The Hunter

Trey shrugs. Only a few points of yellow light are left among the dark fields below them, and the chill of the breeze is sharpening.

“I was down at Seán Óg’s, having the crack with half this townland. Four years ago, if I was on fire, there’s not a one of them lads woulda pissed on me to put me out. But when I walk in there wearing this”—he flicks the lapel of his leather jacket—“and buying the drink and telling them about the life in London, they’re all crowded round me, laughing at my jokes and patting me on the back for being a great fella altogether. Because I’ve got the shine of a bitta cash and a bitta adventure on me. And that’s nothing. Wait till they see what I’ve got up my sleeve.”

Trey hasn’t been around anyone who talked this much since Brendan went. Brendan’s stream of chat and messing made her want to be part of it, even when all she could think of to do was grin at him. Her dad’s talk bombards her. It makes her feel more silent than ever.

“The one and only Mr. Cillian Rushborough arrives from London in a few days’ time, as soon as he’s wrapped up some important business affairs, and then…” Johnny nudges Trey’s arm with his elbow. “Then, hah? We’ll be on the pig’s back. You’ll have dresses outa Giorgio Armani, or VIP tickets to meet Harry Styles; take your pick. This fella here can have a diamond collar. Where d’you fancy going on holiday?”

Trey can feel him wanting her to put all her hope on him. She can’t remember when she first knew that he’s too puny to take that weight. She thinks of Brendan, before he went out the door for the last time, promising her a new bike for her birthday, and meaning it.

“What if he doesn’t find gold?” she asks.

Johnny grins. “He’ll find it,” he says.

Away among the trees, up the mountainside, there’s a rattle of wings in branches and a bird’s harsh alarm call. Trey wants, suddenly and sharply, to be inside.

“Gonna go in,” she says.

Her dad looks at her for a second, but then he nods. “Go on,” he says. “Tell your mammy I’ll be in soon.” When Trey glances back at him as she rounds the house, he’s still leaning on the gate, with his face tilted up to the moon.

Sheila is wiping down the kitchen counters. She nods when Trey comes in, but she doesn’t look up. Trey finds a slice of bread, butters it, rolls it up and leans against the fridge to eat it. Banjo slumps heavily against her leg and lets out an extravagant sigh. He wants to go to bed.

“He’s outside,” Trey says. “He says he’ll be in soon.”

Her mam says, “Where’d you get that hoodie?”

“Lena.”

Sheila nods. Trey says, “Are you gonna let him stay?”

Sheila keeps wiping. She says, “He lives here.”

Trey pinches off a bit of her bread for Banjo and watches her. Sheila is a tall woman, rangy and rawboned, with thick red-brown hair starting to gray and pulled back in a ponytail. Her face is like old wood, worn shiny in some places and rough in others, and immobile. Trey is looking for the beauty her dad talked about, but she’s seen her mother’s face too many times; she doesn’t know how to interpret it in those terms.

Trey says, “Didja tell him Bren went off looking for him?”

It’s been almost two years since they said Brendan’s name to each other. Sheila knows what Trey knows, give or take. Trey hears her breath hiss through her nose.

She says, “I did.”

“How come?”

Sheila swipes crumbs off the table into her hand. “I know your daddy well. That’s how come.”

Trey waits.

“And I told him the whole lot of ye missed him something fierce. Cried your eyes out every night, and wouldn’t go to school because ye were ashamed of not having a daddy. And ashamed that I couldn’t afford dacent clothes.”

“I didn’t give a shite that he went,” Trey says. “Or about the clothes.”

“I know that.”

The kitchen smells of bacon and cabbage. Her mam moves slowly and steadily, like she’s making her energy last.

“If he gets to feeling bad enough in himself,” she says, dusting the crumbs off her hand into the bin, “he’ll run from it.”

Sheila wants him gone, too. Trey isn’t surprised, but the knowledge doesn’t offer her much comfort. If Sheila had enough force to move Johnny, she’d have done it already.

A sleepy wail comes from down the hall: “Mammy!”

Ever since their dad left, Alanna has slept in with their mam, but her cry comes from Liam’s room. Sheila wipes her hands on the dish towel. “Finish that table,” she says, and she goes out.

Trey stuffs the last of her bread in her mouth and scrubs down the table. She listens to Alanna’s fretful murmuring, and to the restless stirring of the trees. When she hears footsteps crunching out front, she snaps her fingers for Banjo and heads for bed.

Three