“No. We’re just going to top it up.”
“But why did he come up here to meet us?”
“Many hands make light work,” said Cully. “Didn’t your mum ever say that to you?”
He took out his flashlight and shone it on his keys. He chose one and opened the trunk of the BMW.
West Ham put his own flashlight in his mouth and picked up one of the petrol containers. Over West Ham’s wheezy breath, Fanning heard the petrol swish as West Ham tilted it to get a grip on the cap. Cully was opening the other one.
“Open the car doors,” he called out to Fanning.
“What are we doing?”
West Ham said something that Fanning didn’t hear properly. The flashlight still held in his mouth.
“We,” said Cully and paused. “We are doing our homework. Come on, open up the doors.” West Ham had pocketed his torch, and was swishing petrol into the boot.
“Christ,” he said and wrinkled his nose.
Fanning opened the passenger door first.
“You’re a sloppy bastard,” West Ham muttered. “Er, sir.”
“The back door too,” said Cully to Fanning.
He turned toward the back of the car.
“Like do I need advice from you,” he said to West Ham.
“Matter of fact you do,” said West Ham, “you stupid Mick.”
West Ham continued pouring the petrol into the boot.
“You guys are friends?” Fanning said to Cully.
Cully put his knee on the passenger seat, and he leaned into the car’s interior. Fanning heard the petrol swish and gulp as Cully began to empty it on the seats and the floor. Then he backed out, poured some on the seat, and closed the door.
“Are you?”
“Am I what?”
“Friends,” said Fanning. “The way you talk to one another?”
Cully nudged him out of the way. He stepped around the rear door and began working on the back seat.
West Ham was standing by the open trunk. He looked in, frowned, and shook his head. Then he stepped away.
“What have you got then,” Cully said.
“An Opel.”
“Did you save some petrol.”
“You mean, am I a moron?”
Matches rattled against the box as West Ham reached out.
“You’re going to set fire to it?” he asked him.
Cully ran the flashlight over the bodywork of the car. A sheen of kaleidoscopic light glowed where the petrol had soaked the dashboard.
“That’s Murph’s car,” Fanning said. “You’re going to set it on fire?”
“It’s an eyesore,” Cully said.
“So’s Murph,” said West Ham.
“Shut it,” said Cully, “and take him down to the car.”
“Are we getting a little agitated here, boss?” West Ham asked.
“I’m doing nothing until I hear that car of yours actually start.”
“What’s Murphy done?” Fanning asked.
“Nothing,” said Cully. “Everything. Now get going.”
The tang of petrol filled Fanning’s nostrils.
“Was there a falling out?” he asked.
“Go,” Cully repeated, standing by the trunk.
“I didn’t sign on for this,” said Fanning.
“It’s part of the package,” said Cully evenly. “A freebie. Now get going.”
“Come on,” West Ham shouted. “You heard the man.”
Fanning started at the noise. He thought about shouting back, but instead found himself following West Ham up the bank toward the Opel.
“Do you live here?” Fanning asked him. “In Dublin?”
West Ham said nothing.
“You’re not Irish,” Fanning went on. “I can tell. Did you move here?”
“Get in the back seat,” West Ham said.
The car’s interior was still warm. Fanning sat back.
The Opel smelled of old air freshener, mildew, and tired vinyl. Under the steering wheel the cover had been taken off and wires hung out.
“Hold this,” said West Ham. “Shine it on the wheel here.”
Up close, West Ham’s breath was overwhelming. There was something sour and rotten breathing through the sugary leftovers of the alcohol. West Ham snorted softly as he worked. The wires sparked twice and the engine caught.
“Switch off the light,” West Ham grunted. He pushed the horn once, put the car in first, and let it inch forward.
For a moment, Fanning saw himself from overhead, like a long pull-back shot, here in the forest, so near and so distant from the city. The fear that had seized him back in the woods had left him now. Now he took in every detail around him, the words racing through his head like a shoal of fish suddenly scattered: a wet glistening road, a stolen car, a strange odour from West Ham. He looked behind but they were still in the darkness.
“He’s really going to do it?”
West Ham looked away.
“Why’s he doing it? I mean what’s Murph done?”
“None of your business,” said West Ham quietly now. “None of mine either. Ask Cully if you want.”
West Ham began tapping the steering wheel, but kept his eyes on the mirror.
“Been in Dublin before?”
The tapping slowed, and then resumed.
“Staying with friends?”
West Ham’s head whirled around.
“Didn’t I tell you to shut it? You’re nothing to me. Got that? This is Cully’s thing, so just-”
The flare of yellow light made them both turn.
Half-obscured by the boughs, the flames erupting from the back of the BMW showed a figure half-running toward them, skipping, sidestepping.
“Jesus,” said Fanning.
“Wait til it gets to the seats,” West Ham murmured, his anger suddenly vanished. “The windows closed, quick ignition — it will blow, and set the petrol tank off…”
Fanning stole a glance at him. He seemed both rapt and sleepy, the firelight shining on his eyes.
“A minute or two,” he murmured, “and kaboom.”
Cully was at the door. He pulled it closed behind him and sat in. The tires buzzed on the wet roadway and then bit. West Ham was changing in to second gear before Cully had the door shut.
“Take your bloody time,” Cully said, breathing hard.
He busied himself wrapping the pistol he had taken from Fanning.
“Murph will be wanting new wheels I suppose,” said Fanning.
West Ham took a bend faster than he should have. The three rocked back when he corrected.
“Well he should have thought of that,” said Cully. “Shouldn’t he.”
“What has he done, Murph, he deserves this?”
Neither man answered.
“It’s not like I’m going to tell anyone, am I,” Fanning went on.
“Shut him up,” said West Ham. “He’s driving me mental.”
“Well you’d know about mental,” said Fanning.
“Now now,” said Cully. “I can’t leave you two alone for a minute, can I.”
“Very funny,” said Fanning. “Very funny, I’m sure.”
West Ham muttered something under his breath. Cully flicked his arm hard with his fingers.
“Drop it, Westie. Enough. Fun’s over.”
“Call this fun, do you? This has to be the stupidest thing you ever came up with, I tell you.”
“Enough, I bloody said!”
The shout seemed to echo in the car, in Fanning’s head even. The car seemed suddenly quiet. Something prompted Fanning to keep at it.
“Why does a guy get his car burned?”
“And you stay out of it,” said Cully.
“We’re here for research, remember? Research means questions?”
“Told you,” said West Ham. “Now you see: bloke’s a prick.”
Cully leaned around the headrest.
“A few minutes ago it was knees knocking and teeth like castanets with you,” he said. “Back up in the woods there.”
“If you’d told me what was going to happen, it would have helped.”
“And now you’re getting into it here?”
“If you’d explained things…”
“Explained,” said Cully. “What explained? This isn’t school.”
He turned back in his seat, and he rapped West Ham in the arm again.
“Oh come on. Back on track there, gunner.”
“You know what I think,” said West Ham.
“Cheer up, for Christ’s sake.”
“Don’t push it no more. This is different.”
“Mutiny in the ranks?”