‘You’re never out of my hair,’ Ursula singsonged.
‘In a useful way,’ Arm said. ‘You deserve better.’
‘Everyone deserves better, Douglas,’ Ursula snapped, her voice tuned to a clear low. Her attention had flowed elsewhere again; Arm could tell her eyes were back on Jack.
‘Maybe it’d be better the other way altogether, so.’
Arm heard her sigh. ‘What’s that mean?’ she said.
‘Nothing. Look. I’ll leave you to it,’ Arm said in a thick, drowned voice. He sounded faraway, even to himself.
‘Okay, Douglas,’ she said, and then, with a flicker of irritated puzzlement, ‘Where are you, Arm? It’s beyond quiet.’
‘I’m outside. In a field. Watching cows watching me.’
‘Right,’ she said. ‘Good luck with that.’
‘Thanks.’
There was another silence. Then she said, ‘Well, I’m best back to it here. Goodnight, so.’
‘Bye,’ Arm said as the line clicked off.
He went back to the shitbox. There was a toolbox in the boot, and in the toolbox a hammer. Arm clambered back up over the gap in the ditch and started across the fields.
Hector’s Hiace was tucked round the side of the house, on Arm’s side as he came up through the last field. Other than the stand of elms there was only a four-foot cement wall for a boundary, just about high enough to dismay a cow from trying to clotter over it. Arm limped quiet as he could through the yard. No dogs, thankfully. There was a light on in one of the downstairs rooms. The curtains were not pulled but there was a mesh drape. Arm went to the front door, knocked. There was no response for a time; he knocked again. Hector opened the door. He blinked and looked right at Arm.
‘Your brother went fucking mad,’ Arm said.
Hector went to close the door. Before he could Arm slugged him in the belly.
Hector bent, winded. Arm held the man’s shoulder lest he fall over.
‘Jaysus, Douglas,’ Hector hissed, once he had regained his breath.
‘You heard from him?’ Arm said.
‘Who?’
‘Paudi,’ Arm said, ‘in the last whileen.’
‘What? Paudi? No.’
‘Who’s there?’ came a woman’s voice from inside.
‘I’m coming in,’ Arm said. He had the hammer wedged down the back of his trousers. He pulled it out and pressed the prongs into Hector’s cheek, then slipped it back down his arsecrack.
Hector winced, ‘Douglas, whatever this is about we can talk again—’
‘Give me a greeting,’ Arm said, pushing Hector back and stepping inside the door. Up the hall drifted the pleasant smell of peatsmoke. The sitting room was in left, a set of stairs on the right. Hector, seeing he had no other option, recovered his composure and led Arm into the sitting room. Arm moved slowly to hide the hitch in his gait.
The widow Mirkin was standing at the fireplace, poker in hand, tending or affecting to tend to the big fire going in the hearth. Arranged upon her breast was a silver brooch with a greenish stone set in it. She was in a red and rust brown dress, one of those ones that showed nothing—the sleeves went down to the wrists, the blouse up to the neck, and the hemline descended comprehensively beyond the knees. Her hair was dark brown, raked back from her forehead and set in place with a simple, girlish band. She had no make-up on, a crow’s-feet-riddled but decent face, Arm supposed, for an old dear. There was something faintly familiar about her, though beyond a certain age all old dears looked the same to Arm. The furniture, three chairs and a sofa, was festooned with corduroy cushions. The floor was carpeted, there was a crucifix on the wall, a framed portrait painting of a doe-eyed, winsome Christ. The fire spat and bubbled, the room was smotheringly warm.
‘An acquaintance of yours, Hector?’
‘By and by. He’s a friend and associate of a young relative of mine, a nephew. Douglas, Maire. Maire, Douglas. He used to box for the county.’
The widow’s eyes flicked over Arm, backed against the frame of the door.
‘The carriage would suggest so, alright.’
‘Did Hector not tell you I was coming over?’ Arm said to her. ‘He said it’d be okay.’
The widow looked inquiringly at her paramour. Hector was facing away from Arm, the bull neck above his collar empurpled and beaded with shine.
‘Well, now, he did not.’
‘My dear, I apologise for this,’ Hector said.
She hooked the poker onto its stand by the hearth and stepped daintily into the middle of the room. She brought her hands together.
‘Well you’ve intruded right into the middle of our nightcap, young man. I was just about to serve a toddy to Hector and myself. Can I fix you one? And sit down please, both of you.’
Hector turned to Arm and dropped into a chair. He gestured at the chair nearest Arm. Arm put himself in it, the rider’s surplus jacket straining across his chest.
‘Do,’ Hector said to the widow, ‘and cut us a few wodges of brack while you’re at it, dear.’
The widow left for the kitchen.
Hector from his seat regarded Arm. He raised his hand to his mouth and nipped at a hangnail. ‘Say what you have to,’ he said in a mild voice, ‘but say it low. She’s to remain out of this.’
‘Can’t you send the biddy away?’ Arm said.
Hector winced. ‘It’s her house, you fool.’ He bared his teeth as if in pain and licked his lips. ‘We could go, though, ladeen. We could go somewhere and sort this out.’
‘Nah,’ Arm said, sitting up. He could not get comfortable in the chair.
Hector’s brow writhed in frustration. ‘Please,’ he said, ‘let’s not do this here.’
‘She has money,’ Arm said.
‘What happened?’
‘Today was delivery day. So we went out. As usual. But that brother of yours lost it, the mink. He whipped that rifle out at the drop of a hat. He brought a gun out on us, Heck.’
Hector’s expression flickered through Arm, as if he was scrutinising something way off in the distance.
‘Dympna,’ Arm went on. ‘He shot Dympna. He shot him. He, Shot, Him. Took a couple of potshots at me as I was getting
