The Dead Yard by Adrian McKinty Page B

story, of horror piled upon horror down in the gothic badlands south of the border.
    "Does it hurt?" Kit asked.
    "Now, you mean?"
    "Yeah."
    "No, it doesn’t hurt."
    "You moved pretty good down there on the beach, with your sword and all, I wouldn’t have known

otherwise."
    "I can run on it too; I can pretty much do everything except swimming. I can’t get the hang of

swimming."
    "You could just use your arms," Kit said helpfully.
    "I know. It’s not that, it’s just, well, I don’t know what it is."
    "I’ll take you swimming with me, you can use the surfboard to keep you afloat. It’ll be

easy."
    "You surf?"
    "Of course. You?"
    "No."
    "You can learn. I’ll teach you. We’ll get you over this swimming thing and I’ll teach you to

surf. Your foot might make it a little harder but I’m a good teacher and the break on Plum Island

is pretty easy."
    I wanted to change the subject because I didn’t want the focus to be on me and my bloody

handicaps.
    "You look nice," I said. "You did something to your hair."
    She blushed again. She wasn’t used to compliments. The atmosphere of the Sons of Cuchulainn

was probably one of matey blokishness, and that pleased me too. It would give me an angle.
    "Yeah, got it cut, less of a bob, more of a pageboy," she explained.
    "I don’t know what that means, but it looks good," I said.
    "I got rid of the hairspray, too. It was too 80s, too glam, too New Wave."
    I nodded to show that I got her pop culture references.
    "Too much of a fire hazard as well. One loose cigarette and you would have been up like

Michael Jackson."
    She looked puzzled.
    "What do you mean?
    "Michael Jackson set his hair on fire during a Pepsi commercial. Remember?"
    "That must have been before my time," she said, again making me feel like an old git. I was

too ticked off to think of a response.
    "Anyway, Sean, I’m glad you’ve changed out of your centurion uniform, you look much better,"

she said.
    "Thanks. But tell me again why precisely I have to dress up for your father?" I asked.
    "Because, Sean, my father is, like, a very wealthy man who runs a construction company and can

get you a job which would not involve you having to wear a ridiculous costume and fight some

English dude for a pittance."
    "How do you know it’s a pittance? And how do you know that I would want to work for your

da?"
    "Simon said you were getting like six dollars an hour," she said.
    "How much your da pay?"
    "Twelve skilled, nine nonskilled. Really, like, twelve if you’re Irish, nine if you’re Mexican

or Portuguese," she said.
    I looked at her to see if she was joking or being sarcastic, but apparently not. Her dad was

an institutionalized racist and she wasn’t that concerned about it.
    "And it wouldn’t look good if I was to say, ’Dad, here’s this Irish guy you might want to

hire,’ and you come in looking like Julius Caesar," she said.
    I stroked my chin, nodded.
    "Kit. Why do you want to help me?" I asked.
    "’Cos you tried to save my life, ’cos you’re Irish, ’cos you look like a total idiot in that

Roman getup. I wouldn’t wish your job on my worst enemy," she said.
    "Not Romans, Greeks and Trojans," I said.
    "What?"
    "We were supposed to be Greeks and Trojans. You know, hence the bronze sword, rather than

iron; they really paid attention to detail."
    Kit looked at me skeptically. Biting into her lip in a way that was completely captivating.

She had no idea what it was doing to me. I had no idea what she was doing to me and since she was

doing it so effectively I hadn’t even put up any defenses until it was too late. She was across

the moat and over the wall and I had left the keep doors open for her too.
    "Well," she whispered huffily, "I didn’t know you were, like, so enthusiastic about it. If

this is what you want to do all summer, I won’t try to help."
    "No, no, I’ll meet your da," I said, smiling as if I were making a concession.
    "Good," she said, pleased