Deveney hooked his arm around Billy’s neck. “Big Billy,” he slurred. “Oh, Jaysus, Billy.” He swayed, his head and shoulders dropping forward and rearing backward, almost pulling Billy down on top of him.
“Whoa.” Billy dug his good heel into the sticky pub floor, trying to steady himself and Deveney both. Deveney, his head shaking and his eyes squeezed shut, wore the anguished look of someone trying not to remember. He mumbled through ale-wet lips, repeating terrible and looking about to keel over, his hand rubbing at the front of his shirt as if he’d spilled drink on himself. Billy pressed his hand to Deveney’s chest. “Stop, man, and stand straight, can’t you? Cut out your messing.”
“Your boy. Your poor boy.” Deveney jerked his head toward his shoulder, his eyes staring wide, his tongue sticking out.
Billy shrugged Deveney off, letting out a roar. “What are you at?”
The policeman shook his head, stumbling, mumbling. “No one should have to see that.”
Billy slammed his glass down on the counter and grabbed the front of Deveney’s shirt. “Don’t you ever mention my son again from that morning, do you hear me? Not to me, not to anybody, or by God I swear I can’t be held accountable for what I’ll do to you.” He pushed Deveney away and wiped his hands on the front of his coat.
Kennedy, everyone, stared. Billy, quaking, delivered a final hateful look at Deveney and turned to leave. Deveney lurched forward, as if about to hug Billy, his leaden movements channeling a zombie. “Get away.” Billy pushed again at Deveney’s front and rushed for the door, his insides quivering and his right ankle feeling as though it would shatter.
He arrived home, the excruciating walk fueled by rage, and struggled into his car. He sped to town in record time. From there, he continued for miles. Then stopped at a chip shop that seemed far enough away. He couldn’t risk being seen by anyone he knew.
He parked out front and remained behind the familiar press of the wheel, rage coursing through him. As soon as the chipper emptied, he hurried inside as fast as his bad ankle and tree trunk legs would allow.
“What you want?” the Polish server asked.
Deveney’s grotesque pose filled Billy’s mind, the policeman’s head tilting toward his shoulder, his eyes wide and glazed, his tongue hanging out.
The server spoke again, his impatient voice ringing inside the small shop. “What you want?”
Billy stemmed the roars that wanted to escape him. Roars to turn back time, to before Michael, before Tricia, before Billy had buried himself in his body. That was how far back he’d have to go, to fix everything.
He ordered enough food to make a lesser man burst. While he waited, two girls entered the shop. About fourteen, they wore that furious, insolent look that seemed particular to their generation. After they ordered, they kept glancing over at Billy and whispering together.
After several minutes, a middle-aged woman in a shiny navy tracksuit appeared in the doorway. Much like Billy’s tracksuits, the two stripes on the sides of her polyester pant legs had turned a dirty white. With her matching orange-blond hair and thin black eyebrows, she was obviously the taller girl’s mother. “What’s taking so long?” The girls sauntered over to the woman. “It’s fatso’s fault,” her daughter muttered.
The three whispered together, a sound that mimicked sandpaper at work. Billy called to the server, the man hidden in the back, cooking Billy’s huge order. “Can you hurry up, please?”
*
Billy parked inside the vast bog. Fields and fields of peat, where nothing ever decayed, everything was preserved. Soil that saved. Alone in the dark, he devoured the chips with shaky hands, each hot, succulent chunk gritty with salt and drenched with sharp vinegar. Next, the spice burger with its crunchy outer coat of bread crumbs, and the lush, soft inside of beef, onions, herbs, and spices. The two pieces of battered cod he pushed into him also, the oil smearing his chin and hands. He moaned out loud with pleasure.
He worked his way through the box of chicken, more oil and bread crumbs and herbs and spices. He felt disgusting now. Loathed himself now. He ate faster, barely chewing, barely breathing. Not even tasting. Get it into you, you fat fucker, you. Between mouthfuls, he gulped the chilled Coca-Cola, a shock to his teeth after the heat of the food. Nothing, though, could stop the server’s voice going off inside his head. What you want?
As a boy, ever since he’d set about burying the wrong son inside himself, his parents, everyone, had harped at him to stop eating so much. He hated how others thought they knew when he’d had enough. He never felt he had enough. Not even when Michael was alive had he ever felt he had enough. If Michael were to come back right this second, even then he didn’t think he would feel he had enough. He brought the side of his fist down hard on the dashboard, making the contents of the glove box rattle. What the fuck was wrong with him?