Mr. Flood's Last Resort_A Novel by Jess Kidd

Author:Jess Kidd [Kidd, Jess]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781501180651
Publisher: Atria Books
Published: 2018-05-01T04:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 24

There’s no dance when I return home and open Renata’s gate. No dress-ring knuckles at the kitchen window and no bobbing headscarf. I am puzzled; this is not a day that Lillian usually visits. As I round the house I see that the front door is open and the chain has been broken. Renata’s shoes lie scattered across the hall and Johnny Cash looks up from the doormat, his frame buckled and his face properly pissed off. Jesus Christ is nowhere to be seen.

I walk into chaos: kitchen cupboards open, smashed crockery, the fondue set in the sink. In the living room the bookcase is toppled and novels are ripped in half; pages confetti the room. The display cabinet is smashed; twinkling gemstones stud the carpet. The moon rock has landed in the fireplace.

The string cockerels in the picture are no longer fighting; someone has put a foot through them. The drinks cabinet is empty; liquid runs down the wall behind the television: Advocaat congealing in yellow drips, splattered veins of blue curaçao.

What have I done?

I think of the shattered shot glass in Cathal’s kitchen.

Did I raise this? Did I call up angry spirits?

I run past the wreckage, shouting for Renata.

* * *

THE BATHROOM door opens. Under the mess of tears and makeup is a frightened man I’ve never seen before.

“Are you hurt, Renata?” I force an even tone. “Did they hurt you?”

She puts her hands up to her poor head, as if to hide it from me. It is hairless, pale, with a few fine gray strands at the sides.

I put my arms around my friend.

There are no saints for this.

* * *

THERE WERE these three young guys: one had a crowbar, one had a hammer, and one had an adjustable wrench.

It sounds like the start of a joke.

They had pushed their way in, filling the hallway and shutting the door behind them.

At first Renata was calm. She walked forwards into the living room like they told her to. Adjusting her headscarf, raising her eyebrows, she asked them what it was they wanted in a light, even voice.

They ignored her and said things to each other that she didn’t quite catch. They spat out the big gobs of spit that they worked up in their throats. One lit up a cigarette and one glanced at the television. Then they went to work. One stayed in the living room with her, the others spread out. Renata could hear them crashing about in the other rooms.

* * *

HE PULLED the novels off the bookcase, flicking through each of them with a cigarette in the corner of his mouth, as if he were looking for a good read. He tipped out her drawers and riffled through her papers. Renata had stood motionless.

He glanced up and asked her what she was looking at. Faggot.

He walked over to her. What was he, seventeen or eighteen? With the whey-pale look of the badly fed, the underfed, the fed full of crap. A thin, bland face, with spots around the mouth.

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