“There’s spare wellies there,” said Maura. “They’d be a fit.” He slid into them and stepped out into the yard. A bright dawn was soaking in between the hedges on Drumore Hill. The sky was clear and sharp, and Minogue rubbed his hands against the chill. His eye caught the silver edges in the yard, the ruts and holes where water had frozen. Mick was watching his son moving cattle through the milking parlour. He nodded to his brother.
“The happy lot of the farmer,” Minogue tried. “At one with nature and her bounty.”
“My eye,” grunted Mick.
The brothers watched Eoin washing teats. Minogue helped Eoin move cattle out until he received a tail flicked across his face for his troubles.
“God, these are very boisterous creatures,” said Minogue. “Are you sure they’re not goats?”
Mick shook his head but did not reply. Eoin wore a frown of concentration as he moved about between the cows. Minogue blew into his hands and watched his breath vapour and trail off in the morning air. A sudden shaft of light struck at the side of his head, the sun cresting over the shed across from the milking parlour.
“Fresh,” said Minogue. He turned to his brother. “Aren’t you cold?”
“If and I am, I can’t feel it,” replied Mick. His hands came out of his pockets. “I might as well have bits of stick on the ends of these arms this morning.”
Minogue held back from words of encouragement, knowing that his brother would hear them as pity. The sun blazed in the doorway now. The glare caught the nap on a cow’s rump and outlined every hair. He looked around the parlour again and smelled the milk and the dung and the straw and the sweetness in the cows’ breath. What the hell more can I do that I’m not already doing, he thought. He walked to the doorway to get some sun.
Two cars were entering the yard. One stopped within feet of the milking parlour, the other by the back door of the house. Minogue tried to shield his eyes but the low sun blinded him. He knew the cars for what they were when he saw the antennae still quivering after the engines were shut off. A young Guard with a crew cut and a long bony nose with a kink in it was out of the car quickly. Another in a soft leather jacket followed him from the passenger side. Minogue stepped out of the sunlight to see the farmhouse better. Two other men were gone in the door of the house.
“Lookit,” Minogue began. “There’s only the woman of the house and my-”
The Guard with the long nose brushed by him. The other stared at Minogue and stood to the other side of the doorway. The Inspector made for the doorway but Leather Jacket stepped in front of him. He heard running footsteps in the yard. Another Guard, a curly-headed older man with a pepper-and-salt moustache and a bomber- jacket, entered.
“He’s out here, all right,” he said, with barely a glance at Minogue. “Who are these fellas?”
“Who are you?” Minogue asked.
The one with the moustache looked at Minogue and then beyond him.
“Down here,” said Crew Cut. “Him and the da.”
“What the hell are ye doing?” Mick Minogue began.
“Take the da and this fella out to the house,” said Moustache. “Or sit one of them in the car.”
Minogue started to follow Moustache down to where Eoin was standing. He had gotten two steps before his arm was pinned. He was down on his knees with his head twisted in a lock when the shouting began. He too tried to shout but the Guard’s arm covered his mouth. Minogue inhaled the leathery scent from the arm over his face.
“This one’s trouble,” the Guard called out.
Minogue’s mind flared with the sharp pain as his arm was pushed farther back.
“What the hell are ye about?” Mick was bellowing.
“Keep off now,” said Moustache. He and the other detective closed on Eoin. Minogue heard more footsteps behind him.
“Lace him up,” said the Guard holding him. “The oul’ lad might be throwing shapes here in a minute.”
With the headlock released, Minogue bent forward to ease the armhold. His other arm was grabbed and he heard the soft clicks as the plastic restrainers were cinched home.
“Bloody gangsters, the lot of ye!” Mick shouted. Eoin’s eyes darted from one Guard to the other.
“Shut up,” said Moustache. The Guard who had been holding Minogue stepped by him and faced Mick. Eoin had a pitchfork in his hand. The Guard in the leather jacket drew a pistol from under his jacket and held it at arm’s length, pointing it at Eoin.
“Eoin!” Minogue shouted. The cattle began lowing and stamping their feet as they jerked at the chains. “Leave it down, Eoin!”
One of the cattle began kicking at the bars. The milking machine droned on: sum-sum, sum-sum. Eoin dropped the fork and the Guards were on him.
“Jases,” Minogue heard the Guard with the gun mutter. He realised that he was still on his knees.
“Get up and let’s have a look at you,” said the Guard. He slid the pistol under his arm and pulled Minogue by the armpit. “You’re not here to help your man here pike hay, are you?”
Minogue turned to face him. He was a stocky, tired-looking man in his late thirties. His hair had receded to a point directly over his ears. His breath smelled of cigarettes. He narrowed his eyes as he searched Minogue’s face. Minogue watched the surprise roll down his face until his mouth opened.
“Divine Jases,” said the Guard and he looked over Minogue’s shoulder at his colleagues. “This is what’s-his- name. Up in Dublin. I done a stint, a training thing with the fingerprint section in the Bureau up in Dublin.” His eyes returned to Minogue’s. “You’re one of them, aren’t you? One of us, I mean.”
Cuddy shook his head again and scratched at his scalp. Minogue sipped at his mug of tea. Cuddy lit another cigarette. He breathed out the smoke and used the spent match to poke at the other butts in the ashtray. Cuddy was a sergeant in the Special Branch. He had driven in from Limerick just after midnight.
“All right,” he said in the middle of another yawn. “Point taken. But this isn’t Dublin where help is thirty seconds away.”
Minogue pinned him with a glare.
“No offence now,” said Cuddy. “Oh no.” He placed the cigarette between his lips to free his hands. “But look at it from our point of view.”
He began counting on his fingers, pausing to grasp each finger for several moments. “Three ton of stuff from Libya dug up out of the dunes there in near Bracagh over the summer. Semtex. Thirty-odd assault rifles.”
He drew on his cigarette to give Minogue pause to look impressed. He feigned an earnestness which Minogue knew was not native to the man.
“And that siege with your man last year. Jesus,” he whispered. “Lawlor, the madman on the run for six years. Three solid days and three nights of shooting.”
Minogue nodded. Cuddy dug his elbows into the armrests and sloped forward in the chair, one eye half-closed as a shield against the ribbon of smoke rising from his lap.
“None of them come quiet anymore. Can you blame Reilly for using the hardware there?”
Minogue remained unconvinced. Cuddy rallied for more.
“While ago, in Feakle, we got a call there was shots up in a quarry near the town. There was a vanload of us left Limerick and a squad combing the place inside of ninety minutes that night. Nothing, of course. You can’t be taking chances.”
“But these arms dumps are for the North,” Minogue said. “And you know that. You read the same circulars as I do.”
Cuddy cocked a bloodshot eye at this Inspector down from Dublin.
“Fair enough,” he conceded. “Then how come we have a gun in the back of your nephew’s car?”
“He had no knowledge of what his pal had in that bag. And you know that.”
“With all due respect to you and yours now, your nephew has a mouth on him. It’s bad manners to be giving speeches about politics and constitutional rights to Guards who have been shot at.”
Minogue weighed a retort but decided to hold back.
“Anyway,” Cuddy continued, “the IRA has handed out guns locally, that’s plain to see. That’s what has us going in hard first time out. Can you blame us, I mean to say?”
Minogue couldn’t. He had watched the detectives shambling back to their cars where they now sat while Cuddy held this pow-wow. Maura had vacated the kitchen, her departure punctuated by the sharp thud of a pot of
