Free The Wreckage by Michael Crummey Page A

again.
    “You go on,” she told him. “I’ll be right in.”
    She came across the uneven ground toward them, a hand over her brow like she was shading away sunlight. Clive squeezed Wish’s elbow. “You be a gentleman now,” he whispered. “For Aubrey’s sake.” He stepped away into the dark.
    “Clive?” she said as she came closer.
    “Hello, Mercedes.”
    She stopped, still ten feet from him.
    “I’m sorry for your troubles,” he said.
    “Where’s Clive?” She walked closer to him and he could just make out her features in the dark.
    “How is your mother holding up?”
    She said, “You were going to go off to St. John’s without saying goodbye, weren’t you.”
    “I didn’t,” he said. “In the end.”
    “Hardy said you were with them when they found young Will.”
    “I was along with Clive. The youngster was some mess when they—” He stopped himself. He could hear Mercedes draw a breath.
    “Has everyone given Father up, then?” she asked.
    He could see she’d started to cry though she didn’t make a sound. He felt his cock begin to harden, inexplicably, and he tipped his head back to stare up at the constellations. “Jesus, Mercedes,” he whispered.
    She moved into him and put her arms around his back and they held one another. And just as inexplicably the urge drained away from him.
    “I like how you say that,” she said when she’d recovered herself.
    “Say what?”
    “My name.”
    “Mercedes,” he said again. There was something illicit in using the mother’s name for the girl, making it their own. A private thing between them, a stolen intimacy.
    She said, “You smell nice.”
    He looked down at her, surprised. “It’s just soap, Mercedes.”
    “No. I can smell the soap. It’s something else altogether.”
    “What is it, then?”
    “It’s you. Cinnamon. Moss. I can’t say exactly.”
    He had no idea what she was going on about but his scalp prickled and a queer sensation of vertigo came over him. The world seemed to be moving too quickly for him to keep his feet.
    The door opened behind them and the dull rectangle of light fell across the ground. Agnes stepped over the doorsill. “Sadie,” she called quietly.
    She stepped away from Wish. “I’ll be right there.”
    Agnes came toward them, her head ducking against the darkness. “Mrs. Slade is asking after you.”
    “I’m coming.” She looked up at Wish and whispered, “Are you coming back in?”
    “I don’t think I better.” He saw Hardy step out behind his sister.
    “Sadie,” Hardy said sharply.
    “Oh for the love of God,” she said. “I’ll be there directly.”
    Agnes was beside them and she said, “What are you doing out here with him?”
    “Who is it you’re talking to?” Hardy said. He hadn’t moved beyond the patch of light from the door.
    “I’m coming,” she said. “Go on, Agnes,” she told her sister. “Go on.” She began walking backwards toward the house. “Can you meet me tomorrow?” she whispered to him.
    “Where?”
    “The Spell Rock. After the boats go out.”
    “Yes,” he said.
    He watched her shoo her brother and sister into the house. She looked back into the yard where she knew he was still standing in the dark and waved before closing the door behind her.
    Just after sunrise he left the boarding house and went across to the Spell Rock, where he watched the fishermen leave the harbour. A low fog rolled over the hills from Gooseberry Cove and settled thick on the land and the water, and he lost sight of the boats before they’d made open seas. He sat beside the pink granite stone and hauled his coat tight against the chill of the fog. Eventually he drifted asleep.
    He dreamt of the dead boy sitting up in his coffin at the wake. The youngster was eyeless and mouthless and held a glass of syrup, he lifted a salt-white hand to greet mourners as they entered the room. His entire body seemed to be constantly in motion, a slow undulation, as if he was still trapped