The Hunter

“Johnny? Jesus, no. He gave it a bitta sob stuff about old times’ sake, and when he saw that was getting him nowhere, he cut his losses and headed off.”

“Where to?”

Lena shrugs. “I’d the door shut on him by that time.”

“I don’t blame you,” Nealon says, grinning. “Come here, would you do us a favor? I don’t want to keep the young one away from her dinner any longer than I have to, but would you come in to me tomorrow and get this on paper?”

Lena thinks of what Mart Lavin said about Nealon, how he makes things sound optional. “No problem,” she says.

“Brilliant,” Nealon says, tucking his unlit cigarette back into the packet. The flash of a look Lena catches on him, as his head comes back up, is hot and driven as lust, the triumphant swell of a man after a woman he knows he can get. “And don’t worry,” he adds reassuringly, “I won’t be mentioning this to Johnny or anyone else. I’m not in the business of making anyone’s life harder.”

“Ah, that’s great,” Lena says, giving him a big relieved smile. “Thanks a million.” One of the mammies, joggling her baby on her hip, is looking up the road at them. She moves closer to the others to say something, and they all turn to watch Nealon and Lena go back into the station.

—

As the car doors slam and Nealon raises a hand from the station step, Trey’s well-behaved earnestness falls away. She vanishes into a silence so thick that Lena can feel it building up around her like snow.

It would take some brass neck for Lena to offer comfort or words of wisdom. Instead she leaves the silence untouched till they’re out of town, onto the main road. Then she says, “You did a good job.”

Trey nods. “He believed me,” she says.

“He did, yeah.”

Lena expects Trey to ask what will happen next, but she doesn’t. Instead she says, “What’re you gonna tell Cal?”

“I’m not going to tell him anything,” Lena says. “I reckon you should tell him the whole story, but it’s your call.”

“He’ll be raging.”

“Maybe. Maybe not.”

Trey doesn’t answer. She leans her forehead against the windowpane and looks out at the countryside moving by. The road is busy with commuters zipping homewards. Beyond it, and unaffected by its frenetic rhythms, cattle nose at their leisure for bits of green among the yellowing fields.

Lena says, “Where’ll I drop you?”

Trey catches her breath like she’d forgotten Lena was there. “Just home,” she says. “Thanks.”

“Fair enough,” Lena says, flicking on her indicator. She’s taking the long way, the twisting roads up the far side of the mountain and over, to minimize the number of Ardnakelty people who’ll see them. Today will be general knowledge soon enough. Trey can at least have a bit of respite to grow accustomed to what she’s done, before the townland gets its hands on it.

Trey goes back to gazing out the window. Lena glances sideways at her now and then, watching her eyes scan methodically back and forth across the mountainside, like she’s searching for something that she knows she won’t find.

Twenty

Cal is doing the dinner dishes when the knock comes at the door. Mart is on the step, car keys jingling on his finger.

“Saddle up the prize pony, Sunny Jim,” he says. “We’ve a job to do.”

Cal says, “What kinda job?”

“Johnny Reddy’s worn out his welcome,” Mart says. “Leave the dog behind.”

Cal has had it up to the back teeth with being herded like a damn sheep by Mart and his plans and his sidelong dark warnings. “Or what?” he asks.

Mart blinks at him. “Or nothing,” he says gently. “I’m not giving orders, man. We could do with you there, is all.”

“Like I told you,” Cal says. “Johnny Reddy’s not my problem.”

“Ah, for feck’s sake,” Mart says, exasperated. “You’re marrying one of our women, bucko. You’re raising one of our childer, God help you. You’re growing tomatoes on a piece of our land. What else is there?”

Cal stands there in the doorway, with the dishcloth in his hand. Mart waits patiently, not hurrying him. Behind him, this year’s young rooks, gaining confidence with their wings, tumble and play knock-down tag in the warm evening air.

“Lemme get my keys,” Cal says, and he turns back into the house to put the dishcloth away.

—

The low chatter of the telly is coming from the sitting room, but in spite of that the house feels silent, sunk deep under stillness. Trey can tell by the air that her dad is out, not just asleep. She doesn’t know what to make of this. He hasn’t left their land since the day Rushborough died.

She finds her mam in the kitchen. Sheila is sitting at the table, not peeling anything or mending anything, just sitting there eating toast thick with blackberry jam. Trey can’t remember the last time she saw her mam doing no work.

“I fancied something sweet,” Sheila says. She doesn’t ask where Trey went with Lena, all this time. “D’you want a bit? The dinner’s all eaten.”

Trey says, “Where’s my dad gone?”

“Men came for him. Senan Maguire and Bobby Feeney.”

“Where’d they take him?”

Sheila shrugs. “They won’t kill him, anyway,” she says. “Not unless he’s stubborn, maybe.”