Читаем The Hunter полностью

“Do that. You wouldn’t want matters getting outa control.” Mart squints meditatively up at the sky, apparently gauging the weather, which looks exactly the same as it has for the last two months. Cal is getting more and more resentful of the weather. He’s coming to the conclusion that at least half of what he loves about Ireland is the smell of it under rain. Without that smell, complex and melancholy and generous, he feels obscurely ripped off.

“D’you know something,” Mart says, “I might haveta find myself that woman to talk to. The men do be awful predictable.”

“Sorry ’bout that,” Cal says. Rip is squirming and licking at him, making the removal process as difficult as possible, not because it bothers him but just for kicks.

“D’you know another thing about men that drives me mental altogether?” Mart says. “The way they’d hold a grudge. The women, now”—he settles his elbow on the gate, getting comfortable for some in-depth explaining—“if a woman has a grudge against someone, the whole townland knows. You’d know what the person done, and why they had no right, and what they oughta do to clear the air, and what’s on the cards if they don’t do it. You’d be hearing about it on the regular for as long as it takes, and if it’s not sorted in your lifetime, your childer’ll hear about it when you’re gone. But a man, sure: he’ll hold a grudge for ten or twenty or thirty year, and never say a word to anyone. Even the fella he’s got the grudge against mightn’t have a notion. What’s the point in that? What good does the grudge do you or anyone, if it never gets an airing?”

“Search me,” Cal says.

“And then,” Mart says, “when ’tis after bubbling away all that time, and no one any the wiser, one fine day something goes a wee bit wrong—the man sees his chance, maybe, or maybe he just has a bad day or a bit too much drink—and it all boils over. I know a lad beyond Croghan that was at his own daughter’s twenty-first, and he hit his brother-in-law a skelp to the head with a bottle, near kilt him. Outa nowhere, like. All they could get outa him was that the brother-in-law deserved it for something he’d said at that same daughter’s christening.” He shakes his head. “And him a lovely quiet lad that got on with everyone. That’s not the kind of unpredictability I like. Revenge can be awful disconcerting, Sunny Jim, when it comes outa the clear blue sky.”

Rip has got bored and started dancing and curvetting, trying to make Cal’s job difficult enough that he’ll give up and let Rip go back to Kojak. “Stay,” Cal says. Rip lets out a martyred sigh and flops down.

“There’s exceptions, now,” Mart allows. “Your young one’s a girl, but I’d say she’d hold her tongue about any grudges she might have stored up. And myself, I like to get the good outa them; I haven’t many, but I’ll tell all the details to anyone who’ll listen.”

“Hashtag, not all men,” Cal says, shoving Rip’s nose out of his way. He’s been in Ardnakelty long enough to understand that Mart isn’t just shooting the shit here. He’s trying to figure out whether Mart is telling him something, or asking him something, or both.

“Holy God, wouldja listen to that,” Mart says, delighted, poking Cal in the leg with his crook. “We’ve Mr. Social Media here, with the hashtags. Are you one of them influencers on the side, Sunny Jim? Are you on the TikTok shaking yourself to Rihanna? I’d watch that.”

“I’ll get right on it,” Cal says. “Soon as I can find a black leather dress that fits.”

Mart laughs. “Tell us, Sunny Jim,” he says, settling back onto his crook. “Where do you stand on the aul’ grudges? If you had a coupla them, would I know all the details, or would you be keeping them to yourself? I’d say you’re the strong silent type, are you?”

“I’m not from round here,” Cal says. “You gotta be local to have grudges.”

Mart cocks his head to one side, considering that. “Maybe,” he concedes. “You’d know better than I would; I’ve been local all my life. You’re telling me if someone done you wrong, or done wrong to someone you cared about, or just annoyed the holy bejaysus outa you, you’d turn the other cheek and forget the whole thing, just ’cause you’re a Yank? That’s very Christian of you altogether.”

“I just mind my own business,” Cal says. “And aim to get along with people.” Things are getting a little bit clearer. Mart, in his own way and in his own sweet time, is inquiring about revenge. He’s asking whether Cal, if he happened to have information that the gold was a load of hooey, would sit back and watch the guys sink their savings into it.

“You’re an example to us all,” Mart informs him piously. “I don’t know how many’d follow it, but. I’ll tell you one thing: there’ll be some grudges held if that gold doesn’t come through.”

“Yeah,” Cal says. “I bet there would.” He gets the warning.