Free The Wreckage by Michael Crummey

out of the garden. Don’t know why. They always had plenty of rhubarb over at Slade’s.” He spat into the wake of the boat. “Always sweeter if it don’t belong to you, I guess.” And he smiled across at Wish, his teeth the colour of dried peat.
    After his supper he went up to his room and stripped down to his undershirt. He filled the basin and scrubbed his face and neck and his arms up to the elbows. He wet his hair enough to comb it flat and buffed at his shoes with a rag. He put on his one clean shirt and buttoned it to the neck. Then he walked across to the Slade house where the boy was being waked.
    The back kitchen was busy with people, though strangely hushed. Willard Slade got up from his seat and came across to greet him. “Appreciate you coming along,” he said. He introduced Wish around to the few people he hadn’t already met—Willard waved into the pantry, “The wife and Ruthie,” he said, but neither woman looked at them—and then brought him in through to the parlour. Clive was standing near the window and he raised his glass to Wish.
    The plain wood coffin was against the far wall, set on two chairs at opposite ends. The casket was closed and the room smelled of camphor and lime. Wish ran his fingers across the top of the coffin briefly, as he’d run them across the gunnel of the trap skiff several nights before. Both made by the same hand more than likely. He crossed himself as he stepped back and became immediately aware of being watched by everyone in the room. Mrs. Slade came up behind him with a glass of syrup and a tray of fruitcake.
    “Thank you, missus,” he said. “I’m sorry for your troubles.”
    She seemed to look through him and made no response except to wave the fruitcake at him until he took a piece. Then she went back out to the kitchen.
    Wish took a mouthful of the syrup. It was thick and sickly sweet. Everyone in the house was stone sober. Clive came across the room and stood beside him.
    “This is it, is it?” Wish whispered.
    “Not what you’re used to, I imagine.” He had shaved off the grizzle of beard and his face looked misshapen without the plug of tobacco under his lip. “There’s a flask handed around outside now and then, if you need a drop to get you through.”
    Wish lifted his glass again and smelled the syrup but didn’t taste it. “I only wanted to pay my respects,” he said. “I think I should be on my way.”
    “She haven’t been along yet,” Clive told him. “If that’s what you’re wondering.”
    Wish nodded sheepishly. “Have you got the flask on you, Clive?”
    They set their glasses on a sideboard and went back out through the kitchen.
    “On your way already?” Willard said.
    “Taking the young fellow out for a smoke,” Clive told him. Before he closed the door he leaned back into the kitchen. “Bloody Catholics, hey?”
    They went out into the dark of the yard and Clive took the flask from an inside pocket. He passed it along and Wish swallowed a mouthful before he knew what he was getting himself into. Potato shine, gut-rot and raw. It cut his wind going down and the vapours sifted up through his head like some miracle cure for congested sinuses. He held the flask at arm’s length as if trying to fend it off. He shook his head violently and straightened up. He passed the flask back to Clive. “Fine stuff,” he said.
    They heard footsteps coming up the lane and fell silent as the new visitors came around the side of the house. It was a clear night and Wish could see their silhouettes against the horizon, but it wasn’t till the door opened that he saw her in the spill of light from inside. Hardy was with her, and Agnes.
    Clive tapped Wish’s arm with his forefinger. He called to the girl and she stopped on the doorsill, looking over her shoulder into the darkness. “Come over a second,” he said.
    “Who’s that?” she said. “Clive?”
    “Come here, I wants to talk to you.”
    Hardy appeared in the doorway