Page 73 of The Furies

“Wadlin was talking about a kid,” said Veale.

“So?”

“So I heard the kid again last night, while you were sleeping.”

Pantuff checked the street for police before exiting the car. He had one of those faces that couldn’t have drawn more cops if it were shaped like a doughnut and covered with sprinkles. It was better not to provide the law with the opportunity to open a conversation. Only when he was satisfied that it was safe to do so did he open the door, get out, and put an hour’s worth of quarters in the meter.

“And I say for the second time: So?”

“I’ve been hearing a kid ever since we targeted the woman,” said Veale, falling into step with Pantuff. “You know that.”

“You told me, and I believe you,” said Pantuff. “For years after he died, I used to hear my father’s voice. I heard it just like he was standing next to me. Strangest fucking thing, because he never used to speak more than two words a day while he was alive. But once he was dead, you couldn’t shut him up. I must have missed him more than anticipated.”

Veale didn’t give a damn about Pantuff’s dead father, and said as much.

“You don’t have to be like that about it,” said Pantuff.

They were at Marcy’s by then, and Pantuff held the door open for a pair of young women to exit. In the space of a few seconds he had already followed them home, had a good time at their expense, and robbed their place of anything worth taking. He willed them to look back at him, because then he’d be able to see it all reflected on their faces, but they had more sense and kept on walking.

Pantuff and Veale took a table, and each ordered eggs, ham steaks, home fries, and coffee. They waited for the coffee to arrive before resuming their conversation.

“You’re not trying to tell me,” said Pantuff, “that a bum at the Braycott heard the same child you say you’ve been hearing. Look, someone sneaked a kid into that shithole, which is enough of a reason to have social services raid the place, but only after we’re gone. The kid decided to stretch their legs for a while, because that’s what kids do.”

“In the dead of night?”

“Who am I, Doctor Spock? I don’t know how a child’s mind works. Jesus, I barely know how mine works.” And I certainly have no idea what goes on in yours, although this Pantuff kept to himself. It wasn’t as though Veale’s feelings might be hurt—you had to have something approaching conventional emotions for that to occur—but Veale harbored an unfortunate tendency to take statements literally, and Pantuff didn’t want to be woken in the night by his partner offering a considered assessment of his higher functions.

Their food came. It looked and smelled good, and Pantuff dove in. Veale pushed home fries around his plate. Pantuff tried to ignore him, although Veale had a way of not being ignored.

“What if it was us who brought the child?” said Veale.

Pantuff paused, a forkful of egg poised by his lips.

“What are you talking about?”

“I’ve only started hearing those sounds since we targeted the woman,” said Veale. “What if it’s her child?”

“Her daughter,” said Pantuff, “is dead.”

“I know that,” said Veale.

His face showed no trace of embarrassment. It was another weakness to which he was seemingly immune.

“You think you and the bum at the Braycott heard the same child, and it’s the ghost of the Sawyer kid?”

“Why not?” said Veale.

“Because it’s crazy, that’s why.”

Reluctantly, Pantuff placed his fork back on his plate. He didn’t like speaking with his mouth full. It was uncouth.

“Look,” he said, “I’m not saying that ghosts do or do not exist. I can tell you that I’ve never seen one, but I’ve never seen Paris either, and I’m sure that exists, so I keep an open mind. I’ve also met people who claimed to have seen ghosts, and only some of them were nuts, although the ones that weren’t nuts were drunks. I think you’re jumping to some wild conclusions here.”

Pantuff returned to his breakfast. He didn’t want his eggs to get cold. In Pantuff’s world, there were few things worse than cold eggs. Cancer, maybe, but if so, it ran cold eggs a close second. Eating also gave him time to consider how best to deal with Veale’s problem, which was undoubtedly psychological and could therefore be added to the long list of Veale’s other issues, even if this one needed to jump the line, since it related to the business at hand.

“I haven’t seen a ghost,” said Veale. “I’ve only heard one. I think perhaps I’ve smelled it, too, but I can’t be sure.”

Pantuff kept chewing. He wasn’t going to be diverted from his breakfast. He was determined about that.

---