rose with a cacophony of squawks above the river. He took the scuffed path from Kate’s door, went up to the riverbank, and stood looking upstream. The gulls were spooling, squawking. Seized with a sense of urgency, he ran towards the old ruins and climbed on top of a concrete ledge. Holding on to a twisted length of rusted rebar, he leaned as far as he could over the ledge, seeing farther upriver. As if to an unseen call, the gulls floated back down to where they’d been resting a minute before. The river flowed deep, darkened by the evening light. He shivered in the sudden damp and leaped off the concrete block, starting backto the road. Kate’s blind was still half opened and he swore to Christ he was being watched.
What the hell, not my business,
he told himself and started up Bottom Hill, walking fast. Cresting the top, he looked down upon Hampden. A thick fog was creeping over the darkening sea. It crept over the wharf and through the backyards and, lifting a grey tentacle, wrapped itself around a yellow light flaring through a window in Bonnie Gillard’s sister’s house. The light twinkled and then blackened like a dying star.
He cut away from Bottom Hill onto a twisted dirt road flanked by brush. It was getting dark now. The one streetlight had been rock-smashed years ago by mischief makers and he kept himself tethered to the road by the faint glow of the barroom lights creeping through the brush. A low rumble of voices floated towards him as he neared. Loud whispers. Giggles. The ones not yet old enough to get inside the bar. They plied him for smokes, booze, or whatever and he shucked one of them a dollar bill. Inside the smoky cavern of the bar a crowd was growing, shoving tables together and arguing good-naturedly with razzing neighbours. A bunch of old-timers hunched around their regular table nearest the door, playing spades through the thick haze of their home-rolled smokes. On the bandstand at the back of the bar, a scrawny kid with an electric guitar was testing his mike while the other band member—his uncle—balanced a bass on his knee and fiddled with the dials on an amp. An old sod hyped with drink was waltzing himself around the dance floor to Waylon Jennings pining “Why Baby Why” from the jukebox. Nearest the dance floor was a table of Verges, Bonnie’s clan. Big hair, big dark eyes. Pick out a Verge anywhere. He was about to approach them when the eldest sister, Marlene, came through the door from the women’s can, scrunching her hair behind her ears and laughing at the old sod waltzing his way towards her.
“Hey!” Kyle slid along the bar towards her, pulling Bonnie’s keys from his pocket.
“Hay’s for horses, Sweetie.” She took the old timer’s hand and swirled away with him across the dance floor and Kyle let the keys slide back in his pocket.
“Here you go, bud.” The bartender slid a whisky and ginger his way. He drank it back and held out his glass for a refill. His buddy Hooker, hair razored to his skull, had spotted him from the back of the bar and was coming towards him. Looked like he was going to church in his
Hello!
The river roared back. He hauled and slipped his way up the small embankment in front of the car and looked onto the bloated, fast-flowing water of the river. He couldn’t see farther than a few feet downstream. He tried cutting through the brush. Too thick. He went back to the car, saw the keys dangling from the ignition. He walked away, thought about the young boys and their nighttime drinking parties just over the way, and backstepped, taking the keys and pocketing them. Couldn’t trust them little bastards. He headed back across the clearing and onto the swamped, grassy road, coming out beside Kate’s. Her car was still gone. He started towards Bottom Hill, paused—her blind was partly open. He could have sworn it was closed earlier. He yelled out her name.
Silence. A flock of gulls rose with a cacophony of squawks above the river. He took the scuffed path from Kate’s door, went up to the riverbank, and stood looking upstream. The gulls were spooling, squawking. Seized with a sense of urgency, he ran towards the old ruins and climbed on top of a concrete ledge. Holding on to a twisted length of rusted rebar, he leaned as far as he could over the ledge, seeing farther upriver. As if to an unseen call, the gulls floated back down to where they’d been resting a minute before. The river flowed deep, darkened by the evening light. He shivered in the sudden damp and leaped off the concrete block, starting backto the road. Kate’s blind was still half opened and he swore to Christ he was being watched.
What the hell, not my business,
he told himself and started up Bottom Hill, walking fast. Cresting the top, he looked down upon Hampden. A thick fog was creeping over the darkening sea. It crept over the wharf and through the backyards and, lifting a grey tentacle, wrapped itself around a yellow light flaring through a window in Bonnie Gillard’s sister’s house. The light twinkled and then blackened like a dying star.
He cut away from Bottom Hill onto a twisted dirt road flanked by brush. It was getting dark now. The one streetlight had been rock-smashed years ago by mischief makers and he kept himself tethered to the road by the faint glow of the barroom lights creeping through the brush. A low rumble of voices floated towards him as he neared. Loud whispers. Giggles. The ones not yet old enough to get inside the bar. They plied him for smokes, booze, or whatever and he shucked one of them a dollar bill. Inside the smoky cavern of the bar a crowd was growing, shoving tables together and arguing good-naturedly with razzing neighbours. A bunch of old-timers hunched around their regular table nearest the door, playing spades through the thick haze of their home-rolled smokes. On the bandstand at the back of the bar, a scrawny kid with an electric guitar was testing his mike while the other band member—his uncle—balanced a bass on his knee and fiddled with the dials on an amp. An old sod hyped with drink was waltzing himself around the dance floor to Waylon Jennings pining “Why Baby Why” from the jukebox. Nearest the dance floor was a table of Verges, Bonnie’s clan. Big hair, big dark eyes. Pick out a Verge anywhere. He was about to approach them when the eldest sister, Marlene, came through the door from the women’s can, scrunching her hair behind her ears and laughing at the old sod waltzing his way towards her.
“Hey!” Kyle slid along the bar towards her, pulling Bonnie’s keys from his pocket.
“Hay’s for horses, Sweetie.” She took the old timer’s hand and swirled away with him across the dance floor and Kyle let the keys slide back in his pocket.
“Here you go, bud.” The bartender slid a whisky and ginger his way. He drank it back and held out his glass for a refill. His buddy Hooker, hair razored to his skull, had spotted him from the back of the bar and was coming towards him. Looked like he was going to church in his
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