Free White Light by Mark O'Flynn Page B

mug. He pours. The tea is still warm.
    â€˜Thermos Island,’ he says, and it’s just the two of us once more.

BRIDIE
    B y 9:30 most weeknights, Dean hoped to be warmly ensconced in his bed. Most nights he was. Dean was not the spring chicken he used to be. A sweet dream was forming in the depths of his grey matter, when it was rudely interrupted (at 11:03!) by a tentative knock, like the tapping of the dog’s tail on the floor. Dean stumbled from the bedroom, knotting the cord in his pyjamas. The conscious, but slightly frazzled part of his mind knew he should look through the peep hole or at least call out but he didn’t. Home invaders wouldn’t knock so timidly, would they? He pulled the door open to the night’s cold lung and there, beneath his line of vision, stood Bridie.
    Bridie was the kid from down the road. She was younger than Dean’s daughter Grace (who was at that moment fast asleep) and was known in the neighbourhood as something of a feral child. Words to that effect. Her hair unbrushed and awry, she was dressed only in her school tunic.
    â€˜I’ve been waiting at home,’ she began, ‘and my mum hasn’t come back yet.’
    Dean blinked. He did not immediately have a response to this information. What mum? He was in two minds about Bridie. The sort of kid who always had scabbed knees and liked to play in gutters. Dean remembered that once she’d brought her pet albino rat to show Grace, only she had dropped it on the floor and a bit of its tail had fallen off.
    â€˜You’d better come in,’ Dean said, who had once enjoyed playing in gutters, picking his scabs—all a long time ago. Bridie entered. Everyone else was asleep.
    â€˜Aren’t you cold, Bridie?’
    â€˜No, I never get cold.’
    â€˜When is your mum coming back?’
    â€˜In about an hour.’
    Bridie looked around and Dean tried not to wonder if she might be casing the joint.
    â€˜Right. So you’ve spoken to her?’
    â€˜No.’
    â€˜She left you a message?’
    â€˜Deano, who is it?’ Shona’s sleepy voice mumbled from the bedroom. He secretly hated her calling him Deano. Dean went to her, bundled beneath the blankets. The light bulb set Shona squinting.
    â€˜It’s Bridie. Her mum’s not home.’
    â€˜I’ll make up a bed for her.’
    Shona did not move, other than to raise her head a little.
    â€˜No. It’s all right, she’s coming back. I’ll go and wait with her.’
    â€˜Good. Thanks, Deano.’
    Shona let her head fall back on the pillow. Dean contemplated leaving the light on. His secret hates were starting to outnumber his public ones.
    Outside, the night was freezing. Fog huffed from their mouths as if they were smoking. The dog did not want to come with them. After a few steps, Dean began to feel decidedly uncomfortable being outside at this time of night in his dressing gown. Wind whipped at his ankles, making his pyjama pants flap like flags. In the trees possums worried him.
    â€˜Are you sure you’re not cold, Bridie? I am.’
    â€˜I never get cold.’
    The kid was perfectly calm and self-contained. She strolled along at his side. Dean told her that she had done the right thing coming to get help instead of sitting at home by herself.
    She agreed.
    â€˜When did you last see your mum?’
    â€˜This morning.’
    â€˜How do you know she’ll be back in an hour?’
    â€˜She always comes back.’
    He recalled seeing the mother with her dreadlocks walking into town. She never drove. No, it could not rightly be called walking; Dean thought the term must be trucking. Perhaps wandering was best, aimlessly or purposefully, it didn’t matter, Dean identified with it. Yet, he freely admitted, he didn’t know the woman from a bar of soap.
    Bridie lived six or seven houses down the street, but there were no other local kids, so it was natural that she should