John the Revelator by Peter Murphy Page B

good from your food intake. This is how parasites make people underweight and cause drooling, bedwetting, insomnia and teeth-grinding. Itching in the ears, nose and assorted other cracks and crevices. How they make people go to the toilet too little or too much. How they turn your skin yellow and cause mucus problems and spots and headaches and bloody stools. Impotence. Gas. Fatigue. Depression. Baldness. Stupidity.’
    Rats rustled. Gulls shrieked. Somewhere in the distance, the looped
bow-wow-wow
of a dog. And the drone of an engine, coming closer.
    I squinted across the fields. The sound of the engine swelled. A white hi-ace van bumped down the grass-split lane and came to a stop just inside the gates. A man got out and began to rummage through the multicoloured mounds. He had on baggy slacks belted with nylon tights, belly bulging out of a short-sleeved shirt decorated with dice and death’s heads and fiery writing that said:
ROLL THEM BONES.
    It was Har Farrell. I hadn’t seen him since my tenth birthday, when he gave me the crossbow. He was five years older now, must have been pushing fifty, and he’d put on a fair bit of weight since. My mother said he’d been away to England for a while, and when he came back he’d given up the drink and was a whole new person. He traded in the Honda 50 and bought a van and moved into the video business—blueys according to gossip—then diversified into bootleg designer knock-offs, bulk orders of duty-free, black-market stuff.
    I watched him poke through the spare tyres and broken household appliances. He must have sensed he was being spied on, because he stopped foraging and stuck his head up like a meerkat. When he saw me, he crossed himself.
    â€˜Sweet Jesus,’ he said. ‘You gave me a scare there, young fella.’
    His bushy hair was damp. He was pumping sweat.
    â€˜You’re like a little green genie up there,’ he said. ‘All you’re missing is the fecken hookah. Come down here and not have me shouting.’
    I scrambled down from the mound and grinned.
    â€˜Hello, Har,’ I said.
    â€˜Good god!’ He took a step back. ‘John Devine! You’re after stretching a bit. Last time I set eyes on you, you weren’t as big as a god’s cow. How’s your mother, son? I haven’t seen her this donkey’s years. Not since I took that television set off her hands. You were still only a scut.’ His bulging shirt shook with suppressed chuckles. Chewing gum poked out the side of his mouth like a crooked tooth. ‘By god, you weren’t too pleased about it.’
    â€˜I remember.’ I reached into my jacket pocket for my cigarettes. ‘Smoke?’
    He took another half-step back and held his hand out like he was stopping traffic.
    â€˜Gave ’em up,’ he said. ‘The pipes are bad. Any sense, you’ll do the same. Bastard hard, though. Constipated for a month. Got piles on me arse like grapes. But I managed to keep my figure.’
    He tugged at the tights around his waist.
    â€˜What brings you here?’ I said.
    â€˜Oh, just looking for bits and bobs. This place is a goldmine usually. Want to buy a phone?’
    â€˜No thanks. Those things turn your brain to black pudding.’
    â€˜Ah.’ He made a scoffing noise. ‘That’s your mother talking.’
    He spat his gum into some silver paper, put it back in his shirt pocket, and with a flourish, produced a card and gave it to me.
    Â 
Harry Farrell
Miscellaneous Goods
‘If we can’t get it, it can’t be got.’
    Â 
    â€˜You need anything son, anything at all, the number’s on the back.’
    He moved the briefcase onto the passenger side, grabbed hold of the steering wheel and hauled himself into the van.
    â€˜Tell your mother I was asking for her.’
    He started the engine. I watched him drive away through the perimeter of rusting car hulks and patches of yellowed grass