Free Long Lankin: Stories by John Banville Page B

without a word, his head bent.
    The old woman was indeed angry with them.
    —I warned you before you went, she said, and glared at them from her chair beside the stove. I warned you. Well now you can just hop it off to bed for yourselves. Go on.
    —But what about our supper, Tantey?
    —You’ll have no supper tonight. Get on now.
    —I’m tired, anyway, the girl said carelessly when they were climbing the stairs.
    By the window on the first landing the boy stopped and looked out over the countryside down to the sea. The sun was setting blood-red over the bay. He stood and watched it until it fell into the sea. When it was long gone he heard the girl’s voice calling plaintively from above.
    —Where are you? Where are you?
    He climbed to her room and stood at the end of the bed, looking down at her.
    —I have a pain, she said, as she twisted fitfully among the rumpled sheets, her legs thrown wide, her hand clutching her stomach. He leaned his hands on the metal bedpost and watched her. As she twisted and turned she glanced at him now and then through half-closed eyes. After a moment he looked away from her, and with his lips pursed he considered the ceiling.
    —Do you want to know something? he asked.
    —What? O my stomach.
    —You know that fellow today? The one that shouted at us on the hill? Do you know who he was?
    She was quiet now. She lay on her back and stared at him, her eyes glittering.
    —No. Who was he?
    —He was the other fellow. The one that got drowned. That was him.
    He turned to go and she leaped forward and clutched his hand.
    —Don’t leave me, she begged, her eyes wide. I’m frightened. You can sleep here. Look, here, you can sleep here with me. Please.
    He took his hand from hers and went to the door.
    —All right, the girl cried. Go on, then. I don’t want you. You didn’t need to be coaxed last night. Did you, mister? Ha ha. Mister.
    He left the room and closed the door quietly behind him. Strange shapes before him in the shadows of the stairs. For a while he walked about the house, treading carefully on the ancient boards. All was quiet but for the small sounds of his sister’s weeping. On the top landing a black, square thing lay precariously balanced on the banister. Tantey’s missal. As he passed he casually pushed it over the edge. The heavy book tumbled down the stairs, its pages fluttering.
    He went into the bathroom and locked the door. On the handbasin he knelt and pushed open the small window of frosted glass set high in the wall. Darkness was approaching. Black clouds, their edges touched with red, were gathering out over the sea, and shadows were lowering on the ugly waters. A cold damp breath touched his face. In the distance a long peal of thunder rumbled. He closed the window and climbed down from the basin. He scrubbed his hands and dried them carefully, finger by finger. For a moment he was still, listening. No sounds. Then he went and stood before the mirror and gazed into it at his face for a long time.

Island
     
    He sat in the garden under the olive tree, looking past the headland toward Delos, the holy island, where it trembled on the mist. In the night the fierce wind had died, and today the sea was calm. He lit a cigarette, and the blue threads of smoke curled away into the burnished leaves above him. Cicadas sang about the scorched fields, and now and then there came the plop of a pomegranate bursting in the sun. The day would be hot.
    Anna came from the cottage, a wooden tray in her hands. He watched her idly as she laid the table of rough olive wood before him, two cups, bread and white butter, grapes. She would not look at him, and her mouth was set in a tight line. From the taverna below the hill came faintly the gobbling of the turkeys. With his eyes on the road he said:
    —Ever think that those birds can talk? Listen to them. You haven’t you haven’t you haven’t . That’s what they say.
    She did not answer, and he glanced at her.
    —Are you still