I got it. Lochlan gets to his feet unsteadily from where he sat in the dark thinking, in the garage. A bottle of Glenfiddich keeping him warm in the damp. Rain beats steadily against the windows high up in the door and both ghosts watch him silently from their corners.
Got what? Caleb says from the door, light spilling into the room suddenly from the lamps in the driveway.
A trade for you. I have a trade for you. I'll keep the money if you give me something in return.
Interesting logic.
You know what I mean! He's wasted on indecision and pressure. I'm just wasted because I'm small and I've been sitting on the cold floor for three hours sharing the bottle with him while he sorted this out.
What do you want, Lochlan?
Lochlan staggers forward and stands up very straight. Bridget's soul, he says with a deep bow that almost sends him face-first into the cement. He corrects himself and I am stunned into paralysis.
So you will keep the money if I give you her soul. What do I get out of this arrangement? Caleb is still smiling but I'm too plastered to feel the dread that I should with a look like that.
Whatever the fuck you want, Lochlan says and tilts the bottle vertically into his mouth. It's empty and he lets it slam into the floor, shattering into a million sharp tiny stars.
Caleb smiles generously. If we shake on it, it's a done deal. He holds out his hand but Lochlan walks right past him, out the door, weaving in a slalom course, uninterested in making anything permanent today. It's an idea, one he will most likely regret and thus they aren't technically allowed to agree to anything unless sober. Consent and all that. New rules I wish we had had in the eighties when everything went wrong.
Trying to trick him isn't nice, I scowl at Caleb, trying to be tough because now we're alone and I can't fend for myself like this.
Better run along and put your boy to bed. The point's a dangerous place when you're halfwitted. I'll see you to the door.
Nice, Diabhal.
Indeed, Neamhchiontach.
