Page 88 of The Triangle

“I know.” She draws out the words and sticks her tongue out at me.

Fok, man. I know it’s not real, not possible, and can’t happen that we could all just fade away into our own, private world…

But it certainly would be nice.

She turns her back on me, sassily shoving her hip toward me as she walks away, giving me a moment’s distraction, thinking about her ass, and perhaps she’s right. Maybe it would be worth the pneumonia. Oh, it most definitely would, but the world keeps spinning whether I want it to or not. And I have to try to keep us all a part of it.

As she plants herself on a bit of rock, I pull out my mobile and check to see if I have a signal. Enough. I make the call.

“Lars,” I say, as he answers.

“Fok, man. Where are you? I’ve tried to call and can’t get through.”

“Did you get that camera footage?” I ask, ignoring his question.

“Yeah, we have it.”

“And?”

“Can’t make it out, bru. Too grainy.”

“Fok do you mean, ‘too grainy,’ man?” I’m trying to keep my voice low, but the frustration of the things I want to know not being supplied to me in an expedient fashion is starting to weigh.

“I’ll show you directly. Where are you? Maybe if we get together, we can—”

“No, man. No. Here’s what I need you to do. You ever hear of an oke called Brasil Lynch?”

There’s a pause as though he’s mulling it over. “No. Why? Who is he?”

“That’s what I want to know, bru. Find out who he is. What he’s all about. And find out who a fokker called David is too.”

“David?”

“Yeah.”

“David who?”

“Fok if I know, man.”

“Just some oke called David?”

“Fok, man!” I whisper-yell to the best of my ability. “Some naaier called David who has something to do with this Brasil fokker. Start with the one, work to the next. Christ, man, this isn’t that hard!”

There’s silence on the other end of the line. But, as usual, I’ll not be the one to fokken speak next.

Finally, “Yeah. OK. And what do I do when I find them? How do I call you?”

“I’ll call you,” I say, and tab end.

Shoving the mobile back into my pocket, I turn to see Christine. She looks like a portrait, sitting there, the glory of creation behind her, the water crashing down below her perch. I wish I had a talent like painting. If I did, I’d paint this. I’d call it something like “The Edge of Always.”

Which is fokken terrible, but I ain’t got a talent for poetry either.

I’m really only good at one thing in this world. And that’s making sure I come out ahead. Seeing to it that my hand is the one that’s raised in the middle of the ring when the fight is done.

But today… when I look at her and I think about Danny, and how much I feel about them… for the first time in my blessed, foolish life, I might—might—be willing to come in second.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE - CHRISTINE