Time's Long Ruin by Stephen Orr Read Free Book Online Page B

stinks,’ he said, in his best Irish accent.
    We all laughed. Gavin tackled him, pulling out the chips and eating them. ‘That’s disgusting,’ Janice said, screwing up her face.
    Bill wiped his hands on his shorts and took his ukulele out of his beach bag. ‘I stole this one from Lester Barrett,’ he said.
    They’re plump and healthy, kind and free
With appetites the same as me
And you should see them shift their tea –
They’re all fine girls . . .
    Without a thought for hats or zinc cream, the Riley kids tumbled down the dunes towards the beach. Bill was soon after them, screaming, singing, running like a monkey.
    â€˜Come on,’ Dad said.
    â€˜I’ll wait here,’ I replied.
    â€˜Come on.’
    Dad helped me down from the dunes, and across the soft sand. As we went we picked up the Rileys’ clothes, thrown off in a frenzy that stopped at the water’s edge. I let go of Dad’s hand and walked across the hard sand. Then I took off my sandals and waded in to ankle depth.
    â€˜You’d see his fin,’ Dad said, smiling.
    I shrugged. I watched as he looked up at the Rileys – jumping about up to their chests, launching themselves off their father’s shoulders. Then he looked at me. I wandered off, looking for shells. He turned back to the Rileys.
    I just couldn’t do it. I’d sink into the sand. I’d fall over. It just wasn’t what I did. Sporty stuff. Dad understood this, I think. He picked up a small glob of jelly and called me over.
    â€˜What is it?’ I asked.
    He shrugged. ‘Buggered if I know.’
    And then – regardless of the fact that Dad looked hot, like he just wanted to peel off his shirt and shorts and get in the water – we collected shells. Small shells, big shells, shells with holes, shells like the petrol station sign, shells like people wore around their neck, like kids left on the railway tracks, jumping with joy when they were crushed by the city express. Dad put them all in his pocket for me. I’d hand him a shell and he’d look at me and God knows what he was thinking.
    As the screams of pleasure continued, Bill came out of the water and ran up the beach to us. ‘Coming in?’ he asked.
    Water trailed down Bill’s pot belly. I could have taken a pointed shell and popped his guts. His nipples were pink, sticking out like engines on the wing of a Heinkel.
    Dad took my T-shirt and started to lift it. ‘Come on, Henry.’
    I pushed him away and pretended to look for shells. Bill was looking at me. At my foot. Quasimodo. He ran back into the water, hollering.
    And as I felt my feet sinking into the sand I thought, never again.
    The next morning I was woken by prayer. It was the usual gibberish, in Wog, coming from the Pedavolis’ front yard. I kicked off the sheets and crawled towards the open window at the end of my bed. I opened the venetian blind and light streamed in. Through the roses I could see the faithful gathered across the road at number twelve, about a dozen of them; the Pedavolis would open their outdoor church for a single man or a whole suburb.
    The worshippers sat in two rows of chairs gathered in a semi-circle around the healing tree, a monstrous old ash that bathed the street and several front yards in summer shade. In front of the worshippers, at the base of the tree, a few candles burnt on an altar about three feet high. On top of the altar was a picture of Alex Pedavoli, encased in a weatherproof frame made from glass and metal. Behind this was a large silver cross. Con’s altar was made from leftover house bricks, rendered and encrusted in shells – Semaphore shells I’d given him after my beach visits. Over the years wax from thousands of candles had melted over and down the side of the altar. It gave it an aged, miracle-at-Lourdes look. Con had paved around his altar and left a raised step just in front for the faithful to kneel