any opulence the place had once possessed was long gone. It had been due a fresh coat of paint about twenty years ago. Now the facade of the building was crumbling and dirty. In the windows were neon beer signs: Foster’s. VB. XXXX Gold.
Inside Bruce Springsteen played on repeat. The smell was musky: stale air and beer. The lighting was always dim, probably an attempt to hide the deterioration. Still, no darkness could hide the fact that everything was just a little bit sticky. It was the kind of place that had a few motel rooms around the back but no one would ever want to sleep there if they weren’t drunk off their arse.
The bar was half-full of tradies and cops downing their paychecks, sitting heavily on dark wooden chairs. The place was popular with the law. The police station next door served the smaller towns in the region as well as Colmstock, though the boys didn’t like to drink more than a stone’s throw from the station. Seeing the things they saw some days, even walking the ten paces to Eamon’s felt like too far for a beer. The other pub down the road was where you went if you wanted it to be clear that you didn’t like the company of cops. Still, anyone who still drank in public rather than staying home with a baggie of crystal and a glass pipe was considered an asset, no matter where they chose to do it.
Underneath a faded black-and-white portrait of the Eamon family, the original occupants of the house, was the L-shaped bar where Rose chatted with Mia. They had worked at the tavern together for years and had spent hundreds of hours doing exactly what they were doing now: leaning against the bar, drinking Coke and talking shit.
Laura wasn’t the only one who thought Rose looked like a princess. Senior Sergeant Frank Ghirardello, for one, was watching her from the corner of his eye as he drank his beer. Even with the tattoo up her tricep, she looked as pure and perfect as a movie star. That first sip of cold amber poured by Rose herself was the closest thing to bliss he knew. Frank had been keen on Rose from her very first shift at the tavern. She had served him a beer with foam six inches deep. The way she had looked at him, he was sure in that instant, she was The One. So he had taken the beer, tipped her and tried to drink the thing even though he had received a face full of froth with every sip. Frank had never been big on alcohol, but in the last few years he had developed a small drinking problem just to be close to Rose.
Around him, his squad discussed their theories on the most recent case, which had already replaced Ben Riley in their minds. Not for Frank. Some arsehole pyro had been causing a stir all year. It had been small blazes at first, a bush or a letter box smoking and smoldering. They’d liked to believe it was bored teenagers, although that had never been very likely. The high school had shut down this year because of low enrollment, the class sizes less than a quarter of what they used to be. Most of the teenagers either worked at the poultry farm or had adopted the pipe full-time. The ones on meth were still committing crimes, assault and robbery mostly, but none of them seemed to have the patience to light a fire just for the joy of watching it burn.
Then, last month, it had escalated very suddenly. The psycho had been too trigger-happy with his lighter and burned down half a block of Union Street. Ben had only been thirteen, and he was what they called “special.” “Brain damaged” was the real term. The boy acted more like a little kid than a teenager, but he was the darling of Colmstock. A smile for everyone. His parents owned the grocery store and sometimes he would play in the storage shed behind the courthouse next door. He had made it into a little cubbyhole. Poor kid had no idea the smoke meant run.
At first he’d been sure it was Mr. Riley, his dad. The guy had made a mint from the insurance and Frank suspected that he wouldn’t have been opposed to lighting up his own son if it came to that kind of cash. But he had an airtight alibi. Frank had checked it and no way it was bogus.
Around him, the other men were joking now. Enough was enough. It was no time to be laughing. He cut into the conversation.
“Any headway?” He was looking at Steve Cunningham, who was the council chair. He knew what the answer was going to be, but he asked Steve every time he saw him anyway. He needed them to demolish the wreckage of the courthouse; it’d been almost a month. The rest of the group stopped talking and looked at Steve.
“Not yet,” Steve said, and even in the dim light Frank could see his shiny bald patch reddening. “We’re still trying to bring together the funds. It’ll happen.”
“Right,” he replied.
“I’ll get the next round,” Steve said, standing. “Frank?”
“I’ll pass, mate.” He knew it wasn’t Steve’s fault, but he liked to have someone to blame. That black mess felt personal to him. It was a sign, blaring his failure to the whole town.
Frank had seen a lot of bad things. Of course he had. But seeing Mrs. Riley, telling her the fire was already too bad, that he couldn’t go inside, that he couldn’t save her son. The expression on her face as she was forced to stand back and let her child burn. He’d never forget it.
He ignored his friends again and watched as Rose finished pouring Steve’s round and went back to flicking through the newspaper. She was talking quietly to Mia Rezek, whose father, Elias, had been a cop himself before he’d had a stroke about five years back. The two of them were acting as if they were hanging around at home rather than on the clock. Rose smoothed a hand over her hair. The movement was so simple, so casual, yet it made his throat constrict. God, he wanted her. It was almost unbearable.
He leaned back in his chair. The tavern was just quiet enough for him to hear what she was saying.
“‘With Saturn lingering in Aquarius, nothing is off-limits,’” Rose read. “‘Something unexpected will surprise you today.’” She snorted back a laugh. “Look out, single gals.”
“It doesn’t say that,” he heard Mia say. Then their voices quieted.
Raising his head, Frank saw they were looking over at his table. He quickly downed the dregs of his drink and made his way toward them.
“Ladies, what are you staring at us for? See something you like?”
He flexed his biceps at Rose, but she wasn’t even looking at him. She was already pouring his beer. Mia had noticed it though, and she smiled. He noticed the pity in her eyes and hated it.
“Don’t waste your breath, Frankie,” she said, leaning her elbows on the bar. “Rose is getting out of here.”
“I still have a few weeks, don’t I?” he asked. He was hoping she, or Mia, might give him news on the program Rose was hoping to get into. They’d talked about it like it was already guaranteed, but he didn’t think it was. Or at least, that was what he hoped. His life would be so empty without her.
Looking at Rose, he saw her hand shake ever so slightly, spilling a droplet of ale onto her wrist. She rubbed it onto the seat of her shorts and handed him the beer.
“Something like that,” she said. He was about to question her further, probe her like he would a perp in his interview room, but Mia interrupted.
“Let’s see, then.” She picked up his empty glass from the bar and peered into the foam inside it intently.
“Anything about my love life in there?” he said, looking at Rose again. Her smile back at him was thin. He should stop; he knew it. He should ask her out for real, not keep making these lame, obvious jokes. He was past thirty now and he was acting like a horny teenager. It was embarrassing.
“Well,” said Mia, spinning the glass around, “I’m seeing a lot of positivity here. It’s telling me that nothing
