The Hunter

“If I’m right about that,” Mart says, “the damage mightn’t be too bad after all. The sheep up there have more sense than most men; they’ll have got themselves well clear at the first sniff of smoke. We’ll lose a bitta forest and plenty of gorse, but sure, no one minds that; it’ll clear the land for grazing, and God knows we could do with any help we can get. As long as no more houses go, this could be a blessing in disguise.” He shoots Cal a sharp sideways glance. “Would you have any idea how it happened to start?”

“Sheila Reddy reckons Johnny started it,” Cal says. “By accident. Threw down a smoke that wasn’t out.”

Mart considers this, still examining the sky. “I’d line up behind that,” he agrees. “I hate to speak ill of the dead, but Johnny was a terrible man for not taking into account the consequences of his own actions. That adds up nicely.”

Cal says, “Were you guys gonna kill him?”

Mart’s face creases into a grin. “Less of the ‘you guys’ there, bucko.”

“OK,” Cal says. “Were we gonna kill him?”

“You tell me, Sunny Jim,” Mart says. “You were there. You tell me.” Struck by a sudden thought, he fishes in the pocket of his trousers. “Come here, I’ve something to show you. I was on my way home, and my headlights caught that feckin’ zombie yoke of yours. I’m the observant type, and I noticed something different about him. So I pulled over and had a look. And have a guess what that fella was wearing.”

He shakes something out with a triumphant flap and holds it up in front of Cal’s face. Cal has to lean close to identify it. It’s Mart’s orange camouflage bucket hat.

“He didn’t like me taking it off him,” Mart says, “but I fought him off like Rocky Balboa, so I did. No one comes between me and my hat.”

“Well, I’ll be damned,” Cal says. While keeping his mouth firmly shut, he always figured Mart was right and Senan was behind the hat’s disappearance. “Senan’s an innocent man.”

“Exactly,” Mart says, wagging the hat at Cal. “I’m not afraid to admit when I’ve been wrong. Senan was over at the foot of the mountain, with yourself and meself, when this was planted, and I owe the man an apology and a pint. So who was it robbed this on me, hah? Next time you fancy poking about in a mystery, Sunny Jim, you put your detective skills to work on that one.”

He pulls the hat down on his head and gives it a satisfied pat. “All’s well that ends well,” he says. “That’s my motto.” He lifts his crook to Cal and hobbles off up the road into the darkness, whistling a chirpy little tune and trying to favor all his joints at once.

—

Trey’s house has, or had, only one bathroom and never enough hot water, so she takes advantage of Cal’s place to have the longest shower of her life with no one banging on the door. She keeps her bad foot propped up on the stool they made, back when she was shorter, so she could get things off high shelves. The hot water stings her burns; there are small, raw bald spots among her hair.

The day flashes disjointed images across her mind: Nealon tilting his chair back, trees made of flame, Lena striding up the path, petrol splashing onto the heaped wheelbarrow, her mam’s hands on the table in sunlight. All of them, except the fire, seem like years ago. Sometime she might feel something about them, but for now she doesn’t have room; her mind is too crowded with the flashes. The single thing she feels is relief that she’s at Cal’s.

When she comes out of the shower, Cal is nowhere to be seen, but Rip is peacefully asleep in his corner, so she doesn’t worry. She sits on the sofa, re-strapping her ankle and looking around. She likes this room. It has clarity, a place for each and every object. The books are lined up in neat stacks under the windowsill; Cal could do with a bookshelf.

Trey finds herself rejecting the idea. Paying Cal back for taking her in would be stupid, a baby thing to do. She’s already, finally, found something worth giving him: her revenge. Her debts to him are cleared, in a way that doesn’t allow for going backwards to little-kid shite like ham slices and bookshelves. They’re on a different footing now.

She finds Cal out front, leaning on the wall and watching the fire. “Hey,” he says, turning his head, when he hears her steps on the grass.

“Hey,” Trey says.

“You’re not supposed to be walking on that foot. Rest it.”

“Yeah,” Trey says. She leans her folded arms on the wall next to his. She’s relying on him not to talk to her, at least not in any way that demands thought. She’s had enough talking and enough thinking in the past few weeks to last her the rest of her life.

The fire has burned itself out on the side of the mountain, and risen to run along its crest; the familiar outlines are traced in flame across solid blackness. Trey wonders how many other people in the townland are at their gates or their windows, watching. She hopes every man and woman of them recognizes this for what it is: Brendan’s funeral bonfire.

“Your mama get any of your clothes out?” Cal asks.

“Yeah. Most of ’em.”