Читаем The Hunter полностью

“Holy God,” Bobby says, a bit overawed by the thought. “I will, and all. And me up to my oxters in sheep shite every day of my life.”

“It’s not sheep shite you’ll be smelling of in a few months’ time, man,” Johnny tells him. “It’s champagne and caviar. And I’m telling you now, there’s not a woman on earth that can resist that smell.” He winks and turns back to P.J.

“Is that a fact?” Bobby asks Cal. Bobby considers Cal to be an authority on women, on the grounds that Cal has both an ex-wife and a girlfriend. Cal himself feels like a divorce isn’t exactly evidence of proficiency in the field, but it would be unkind to point that out to Bobby. It seems to cheer Bobby to believe that he has access to an expert.

“I dunno,” he says. “Mostly the women I’ve known didn’t care if a guy was rich, as long as he paid his way and didn’t mooch. Probably some do, though.”

“I’d love a wife,” Bobby explains. “I worry about the mammy; she doesn’t want to go into a home, but she’s getting to be more than I can manage on my own, herself and the sheep. ’Tisn’t only that, but. I can do without the ride, mostly, but I’d love a cuddle. With a woman that’s nice and soft. Not one of them bony ones.” He blinks wistfully at Cal. Cal revises his previous assessment: Bobby, at least, is around three-quarters drunk. Bobby is the resident lightweight—Mart says, with resigned contempt, that he’d get drunk off a sniff of a beer mat—but he knows that, and allows for it. The fact that he’s let himself reach this point means that he’s made up his mind about Rushborough.

Rushborough, meanwhile, has finished with Sonny and moved on to Francie, propping his elbows on the table to ask questions and nod intently at the answers. Francie doesn’t look like he’s made up his mind, or anywhere near it. He’s answering the questions, though, which for Francie counts as being sociable. He’s not rejecting Rushborough and his grandma outright, or at least not yet.

“If I get my share of that gold,” Bobby says, with decision, “I’ll find myself a lovely big soft woman that likes the smell of caviar. I’ll buy her a whole stewpot full of it, and a pint of champagne to wash it down. I’ll bring it to her in bed, and the whole time she’s ating it, I’ll lie right there and give her a cuddle.”

“Sounds like a win-win to me,” Cal says.

Mart has lost interest in needling Senan and is leaning across to cut in on Rushborough and Francie’s conversation. “Oh, begod,” he says, “ ’tis still there, o’ course. There’s not a man in the townland would dig up that mound.”

“Or even go near it after dark,” Dessie says.

“The fairy hill on Mossie’s land?” Bobby asks, coming out of his vision. “Mossie does plow around it. And even for that, he brings his rosary beads. Just in case, like.”

“Really?” Rushborough asks, enthralled. “It wasn’t just my grandmother, then?”

“Ah, God, no,” Senan assures him. “My own mother, God rest her soul”—he crosses himself, and the rest of the guys follow promptly—“she was coming home one night, past that field, from visiting her daddy that wasn’t well. A winter night, and everything quiet as the grave, only then didn’t she hear music. ’Twas coming from that same mound. The sweetest music you ever did hear, she said, and she stood there listening a minute, only then it put a great fear on her. She ran all the way home like the devil himself was at her heels. Only when she got in the door, didn’t she find all of us childer outa our minds with worry, and my daddy putting on his coat to go look for her, because she shoulda been home hours before. A two-mile walk was after taking her three hours.”

“Mrs. Maguire wasn’t one of them women that do be imagining all sorts,” Sonny tells Rushborough. “There was no nonsense about her. She’d fetch you a clatter round the ear as soon as look at you.”

“Our bedroom window does look out over that field,” Dessie says. “Many’s the time I’ve seen lights around that mound. Moving, like; circling round, and crossing back and forth. You couldn’t pay me to go in that field at night.”

“Good heavens,” Rushborough breathes. “Do you think the landowner would let me have a look at it? In the daytime, of course.”

“You’d have to tell Mossie who your granny was,” Con says. “He wouldn’t let some aul’ tourist wander around his land. He’d run them off with his slash hook, so he would. But if he knows you’re from round here, sure, that’s different. He’d show you the place, right enough.”

“I’ll bring you down there any day you like,” Johnny promises. Johnny has been staying detached from Rushborough, letting the other men explore him at will. Cal doesn’t find this reassuring. It means the evening is unfolding right along the lines that Johnny wants it to.

“Would you?” Rushborough asks, thrilled. “That would be wonderful. Should I bring anything? I have some vague memory of my grandmother mentioning an offering of some kind, but it’s so long ago—might it have been cream? Possibly it sounds foolish, but—”