The Hunter

Seventeen

Forty-five minutes before the shop is even due to open, Lena finds Noreen on top of the stepladder with her sleeves rolled up, in a frenzy of whipping things off the shelves and checking their best-by dates, a task that Lena knows usually gets done on Fridays. “Morning,” she says, poking her head in from the tiny back room where Noreen keeps files, problems, and the kettle.

“If you’re here to tell me who kilt that English fella,” Noreen snaps, pointing a tin of tuna at her threateningly, “you can turn yourself around and walk straight back out that door. My head’s feckin’ lifting with ideas and theories and—what’s that Bobby Feeney had?—hypothesises, what the feck is that?”

“I’d a hypothesis once,” Lena says. “Wore it to a wedding. Will I make us a cuppa tea?”

“What’re you on about? Whose wedding?”

“I’m only codding you,” Lena says. “I wouldn’t have a clue what Bobby’d be on about. Was there aliens in it?”

“What d’you feckin’ think? Your man Rushborough was a government investigator, that’s what Bobby’s got into his head. Sent down here to catch an alien and bring it up to Dublin. All that about the gold, that was just to give him an excuse for wandering about the mountains. Did you ever hear the like?”

“I’d say it’s no madder than some of the other ideas going around,” Lena says. “D’you want that tea?”

Noreen climbs with difficulty down the ladder and plumps down on a low step. “I couldn’t face a cuppa tea. Didja ever think you’d hear me say that? The state of me, look at me, I’m wringing; you’d think I’d been in swimming. And it not even half-eight in the morning.” She plucks at her blouse to fan her chest. “I’m fed up to my back teeth with this heat. I’m telling you, I’ll close up this place and move to Spain, so I will. At least they’ve the air-conditioning.”

Lena pulls herself up to sit on the counter. “Cal makes iced tea. I shoulda brought some of that.”

“That stuff’d wreck your insides, no milk in it or anything. And don’t be getting your arse on my counter.”

“I’ll get down before you open up,” Lena says. “D’you want a hand with that?”

Noreen gives the tin of tuna, which she’s still holding, a look of loathing. “D’you know what, feck it. I’ll do it another day. If some eejit walks outa here with stale custard, it’ll serve him right. Coming in here nosing for gossip.”

Lena has never known Noreen to complain about people hunting for gossip before. “Was the whole place in yesterday?”

“Every man, woman, and child for miles. Crona Nagle, d’you remember her? She’s ninety-two years of age, hasn’t left the house since God was a child, but she got the grandson to drive her down yesterday. And she’d a feckin’ hypothesis of her own, o’ course. She reckons it was Johnny Reddy that done it, ’cause one time Melanie O’Halloran snuck outa the house to meet him and came home smelling of drink and aftershave. I didn’t even remember Crona was Melanie’s granny. Not that I’d blame her for keeping it quiet. Melanie, like.”

“I’d say Crona’s not the only one betting on Johnny,” Lena says, stretching to take an apple from the fruit shelf.

Noreen gives her an odd sideways glance. “There’s a couple, all right. The only thing is, why would Johnny want your man dead? That fella was Johnny Reddy’s whatd’youcallit, the goose with the golden eggs. With him gone, Johnny’s got no fortune coming in, and he’s not the big man in town any more, no one’ll be buying him drink now and laughing at his jokes; he’s the same aul’ wee scutter that you wouldn’t trust with tenpence. And besides…” She stares at the tin of tuna like she’d forgotten its existence, and shoves it onto a random shelf among the dish scrubbers. “Dessie, now,” she says, “he says he wouldn’t wanta see Johnny arrested. Johnny’s weak as water; if that detective fella went after him, he’d spill the beans about all that nonsense with the gold. Trying to get the lads in hot water, like, to take suspicion offa himself. He wouldn’t mind what that’d mean for Sheila and the kids; he’d only care about saving his own skin. And Dessie’s not the only one. People don’t want it to be Johnny.”

Lena finds some change in her pocket, waves fifty cents at Noreen, and leaves it on top of the till to cover the apple. “Then what do they reckon?”

Noreen blows out air. “You name it, I’ve had someone in here saying it. And then they get their ideas mixed in together, till you wouldn’t know who thought what—there’s Ciaran Maloney came in saying it musta been just some roola-boola with drink taken all round, but then didn’t he get talking to Bobby, and he’s not fool enough to believe Bobby’s blather, but he ended up wondering was Rushborough maybe some kinda inspector sent down to look for people claiming grants they oughtn’t to be getting…” She shakes her head, exasperated. “There’s a few that think ’twas over land. They reckon the gold was only a whatd’youcallit, a cover story; your man Rushborough had a claim on some land, through his granny, and he was over here sussing it out, and someone didn’t take well to that. I know the Feeneys do be awful pushovers, but they wouldn’t hand over their land to some blow-in without a fight. Give me one of them apples, go on; maybe it’ll cool me down.”

Lena tosses her an apple and puts another fifty cents on the till. Noreen rubs the apple clean on the side of her slacks. “Clodagh Moynihan’s convinced—dead certain, now—that Rushborough stumbled on young people doing drugs, and they put him outa the way. I don’t know what kinda notion Clodagh has of drugs, at all. I said to her, why would anyone be at that carry-on in the middle of the night on a mountain road, and would they not just do a runner when they heard him coming, but there’s no talking to her. If she hadn’ta been such an awful Holy Mary in school, she’d have more of a clue.”

It occurs to Lena that she, apparently alone in the county, has no hypothesis about who killed Rushborough. She doesn’t particularly care. From her perspective, there are a number of other questions that are considerably more pressing.

“Ah well,” she says, biting off another piece of apple, “ ’tisn’t our problem to solve, lucky for us. That detective fella—Nealon, Cal says his name is—he’s stuck with it. Didja meet him yet?”

“I did. He came in at lunchtime looking for sandwiches, if you don’t mind. I nearly asked him does this place look like a feckin’ deli, but in the end I sent him next door to Barty for a toastie.”

Noreen does in fact make sandwiches on occasion, for people she likes. Apparently Nealon doesn’t fall into this category, which strikes Lena as odd: she would have expected Noreen, as a gifted amateur, to jump on the chance of cozy chats with a professional. “What’s he like?” she asks. “I haven’t met him yet.”

“Big smiley feckin’ head on him,” Noreen says darkly. “Coming in here, hail-fellow-well-met, joking about the weather, practically taking off his hat to Tom Pat Malone, if he’d had a hat. Doireann Cunniffe nearly wet her knickers for him, so she did. I’d never trust a charmer.” She cracks off a bite of apple with vindictive force.

“Cal says the man knows what he’s at,” Lena says.

She catches that odd sideways look from Noreen again. “What?” she asks.

“Nothing. Who does Cal reckon done it?”

“Cal’s retired. He reckons it’s not his problem.”

“Well,” Noreen says. “Let’s hope he’s right.”

“Go on,” Lena says. “Spit it out.”

Noreen sighs, wiping sweat off her forehead with the back of her hand. “Here was me telling you that you oughta quit your foostering about and marry him, d’you remember? And you got up on your high horse. I nearly gave you a clatter. But now I reckon you were right to ignore me, for once.”

Lena knows she’s not going to like this. She doesn’t like the way Noreen is mincing around it, either. She flattens the urge to whip her apple at Noreen’s permed head.

“Why’s that, now?” she inquires.

Sitting there on the stepladder with her elbows on her knees, twisting her apple stem, Noreen looks tired. Lena feels like everyone she’s seen in days looks tired. Johnny has worn out the lot of them.

“Everyone likes your Cal, now,” Noreen says. “You know that. He’s a lovely fella, a gentleman, and everyone knows it. But if that Nealon goes giving people hassle…”

Lena gets it. “If the wolves get close,” she says, “they’ll have to pick someone to push off the wagon.”

“Ah, for God’s sake, don’t be feckin’ dramatic. No one’s pushing anyone. Just…sure, no one wants to see their cousin or their brother-in-law locked up for murder.”

“They’d rather see a blow-in.”

“Wouldn’t you? If ’twasn’t Cal.”

“There’s plenty of people from here that I’d only love to see locked up,” Lena says. “Is there anyone thick enough that they actually believe he done it? Or are they only saying it outa convenience?”

“What’s it matter? They’re saying it, either way.”

“How many of them?”

Noreen doesn’t look up. She says, “Enough.”

Lena says, “And if Nealon makes a pain in the arse of himself, they’ll say it to him.”

“Not straight out. No one’s going to go accusing Cal of anything. Just…you know yourself.”

Lena does. “Tell us,” she says. “I’m only dying of curiosity. Why did he do it? For the laugh, is it? Or did he think I was after being swept off my feet by Rushborough’s fancy city ways?”

“Ah, Helena, for feck’s sake, don’t be like that. I’m not the one saying it. I said to them, are ye mad, I said, Cal’s no more behind this than I am. I’m only telling you, so you’ll know what you’ve to deal with.”

“And I’m only asking you. Why would Cal go killing Rushborough?”

“I never said he would. But everyone knows he’d do anything for Trey. If Rushborough was one of them perverts, and he laid a finger on her—”

“He didn’t. The man was trouble, all right, but not that kind. Do people not have enough drama on their plates, without adding in more?”

“Maybe you know the man did nothing on her. But the detective doesn’t.”

Lena knows, without having to think about it, exactly how this will unroll. The talk curling its way around the townland will be gradual, aimless, nonspecific; no one will ever say, or even hint, that it would be simplest if Rushborough had been killed by that Yank over in O’Shea’s place, but slowly the thought will thicken and take shape in the air. And down the line, someone will mention to Nealon that she didn’t like the way Rushborough looked at her teenage niece; someone else will drop a bit of praise about how Cal is like a father to Theresa Reddy, fierce protective; someone else will point out that Rushborough, as Johnny’s friend, must have spent time over at the Reddy house; someone else will mention in passing that Sheila, no harm to her, doesn’t look out for that child the way she should. Unlike Johnny, Cal is safe to hand over. He’s lived here long enough to understand that if he squeals to Nealon about the gold, Trey will be in the townland’s bad books right alongside him.

“I know you don’t like getting mixed up in things,” Noreen says. “You think I’m blind, or thick, or I don’t know what, but I’m not. Why d’you think I was so set on you meeting Cal to begin with? I hated seeing you lonely, and I knew you’d never go near a local lad, for fear of getting dragged into all this place’s doings. And now, if people start talking…you know what it’ll be like. You’d hate to be dragged into that.”

“Well,” Lena says, “too late. Me and Cal took your advice; sure, doesn’t everyone around here know you’re always right. We’re going to get married.”

Noreen’s head pops up and she stares. “Are you serious?”

“I am, yeah. That’s what I came down to tell you. D’you reckon I look better in blue or green?”

“You can’t get married in green, it’s unlucky— Mother a God, Helena! I don’t know whether to congratulate you or— When?”

“We haven’t set a date yet,” Lena says. She throws her apple core in the bin and slides down off the counter. She needs to get back to Cal’s and inform him of the news, before someone calls round to congratulate him. “But you can tell all them wee shite-talkers: he’s no blow-in now. Anyone who wants to throw Cal to the wolves will have to throw me as well, and I’m not easy thrown. You tell them that, and make sure they hear you.”

Cal is in his workshop, painting stain onto a turned piece of wood. Lena isn’t used to finding him there alone. He hasn’t put on music; he’s just sitting at the worktable, head bent, his brush moving steadily and carefully. For the first time, the workshop, with its neatness and its carefully ordered array of tools, looks like a retired man’s brave attempt to keep busy.

“Hey,” he says, looking up as her shadow falls through the window. “Everything OK?”

“Never better,” Lena says. “I just came to warn you: I told Noreen we’re after getting engaged. I reckoned you oughta know.”

The look on Cal’s face makes her burst out laughing. “Put your head down between your knees,” she advises him. “Before you go fainting on me. Don’t be worrying: I’ve no intention of marrying anyone.”

“Then what…?” Cal clearly wants to say what the fuck, but feels it might come across as impolite.

The laugh has done Lena good. “There’s forty shades of shite going around about Rushborough,” she says. “One of ’em involves you. I reckoned I might as well stamp that one out before it had a chance to take hold. People’ll think twice before they spread talk about a man that’s about to be Noreen’s brother-in-law.”

“OK,” Cal says. He still looks stunned enough to keep Lena grinning. “OK. If you…OK. I mean, I’ve got no objection, I just…What are people saying?”

“Not a lot,” Lena says, shrugging. “They’re only throwing rumors around, trying them on for size; you know the way. I just don’t want them deciding this one fits.”

Cal looks at her, but he doesn’t press her. He understands some, at least, of what Ardnakelty is capable of weaving around him, if it should choose to.

The man came here asking for nothing but green fields and peace. Lena knows there was a time when he considered turning around and walking right back out the door. A part of her wishes, for his sake, that he had done it.

“Shit,” Cal says suddenly, realizing. “The damn pub. Next time I go in there, I’m gonna get roasted harder’n a Thanksgiving turkey. What are you getting me into, woman?”

“Listen to me, you,” Lena tells him severely. “You haven’t a notion of the slaggings I’ve put up with, going out with a blow-in and a Guard, and a beardy one at that. You can take your turn and like it.”

“I already get enough crap for coming over here and taking their women. If I actually get engaged to you, they’ll probably get me blackout drunk on poteen and dump me on your doorstep in a wedding dress.”

“You’ll be only gorgeous,” Lena says. “Don’t let them forget the veil.”

She knows he’s wondering what Trey will make of this. She almost points out that they can tell Trey the real story—God knows the child can keep her mouth shut—but she stops herself. Something is going on between Cal and Trey; things are shifting and fragile. Lena shoving her oar in could easily do more harm than good.

“Come here,” she says, leaning in at the window and holding out her hands to him. “If I was going to get engaged to anyone, I could do a lot worse than you.” When he comes to the window, she gives him a kiss that aims to make him forget everyone else in Ardnakelty, at least for a minute or two.

Ardnakelty, as Cal predicted, pounces joyfully on the opportunity to give him copious amounts of shit. Mart shows up on his doorstep right after dinnertime, with his fluff of gray hair slicked down and his donkey hat tilted at a jaunty angle. “Put on your best shirt, bucko,” he orders. “I’ve a pint to buy you.”

“Oh, man,” Cal says sheepishly. “You heard, huh?”

“Course I heard. This requires a celebration.”

“Aw, Mart. Come on. It’s not a big deal. I just figured, we’ve been together long enough that—”

“It’s a big deal whether you like it or not. You’ve got friends around here that wanta congratulate you properly, and we need something to celebrate, after the few weeks we’ve had. We didn’t win the hurling, so the next best thing is young love. You can’t begrudge us that. Go take off that sawdusty aul’ rag and put on something dacent, and we’ll be off.” He flaps his hands at Cal like he’s herding a sheep. “Don’t keep me hanging about. I’ve a mouth on me like Gandhi’s flip-flop.”

Cal yields to the inevitable and heads inside to put on a shirt. He knows that, regardless of engagements, he needs an evening in Seán Óg’s. He needs to find out how Trey’s story has landed, and what ripples it’s sending out.

At least, as it turns out, Mart has restrained himself from extending the festivities to the whole townland. Seán Óg’s alcove is occupied by the guys Cal sees most often, Senan and Bobby and P.J. and Francie—and, ominously, Malachy Dwyer, although Cal is relieved that no poteen bottles are in evidence so far—but the rest of the pub is its usual sparse weekday self. There are four spindly old guys playing cards in a corner, and two more at the bar exchanging the occasional grunt; they glance up and nod when Cal and Mart come in, but none of them show any inclination towards conversation. Rushborough alive brought everyone out to assess and discuss him; Rushborough dead is something to be talked about in private, or not talked about at all.

Cal is greeted with a collective roar—“Here comes the bride!” “Dead man walking!” “Get this fella a pint, Barty, to drown his sorrows!”

“Jeez, guys,” Cal says, embarrassed and sliding into the banquette as fast as he can.

“We’re just pleased to see you,” Bobby explains. “We don’t know when we’ll get another chance, sure.”

“This,” Malachy says, tapping the table, “this is a wake. For your social life, may it rest in peace. Lena won’t let you out on the tear with the likes of us reprobates.”

“She will,” Francie says. “Would you want to look at that big beardy head every evening?”

“I wouldn’t wanta look at it any evening,” Senan says, settling himself better on his banquette to get down to business. “What’s Lena at? I thought that one had some sense.”

“I’d say the sun got to her,” P.J. says. “She’d want to get looked at.”

“Ah, now, love’s a mysterious thing,” Mart says reproachfully. “She sees sides of him that we don’t.”

“Or else she’s up the duff,” Malachy says. “Is she?”

“Lena’s a bit long in the tooth for that,” Senan says. “So’s himself, mind you. Is there any mojo left in the yoyo at this stage, man?”

“Is there what?” Cal says, starting to laugh.

“Any fizz in the firecracker. Any spin on the googlies. Fuck’s sake, man, don’t make me spell it out for you. D’you do the do?”

“He’s no chicken,” Mart agrees, eyeing Cal with interest, “but then again, he’s a Yank. With all the hormones and chemicals they’d eat, they could have mad super-sperm on them. D’you have super-sperm, Sunny Jim?”

“What difference does it make?” Malachy says. “Once he’s married, he won’t be getting the ride anyway. Enjoy it while you can, man.” He tilts his glass at Cal.

“If he can,” Senan points out. “He hasn’t answered me yet.”

“Fuck all y’all,” Cal says, red and grinning. In spite of everything, he can’t help enjoying this.

“And me just after shouting you a pint,” Mart says reproachfully. “There’s gratitude for you. I oughta drink it myself.”

“Tell us, bucko,” Senan says. “Solve the mystery. What the hell were you thinking, at all? The two of ye looked like ye were getting on great guns. Why would you wanta go wrecking a good thing?”

“I’d say he got religion,” Bobby says. “The Yanks are always getting religion. Then they’re not allowed to do the business unless they’re married.”

“Where would he get any religion round here?” Senan demands. “Everyone’s Catholic. You don’t get that; it’s not the fuckin’ chicken pox. You’re either born with it or you’re not.”

“ ’Twasn’t the religion,” Mart says. “ ’Tis the uncertain times that’s done it. Some people get awful edgy about that class of carry-on, and they go looking for something to make them feel settled. Wait and see: there’ll be an epidemic of weddings around here now. Weddings and babas. So watch yourselves.”

The pints arrive, and the guys toast Cal’s marriage loudly enough to draw a few ragged cheers from the main bar. “Many happy years to you,” Francie tells him, wiping foam off his lip. “And may there be never a cross word between you.” Francie missed out on the woman he loved, decades ago, and is easily moved by romance of any kind.

“While we’re at it,” Mart says, raising his pint again, “here’s to us. You’re stuck with us now, Sunny Jim. I wouldn’t say that occurred to you, before you went down on one knee. Didja go down on one knee?”

“Sure,” Cal says. “When I do a thing, I do it right.”

“Good thinking,” Malachy says. “Get the job done before the aul’ joints give out and she has to help you back up again.”

“Till death do us part,” Mart says, clinking his glass against Cal’s. “You’re going nowhere now.”

“I wasn’t planning on going anywhere anyway,” Cal says.

“I know that. But you coulda, if you’d wanted to. You were a free agent. We’re on different terms now, psychologically speaking.”

“We’ve the divorce, these days,” Senan says. “If he has enough of our bolloxology, he can divorce Lena and the lot of us, and ride off into the sunset.”

“Ah, no,” Mart says, smiling, his eyes resting thoughtfully on Cal’s face. “I wouldn’t say Sunny Jim here is the divorcing type. Once he’s given his word, he’d stand by it, come hell or high water.”

“I already got one divorce that disagrees with you,” Cal points out.

“I know you have. I’d bet my life she was the one that ditched you, but, not the other way round. If she hadn’ta kicked you out the door, you’d be there still. Am I right?”

“What are you, my therapist?” Cal demands. He’s aware that tonight isn’t only, or even primarily, about his engagement. Everyone here has stuff to tell him and ask him, and stuff they want to tell each other about him. Not a one of these things will be said in so many words; lack of clarity is this place’s go-to, a kind of all-purpose multi-tool comprising both offensive and defensive weapons as well as broad-spectrum precautionary measures. The only smart thing Cal can do is keep his mouth shut as much as possible and pay attention. The booze won’t help. If Malachy has a bottle of poteen under the table, he’s screwed.

“I’d make a fine therapist,” Mart says, diverted by this intriguing new possibility. “There’d be none of this ‘Tell me about your childhood’ blather that’s only meant to keep you coming back till your bank account runs dry. Practical solutions, that’s what I’d offer.”

“You’d be fuckin’ woeful,” Senan says. “Some poor bastard would come in to you looking for help with the depression, and you’d tell him all he needed was to get a hobby and buy himself a hat with fuckin’—earflaps, or sequins, or some shite. Half the place would kill themselves before the year was out. The hills’d be alive with the sound of shotguns.”

“They would not,” Mart says with dignity. “They’d be alive with the sound of contented men in elegant headgear learning to play the trombone, or reading up on Galileo. You’ll come to me when yourself and Lena hit the rough patches, won’t you, Sunny Jim?”

“Sure,” Cal says. “You can get me a top hat.”

“You’d do better in one of them raccoon ones. With the tail left on.”

“You’ll haveta do the Marriage Mile now,” Malachy tells Cal, settling back on his banquette.

“Yeah?” Cal asks. “What’s that?” He sinks a couple more inches of his pint. Each of the guys is going to buy him one to congratulate him, and then he’ll have to buy a round to show his appreciation; and, while he’s the biggest guy there, the rest have put in a lot more dedicated training. He made himself a hamburger the size of his own head for dinner, as what Mart calls soakage, but he still has a tough evening’s work ahead.

“Have you never seen it done?”

“How would he have seen it done?” Senan asks. “There’s been fuck-all marriages here the last coupla years, and all the lads were from outside the parish. Other townlands wouldn’t do it,” he explains to Cal.

“Ah, no,” Malachy says. “ ’Tis an old Ardnakelty tradition. My granddad said it was old when his granddad was young; you wouldn’t know how far back it’d go. Thousands of years, maybe.”

“What’ve I gotta do?” Cal asks.

“You’ve to get a torch,” Malachy explains, “and you light it from your hearth fire. Have you a fireplace?”

“What’s that matter?” Senan demands. “I lit mine with a fuckin’ Zippo. No one gave a shite.”

“I’ve got a fireplace,” Cal says. “I’d rather not light it in this weather, though.”

“I’ll lend you my Zippo,” Senan says. To Malachy: “Go on there.”

“You run with the torch through the village,” Malachy says, “and then up to your woman’s house and all round it, and then back to yours. To show the place that you’re bringing the two hearth fires together.”

“And you do it in your jocks,” Francie says. “To prove that you’re hale and hearty, and fit to be the head of a family. I heard back in the day the lads ran it naked, but then the priests put the kibosh on that.”

“Huh,” Cal says. “I better buy myself some fancy new boxers.”

“That’s the real reason the lads around here get married young,” Malachy explains to Cal. “While they can still put on a good show. No one wants to see a big aul’ dad bod puffing down the street.”

“I looked like Jason Momoa,” Senan tells him. “Back when he was on Baywatch.”

“You did in your hole,” Francie said. “The pasty fuckin’ legs on you, glowing in the dark all the way—”

“The muscles on me. I was a fuckin’ ride back then.”

“Well, shit,” Cal says, giving his belly a rueful look. “Sounds like I better start working out, too.”

“At least you got engaged in summer,” Francie points out consolingly. “This fella”—Senan—“got engaged on New Year’s Eve, and he froze his bollox so bad he thought he’d have to call off the wedding.”

“Damn,” Cal says. “I’m gonna be a busy man. We got traditions where I come from, too, and I gotta cover all those.”

“Have you to wave a flag?” Mart inquires. “The Yanks’d wave a flag at the drop of a hat. We’re different here; we reckon most people probably already noticed we’re Irish.”

“No flags,” Cal says, “but I’m supposed to bring her daddy an animal I shot myself, to show I’m a good provider. Lena’s daddy’s gone, though, so probably I should bring it to her oldest brother.”

“Mike’d eat a rabbit,” P.J. says helpfully. “He’s a great man for the meat, is Mike.”

“Well, that’s a relief,” Cal says. “I don’t know what I’da done if he was a vegetarian.”

“Some of them carrots,” Mart advises him. “They were fierce flavorsome, so they were.”

“I might throw in some of those either way,” Cal agrees. “And I’ve gotta build us a bed, too. Most guys just hire a carpenter to do it, these days, but I’m lucky that way.”

“Jesus, man,” Malachy says, eyebrows up. “You weren’t joking about being busy.”

“Nope,” Cal says, smiling at him. “And somewhere in there, I gotta find time for the ancient tradition of looking a guy in the eye and calling bullshit.”

That gets a roar of laughter, and Malachy takes a couple of arm-punches. “Didn’t I tell you?” Mart says, delighted. “I told you this lad wasn’t some fool of a tourist that’d fall for your guff. I shoulda made you put money on it.”

“Get off me,” Malachy says, grinning. “ ’Twas worth a go. He’da been only gorgeous jogging down the road in his boxers.”

“I’da bought Jason Momoa ones,” Cal says. “In honor of Senan.”

“He had you there with the rabbit,” Mart says, jabbing Malachy gleefully in the shoulder. “Admit it.”

“He did not. I was only—”

“Have you really got to bring Mike a rabbit?” P.J. asks Cal, trying to get matters straight.

“Nah,” Cal says. “Probably I oughta buy him a beer, though, just to get on his good side.”

“My round,” Senan says, reminded by this. “Barty! Same again!”

Cal finishes off his pint to make room for the new one. After all this time, the guys still have the power to impress him by the flawless, impregnable unity with which they come together in a common cause. He passed this test, at least, but he’s under no illusion that it’ll be the last.

Mart is still gloating at Malachy and Senan, who are defending themselves vehemently. “I asked Lena to marry me, one time,” Bobby confides in Cal, under cover of the argument. “I kinda reckoned she’d say no, but I hadta give it a go. I knew she wouldn’t give me shite over it either way, d’you see. There’s some ones around here, if you proposed to them, you’d never hear the end of it.”

“Well,” Cal says, “I gotta admit, I’m glad she turned you down.”

“True enough,” Bobby says, struck by this. “Every cloud has a silver lining, isn’t that what they say? Only now there’s no one left around here that I can ask.” He sighs, down at his glass. “That’s what I liked about all that carry-on with the gold,” he says. “I thought I’d a chance.”

“You just liked having a posh cousin,” Senan tells him.

“No,” Bobby says mournfully. “I liked having a chance. Only I never did. And now he’s gone and got himself murdered, and even if I hadda had a chance, I don’t now.”

The drink is starting to get to Bobby. “I never once expected him to get murdered,” he tells Cal. “That’s not the kinda thing anyone could see coming. And now there’s detectives knocking on doors, disturbing everyone’s dinner. My mammy’s digestion was ruint for the whole night.”

At the mention of detectives, the other conversations fall away. The men’s feet shift under the table, and then are still.

“I didn’t like that fucker,” Francie says. “The detective. Nealon.”

“He’s smooth,” P.J. says, “so he is. Sly. And pretending he’s not.”

“I nearly decked the little prick,” Senan says. “Sitting in my kitchen complimenting my missus’s tea, hearty as Santy, like he’s an old pal of mine, and then outa the blue he said to me, ‘I’m working on a list of everyone that had any problems with Rushborough. Is there anyone else that you can think of?’ I don’t mind him asking questions, it’s his fuckin’ job, but I mind him thinking I’m thick enough to fall for that.”

“He’s a Dub, sure,” Malachy says, the corner of his mouth lifting ironically. “They’d always reckon we’ll fall for their guff.”

“He said to me,” Bobby says, worried, to Cal, “he said, ‘No need to come into the station yet, we’ll chat here for now.’ What did he mean by that? ‘For now’?” He has his glass clutched in both hands.

“If you weren’t fuckin’ wojous at cards,” Senan says, “you’d know a bluff when you hear one. He was trying to shake you up, so’s you’d give something away. That’s how they work. Don’t they?” he shoots at Cal.

“Sometimes,” Cal says. The air in the alcove has tightened. They’re coming closer to the evening’s business.

“I still haven’t met the man,” Mart says, put out. “He called round, but I was away to town. I came home to a pretty wee card through the door, saying he’d try me again. Here’s me only dying to make his acquaintance, and he’s off bothering the likes of ye who don’t appreciate him at all.”

“Tell us, so,” Senan says to Cal. “What does he reckon?”

“What are you asking him for?” Mart demands. “Sure, how would he know?”

“He’s a fuckin’ detective. They talk shop, same as anyone else.”

“He’s not a fuckin’ detective as far as your man’s concerned. He’s a suspect, the same as yourself and myself.”

“Are you?” Senan asks Cal. “A suspect?”

“Nealon wouldn’t tell me if I was,” Cal says. “But yeah, probably, as much as anyone else. I was here. I knew Rushborough. I can’t be ruled out.”

“Ah, you wouldn’t hurt a fly,” Mart tells him. “Not without a good reason. I’ll be sure Detective Nealon knows that.”

“How does it feel?” Malachy inquires, giving Cal a grin that has a slip of malice in it. “Being on the wrong side, for a change?”

“Doesn’t feel like much of anything,” Cal says, shrugging and reaching for his pint. “It’s just where I happened to land.” In truth, it feels deeply, turbulently strange. It has the ominous savagery of a tornado siren: all bets are off.

“Did your man Nealon interrogate you?”

“He wanted to hear about finding the body,” Cal says. “That was pretty much it.”

“My God,” Bobby says, struck by this, “and I never asked you. How was it? Were you awful shook up?”

“He’s a detective,” Senan tells him. “You amadán. He’s seen dead bodies before.”

“I’m OK,” Cal tells Bobby. “Thanks.”

“Was he in a terrible state? Rushborough, like. Not Nealon.”

“The man was dead,” Francie says. “It doesn’t get much worse than that.”

“I heard his guts was spilling out,” Bobby says. His eyes are round. Cal knows that Bobby is capable of being genuinely shaken, and genuinely concerned for his state of mind, and at the same time probing for information that might come in useful.

“His guts looked fine to me,” he says.

“I know where you got that,” Mart tells Bobby. “Your mammy heard it off Clodagh Moynihan. I know ’cause I was the one that said it to her. I can’t stomach that bitch; I wanted her outa Noreen’s so I could do my shopping in peace, and I knew that’d send her running off to tell the world before Noreen could get in there first.”

“So what does Nealon reckon?” Senan asks Cal.

“You tell me,” Cal says. “You probably know more’n I do. What does Nealon think?”

“He thinks it was someone from around here that done it,” Francie says, “is what he thinks.”

His voice leaves a small silence in its wake. P.J. scrapes at something on the table; Mart picks a midge out of his pint.

“Huh,” Cal says, feeling a response is expected from him. “How do you know?”

“ ’Cause he’s got his posse going all around the place asking who was up the mountain, night before last,” Senan says. “They’re not asking that in Knockfarraney, or Lisnacarragh, or across the river. Just here.”

“The way he went about it was awful confusing,” P.J. says, rubbing his head as he remembers. “He didn’t go asking, ‘Were you up the mountain? D’you know anyone that was?’ I’da known how to answer that. ’Twas all like, ‘What would you be doing up there in the middle of the night? Would you have a good reason for being up there? What about your neighbors, what reason would they have?’ I didn’t know how to answer him at all, at all.”

“He was aiming to confuse you,” Francie says. “He’s a cute hoor, that fella.”

“Sure, I’m up the mountain anyhow,” Malachy says, “no excuse needed. They came asking me what cars passed by my house that night, coming from this side or going back down. They’ve got no interest in the other side; themens coulda been drag racing up and down the mountain, for all Nealon cares. He’s got his eye on this place.”

All of them are watching Cal. He looks back at them and keeps his mouth shut. Trey’s story has taken root and is spreading, underground, sending out tendrils.

“Now, d’you see,” Mart says, leaning back in his seat to gaze up at the damp stains on the ceiling, “that’s the part that came as a surprise to me. Detective Nealon’s feeling awful specific, and I can’t see any reason why. He hasn’t brought up the subject of gold, that I’ve heard of; if anyone’s mentioned it to him, he’s keeping it awful quiet. So what’s got him narrowing things down to our wee neck of the woods?” He cocks an inquisitive eye at Cal.

“Could be anything,” Cal says. “Maybe he tracked Rushborough’s phone, and it says he was round here all night. Or maybe it’s just ’cause here’s where he mostly hung out.”

“Or he could have a witness,” Mart says, with a musing twist to his voice, like the word is foreign and interesting. “What would that mean, now, Sunny Jim? What would a witness have witnessed?”

Cal has been drinking too fast, aiming to be mannerly and show his appreciation. Regardless of the hamburger, the booze is starting to reach him. He feels suddenly and vividly, as he’s no doubt intended to, the lonesomeness of his position. He’s got Nealon side-eyeing him because he thinks Cal is a local, and the locals side-eyeing him because they think he’s a cop, while the truth is that he’s neither one and has neither to take refuge in. No matter which set of wagons is circling, he’s outside, in the darkness with the pacing predators. He’s not frightened by this—Cal has always been practical about fear, saving it for when the danger is solid and close at hand—but the lonesomeness sits as deep as fear. He knows the country outside the window is small and busy with men and their doings, but today something in the hot sunset light hitting the stained glass implies a vast, featureless emptiness, as though he could go out the door and walk himself to death without seeing a human face, or a place to give him shelter.

“I got no idea,” he says. “I don’t read minds. If anyone said Nealon’s got a witness, ask them.”

“There’s a terrible loada possibilities,” Mart says with a sigh, “when you’re dealing with the likes of Paddy Englishman. Even dead, you couldn’t watch the fucker. The man struck me as being that many shades of dodgy, you wouldn’t know which one to keep your eye on.” He glances sideways at Cal. “Tell us, Sunny Jim: what did your Theresa think of him? Sure, she saw more of him than any of us, what with him being a friend of her daddy’s. Did she say he was dodgy?”

“Course she didn’t,” Malachy tells him. “If she was uneasy around him, this fella wouldn’ta let the man near her. Wouldja?”

Cal feels danger rise in the air like heat-shimmer off a road. “I didn’t need any kid to tell me that guy was squirrelly,” he says. “I got that far all by myself.”

“You did,” Mart concedes. “You said to me, right up at that bar, you didn’t like the cut of him.”

“I’ve a pain in my hole with Rushborough,” P.J. declares suddenly and with force. “I’d had enough of him even before this, and ’tis only after getting worse. I’ve my hands full, with this drought. I’m feeding out winter rations; I’ll have to sell stock if this keeps up. I can’t afford to be thinking about anything else. He came in here distracting me, getting my hopes up. He’s dead now, and he’s still distracting me. I want the fella gone.”

P.J. mostly doesn’t get listened to, but this draws a ripple of nods and low noises of agreement. “You and all the rest of us,” Senan says, raising his glass. “We shoulda run the fucker outa town the day he walked in.”

“Young Con McHugh’s only devastated,” P.J. tells Cal, his long face creased with concern, “so he is. With the weather the way it is, he says, it’d take a miracle for him to come outa this year OK. He thought your man Rushborough was the miracle, like.”

“More fool him,” Senan says, knocking back the last of his pint.

“We all thought it,” Bobby says quietly. “You can’t be blaming Con.”

“Then more fool all of us.”

“Con’s grand,” Francie says. “He’ll have a kiss and a cuddle with the missus and he’ll get over it. ’Tis Sonny who’s not great. Sonny talks big, but he gets the moods something fierce.”

“That’s why he’s not here to congratulate you,” P.J. explains to Cal. “He woulda been, only he hadn’t the heart.”

“Sonny wishes he’da been the one that kilt Rushborough,” Francie says. “He never touched him, but he wishes he’d taken his shotgun and blown your man clean away.”

“We all do,” Senan says. “Your man came swanning in here, making believe he was our salvation. All the while he was fucking us right up the arse.”

Mart, who’s been watching in silence from his corner, moves. “Paddy Englishman was nothing,” he says. “Forget about him. He was no more than vermin that wandered onto our land and got itself shot, and good riddance.”

“He was no cousin of mine,” Bobby says, simply and a little sorrowfully. “I shoulda known. I did know, underneath; I just didn’t wanta. Like when I asked Lena to marry me. All the things that disappoint me worst, I knew them all along.”

“He was no cousin or neighbor or nothing to any of us,” Mart says. “There was no reason he shouldn’t try to con us outa our money, the same as he woulda conned anyone else he ran across. That’s what vermin does: scavenges what it finds. Johnny Reddy’s a different matter.”

“Wee Johnny sold out his own people,” Francie says. His deep, slow voice feels like a dark tremor running in the floor, up through the banquettes and the table. “That’s dirty. A dirty thing to do.”

“Sold us to an Englishman, no less,” Malachy says. The men stir at the word. Cal feels something old in the air, stories too long ago to tell, but built into these men’s bones. “Rounded us up and handed us over to him like livestock.”

“Not only us,” Mart says. “He handed over our parents and our grandparents and all. Fed Paddy Englishman fulla their stories, fattened him up on those till he could talk like he had genuine Grade-A Ardnakelty blood, and then let him loose here. He did a good job, did wee Johnny; I’ll say that for him. Once your man gave us a round of ‘Black Velvet Band,’ I fell for it, hook, line, and sinker.”

“Your man knew about my great-granddad falling down the well,” Francie says. “That story was none of his fuckin’ business. The man nearly died; the whole townland worked their arses off, getting him out. They didn’t do it for some fuckin’ English gombeen in poncey shoes to try and con me outa what’s mine.”

“I’ll tell you what else of ours Johnny sold to Rushborough,” Mart says to Cal. “He sold him our bad luck. It’s been a hard year for us, boyo, and getting harder every day without rain. Other years, we mighta laughed in Paddy Englishman’s face, but this summer we were ripe and ready for any flimflam merchant that’d offer us some hope to think about when we were low. Johnny knew that, and he handed it over.”

The men are still shifting, slow and heavy, turning their necks and rolling their shoulders like men readying for a fight.

“D’ye know the word ‘outlaw’?” Mart asks the table in general. “D’ye know where that comes from? Back in the day, a man that done the dirt on his people was put outside the law. If you could catch him, you could do whatever you chose to him. You could tie him up hand and foot and hand him over to the authorities, if you wanted. Or you could beat the shite outa him, or hang him from a tree. The law didn’t protect him any more.”

“You’re the law,” Francie says to Cal. “Would you be in favor of that? It’d be awful convenient. Some wee shitehawk, that you probably didn’t like anyhow, wouldn’t be your responsibility any more.”

“He wouldn’t be my responsibility anyway,” Cal says. “I’m no kinda law around here.”

“Exactly,” Mart says to Francie. “Isn’t that what I’m after telling you? Shut your trap and listen to me, and you might learn something by accident. The only sensible thing an outlaw could do was leg it. Head for the hills, get himself a safe distance away, and start over somewhere no one knew him. And I’d say Johnny’s been giving that option plenty of consideration, the last coupla days.”

“I’d be giving it more than consideration,” Malachy says, one corner of his mouth lifting in a sweet smile, “if I was in his shoes. I’d run like a rabbit. Johnny must be a braver man than I am.”

“Ah, not braver,” Mart says, waving a finger at him. “Wiser, maybe. Tell us, Sunny Jim: let’s say the bold Johnny ran. What would Detective Nealon make of that?”

“I only met the guy one time,” Cal says. “Your guess is as good as mine.”

“Don’t be acting the maggot,” Mart says. “You know what I’m getting at. If that was you investigating, you’d think Johnny legged it because ’twas him that kilt Paddy Englishman. Amn’t I right?”

“I’d wonder,” Cal says.

“And you’d go looking for him. Not just yourself; you’d have people watching out for him, here and over the water. Red flags on his name on the aul’ computers.”

“I’d want to find him,” Cal says.

“Johnny knows that,” Mart says. “That’s why he’s still hanging about. He’s keeping the head down, he’s not strolling into Noreen’s to sprinkle his charm over any poor soul that happens to stop in, but he’s there.” He nods to the window. Outside, the light is fading; it puddles sullenly in the stained glass. Cal thinks of Johnny, trapped and humming with tension somewhere on the darkening mountainside, and of Trey methodically going about the business she’s set in motion.

“And he’ll keep hanging about,” Mart says, “being a blot on the landscape, till one of three things happens.” He holds up a finger. “Nealon hauls him away in handcuffs. And then he’ll sing like a wee birdie.” A second finger. “Or Johnny gets frightened enough—of Nealon, or of someone else—that he makes a run for it.” A third. “Or else Nealon hauls someone else away, and Johnny feels safe to jog on.”

“If Nealon went after him hard,” Francie says, “he’d jog on all right.”

“Life’s a balance, Sunny Jim,” Mart says, to Cal. “We’re always weighing up the things we’re most afraid of, and seeing which one weighs heaviest. That’s what Johnny Reddy’s doing this minute. I’d like to see his personal balance tilt the right way. Wouldn’t you?”

Cal can think of few things he would like better than setting Nealon on Johnny’s trail. He has no doubt that the guys have an excellent strategy all ready to roll, and that having him on board would help it go down smoothly with Nealon. He finds he doesn’t give a shit about the prospect of lying to a detective, as long as it would get rid of that little asswipe Johnny once and for all, shut down this Rushborough business before it gets out of control, and whip Trey’s plan out of her hands before it can detonate.

Trey has made it crystal clear that this isn’t Cal’s territory, and he has no right to trespass on it. It’s her place, not his; her family, and her quarrel. Regardless of what level of shit she’s pulled, he can’t bring himself to go up against her. She isn’t a little kid any more, for him to take decisions away from her and make them himself in the name of her own good. She has her plan; all he can do is keep following along behind her, in the hope that, if things go wrong, he’ll be close enough.

“One reason I retired,” he says, “was so I could stop having to deal with people I don’t like. Johnny Reddy’s a shitbird and I don’t like him. That means I don’t plan on having any dealings with him ever again. As far as I can, I plan on ignoring that he ever walked into this town.”

None of the men answer that. They drink, and watch Cal. Dull patches of color from the window slide along their sleeves and their faces as they move.

Mart sips his pint and regards Cal meditatively. “D’you know something, bucko,” he says, “I’ve a bone to pick with you. You’re here, what, two year now?”

“Two and a half,” Cal says. “Near enough.”

“And you’re still refusing to play Fifty-Five. I was willing to cut you a bitta slack while you settled in, but at this stage you’re only taking up space, and plenty of it. It’s time you started earning your keep.” He shifts on the banquette, with difficulty, and fishes a battered pack of cards out of his pocket. “Now,” he says, slapping it down on the table. “Whatever money Johnny left you, get ready to lose it.”

“D’you know what goes well with Fifty-Five?” Malachy says, leaning to reach under the table.

“Oh, shit,” Cal says.

“Quit your whinging,” Malachy says, coming up with a two-liter Lucozade bottle half full of innocent-looking clear liquid. “This stuff’s great for sharpening the mind; you’ll learn twice as fast.”

“And you can’t get engaged without it,” Mart says. “ ’Twouldn’t be legal. Barty! Give us a few shot glasses there.”

Cal resigns himself to the ruin of everything he had planned for tomorrow, which luckily wasn’t much. The night’s business was serious enough that Malachy saved the poteen for afterwards, to make sure everyone kept a relatively clear head, but it’s over and put aside, at least for now. Mart is shuffling the cards, more deftly than anyone could expect from his swollen fingers; Senan is holding the poteen bottle up to the light and squinting at it to assess its probable quality. “You asked Lena to marry you?” P.J. asks Bobby, his head suddenly popping up as he chews over the conversation. “Lena Dunne, like?”

Everyone starts ribbing Bobby about his proposal, and P.J. about his slowness on the uptake, and giving Cal another round of shit just for the sake of thoroughness. The warmth has flowed back into the air, stronger than ever. What gets to Cal is that, just like everything else that’s passed in the alcove that evening, it’s real.