“ ’S heavy,” she says.
“Yeah. You need to make sure you’re settled somewhere you can keep your hand good and steady.”
Trey tests out different ways of bracing her elbow on her knee. “Might need a wall,” she says. “Or a rock or something.”
“Listen,” Cal says. “You remember when we talked about what if someone tries to make you do stuff you don’t want to do?”
“Go for the nads,” Trey says, squinting through the viewfinder. “Or the eyes.”
“No,” Cal says. “I mean, yeah, sure, if you need to. Or the throat. But I mean if people try to get you to do drugs or booze. Or dumb shit like, I dunno, breaking into old buildings.”
“I’m not gonna do drugs,” Trey says flatly. “And I’m not gonna get drunk.”
“I know that,” Cal says. He notices automatically that Trey didn’t say she’s not planning to drink, or for that matter break into abandoned buildings, but those can wait. “But remember we talked about what if people try to pressure you?”
“They don’t,” Trey reassures him. “They don’t give a shite. More for them. And my mates don’t do drugs anyway, only hash sometimes, ’cause they’re not fuckin’ thick.”
“Right,” Cal says. “Good.” Somehow this conversation seemed a lot simpler the last time they had it, a year or so ago, fishing in the river. Now, with Johnny Reddy all over everything, it feels like rocky and complicated territory. “But if anyone ever does. You could handle that, right?”
“I’d tell ’em to fuck off,” Trey says. “Look at this.”
Cal looks at the photo. “Looks good,” he says. “If you want the trees in the background clearer, you can play around with this a little bit. What I’m saying about pressure is, you can do the same thing with adults. If an adult ever tries to rope you into something you don’t like the looks of, you’ve got every right to tell him to fuck off. Or her. Whoever.”
“Thought you wanted me to be mannerly,” Trey says, grinning.
“Right,” Cal says. “You can tell them to kindly fuck off.”
“I never like the looks of my Irish homework,” Trey points out. “Can I tell the teacher—”
“Nice try,” Cal says. “People fought and died so you could learn your own language. I don’t know the ins and outs, but that’s what Francie tells me. So you do your Irish.”
“I’ve loads of Irish,” Trey says. “An bhfuil cead agam dul go dtí an leithreas.”
“That better not be Irish for ‘kindly fuck off.’ ”
“Find out. Say it to Francie next time.”
“I bet it doesn’t mean anything,” Cal says. He’s slightly reassured by the fact that Trey is in a good mood, but only slightly. Trey’s sensors for danger are miscalibrated, or not hooked up right, or something: she can identify a dangerous situation without necessarily recognizing any need to back away from it. “You just made it up.”
“Did not. It means ‘can I go to the toilet.’ ”
“Damn,” Cal says. “That sounds fancier’n it has any right to. You could tell someone to kindly fuck off in Irish, and they’d probably take it as a compliment.”
Rip lets out a bark that has a growl mixed in. Cal turns fast. He feels Trey tense beside him.
Johnny Reddy is walking out of the late sun towards them. His long shadow across the stubbled field makes him look like a tall man, moving closer at a slow glide.
Cal and Trey get to their feet. Cal says, before he knows he’s going to, “You don’t have to go with him. You can stay here.”
Rip lets out another bark. Cal puts a hand on his head. “Nah,” Trey says. “Thanks.”
“OK,” Cal says. His throat hurts on the words. “Just so you know.”
“Yeah.”
Johnny lifts his arm in a wave. Neither of them waves back.
“Well, fancy meeting you here,” Johnny says happily, when he gets close enough. “I’m after bringing Mr. Rushborough to see Mossie O’Halloran’s fairy hill. God almighty, the excitement; he was like a child at its first panto, I’m not joking you. He’d a bottle of cream with him, and a wee bowl to put it in, and he was fussing about like an aul’ one with her doilies, trying to pick the perfect spot for it. He wanted to know what side of the hill would be traditional.” Johnny gives an extravagant, humorous shrug and eye-roll. “Sure, I hadn’t a notion. But Mossie said the east side, so the east side it was. Mr. Rushborough was all for staying out there till it was dark and hoping we’d get a sound-and-light show, but I want my dinner. I told him we’d be better off coming back another day, so we can see did the fairies take the cream.”
“Foxes’ll eat it,” Trey says. “Or Mossie’s dog.”
“Shhh,” Johnny says, waving a finger at her reproachfully. “Don’t be saying that around Mr. Rushborough. ’Tis a terrible thing to crush a man’s dreams. And you never know: the fairies might get to it before the foxes do.”
Trey shrugs. “Have you been down there yourself?” Johnny asks Cal.
“Nope,” Cal says.
“Ah, you oughta go. Regardless of what you think about the fairies, ’tis a beautiful spot. Tell Mossie I said you were to get the full tour.” He winks at Cal. Cal suppresses the urge to ask him what the fuck he’s winking about.
“So I’m after dropping Mr. Rushborough home,” Johnny says. “He’s had enough excitement for one day. I saw the two of ye out and about, and I thought, since I’ve the car”—he waves an arm at Sheila’s beat-up Hyundai, whose silver roof shows over the roadside wall—“I’d save my wee girl the walk home. Make sure you’re in time for whatever feast your mammy’s cooked up tonight.”
Trey says nothing. She switches the camera off.
“Here,” Cal says, handing Trey the camera case. “Remember to charge it.”
“Yeah,” Trey says. “Thanks.”
“What’s this, now?” Johnny inquires, cocking his head at the camera.
“Taking a lend of it,” Trey says, fitting the camera carefully into the case. “Summer homework. We’ve to photograph five kindsa wildlife and write about their habitat.”
“Sure, you can use my phone for that. No need to be risking Mr. Hooper’s lovely camera.”
“I’m gonna do birds,” Trey says. “The focus isn’t good enough on a phone.”
“Holy God, you don’t make life easy for yourself, do you?” Johnny says, smiling down at her. “Would you not do bugs? You could find yourself five different bugs in ten minutes, just out the back of the house. Job done.”
“Nah,” Trey says. She loops the camera strap across her body. “Everyone’s gonna do bugs.”
“That’s my girl,” Johnny says affectionately, ruffling her hair. “Don’t follow the herd; do things your own way. Say thank you to Mr. Hooper for the lend.”
“Just did.”
Cal discards his earlier ideas. Whatever Trey is planning to do with that camera, she doesn’t want her father knowing about it. He has no idea what the kid is up to, and he doesn’t like that one bit.
At least there’s no longer any urgency about explaining to Trey how he’s mixed up in all this, if she’s not going to be at the river to see him. Cal’s instinct, in terrain as misty and boggy as this, is to take as few steps as possible. He might still need to have that conversation at some point, but he’s considerably happier leaving it till he can pick up some sense of where Trey stands.
“It might be a while before you get that back, now,” Johnny warns Cal. “Theresa won’t have as much time for the aul’ carpentry, the next while. She’s going to be giving me a hand with a few bits and bobs. Isn’t that right, sweetheart?”
“Yeah,” Trey says.
“I’m in no hurry,” Cal says. “I can wait as long as it takes.”
Trey whistles for Banjo, who comes lolloping over with his head cocked at a goofy angle to manage his bone. “Seeya,” she says to Cal.
“Yup,” Cal says. To Johnny he says, “See you round.”
“Ah, you will,” Johnny assures him. “Sure, in a place this size, you can’t escape anyone. Are you ready, missus?”
Cal watches them head across the field towards the car. Johnny is yakking away, tilting his face to Trey, gesturing at things. Trey is watching her sneakers kick through the grass. Cal can’t tell whether she’s answering.