Читаем The Hunter полностью

“Well,” Mart says, “how and ever it was, if Dymphna says the story’s a loada shite, then it’s a loada shite. I haveta admit, I’m feeling a wee bit smug now. I got a whiff of nonsense off that story right from the start. ’Tis nice to know the aul’ instincts are still in working order.”

“Johnny owes Rushborough money,” Cal says. “And he’s scared of the guy. That’s why he doesn’t want to skip town.”

“Is he, now,” Mart says. “That wee shitemonger never did have the sense God gave an ass. This’ll want a bitta thought put into it, Sunny Jim. If I go off half-cocked, there’ll be holy war, and sure no one wants that. I’ll get back to you. Till then, you just sit tight.”

He whistles for Kojak, who turns neatly in mid-run and comes flying across the field with Rip galloping in his wake, miles behind, ears flapping joyfully. Mart watches the sunlit long grass wave around them.

He says, “If ’tis any help, man, you’re after making the right call. That’ll stand to your Theresa. No one around here wants to give the child any hassle. All we want to know is that she’s in good hands and being brought up right. If she had a wee wobble, sure, that’s natural enough, with that eejit bouncing in outa the blue. She just needs setting back on the right track, and she’ll be grand. You have a word with her.”

“I’ll do that,” Cal says. The pulse of the terror has slowed some. Mart is, to the bone, a practical man. He has no qualms about doing damage when he considers it necessary, but he would see no point in wasting energy doing it for punishment or for revenge. If Cal can talk Trey into line, she’ll be safe. He has no idea when, or whether, he’ll have the chance.

“You and me together,” Mart says, flashing him a sudden wicked grin, “we’ll have it all sorted in no time. Teamwork makes the dream work, boyo.”

“Keep me posted,” Cal says.

“There was me in the pub the other night,” Mart says reflectively, “telling you to mind your business and stay outa Johnny’s, d’you remember? And now, for once in my life, I reckon someone did the right thing, taking no notice of me. ’Tis a funny aul’ world some days, Sunny Jim. It’d keep you on your toes, right enough.”

Cal watches him stump off up the road, absently whistling patches of some old tune. He wants to go inside and get to work on that chair, but he leans on the gate for a little while first. He feels the same way he did when Trey first told him Johnny had come home: like either the ground or his legs might not be solid enough to hold him. Cal is too old to like setting things in motion without having at least some idea of where they might go.

—

It’s been a long time since Lena went up the mountain. When she was a wild-blooded teenager hunting for ways to rove, she and her mates would go up there to do things they didn’t want to be caught at; and in the bad months after Sean died, she walked up there half the night sometimes, trying to exhaust herself enough to sleep. At both ages she knew it had dangers, and welcomed them, in different ways. It occurs to her that, apart from visiting Sheila after each of the babies came, she may never have been up this mountain in her right mind before.

The sun and the heat make the mountain feel more dangerous, not less; as if it’s emboldened, no longer keeping its risks hidden, instead flaunting them like dares. The heather on the bog rustles loudly at every twitch of breeze, making Lena turn fast for nothing; real trails and false ones look wickedly identical, twisting away among the trees; the drop-offs stand out starkly, revealed by the wilting undergrowth, too close to the path. Lena left the dogs behind because of the heat, but she’s regretting it slightly. The mountain today feels like a place where a bit of company wouldn’t be a bad thing.

She finds the Reddy place all right, though, and she’s picked her time well. It’s late morning; people are off about their own pursuits. Two messy-haired small kids whose names she can’t remember are clambering around a makeshift climbing frame cobbled together out of scrap wood and metal, but there’s no sign of Banjo, and when Lena asks the kids whether their dad or Trey is in, they shake their heads, hanging on to the climbing frame and staring unblinkingly.

Sure enough, Sheila answers the door, with a potato peeler in her hand and a wary look on her face. When she sees Lena, the wariness sharpens. It’s not personal; it’s an automatic response to anything that arrives without an explanation.

“I brought this,” Lena says, producing a jar of blackberry jam. Lena makes her own jam primarily because she likes it made her way, but she’s well alive to its other useful properties. “Your Trey had some at my place the other day and went mad for it, and I said I’d give her a jar, only I forgot. Did I catch you in the middle of something?”

Sheila looks down at the potato peeler. It takes her a second to remember the correct formula. “Ah, no,” she says. “You’re grand. Come on in and have a cuppa tea.”