the other two as Charlie Walsh and his squat, none-too-intelligent brother-in-law, Dan Geary. And he knew then what was coming.
If there was any doubt, Ellis and Dan moved away from Charlie, drifting lazily off to the sides. Charlie drew to a halt, scraping at the shells underfoot with the toe of his boot. ‘So what do you think?’ he asked, nodding over his shoulder. ‘You think we’ll beat the bill?’
Conrad could feel the lightness shifting from his head to his stomach. ‘Go home, Charlie.’
Charlie looked at him as if seriously weighing the suggestion. ‘Shit on that,’ he said.
Dan Geary grunted with amusement, moving, still moving, around to the left. Ellis was circling to the right, obliging Conrad to retreat a little to keep them both in view.
Charlie advanced a few paces. ‘Just wanted to say I’m sorry, for before.’ His mouth was twisted between self-pity and bitter contempt. Conrad toyed with the idea of further conciliation but rejected it, not because he doubted it would work – that much was certain – but because he no longer wanted it to.
‘So you should be,’ he said, ‘stealing off the dead.’
‘A pair of damn earrings. What the hell does she care?’
‘What if it was your sister?’ fired back Conrad.
It took a moment for Dan Geary to register that Charlie’s sister also happened to be his own wife, but once the thought had lodged itself in his brain it appeared to bother him. He looked at his brother-in-law uncertainly.
‘What?’ snapped Charlie.
‘Nothing, Charlie.’
‘Good,’ cos it’s time we taught this foreigner some goddamn manners.’
Charlie Walsh wasn’t flame-headed like his father, but he still had the fire in him. Conrad could see it sparking in his eyes as he turned back, balling his fists. Conrad could remember his father telling him once in his labored English: ‘You just got to get an Irish down ’n’ beat shit out of him, then he’s the best friend you got.’
Even if they ganged him, as they clearly planned on doing, Conrad stood a fair chance of putting Charlie Walsh down, but he seriously doubted they’d ever become friends because of it. No, he set more store by the other piece of advice his father had offered up at the same time, much to the consternation of his step mother. If you’re ever outnumbered in a fight, he had said, keep your eyes on one man, but be sure to land your first punch on another.
And this is what Conrad did.
His eyes never left Charlie’s, but the punch, when it came, was a scything right across the body that caught Dan Geary square in the face, crumpling his nose and stopping him dead in his tracks. Conrad didn’t wait to see him hit the ground, he was already spinning back, shifting the weight to his left foot, swinging his right arm as he did so.
Caught off-guard, Charlie wasn’t set when the forearm struck him in the head, knocking him sideways. He probably would have kept his footing if Conrad hadn’t piledrived a knee into his hip a split-second later. Charlie snatched at Conrad as he fell, seizing hold of his shirt. Conrad pulled free, but he was off balance, his back now turned to Ellis. In two strides, Ellis was in range.
The boot caught Conrad in the side of the chest just below the ribcage and he heard something crack. He raised his arms protectively in front of his face as he doubled up and the second kick glanced off his elbow. He tried to back away, but Charlie was hauling at his trouser legs now, doing his best to bring him down. From here, things quickly degenerated into a close-quarters dog-fight – fists flailing, fingers clawing at faces and snatching at hair. There were a few small satisfactions – at one moment his elbow met Charlie’s mouth, splitting the lip clean open and dislodging some teeth – but Conrad started to wilt under the hail of blows. A few moments later he found himself brought to the ground, the side of his face impacting with the crushed oyster shells.
Charlie took a step back, setting himself for a swing of his boot. It was clearly intended for Conrad’s head and there was nothing he could do to avoid it; Ellis was all over him, pinning his arms. He closed his eyes in anticipation of the searing white pain and the black void of unconsciousness.
But they never came.
He heard a sound like a sack of grain being dropped from a trailer, and opened his eyes in time to see Charlie collide with a truck, another man wrapped around him.
It was Rollo. Conrad had never seen him so mad. In fact, he’d never once seen Rollo mad. Mute with frustration on a couple of occasions, maybe, but never like this, possessed by rage. He was screaming, pummeling Charlie with his fists.
If it had been a less shocking sight, Conrad might have been the first to react. As it was, Ellis had the edge. Conrad lunged at his leg but missed, looking on helplessly as Ellis snatched a length of two-by-four from the back of a truck.
‘Rollo!’ cried Conrad.
Rollo turned, saw the piece of lumber raised high above Ellis’ shoulder, and he froze.
‘No!’ It was Charlie Walsh who screamed, blood spraying from his mangled mouth. ‘Don’t!’ He extended his arm to ward off the blow, and Ellis truncated his swing at the last moment. Despite the heat of the fight, Charlie knew better than to strike a Kemp, especially Rollo. There would be the devil to pay.
Conrad was on his feet now, moving to be with Rollo. Charlie and Ellis backed off warily, helping Dan to his feet as they left. For the duration of the scuffle he’d been sitting on his ass, staring perplexedly at the blood sluicing from his nose into his open hands.
Charlie Walsh gunned the engine of his truck, the tires spitting shards of shell before biting on the packed sand beneath. He didn’t even glance over as he roared out of the lot.
Rollo watched the taillights disappear into the night. ‘He’s a hard-shell sinner, that one.’
Conrad laughed, then winced from the pain.
Despite Rollo’s protestations, Conrad insisted on returning home. He knew he had fractured a rib, possibly two, but it wasn’t as if it was the first time. Doc Meadows – in his inimitable, cranky way – would only strap him up, tell him to take it easy and maybe give him some aspirin to dull the pain. The first of these Conrad was quite capable of doing himself, the second was out of the question, the third he had no desire for.
He wanted to feel the stab of pain in his side, he wanted it to endure, to aggravate him as he went about his day, to wake him at night each time he rolled over in bed. It would act both as a nagging reminder of what had occurred and as a call to arms.
Already he could feel a clarity of thought descending on him, a determination as clean and hard as the steel of a new blade.
Leaving the parking lot, he found himself swinging the wheel of the truck to the left, heading east on Cranberry Hole Road. Home was to the west.
The handful of rundown shanties clustered on the western shore of Napeague Harbor where it opened to the bay was dubbed Lazy Point by the locals. There was indeed an air of languor about the residents who scratched a living from the surrounding beaches, bars and flats. But when they sold their services to others – shucking scallops, skinning eels or baiting cod trawls with skimmer clams in winter for the ocean crews – they worked with impressive
