“Not a lot,” Mart admits, with some regret. “Not around here, anyway. Maybe up in Dublin the gays are all marrying the bejaysus out of each other, but I haven’t heard of any in these parts.”
“Well look at that,” Cal says. He’s only half-hearing Mart. “You went and pissed off the priest for nothing.”
“Fuck him. He’s only an aul’ blow; too used to getting his own way. I never liked him, big Jabba the Hutt head on him. It’s healthier for men to live with men, anyway. They don’t be wrecking each other’s heads. They might as well get married while they’re at it, have a day out.”
“Can’t hurt,” Cal says. He bangs the ice tray on the counter and throws cubes into the Ziploc.
Mart watches him. “If Trey Reddy’s not robbing you,” he says, “then what does she want out of you? Them Reddys, they’re always looking for something.”
“Learn a little carpentry,” Cal says. “He didn’t ask for pay—she. I was thinking about throwing her a few bucks, but I’m not sure if she’d take it right. What do you think?”
“A Reddy’ll always take money,” Mart says. “Mind yourself, but. You don’t want her thinking you’re a soft touch. Are you going to let her keep coming round, now you know she’s a young one?”
There is no way on God’s green earth that Cal would have let a little girl hang around his yard, never mind come inside his house. “Haven’t had time to think about that,” he says.
“Why would you want her about the place? Don’t be telling me you need the help with that bloody desk.”
“She’s handy enough. And I’ve been enjoying the company.”
“Sure, what kind of company is that child, at all? You’d get more chat out of that aul’ chair. Do you ever get two words out of her?”
“Kid’s not much of a talker, all right,” Cal says. “She lets me know she’s hungry, now and again.”
“Send her packing,” Mart says. There’s a finality to his voice that makes Cal look at him. “Give her the few bob, tell her you won’t be needing her no more.”
Cal opens his kill bag and scoops up a couple of perch. “I might do that,” he says. “How many would Malachy eat? He got a family?”
Mart hits the door with his crook, making a raw whack that echoes startlingly loudly in the half-bare room. “Listen to me, man. I’m looking out for you. If this place finds out Theresa Reddy’s hanging round here, people’ll talk. I’ll tell them you’re a sound man, and I’ll tell them you thought she was a young fella, but there’s only so far they’ll listen to me. I don’t want to see you bet up, or burned out of it.”
Cal says, “You told me I didn’t need to worry my head about crime round here.”
“You don’t. Not unless you go asking for it.”
“You afraid you’re gonna lose your twenty bucks?” Cal asks, but Mart doesn’t smile.
“What about the child? D’you want the townland talking about her the way they’ll be talking if they find out?”
This had not occurred to Cal. “She’s a kid learning to be handy,” he says, keeping his voice even. “Is all. If a few dumb fucks would rather she was out on the streets making trouble—”
“She’ll be on the streets all right, if you don’t get sense. They’ll have her hunted out of here by Christmas. Where d’you think she’ll go?”
“For fixing a desk and frying a rabbit? What the hell—”
“You’ll give me blood pressure, so you will,” Mart says. “Honest to God. Or palpitations. Would ye Yanks not learn to listen once in a while, so everyone around ye can have some fuckin’ peace of mind?”
“Here you go,” Cal says, handing over the Ziploc. “My compliments to Malachy.”
Mart takes the bag, but he doesn’t move to leave. “The other reason I voted for the marriage yoke,” he says. “My brother was gay. Not Seamus, that lived here with me; the other fella. Eamonn. It was against the law, back when we were young. He went off to America because of it, in the end. I asked him would he not join the priesthood instead. Sure, they could do what they liked, and no one would say boo to them; I’d say half of them were riding the arse off each other. But Eamonn was having none of it. He hated all them bastards. So off he went. That was thirty year ago. Never heard another word out of him.”
“You try Facebook?” Cal asks. He’s not sure where this is going.
“I did. There’s a few Eamonn Lavins on there. One’s got no photo or nothing, so I sent him a message, just in case. He never got back to me, either way.” Kojak is sniffing at the bag. Mart palms his nose away. “I thought maybe once we got the gay marriage, he’d come home, if he’s alive. But he never did.”
“He might yet,” Cal says. “You never know.”
“He won’t,” Mart says. “I had it wrong. ’Twasn’t the laws that were the problem.” He looks out over the fields, at the pink sky. “It’s a hard aul’ place, this. The finest place in the world, and wild horses wouldn’t drag me out of it. But it’s not gentle. And if Theresa Reddy doesn’t know that by now, she’ll learn soon enough.”
SIXTEEN
What with one thing and another, Cal has been neglecting some stuff: the rooks, for example, and his daily walks around the countryside, and that desk. When he sees the morning—pristine in the sharp autumn sunlight, cold enough to chill his palate with each breath—he figures this is as good a time as any to get back to them. They’ll keep him outdoors, which is where he wants to be when Trey comes around. And he needs to herd his mind off its dusty old detective trail, back to the pretty, scenic one
