6
" I had made an early policy decision to drink the native beer despite the undoubted horrors of the process of fabrication. On my very first visit to a Dowayo beer party, this was put severely to the test. " Will you have beer?" I was asked. " Beer is furrowed," I replied, having got the tones wrong. " He said 'yes' " , my assistant replied in a tired voice. They were amazed. No white man, at this time, had ever been known to touch beer. Seizing a calabash, they proceeded to wash it out in deference to my exotic sensibilities. They did this by offering it to a dog to lick out. Dowayo dogs are not beautiful at the best of times; this one was particularly loathsome, emaciated, open wounds on its ears where flies feasted, huge distended ticks hanging from its belly. It licked the calabash with relish. It was refilled and passed to me. Everyone regarded me, beaming expectantly. There was nothing to be done; I drained it and gasped out my enjoyment. Several more calabashes followed. "
10
" The Bad-Moon Girls appear on days when Dad doesn't know what he is thinking, or even if he is thinking. Those days can weigh less than air or more than an ocean. He has blank thoughts without feelings, followed by heavy feelings without thoughts. Time means nothing. A minute ticks by in the same rhythm as an entire day. He can look at one thing for an hour without moving. He can see me or Victor without knowing we are in the room, peering at us as if we are underwater, moving in warped slow motion.
After the nothingness, he wades through a stagnant lake with the moon reflected in it, waiting for the daylight to rinse it away. He almost drowns while time ticks on. The sky is filled with black milk. No stars. Two days can pass before he surfaces.
Dad's brain-switch, the focusing thing the rest of us switch on to make things look better, is a bit buggered. Those are his words, not mine.
The Bad-Moon Girls whisper evil in Dad's ear, the sort of women who would set their own mother on fire if there were no other way to light their cigarettes. The trouble is, they can follow. Just as we were setting off to Clacton last autumn, they hunted him down. "
― Joanna Campbell , Tying Down the Lion
18
" Who’s winning?”
“I don’t have a f*cking clue nor do I f*cking care.”
Echo’s head ticks back.
“Back off, Beth.” I cross the room, drop a kiss on the curve of Echo’s neck and whisper in her ear, “She’d rip me to pieces, too, right now. She’s a b*tch when the Yankees play.”
Her eyebrows rise. “Is she a Red Sox fan?”
Isaiah chuckles and we both throw him a glare, but he doesn’t notice as he’s absorbed in a car manual.
“Beth hates baseball.”
Echo’s eyes dart from Beth to the television to me then she waves her hand in the air for an explanation.
“She watches,” I explain. “Yankees only. It’s what she does and there are some things we don’t question about each other.”
“Just the Yankees?” Echo whispers.
“Just the Yankees,” I repeat.
“And she hates baseball?”
“With a passion.”
“That’s...” Echo says in a hushed tone. “That’s messed up. "
― Katie McGarry , Breaking the Rules (Pushing the Limits, #1.5)