Himself(45)

‘You saw Denny’s Ait, near the clearing?’

Ida nods. ‘And the man was on it. He had this sack and this shovel.’

‘How did you know there were kittens in there?’

Ida frowns at him. ‘What else would you put in a sack to go into the river?’

Mahony shrugs.

‘Eejit,’ murmurs Ida, soft and low. She purses her lips. ‘And I shouted, “Don’t kill them, Mister”, and he looked up at me and did a pretend smile, and said, “Come here to me, Margaret”, and I knew I was in trouble because he sounded cross. Then I ran and then there was a flash behind my eyes and then I dropped my yo-yo.’

‘You saw his face?’

She looks down at her shoes. ‘Maybe.’

‘And you knew him, didn’t you?’

‘How do I bloody know?’ Ida jumps up. ‘Jesus fecking Christ.’ She slips her yo-yo back into the pocket of her cardigan and is gone.

Shauna is coming out of the back door with a tea tray. The late sun catches her hair and gives it a reddish cast as she moves into the light. She leans the tray on her hip as she closes the door behind her, with movements quick and unthinking, her lit face familiar and lovely. She negotiates the steps, frowning as a wayward hen scrabbles across her path. Watching her sets up a calm bright feeling in Mahony: here life continues, against the landslide, against the darkness. If he could he’d kiss her for it. Shauna looks up at him and smiles.

‘I’m taking Daddy down his tea.’

Mahony takes the tray off her. ‘Jesus, do you ever stop running with these trays? Can the man not get his own tea?’

Shauna laughs with him. ‘The man would die of thirst rather.’

Shauna leads the way past a series of outbuildings in different states of disrepair, where hens peck distractedly around an overgrown courtyard and a dead ginger cat prowls amongst the weeds.

‘I’ve been thinking, Shauna.’

‘Steady on.’

‘It’s best if I leave.’

She glances back at him. ‘Best for who?’

Mahony watches his step on the cobbles. ‘For you and for Merle.’

‘Where would you even go? I can’t imagine anyone else in town opening their doors to you.’

‘That’s not the point. That’s the second attempt—’

‘And they’ve said their piece. It would devastate that old woman if you left now; she loves the bones of you.’

‘What if one of you gets hurt?’

‘Don’t be thick, Mahony. It’s you they’re after, not us.’ Shauna shrugs. ‘Anyway, those were only warnings. If they’d have wanted to kill you—’

‘I’d be dead by now? Cheers.’

He follows her down a narrow path by the side of a greenhouse; the remaining panes are fogged with moss and the floor is littered with old feed bags. He picks his way carefully, keeping everything upright on the tray. Shauna smiles over her shoulder.

‘Stay here with us, Mahony. It’s where your friends are.’

Mahony is bowled over. He smiles down at a tea cosy.

Shauna stops outside what used to be a stable; some of the doors have been glazed and it’s been given a recent coat of dark-green paint. She opens a door at the end. She goes to take the tray off him.

‘I’ll take it in,’ says Mahony.

‘Ah no. Daddy won’t have strangers in his workshop.’

Mahony laughs. ‘I live in his house, I’m hardly a stranger, am I now?’

‘Well, just put it down on the table there and come straight out so you don’t disturb him.’

‘I won’t; I’ll stay for a while with him.’

‘Ah no, Mahony.’

‘The man doesn’t see a soul from one end of the day to another.’

‘That’s the way he likes it. Now don’t make him touchy for me, for then he’s the devil to deal with.’

‘Go on up to the house. I’ll be up later. The talk is probably bursting out of the poor fella.’

Desmond Burke is of an unfavourable disposition, until he takes himself down to the old stable. The horses are long gone, although cobwebbed bridles and tattered paddock rugs still hang tangled on hooks in dim corners.

Desmond has it all set up. The stalls are knocked through to make one long room lined with bookcases, and electricity is routed from the house in order to run the lights. He has a wood burner he can use on cool days and an old easy chair he can sleep in.

At the far end is Desmond’s desk, with a lamp arranged, just so, to throw light on a clean wide blotter. Every morning, at seven, Desmond walks down the garden, opens the door and takes his place at his desk. He smiles at the leather-bound books on the bookshelves and takes a paisley cravat from the drawer. He puts on his cravat and opens a book from the neat pile next to him. Then he picks up his pen and starts to make notes, in a good solid schoolteacherly hand, slanted in all the right places.

Lost in his scholarly reveries, Desmond wouldn’t notice if the goat itself brought him his tea, as long as it didn’t bleat.

Mahony sets the tray down on a table just under one of the windows. ‘Evening, Squire, I’ve brought your tea down to you there.’

Desmond studies Mahony for a moment then screws the top on his pen. ‘Can I help you at all?’