Trey isn’t sure whether he wants her to answer or not. “Dunno,” she says again.
“I even brought your man Rushborough here for her to meet. Does she think I wanted to bring him into this kip? I did it anyway, just so’s she could see I wasn’t talking shite. That man who complimented your mammy’s stew, he’s eaten at the finest restaurants in the world. And she looked at him like he was some latchico I picked out of a ditch. Did you see that?”
“Nah,” Trey says. “I was eating the stew.”
Her dad lights a cigarette and pulls hard on it. “I asked her for her opinion and all. Told her the whole plan—what d’you reckon, says I, that oughta make for a better Christmas this year, amn’t I right? D’you know what she did?” Johnny stares past Trey’s ear and gives an exaggerated shrug. “That’s it. That’s what I got offa her. All I needed was for her to look at me and say, It’s great, Johnny, well done. Maybe give me a smile, even, or a kiss. That’s not a lot to ask. And instead I get—” He does the stare and shrug again. “I swear to fuck, women are only put on this earth to wreck our fuckin’ heads.”
“Maybe,” Trey says, feeling that some response is required of her.
Johnny looks at her then, taking a second to focus his eyes, and appears to recall who she is. He makes the effort to smile at her. Tonight, with the spring and shine taken off him, his boyish look is gone; he seems small and wispy in the armchair, as if his muscles are already starting to shrivel towards old age. “Not you, sweetheart,” he reassures her. “Sure, you’re Daddy’s great girl. You’ve all the faith in the world in me, haven’t you?”
Trey shrugs.
Johnny looks at her. For a second Trey thinks she’s going to get a slap. He sees her ready to bolt, and closes his eyes. “I need a fuckin’ drink,” he says, under his breath.
Trey sits there looking at him, slumped with his head leaned back and his legs splayed at random. There are purple shadows under his eyes.
She goes out to the kitchen, takes the whiskey bottle from its cupboard, and puts some ice in a glass. When she gets back to the sitting room, her father hasn’t moved. A thin trail of smoke trickles upwards from his cigarette. She squats beside his chair.
“Daddy,” she says. “Here you go.”
Her dad opens his eyes and looks blankly at her for a second. Then he spots the bottle and lets out a small harsh burst of laughter. “God,” he says, softly and bleakly, to himself.
“I’ll get you something different,” Trey says. “If you don’t want that.”
Johnny stirs himself, with an effort, and sits up straight. “Ah, no, sweetheart, that’s lovely. Thanks very much. You’re a great girl altogether, looking after your daddy. What are you?”
“Great girl,” Trey says obediently. She pours some whiskey and hands him the glass.
Johnny takes a deep swig and lets his breath out. “Now,” he says. “See? All better.”
“I’ve got faith in you,” Trey says. “It’s gonna be great.”
Her dad smiles down at her, pinching the top of his nose like his head hurts. “That’s the plan, anyhow. And sure, why shouldn’t it be? Don’t we deserve a few nice things?”
“Yeah,” Trey says. “Mam’ll be delighted once she sees it. She’ll be all proud of you.”
“She will, o’ course. And when your brother comes home, it’ll be great for him to have a nice surprise to come back to. Isn’t that right? Can’t you just see the face on him, when he steps outa the car and gets an eyeful of a house the size of a shopping center?”
Just for a second, Trey does see it, as vividly as if it could actually come true: Brendan’s head tilted up to the shining rows of windows, his mouth opening, his thin mobile face exploding like a firework with delight. Her dad is good at this.
“Yeah,” she says.
“He’ll never want to go roaming again,” Johnny says, smiling at her. “He’ll have no need.”
“Mrs. Cunniffe says can you ask Mr. Rushborough is there any gold on their land,” Trey says. “And Tom Pat Malone says can their Brian help dig the gold outa the river.”
Johnny laughs. “There you go. See? Everyone’s dying for a hand in this, except your mammy, and we’ll get her there in the end. You just tell Mrs. Cunniffe and Tom Pat that Mr. Rushborough appreciates their interest, and he’ll keep them in mind. And you keep on telling me who comes looking to get in on this, just like you’ve done now. Can you do that?”
“Yeah,” Trey says. “Sure.”
“Good girl,” Johnny says. “Where would I be without you?”
Trey says, “When are you gonna put the gold in the river?”
Johnny takes another swig of the whiskey. “It’ll arrive sometime tomorrow,” he says. “Not here—sure, the courier’d get lost on the mountain, amn’t I right? He’d end in a bog, him and the gold, and we don’t want that. It’s going to Mart Lavin’s. The next day, first thing in the morning, we’ll put it in. Then we’ll be all ready for Mr. Rushborough to go treasure hunting.” He cocks his head at Trey quizzically. The whiskey has braced him up. “Do you want to come along, is that it? You’re going to give us a hand?”
Trey definitely doesn’t want to go along. “What time?” she asks.
“We’ll have to go bright and early. Before the farmers are up, even. We don’t want anyone spotting us, sure we don’t? It’ll be daylight by half-five. We’ll want to be down at the river by then.”
Trey makes a horrified face. “Nah,” she says.
Johnny laughs and ruffles her hair. “My God, I should’ve known better than to ask a teenager to get up outa her bed before noon! You’re grand; you get your beauty sleep. There’ll be other ways you can give me a hand, won’t there?”
“Yeah,” Trey says. “Just not that early.”
“I’ll find you something,” Johnny assures her. “Sure, with the brains on you, there’ll be a million things you can do.”
“I can keep an eye on Rushborough for you,” Trey says. “Tomorrow. Make sure he doesn’t go down to the river before you have it ready.”
Her dad turns from his glass and looks at her. Trey watches him, slowed by the drink, trying to assess this idea.
“He won’t see me,” she says. “I’ll stay hid.”
“D’you know something, now?” her dad says, after a moment. “That’s a great idea. I’d say all he’ll do is wander around seeing the sights, and you’ll be bored to bits—but sure, no need to put your whole day into it. I’m bringing him to see Mossie O’Halloran’s fairy hill in the afternoon; you just mind him for the morning. If you see him heading down towards the river, you go up to him and say hello, nice and polite like, and offer to show him that aul’ bit of a stone tower off the main road. You tell him it belonged to the Feeneys, and he’ll go along with you like a lamb.”
“OK,” Trey says. “Where’s he staying?”
“He’s in that gray cottage over towards Knockfarraney, on Rory Dunne’s farm. You go down there first thing tomorrow morning, once you drag yourself outa the bed, and see what Rushborough does with himself. Then you can come tell me all about it.”
Trey nods. “OK,” she says.
“That’s great,” her dad says, smiling at her. “You’re after doing me a power of good, so you are. That’s all I needed: my own wee girl on my side.”
“Yeah,” Trey says. “I’m on your side.”
“You are, o’ course. Now go get some sleep, or you’ll be fit for nothing tomorrow morning.”
“I’ll get up,” Trey says. “Night.”
This time he doesn’t try to hug her. As she turns to close the door behind her, she sees his head go back again and his fingers pinch at his nose. She reckons possibly she should feel sorry for him. The only thing she feels is a cold spark of victory.