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Zöe Beck
“He always ordered a pint
for Flann, whenever he
was in the pub.” It sounded
like an accusation.
“Whisky for himself, beer
for Flann,” Sandra added.
“If I’d known he was going
to die today and everyone
was going to come over
and drink at my place, I’d
have gotten more beer
and whisky,” I retorted,
but the irony flew right
over their heads.
“Her son has the second
sight,” the man remarked,
pointing at Sandra.
“That’s actually true, but
I don’t believe in Púcas.
Nobody does.”
“Except the old man,” the
man said, as he walked
out.
“The second sight?” I
asked.
“There are no such things
as Púcas,” Sandra insisted,
before she left the kitchen
as well.
The last of them left
around nine o’clock. I
cleaned up the empty
glasses, bottles and cans
in the living room, and
tried to picture what it
must have been like to run
around with an imaginary,
invisible sprite for years
and years. Sam called just
then, and I told her about
what I’d learned.
“I’m sure there are some
fabulous pills to help with
that these days,” she said.
“We keep discovering new
things about the universe.
We wouldn’t have missed
the Púcas.” Sam taught
astrophysics
at
the