Free Darkhouse by Alex Barclay

elbowsagainst the back of the chair, his movements loose.
    Joe arrived in and walked up to the bar.
    ‘Hey, Joe,’ said Ed. ‘How’re things, how’s the woman herself?’
    ‘Things are good. Anna’s run into a few problems with the lighthouse, but you know her—’
    ‘Now, here’s a man,’ said John, gesturing wildly, ‘who has it all.’
    Joe stared at him. John thrust an arm his way.
    ‘John Miller,’ he said.
    ‘Joe Lucchesi.’
    ‘I know who you are, all right,’ said John, ‘Anna’s husband. Shaun’s father…’
    ‘You in local intelligence?’ said Joe, smiling briefly.
    ‘Once you’re a local, you’re in,’ said John.
    ‘Really?’ said Joe tightly, trying to get Ed’s attention again.
    ‘I’m only messin’ with you,’ said John.
    ‘Sure,’ said Joe.
    ‘Don’t be gettin’ funny on me now,’ said John, pushing lightly against Joe’s chest.
    ‘Let me get you a drink,’ said Joe. ‘Ed, a Guinness for me and a Jameson for Mr Miller here.’
    ‘Keep your fucking money,’ slurred John. ‘Keep your fucking wife and your son and your lighthouse and your perfect—’
    ‘Whoa, buddy…’ said Joe.
    ‘Do you hear this shit?’ said John.
    Ed put Joe’s pint on the bar and turned to John.
    ‘That’s enough now. Maybe you should take a walk out to the jacks, get a bit of air in your lungs.’
    John snorted, but got up and left.
    ‘Don’t mind him,’ said Ed. ‘His wife left him, he can’t see his kids. They’re at the other side of the world, he’s pretty cut up about it.’
    ‘No shit,’ said Joe. ‘But I wasn’t the one who changed the locks.’ He smiled and headed for the snug. He watched John Miller lose his footing on the stool when he came back from the mensroom. His eyes were buggy and shot off in opposite directions like a fly. Joe was smiling to himself when Ray and Hugh walked in to join him.
    ‘What are you so happy about?’ asked Hugh.
    ‘I was just looking at wino-man over there with his bug eyes and it reminded me of this fruit fly experiment. It was for some research on alcoholism, because fruit flies live on fermented fruit and even though they can still go hyper or pass out like we do, they never get addicted.’
    ‘Can people sign up for those experiments?’ asked Hugh. ‘I’d say they’d give you a rake of pints.’
    Frank Deegan sat by the door of Danaher’s watching his wife, Nora. Gruff, opinionated, fiercely intelligent Nora. She had a brandy in her hand and an imaginary cigarette between twobony fingers. She was ranting at her friend Kitty about an artist who had hung up on her when she asked him would he show his work at the gallery she was planning for the village.
    ‘The little shit,’ she said, then looking at Frank, ‘excuse my language. Trying to cultivate this image of himself as some unpredictable genius. When he’s just a reasonably talented, broke, borderline-alcoholic, shoeless, dwarf. And – predictably – he called me back and said he’d do it. And I know it’s because he needs the money. Possibly for sandals and a smock.’
    Frank and Kitty laughed. Nora knocked back the last of her drink, her short, blunt strawberry blond hair swishing across her high cheekbones.
    ‘Brandy, sarge,’ she said, handing out her glass, winking at her husband.
    ‘Back at the house,’ he said. ‘Look at the time.’ It was eleven-thirty, unstrictly closing time.
    Nora glanced at Kitty. ‘Sorry,’ she said, ‘it’s never pleasant.’
    Frank stood, not quite reaching his slender wife’s five feet eight. He ran a hand through his thick grey hair, smoothed down his dark green golf sweater and stretched his arms out by his side. Nora had seen him perform the same routine for forty years. He caught her watching him and he winked.
    Ray, Joe and Hugh were leaving at the same time and stopped in front of him.
    ‘Uh-oh,’ said Ray, putting an imaginary bullhorn up to his mouth. ‘People, step away from your glasses. Please put down