The Hunter

Four

When Trey gets home, her dad is rearranging the sitting room. She stands in the doorway and watches him. He’s cleared the clutter off the coffee table and brought in the kitchen chairs, and he’s humming to himself as he spins them into place, stands back to get a better look, springs forward to adjust them. Outside the window behind him, the sun is still on the bare yard, but it’s a loose, late sun, relaxing its grip. Liam and Alanna are taking turns throwing a rusty garden fork, trying to make it stick prongs-down in the dry ground.

Johnny never stops moving. He’s wearing a shirt, faded blue with fine white stripes, in some rough material that looks fancy. He’s had his hair cut, and not by Trey’s mam—it tapers smoothly at the neck and ears, and the boyish flop in front has been expertly shaped. He looks too good for the house.

“Amn’t I only gorgeous?” he says, sweeping a hand over his head, when he catches Trey looking. “I took a wee spin into town. If I’m having guests, I oughta be in a fit state to welcome them.”

Trey asks, “Who?”

“Ah, a few of the lads are calling in tonight. A few drinks, a few laughs, a bitta catching up. Bit of a chat about my idea.” He spreads his arms to the room. His eyes have the same lit-up, overexcited sparkle they had last night. He looks like he’s had a drink or two already, but Trey doesn’t think he has. “Would you look at this, now? Fit for kings. Who says it takes a woman to bring out the best in a place, hah?”

Trey wanted to tell Cal about her dad’s idea. She wanted to ask whether he reckoned it was a load of shite, or whether he thought it might actually come to something. But Cal never gave her an opening, and she couldn’t find a way to make her own. As the day went on, she stopped trying. It occurred to her that Cal might be deliberately avoiding the subject of her dad because he has no desire to get mixed up in her family’s mess. She doesn’t blame him. He did that once before, when she made him, and got the living shite bet out of him for it. In certain lights, when it’s cold, Trey can still see the scar on the bridge of his nose. She doesn’t regret it, but she has no right to make him do it again.

She says, “I wanta come.”

Her dad turns to look at her. “Tonight?”

“Yeah.”

His mouth has an amused curl like he’s about to laugh her out of it, but then he checks himself and looks at her differently.

“Well,” he says. “And why not, I suppose. You’re no baba, these days; you’re a big girl that might be able to give your daddy a hand. Can you do that?”

“Yeah,” Trey says. She has no idea what he wants from her.

“And can you keep quiet about what you hear? That’s important, now. I know Mr. Hooper’s been good to you, but what’s going on here tonight is Ardnakelty business. He’s got no part in it. Can you promise me you’ll say nothing to him?”

Trey looks at him. She can’t think of a single thing that he could beat Cal at. “Wasn’t gonna anyway,” she says.

“Ah, I know. But this is serious stuff, now; grown-up stuff. Promise me.”

“Yeah,” Trey says. “Promise.”

“Good girl yourself,” Johnny says. He props his arms on the back of a chair to give her his full attention. “These lads that are coming,” he says. “There’s Francie Gannon, Senan Maguire, Bobby Feeney, Mart Lavin, Dessie Duggan—I’d rather not have him on board, with the mouth on his missus, but there’s no way round it. Who else, now?” He considers. “P.J. Fallon. Sonny McHugh, and Con as well, if that missus of his’ll let him off the leash. That’s a fine bunch of hairy-arsed reprobates, amn’t I right?”

Trey shrugs.

“Have you had any dealings with any of them? Mended an aul’ window frame for them, built them a wee table or two?”

“Most of ’em,” Trey says. “Not Bobby.”

“Not Bobby, no? Has he got anything against you?”

“Nah. He just mends his own stuff.” He makes a pig’s arse of it. When Bobby helps out a neighbor, Cal and Trey get called in to repair the damage.

“Ah, sure, that’s grand,” Johnny says, dismissing Bobby with a sweep of his hand. “Bobby’ll do what Senan does, in the end. Now, here’s what you’ll do tonight. When this bunch of fine lads start arriving, you’ll answer the door. Bring them through to here, all lovely and polite”—he mimes ushering people into the room—“and make sure you ask how they got on with whatever bit of a job you did for them. If they’ve any complaints, you apologize and promise you’ll make it right.”

“They don’t have complaints,” Trey says flatly. She doesn’t like doing work for Ardnakelty people. It always has a taste of patronage about it, them patting themselves on the back for being noble enough to throw her the job. Cal says to do it anyway. Trey gives them the finger by making sure they can’t fault her work, no matter how hard they try.

Johnny reels back, laughing and holding up his hands in mock apology. “Ah, God, I take it back, don’t hurt me! No harm to your work—sure, haven’t I seen it myself, don’t I know you wouldn’t get finer anywhere in this country? Go on, we’ll say anywhere north of the equator. Is that better?”

Trey shrugs.

“Once they’re all here, you can sit yourself down over in that corner, out of the way. Get yourself a lemonade or something to drink. Say nothing unless I ask you a question—sure, that’ll be no bother to you, you’ve a talent for that.” He smiles at her, his eyes crinkling up. “And if I do, you just go on and agree with me. Don’t worry your head about why. Can you do that?”

“Yeah,” Trey says.

“Good girl yourself,” Johnny says. Trey thinks he’s going to pat her shoulder, but he changes his mind and winks at her instead. “Now let’s put a shine on this place. Them dollies in the corner, bring them into Alanna’s room, or Maeve’s, or whoever owns them. And whose runners are those under the chair?”

Trey picks up dolls’ clothes, toy cars, crisp packets and socks, and puts them away. The shadow of the mountain is starting to slide across the yard, towards the house. Liam and Alanna have got a bucket of water and are slopping it on the ground to soften it, so their garden fork will stick in better. Sheila shouts to them, from the kitchen, to come in for their baths. They ignore her.

Johnny buzzes around the room, setting out saucers for ashtrays with stylish flicks of his wrist, skimming dust off surfaces with a kitchen cloth, leaping backwards to admire his work and then forwards to fine-tune it, whistling through his teeth. The whistle has a tense jitter to it, and he never stops moving. It comes to Trey that her dad isn’t excited; he’s nervous, that this might not work out. More than that: he’s afraid.

Trey sets her mind to coming up with a polite way to ask how the McHughs are liking their new patio benches. She wants her dad to need her in on this. The other thing she was going to ask Cal, if he reckoned her dad’s plan might not be a load of shite, was how to scupper it.

The men fill up the room till it feels airless. It’s not just the size of them, broad backs and thick thighs that creak the chairs when they shift; it’s the heat off them, the smoke of their pipes and cigarettes, the smell of earth and sweat and animals from their clothes, the outdoors swell of their deep voices. Trey is crammed into a corner by the sofa, with her knees pulled up out of the way of sprawling feet. She’s left Banjo out in the kitchen, with her mam. He wouldn’t like this.

They arrived as the long summer evening was seeping away, slanting the mountain’s shadow far across the fields and filtering tangles of sunlight through the trees. They came separately, as if the gathering was accidental. Sonny and Con McHugh swept in on a wave of noise, arguing about a call the ref made in last weekend’s hurling match; Francie Gannon slouched in silently and took a chair in the corner. Dessie Duggan made a crack about not being able to tell whether Trey is a girl or a boy, which he thought was so funny that he repeated it all over again to Johnny, in the exact same words and with the exact same giggle. P.J. Fallon wiped his feet twice on the mat and asked after Banjo. Mart Lavin handed Trey his big straw hat and told her to keep it out of Senan Maguire’s reach. Senan took the opportunity to tell Trey, loudly, how she and Cal did a mighty job fixing the shambles Bobby Feeney had made of the Maguires’ rotted window frame, while at his shoulder Bobby puffed up with offense. Their faces have the pucker of constant low-level worry—all the farmers’ do, this summer—but tonight has brightened them: for a few hours, anyway, they can think about something other than the drought. Their cars, parked at angles that take no notice of each other, crowd the bare yard.

Trey has seen all these men since she was a baby, but she’s seen them giving her a brief neutral glance on the road or in the shop, or—the last couple of years—discussing furniture repairs over her head with Cal. She’s never seen them like this, taking their ease together with a few drinks on them. She’s never seen them here. Her dad’s friends, before he went away, were quick-moving men who picked up bits of work here and there, on other men’s farms or in other men’s factories, or who didn’t work at all. These are solid men, farmers who own their land and work it well, and who four years ago would never have thought of coming up the mountain to sit in Johnny Reddy’s front room. Her dad was right in this much, anyway: he’s brought a change with him.

The tight-wound, glittery buzz that was coming off him earlier is gone; he’s breezy as spring. He’s poured the men lavish drinks, and put ashtrays at the smokers’ elbows. He’s asked after their parents by name and by ailment. He’s told stories about the wonders of London, and stories that make the men bellow with laughter, and stories where he has to skip bits with a wink to the men and a tilt of his head at Trey. He’s charmed stories out of each one of them, and been enthralled or impressed or sympathetic. Trey’s feeling towards him, which was pure anger, is becoming shaded over by scorn. He’s like a performing monkey, doing his tricks and somersaults and holding out his cap to beg for peanuts. She preferred her fury clean.

She did her own tricks for the men when they arrived, just like her dad wanted, showing them into the sitting room and asking after their furniture, nodding and saying That’s great thanks when they praised it. Her anger towards them is untouched.

Johnny waits till halfway into the third drink, when the men have relaxed deep into their chairs but before their laughter takes on an uncontrolled edge, to thread Cillian Rushborough into the conversation. Bit by bit, as he talks, the room changes. It becomes focused. The overhead bulb isn’t bright enough, and the fringed lampshade gives its light a murky tinge; when the men stay still to listen, it smears deep, tricky shadows into their faces. Trey wonders how well her father remembers these men; how many of the fundamental and silent things about them he’s forgotten, or overlooked all along.

“Well, holy God,” Mart Lavin says, leaning back in his armchair. He looks like Christmas just came early. “I underestimated you, young fella. Here I thought you’d be offering us some shitey music festival, or bus tours for Yanks. And all the time you’ve got the Klondike waiting at our doors.”

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” Bobby Feeney says, awed. Bobby is little and round, and when his eyes and mouth go round as well, he looks like a toy that’s meant to roll. “And me out in them fields every day of my life. I never woulda guessed.”

P.J. Fallon has his gangly legs wound around the legs of his chair, to help him think. “Are you positive, now?” he asks Johnny.

“Course he’s not fuckin’ positive,” Senan Maguire says. “A few bedtime stories, is all he has. I wouldn’t cross the road for that.”

Senan is a big man, with a ham of a face and a low tolerance for shite. Trey reckons Senan is her dad’s main obstacle. Bobby Feeney and P.J. Fallon are both easily led, Francie Gannon goes his own way and lets other people be fools if they want, nobody listens to Dessie Duggan, everyone knows Sonny McHugh would do anything for a few quid, and Con McHugh is the youngest of eight so it doesn’t matter what he thinks. Mart Lavin disagrees with everything he encounters, often purely for the pleasure of arguing about it, but everyone is used to that and discounts it. Senan has no patience. If he decides this is foolishness, he’ll want to stamp it out altogether.

“That’s what I thought, at the start,” Johnny agrees. “Some aul’ story his granny heard, and maybe misremembered, or maybe just made up to keep a child entertained; sure, that’s not enough to go on. Only this lad Rushborough, he’s not a man you’d write off. Ye’ll see what I mean. He’s a man you’d take seriously. So I said I’d sit down with him and a map of the townland, and listen to what he had to say.”

He looks around at the men. Francie’s bony face is expressionless and Senan’s is pure disbelief, but they’re all listening.

“Here’s the thing, lads. Whatever’s at the bottom of this story, it’s not made up outa thin air. And if it’s been misremembered along the way, it’s funny how it’s been misremembered to add up awful neat. Them spots Rushborough’s granny told him about, they’re actual places. I can pin down every one of them, within a few yards. And they’re not just scattered around here, there and everywhere. They’re in a line, give or take, from the foot of this mountain down through all your land to the river. Rushborough reckons there usedta be another river there, that’s dried up now, and it washed the gold down from the mountain.”

“There was another river there, all right,” Dessie says, leaning forward. Dessie always raises his voice a little too loud, like he expects someone to try and talk over him. “The bed of it goes across my back field. Gives me a pain in the hole with the plowing, every year.”

“There’s dried-up riverbeds everywhere,” Senan says. “That doesn’t mean there’s gold in them.”

“What it means,” Johnny says, “is there’s something in Rushborough’s story. I don’t know about the rest of ye, but I wouldn’t mind finding out how much.”

“Your man sounds like a fuckin’ eejit,” Senan says. “How much will this cost him, hah? Machinery, and labor, and fuck knows what else, and no guarantee that he’ll get a cent out of it.”

“Don’t be codding yourself,” Johnny says. “Rushborough’s no fool. A fool wouldn’ta got where he is. He can afford to indulge himself, and this is what he fancies. The way another man might buy a racehorse, or go sailing his yacht around the world. It’s not about the cash—although he wouldn’t turn down a bit more of that. This fella’s mad on his Irish roots. He was reared on rebel songs and pints of porter. He’d get tears in his eyes talking about how the Brits tied James Connolly to a chair to shoot him. He’s after his heritage.”

“Plastic Paddy,” says Sonny McHugh, with tolerant scorn. Sonny is a large man, with a spray of dusty-looking curls and a spreading belly, but he has a small man’s quack of a voice; it sounds stupid coming out of him. “We’ve a cousin like that. In Boston. He came over for the summer, three or four years back, d’ye remember? The young fella with the big thick neck on him? He brought us a digital camera for a present, in case we hadn’t seen one before. Couldn’t believe we knew The Simpsons. Shoulda seen the look on the poor fucker when he saw our house.”

“There’s nothing wrong with your house,” Bobby says, perplexed. “You’ve the double glazing and all.”

“I know, yeah. He thought we’d be in a thatched cottage.”

“My land’s not a tourist attraction,” Senan says. He has his feet planted wide apart and his arms folded. “I’m not having some gobshite trampling all over it, frightening my ewes, just because his granny sang him ‘Galway Bay.’ ”

“He wouldn’t be trampling all over your land,” Johnny says. “Not to start with, anyway. He wants to start off panning in the river; easier than digging. If he finds gold in that river, even a small little biteen, he’ll be delighted to pay each and every one of ye a lovely chunk of cash for the opportunity of doing some digging on your land.”

That gets a brief, vivid silence. Con glances at Sonny. Bobby’s mouth is wide open.

“How much digging?” Senan asks.

“Samples, he’d want, first off. Just stick a wee tube down into the soil and see what it brings up. That’s all.”

“How much cash?” asks Sonny.

Johnny turns up his palms. “That’s up to yourselves, sure. Whatever you can negotiate with him. A grand each, easy. Maybe two, depending on what mood he’s in.”

“For the samples, only.”

“Ah, God, yeah. If he finds what he’s after, it’ll be a lot more than that.”

Trey has been so focused on her dad, she hadn’t thought about the fact that these men would be making money from his plan. The surge of helpless rage burns in her throat. Even if he knew about Brendan, Johnny would be grand with filling up Ardnakelty’s pockets, as long as he got what he wanted. Trey isn’t. As far as she’s concerned, all of Ardnakelty can fuck itself to eternity and beyond. She would rather pull out her own fingernails with pliers than do anyone here a favor.

“If there’s gold there…” says Con McHugh. He’s the youngest of the men, a big lad with rumpled dark hair and a handsome, open face. “My God, lads. Imagine that.”

“Ah, it’s there,” Johnny says, as easily as if he was talking about milk in the fridge. “My young one over there, she learned all about it in school. Didn’t you, sweetheart?”

It takes Trey a second to realize he means her. She forgot he knew she was there. “Yeah,” she says.

“What did Teacher say about it?”

All the men’s faces have turned towards Trey. She thinks about saying the teacher told them the gold was round the other side of the mountains, or that it was all dug up a thousand years back. Her dad would beat her afterwards, if he could catch her, but she doesn’t consider that worth factoring into her decision. Even if she said it, though, the men might not be swayed by what some teacher from Wicklow thought. Her dad is a good talker; he might still talk them round. And she would have wasted her chance.

“He said there’s gold at the bottom of the mountain,” she says. “And people usedta dig it up and make things out of it. Jewelry. It’s in the museums in Dublin now.”

“I saw a program about that on the telly,” says Con, leaning forward. “Brooches the size of your hand, and big twisty necklaces. Beautiful, so they were. The shine offa them.”

“You’d look only gorgeous in one of them,” Senan tells him.

“He wants them for Aileen,” Sonny says. “Great big lad like him fits in her pocket—”

“How’d you get out tonight, hah, Con?”

“She thinks he’s off getting her flowers.”

“He went out the back window.”

“She’s got one of them GPS trackers on him. She’ll be banging on the door any minute.”

“Get in behind the sofa there, Con, we’ll say we never saw you—”

They’re not just having the crack. Each of them, even Con reddening and telling the rest to fuck off, has one eye sliding to Johnny. They’re making time, to assess what they think of him and his story and his idea.

While they’re doing it, Trey’s dad gives her a tiny approving nod. She gives him a blank look back.

“I’m only saying,” Con says, when he’s shaken free of the slagging and the other men have settled back, grinning, into their seats. “I wouldn’t say no to a shovelful or two of that stuff.”

“Would any of ye?” Johnny asks.

Trey watches them picture it. They look younger when they do, like they could move faster. Their hands have gone still, letting their cigarettes burn away.

“You’d have to keep a bit,” Con says. His voice has a dreamy hush. “A wee bit, only. For a souvenir, like.”

“Fuck that,” Senan says. “I’d have a Caribbean cruise for my souvenir. And a nanny to mind the kids on board, so the missus and meself could drink cocktails outa coconuts in peace.”

“California,” Bobby says. “That’s where I’d go. You can go round all the film studios, and have your dinner at restaurants where your woman Scarlett Johansson does be sitting at the next table—”

“Your mammy wouldn’t have any of that,” Senan tells him. “She’ll want to go to Lourdes, or Medjugorje.”

“We’ll do the lot,” Bobby says. His color is up. “Feck it, why not? My mammy’s eighty-one, how many more chances will she have?”

“And this drought can go and shite,” Sonny says, on a rising burst of exuberance. “Bring it on, hah? If there’s no grass and no hay, I’ll buy in the best feed, and my cattle can eat like lords all year round. In a brand-new barn.”

“Jesus, will you listen to this fella,” Mart says. “Have you no sense of romance, boyo? Get yourself an aul’ Lamborghini, and a Russian supermodel to ride in it with you.”

“A barn’ll last longer. A Lamborghini’d be bolloxed in a year, on these roads.”

“So would a Russian supermodel,” says Dessie, snickering.

“The Lamborghini’s for your road trip across America,” Mart explains. “Or Brazil, or Nepal, or wherever puts a glint in your eye. I wouldn’t say the roads in Nepal are much better than ours, mind you.”

Johnny is laughing, topping up Bobby’s whiskey, but Trey catches his watchful eye on Mart. He’s trying to figure out whether the encouragement is sincere, or whether Mart is playing at something. Obviously he remembers this much, at least: Mart Lavin is always playing at something.

He remembers Francie, too. Francie is saying nothing, but Johnny leaves him to it without so much as a glance. Francie doesn’t like being nudged, even a little.

Trey adjusts her thoughts on her father. With her, he’s so ham-fisted he doesn’t even realize it, but with other people he’s deft. Scuppering his plan is likely to be harder than she thought. Trey has little practice trying to be deft with anyone.

“I’d have the finest ram in this country,” P.J. says with decision. “I’d have that young fella from the Netherlands that went for four hundred grand.”

“Sure, you’d have no need to wear yourself out raising sheep any more,” Mart tells him. “You could just sit back and watch the gold pop up outa your land. With a butler bringing you food on toothpicks.”

“Jesus, hold your horses there, lads,” Johnny says, raising his hands, grinning. “I’m not saying ye’ll be millionaires. We won’t know how much is in there till we start looking. It might be enough for butlers and road trips, or it might only be enough for a week in Lanzarote. Don’t be getting ahead of yourselves.”

“I’d have the sheep anyway,” P.J. tells Mart, after some thought. “I’m used to them, like.”

“We’d have all the newspapers coming down here,” Dessie says. The thought makes him glow a bit, all over his baldy head. Dessie, as Mrs. Duggan’s son and Noreen’s husband, has always been one step away from the center of things. “And the lads off the telly, and the radio. To interview us, like.”

“You’d make a mint offa them,” Mart tells him. “They’d all buy their lunches outa your missus’s shop. They’d be Dubs, sure. The Dubs would never think of bringing their own sandwiches.”

“Would I have to be interviewed?” P.J. asks, worried. “I never done that before.”

“I’d do it,” Bobby says.

“If you go shiteing on about aliens on national telly,” Senan tells him, “I’ll take a fuckin’ hurley to you.”

“Hang on a fuckin’ second here,” Sonny says. “What do we need this plastic Paddy fella for, at all? If there’s gold on my land, I’ll dig it up myself. I don’t need some eejit walking off with half the profit. And singing ‘Come Out Ye Black and Tans’ at my cattle while he does it.”

“You haven’t a clue where to look, sure,” Johnny points out. “Are you going to dig up every acre you’ve got?”

“You can tell us.”

“I could, but it’d do you no good. There’s laws. You can’t use machinery, unless you’ve a license from the government; you’d be digging away with nothing but your bare hands and a spade. And even if you found gold, you wouldn’t be allowed to sell it. Young Con here might be happy enough to make the lot into brooches for his missus, but I’d say the rest of us want something more to show for it.”

“I’ve farmed my land my whole life,” Francie says. “And my father and my grandfather before me. I never seen or heard of a single speck of gold. Never once.”

Francie has a deep voice that lands heavily in the room. It leaves a ripple of silence.

“I found an aul’ coin in the back field, one time,” Bobby says. “With your woman Victoria on it. That was silver, though.”

“What feckin’ use is that?” Senan demands. “If your man goes panning in the river, he’ll find himself a whole, what d’you call it, a seam of shillings, is it?”

“Fuck off. I’m only saying—”

“D’you know what’d be mighty? If you only said nothing till you’ve something to say.”

“Did you ever find any gold?” Francie asks the room. “Any one of ye?”

“You mightn’t know, sure,” Con says. “It might be deeper down than we’d be plowing.”

“I don’t be plowing at all,” Mart points out obligingly. “The whole of King Solomon’s mines could be under my land, and I wouldn’t have a bull’s notion. And how hard do any of ye look at the dirt you plow up? Are ye inspecting every inch of it for nuggets, are ye? Come to that, would any of ye know a nugget if it was handed to ye on a plate?”

“I’d look,” Con says, and reddens when their grins turn towards him. “Sometimes. Not for gold, like. In case I’d find something, only. You’d hear stories about people finding mad yokes, Viking coins—”

“You’re a fuckin’ sap,” his brother tells him.

“Didja ever find any gold?” Francie repeats.

“Not gold,” Con admits. “Bits of pottery, but. And a knife one time, an old one, like, handmade—”

“Now,” Francie says, to the rest of them. “Indiana Jones here found nothing. There’s no gold.”

“The fish outa that river,” P.J. says, having thought it over long enough to reach a solid opinion, “are the same as any other fish.”

“Lads,” Johnny says, with a slow grin that blooms with mischief. “Let’s get something straight. I’m not guaranteeing the gold is where your man thinks it is. It might be, or then again, it might not. What I’m saying is, the bold Cillian has no doubt it’s there.”

“His granny was a Feeney, sure,” Senan points out. “The Feeneys’d believe anything.”

“Ah, now, hang on,” says Bobby, offended.

“Sure, you believe there’s UFOs up the mountains—”

“I don’t believe in them. I seen them. D’you believe in your sheep?”

“I believe in the prices they fetch. When you bring an alien into the mart and get six quid a kilo for it, then I’ll—”

“Hold your whisht, the pair of ye,” says Francie. “Maybe the bold Cillian has no doubts, but I have. He’ll paddle about in the river and find fuck-all, and then he’ll go off home to cry into his pint of porter. And that’ll be the end of it. What the fuck are we here for?”

All of them are looking at Johnny. “Well,” he says, with mischief lifting the corners of his mouth again. “If Mr. Rushborough wants gold, then we’ll have to make sure he finds gold.”

There’s a silence. Trey finds herself unsurprised. She resents this: it makes her feel too much her father’s daughter. Cal’s Alyssa, whom Trey has come to like, would have been at least a little shocked to hear this out of nowhere.

After a moment of stillness, the men move again. Sonny reaches for the whiskey bottle; Dessie stubs out his cigarette and rummages for a new one. Mart is leaning back in the armchair with a rollie in one hand and a glass in the other, enjoying himself. They wait, before coming out with anything at all, for Johnny to say more.

“I know the spot in the river where he wants to do his panning,” Johnny says. “He’s dying to believe in this; all he needs is a sniff of it, and he’ll be off like a fuckin’ greyhound.”

“Have you got a few handfuls of gold lying around spare, have you?” Mart inquires.

“Jesus, man,” Johnny says, holding up his hands, “cool the jets. Who’s talking about handfuls? We’ll give him a wee little sprinkle of the stuff here and there, is all. Just enough to make him happy. A coupla grand’s worth, only, at today’s prices.”

“And you’ve got a coupla grand lying around spare?”

“Not any more. I’m after investing it into Rushborough’s mining company, that he’s set up to get the licenses and all. If each of ye puts in three hundred quid, that oughta do it.”

The room smells of smoke. In the smudgy yellow light, shadows shift on the men’s faces as they tilt their glasses, hitch at their waistbands, glance briefly at each other and away again.

“What do you get out of it?” Senan asks.

“I’ll get a cut of anything Rushborough finds,” Johnny says. “And twenty percent of anything he pays you. Finder’s fee.”

“So you’ll be getting a cut on each side. Whatever happens.”

“I will, yeah. Without me, ye’d be getting nothing and neither would Rushborough. And I’ve put my money where my mouth is already. I’m after investing more than the lot of ye put together; I want that back, whether there’s gold there or no. If it wasn’t that ye’re putting in a bit as well, I’d be asking fifty percent of whatever he gives you.”

“Fuck me,” Sonny says. “No wonder you won’t say where the gold is.”

“I’m the middleman,” Johnny says. “That’s what a middleman does. I’m delighted to help all of ye towards your barns and your cruises, but I’m not in this outa the goodness of my heart. I’ve a family to look after. That child over there could do with a home that’s not falling to bits, and maybe a dacent pair of shoes while she’s at it. Are you telling me to pass that up so you can put better rims on that Lamborghini?”

“What’s to stop you pocketing our few grand and skedaddling off into the sunset?” Mart inquires with interest. “And leaving us with nothing to show for it but an annoyed tourist? If your man Rushwhatsit exists at all.”

Johnny stares at him. Mart looks cheerfully back. After a moment, Johnny gives a short chagrined laugh and sits back, shaking his head.

“Mart Lavin,” he says. “Is this because my daddy bet you at cards back in the last century? Are you still sore about that?”

“A card cheat’s a terrible thing,” Mart explains. “I’d rather have dealings with a murderer than a card cheat, any day. A man could become a killer by happenstance, if his day didn’t go to plan, but there’s no such thing as an accidental card cheat.”

“When I’ve a bitta free time,” Johnny says, “I’ll be happy to defend my daddy’s skill at cards. That man could read your hand from one twitch of your eyelid. But”—he aims a finger at Mart—“I’m not getting myself sucked into one of your arguments tonight. We’ve a business opportunity here, and it’s not one that’ll last forever. Are you in or are you out?”

“You’re the one that started in jibber-jabbering about your daddy and his spare aces,” Mart points out. “I’d a question. A legitimate question.”

“Ah, for fuck’s sake,” Johnny says, exasperated. “Lookit: I won’t lay a finger on the cash. Ye can buy the gold yourselves—I’ll tell ye what type we’ll need, and I’ll show ye where to get it and where to sow it. D’you feel better now?”

“Oh, begod, I do,” Mart says, smiling at him. “That’s done me a power of good.”

“And ye can meet Rushborough yourselves, before ye ever put your hands in your pockets. I’m after telling him already that ye’ll want to look him over before ye let him on your land, see if ye like the cut of him. That gave him a laugh—he thinks ye’re a bunch of muck savages that don’t know how a deal’s done in the real world—but sure, that’s all to the good, amn’t I right?” Johnny smiles around the room. No one is smiling back at him. “He’ll be here the day after tomorrow. I’ll bring him down to Seán Óg’s that night, and ye can decide if he looks real enough for you.”

“Where’ll he be staying?” Mart inquires. “Here on that luxury sofa, is it? For the local atmosphere?”

Johnny laughs. “Ah, God, no. I’d say he would, if he’d no other choice. The man’s desperate to get his hands on that gold. But Sheila’s cooking wouldn’t be what he’s used to. He’s found himself a wee cottage over towards Knockfarraney—Rory Dunne’s mammy’s old place, at the foot of the mountain. They have it on Airbnb since the mammy died.”

“How long’ll he be here?”

Johnny shrugs. “That depends, sure. I’ll tell you one thing: once ye’ve had a look at him, ye can’t be hemming and hawing any longer. We’ll need to get that gold into the river. I can keep Rushborough distracted for a few days showing him the sights, but after that, he’ll want to go panning. First thing Tuesday morning, I’ll need to know who’s in and who’s out.”

“And what happens after?” Francie Gannon demands. “When he finds nothing on our land?”

“Ah, God, Francie,” Johnny says, shaking his head tolerantly, “you’re an awful pessimist, d’you know that? Maybe his granny was right all the way, and he’ll find enough to make us all millionaires. Or”—he raises a hand as Francie starts to say something—“or maybe his granny was half right: the gold goes through your land, but it never made it as far down as the river, or it’s after washing away. So when Rushborough goes panning in the river, instead of finding nothing and giving up, he’ll find our little biteen, and go digging on your land. And then he’ll find enough to make us all millionaires.”

“And maybe I’ll shite diamonds. What happens if he doesn’t?”

“Grand, so,” Johnny says, with a sigh. “Let’s say, only because you’re never happy unless you’re miserable, let’s say there’s not a speck of gold anywhere in this county. Rushborough’ll make himself a fine tie pin, with a harp and a shamrock on it, outa the bit we put in the river. He’ll reckon the rest is stuck under this mountain somewhere, too deep for him to get at. And he’ll go off back to England to show off his bitta heritage to his pals, and tell them all about his adventures on the old sod. He’ll be only delighted with himself. And ye’ll all be a grand or two richer, and so will I. That’s the worst-case scenario. Is that so terrible that you’re going to sit there all night with a puss on you?”

Trey watches the men turn this over in their minds. They watch each other as they do it, and Johnny watches them all watching. Every trace of the nervousness Trey saw in him earlier is gone. He’s spread in his chair, as easy as the king of the mountain, smiling benevolently, giving them all the time they need.

They’re not dishonest men, or anyway not what they or Trey would consider dishonest. Not one of them would ever rob so much as a packet of mints from Noreen’s, and between any of them, a spit and a handshake would be as solid as a legal contract. An Englishman wanting to reap from their land falls under different rules.

“Let’s see your man Rushborough,” Senan says. “I want a look at this fella. Then we’ll see what we’re at.”

There are nods from the other men. “That’s settled, so,” Johnny says. “I’ll bring him down to Seán Óg’s on Monday night, and ye can see what you think of him. Don’t be ripping the piss outa the poor lad, is all I ask. He’s used to highfalutin types; he wouldn’t be able for ye at all, at all.”

“Ah, musha, God love him,” Dessie says.

“We’ll be gentle,” Mart assures Johnny. “He won’t feel a thing.”

“Like fuck ye will,” Sonny says. “I wouldn’t bring that poor bastard anywhere near this shower, if I was you. D’you know what a few of them did to my Yank cousin? They told him Leanne Healy’s young one fancied him—Sarah, the good-looking one with the arse on her—”

“Mind your tongue,” Senan says to Sonny, tilting his head at Trey, but he’s started to chuckle, remembering. All of them have. The gold, by unanimous agreement, is no longer a subject for discussion. It’s a thing to be turned over in private, until Rushborough comes.

“Go on outa that, now,” Johnny says to Trey. “It’s past your bedtime.”

Johnny wouldn’t know what Trey’s bedtime was even if she had one, which she doesn’t. He’s just got no more use for her tonight, and he wants to let the men relax into conversations they won’t have with her there. She unfurls herself from her corner and picks her way between outstretched legs, saying good night politely to the men, who nod as she passes.

“Are you not going to give your daddy a hug?” Johnny asks, smiling up at her and reaching out an arm.

Trey leans over to him, puts one hand stiffly on his back, and lets him wrap his arm around her and give her a playful little shake. She holds her breath to keep out his spice-and-cigarettes smell. “Look at you,” he says, laughing up into her face and ruffling her hair. “Getting too big and dignified to hug your aul’ daddy good night.”

“Night,” Trey says, straightening up. She wants a look at Rushborough, too.