“I’m not going to tell him anything,” Lena says. “I reckon you should tell him the whole story, but it’s your call.”
“He’ll be raging.”
“Maybe. Maybe not.”
Trey doesn’t answer. She leans her forehead against the windowpane and looks out at the countryside moving by. The road is busy with commuters zipping homewards. Beyond it, and unaffected by its frenetic rhythms, cattle nose at their leisure for bits of green among the yellowing fields.
Lena says, “Where’ll I drop you?”
Trey catches her breath like she’d forgotten Lena was there. “Just home,” she says. “Thanks.”
“Fair enough,” Lena says, flicking on her indicator. She’s taking the long way, the twisting roads up the far side of the mountain and over, to minimize the number of Ardnakelty people who’ll see them. Today will be general knowledge soon enough. Trey can at least have a bit of respite to grow accustomed to what she’s done, before the townland gets its hands on it.
Trey goes back to gazing out the window. Lena glances sideways at her now and then, watching her eyes scan methodically back and forth across the mountainside, like she’s searching for something that she knows she won’t find.
Twenty
Cal is doing the dinner dishes when the knock comes at the door. Mart is on the step, car keys jingling on his finger.
“Saddle up the prize pony, Sunny Jim,” he says. “We’ve a job to do.”
Cal says, “What kinda job?”
“Johnny Reddy’s worn out his welcome,” Mart says. “Leave the dog behind.”
Cal has had it up to the back teeth with being herded like a damn sheep by Mart and his plans and his sidelong dark warnings. “Or what?” he asks.
Mart blinks at him. “Or nothing,” he says gently. “I’m not giving orders, man. We could do with you there, is all.”
“Like I told you,” Cal says. “Johnny Reddy’s not my problem.”
“Ah, for feck’s sake,” Mart says, exasperated. “You’re marrying one of our women, bucko. You’re raising one of our childer, God help you. You’re growing tomatoes on a piece of our land. What else is there?”
Cal stands there in the doorway, with the dishcloth in his hand. Mart waits patiently, not hurrying him. Behind him, this year’s young rooks, gaining confidence with their wings, tumble and play knock-down tag in the warm evening air.
“Lemme get my keys,” Cal says, and he turns back into the house to put the dishcloth away.
—
The low chatter of the telly is coming from the sitting room, but in spite of that the house feels silent, sunk deep under stillness. Trey can tell by the air that her dad is out, not just asleep. She doesn’t know what to make of this. He hasn’t left their land since the day Rushborough died.
She finds her mam in the kitchen. Sheila is sitting at the table, not peeling anything or mending anything, just sitting there eating toast thick with blackberry jam. Trey can’t remember the last time she saw her mam doing no work.
“I fancied something sweet,” Sheila says. She doesn’t ask where Trey went with Lena, all this time. “D’you want a bit? The dinner’s all eaten.”
Trey says, “Where’s my dad gone?”
“Men came for him. Senan Maguire and Bobby Feeney.”
“Where’d they take him?”
Sheila shrugs. “They won’t kill him, anyway,” she says. “Not unless he’s stubborn, maybe.”
With everything else on her mind, Trey hasn’t looked at her mother properly in days. At first she can’t tell what seems strange about her, until it comes to her that Sheila is the first person she’s seen in weeks who looks peaceful. Her head is tilted back, to take the late warm light through the window full on her face. For the first time, in the high harsh sweeps of her cheekbones and the wide curves of her mouth, Trey sees the beauty that Johnny talked about.
Trey says, “I went into town with Lena. To the Guards. I told them there was no one on the mountain that night, only my dad went out.”
Sheila takes another bite of toast and thinks that over. After a bit she nods. “Did they believe you?” she asks.
“Yeah. Think so.”
“So they’ll arrest him.”
“Dunno. They’ll bring him in there and ask him questions, anyhow.”
“Will they come search this place?”
“Prob’ly. Yeah.”
Sheila nods again. “They’ll find what they’re after,” she says. “ ’Tis all in the shed for them.”
In the long silence, the faint telly chatters busily on.
Sheila points with her chin at the chair opposite her. “Sit down,” she says.
The chair’s legs rake dully on the linoleum as Trey pulls it out. She sits down. Her mind can’t move.
“I saw what you were at,” Sheila says. “First you only wanted your father gone, same as I did. Isn’t that right?”
Trey nods. The house feels like a place in a dream; the row of faded mugs hanging from hooks under the cupboard seem like they’re floating in mid-air, the chipped enamel of the cooker has an impossible glow. She’s not afraid that any of the little ones will burst in, or that Nealon will come knocking at the door. Everything will be motionless till she and her mother are done here.
“ ’Twas no use,” Sheila says. “I saw that early. He was going nowhere, as long as he had that Rushborough fella on his back. All he could think of was getting that money.”
Trey says, “I know that.”
“I know you do. The night him and Cal had that fight, there was me cleaning the blood off him, and him acting like I wasn’t there. He never did see me. But I was there. I heard what he was at. He was taking you to use.”
“He didn’t take me. I wanted to help him.”
Sheila looks at her. “This place has no mercy,” she says. “Once you step foot over the line, they’d ate you alive. You’da been gone, one way or the other.”
“I don’t give a shite,” Trey says. Her mind is starting to stir again. It hits her full force that her mother is a mystery to her. She could have anything folded away inside her silence.
Sheila shakes her head briefly. “I lost one child to this place,” she says. “I’m not losing another.”
Brendan is a swift slice through the air between them, bright as life.
Trey says, “That’s why I wanted to help my dad. To get back at them. He wasn’t using me. I was using him.”
“I know that,” Sheila says. “You’re as bad as him, thinking I know nothing. I knew that all along. I wouldn’t have it.”
“You shoulda left it,” Trey says. She finds her hands are shaking. It takes her a moment to realize it’s from anger.
Sheila looks at her. “You wanted your revenge on themens,” she says.
“I had it. Had it fuckin’ sorted. I had ’em.”
“Quiet,” Sheila says. “The children’ll come in.”
Trey can barely hear her. “They were walking straight into it. All you hadta do was leave me at it. The fuck did you go interfering for?” Fury has her on her feet, but once she’s there she can’t find what to do with it. When she was a kid she would have thrown something, smashed something. She wants that back. “You wrecked fuckin’ everything.”
In the sunlight Sheila’s eyes are blue as flames. She doesn’t blink against it. “You’re my revenge,” she says. “I won’t have you ruined.”
That stops Trey’s breathing. The peeling cream paint of the walls is achingly radiant and the stained linoleum has a simmering, risky translucence, ready to boil up. She can’t feel the floor under her feet.
“Sit,” Sheila says. “I’m talking to you.”