“I’ve something for you.” Billy moved to the cabinet and removed the two manila folders. He handed Ronin a wad of flyers for his diet and the march, explaining.
“John mentioned it, all right,” Ronin said, seeming a bit bewildered.
“I’m sure he did,” Billy said darkly.
“I’ll leave you to it,” Tricia said, and moved up the hall.
“You’ll help me spread word, then?” Billy asked. “It would mean a lot.”
“Yeah, no bother.”
Billy walked Ronin out the back door and over to his motorbike, a gleaming black beauty of a Honda 750. “Tricia was so worried when you got the bike, afraid you and Michael would get yourselves killed, racing over the roads.”
Ronin laughed weakly. “She should have known he was no daredevil.”
Billy winced. It came to him just how long and deep it had troubled him that Michael was so fearful. Fathers were supposed to make their children feel safe. Supposed to teach their children how to be brave. He looked over his shoulder at the back door and again at Ronin. “Between you and me, is there anything you’re not saying, in front of Tricia, like? Anything you think would be too much for us to hear? Because we’d prefer to know the truth, whatever it is.”
Ronin scraped at the gravel with his boot. “You know yourself the way. There’s no story and every story going round. I’ve heard everything from he was destroyed with gambling debts to he owed money to a Romanian drug ring. I believe those stories about as much as I believe I’m black.” He kicked at the gravel, scattering stones and dirt. “The only person with the answers is Michael. He didn’t talk to me before, and he can’t talk to me now. Something in him snapped, that’s how I see it.” He pulled on his helmet.
Beyond Ronin’s grief, Billy heard the lad’s hurt and anger. He understood how the boy would feel betrayed. Abandoned. A cold feeling came over Billy’s lungs, as if someone had cut away the front panel of his chest. He pushed his hand into his pocket and curled his fingers around the toy soldier. “He thought of you like a brother, you know that, don’t you?”
“Thanks,” Ronin said.
“Are you doing all right?” Billy asked.
“I’ll get there.” Ronin’s voice sounded muffled, and not just from his helmet.
“We’ll see you long before the inquest, I’m sure?” Billy asked.
“Yeah, for sure,” Ronin said.
Beyond Ronin, Billy could see only blackness. It looked as if his father’s farm had been swallowed by the night. The whys rushed Billy again. Michael had had his whole life ahead and it promised to be a good and fine one. He had loved the farm and was set to inherit the lot when Billy’s father retired. He would no doubt have also fallen in love, married, and had children. Children he would raise in a dream house he’d build on a site on the farm, just like Billy had. The boy could have had as close to happy-ever-after as it gets. But that was all gone now.
Ronin reached the gate and pulled out onto the road. He beeped in a farewell salute. Billy couldn’t raise his arm to wave good-bye. He remained in the yard, picturing Michael on the bike behind Ronin, as in so many times before. As he still should be. What Billy would give to be riding on that bike instead of Ronin, with Michael on the seat behind him. He and Michael would feel as though they were flying, the wind ballooning their jackets, the rush of speed inside father and son flashing like the gleam of the moon off the bike.
Billy would drive and drive, never stopping for anything bad to happen.
Six
Billy set about preparing a strawberry shake for his breakfast. He whistled as he worked, trying to throw off the bad mood that had lingered since yesterday and his meeting with Tony, and then the summons, and then Ronin’s unsettling visit.
He beheaded the strawberries, sending greenflies racing over the foliage. He pushed aside the impulse to crush the insects and allowed them to live. John trudged in, his black hair mussed and school tie undone. Billy looked at the empty space behind John. He still expected Michael to appear.
Billy poured the seed-studded shake into a pint glass and braced himself. Anna and Ivor asked if they could have some. Billy laughed. “Trust me, you wouldn’t like it.” He raised the glass toward his mouth, grimacing at the frothy concoction. Pink bubbles popped like ungranted wishes.
“Ivor should go on a diet, too,” Anna said, laughing. She poked Ivor’s stomach, her fingertip disappearing in the boy.
“Shut up,” Ivor said, and laced his arms over his middle.
Billy grabbed Anna’s elbow, making her ponytail swing. She scrunched her narrow face, more in outrage than in pain, and tried to pull away. He brought his face close to hers, her breath sweet and her blue irises darker with anger. “Don’t ever say anything like that again to your brother, do you hear me?”
Anna freed herself and rubbed her stick arm, scowling. “I was only messing.”