“Fifty euro is excellent, thanks.”
“Very good. And we’ll put these right here for everyone to see.” She reached for the tape dispenser and attached both flyers to the glass counter next to the cash register. He thanked her again, giddy with success, and turned to go.
Her words stopped him. “It takes a big man to do something like this, no pun intended. Fair play to you.” They nodded at each other, the gesture less of a good-bye and more of a salute.
Billy hobbled across the road to Kennedy’s, trying to ignore the pain in his right ankle. Above him, stars strained to shine in the pale sky. He stopped at the corner of the redbrick pub and wrapped his hand around the soldier in his coat pocket. It was going to be a lot harder to make his pitch to Ben Kennedy, the man deaf as well as ignorant. It wasn’t going to help, either, that everyone in the place would look on and listen. Caroline’s parting words repeated in his head, bolstering him. He pushed himself toward the thatched pub, its double wooden doors scarred and flaking, as weathered as so many of the lives beyond them.
Inside Kennedy’s, the few punters sitting about looked over at Billy and away again, their expressions empty. He understood their mix of curiosity and hope every time the door opened, something similar to his expectations whenever he looked into the fridge. Only a handful of people dotted the place. It was hard to believe pubs were dying out all over the country. Who would ever have predicted?
He stopped cold. Sergeant Deveney sat slumped at the bar, off-duty and already drunk. The thought of Deveney cutting Michael down from the tree made Billy’s head feel as if it were floating. Even before Michael’s death, Billy would have crossed the road to avoid Deveney. The man gabbed nonstop about himself and his supposed exploits, talking shite about collaring criminals on a regular basis with Bond-like ease. The eejit. But now Billy’s disgust went way beyond Deveney’s noise. He couldn’t bear to as much as think of the sergeant, let alone be in his company.
He would never forgive Deveney for not sending for him that morning. To think Billy was lying warm and dreamy in his bed while just a few hundred yards away Deveney was supervising the removal of Michael’s body. The boy had fallen into the arms of a paramedic, a total stranger, when he could have met the arms of his own father. How Billy would have held Michael. Rocked him. Begged him to come back.
Billy pretended not to see the sergeant and moved to the other end of the bar. There, he waited for Ben Kennedy to make his way over. When Ben finally deigned to serve him, the publican sounded as sour as he looked. “What’ll you have?” Billy ordered a fizzy diet orange. “That’s akin,” Ben said, “to going to the doctor and asking for sweets instead of tablets.”
Thumbs Tom, his eight stub fingers all the same size as his thumbs, laughed from a nearby table. “That’s a right one. Sweets instead of tablets.” He resumed his annihilation of a bag of peanuts, popping a load into his mouth and sucking the salt off his stub fingers. Billy’s stomach kicked at him, hungry, and so soon after dinner, too.
Ben placed the bottle of orange and a glass clouded with soap residue on the counter.
“I’ll take some ice, too,” Billy said.
“Ice?” Ben said, as if Billy had asked for fire.
“Correct.”
As Ben shuffled to the ice bucket, Billy made the mistake of glancing back at Thumbs Tom, the man working his stunted trigger finger over the mashed peanuts stuck to his gums. After a quick inspection, Thumbs Tom returned the wet mush to his mouth and swallowed. Billy gagged. Ben slapped the cloudy glass back on the counter, two miserly ice cubes inside. Billy gathered his courage and launched his stuttering spiel. As he spoke, Ben cocked his head to the left in that irritated way of the hard of hearing.
“What’s that?” Ben said, forcing Billy to start over and raise his voice ever louder.
“Mother of God, Big Billy,” Thumbs Tom said. “You’ll be on one of those reality TV shows yet.”
Kennedy pointed to the notice board over by the men’s toilets. “Stick them up there,” he said. Billy moved to the bulletin board with as much grace as he could muster. He felt people watching.
The notice board was a smother of business cards and flyers, advertising everything from massages, babysitters, day care, art classes, walking tours, and more. Billy pinned his two flyers dead center. He turned away, eager to drag himself and his sore ankle home, but his full bottle of orangeade called to him, consolation promised in its sweet fizz and the false sense of fullness it might give him, if only for a short while.
Just as Billy enjoyed a long, cold swig, Sergeant Deveney lifted his half-full pint from the counter and stumbled toward him. Stay away, Billy thought. Stay the hell away.