This Thing of Darkness by Barbara Fradkin Page A

blood all over himself. His stomach still felt like the bottom of a sewer, but at least his headache was gone and his brains were back in place. If the cops came, he’d have to wing his version, admit to all the stuff he could remember that was legal—probably even cop to the joints, no big deal—then say he went straight home. Tripped on the curb and fell down on the way. He’d stick to that, say it was all he could remember. Nadif always said if you’re going to lie, best to stick as close to the truth as possible.
    Maybe Nadif wouldn’t squeal on him. Maybe the cops just wanted to talk to him about his court case, or check if he was following his bail conditions. Jeez, Omar you little dick, that’s probably it. Nothing to do with you and the blood and the hole in your memory.
    But then he saw Nadif ’s door open, and two cops came out. Plain clothes, not uniforms. Shit, what did that mean? He watched as they stood on the sidewalk looking up and down the street, before one of them pointed straight at Omar’s house, and they started this way.
    The asshole had ratted him out after all.
    Omar dropped the curtain and pressed himself against his bedroom wall, hoping to be invisible. Maybe he could hide and pretend he wasn’t there. But he had three stupid little brothers downstairs who’d be happy to show the cops the way, and a hardass father who always believed in paying the price for all the bad you’d done and then some. His father had seen the blood. Knew he’d come home at three a.m., drunk, wasted and puking his guts out. His father had barely said a word to him all weekend; the cold shoulder was his favourite father-son thing, and he’d forbidden Omar’s mother to talk to him either. Not that she did much anyway. But the old man would turn him in over a fucking marijuana joint, for chrissakes.
    He was beginning to feel that slow burn that happened every time he thought about his father, and just then the doorbell rang. Squeals of excitement from his moron brothers, a yell for silence from his father, then nothing but voices in the hall, too quiet for him to hear. Footsteps scrambling on the stairs, the bedroom door bursting open, two brothers bouncing up and down, excited because the cops were here. They were asking for him. Dad was talking to them.
    Omar clamped his hands over his brothers’ mouths. “Just wait!” he whispered. “Don’t make the cops’ job easier. Let’s see what Dad’s going to do.”
    He signalled his brothers to stay put, and he sneaked out of the room onto the landing, then edged down the first few steps of the narrow staircase. He stopped just above the stair that creaked. The voices in the hall were clear. His father didn’t yell, but his voice could crack stone it was so cold.
    â€œSorry, gentlemen,” he was saying.“I wish I could help you. I’ve raised my boys to respect the police, although Lord knows that’s hard around here sometimes. Lots of temptations and problem kids to lead a boy astray. But Omar’s not here at the moment. I sent him on an errand to the store. Lentils. My wife’s making lunch, and suddenly there are no lentils.”
    Omar heard the easy humour in his father’s voice, like one guy talking to another about the whims of women. But the cop that answered had no humour in his voice.“When will he be back?”
    â€œWell, my wife likes a particular kind of lentils, so he may have to go all the way to Vanier. On his bicycle. I told him not to come back without the lentils, so it may be an hour. What’s this about?”
    â€œCan you tell us where he was Saturday night?”
    â€œRight here, in his room.”
    â€œHe didn’t go out any time between 10 p.m. and 5 a.m.?”
    â€œHe was here doing homework, and I saw to it personally. Twenty years old and still in adult high school because he thought he’d take the scenic