“What’s the story?” Johnny demands, his eyes skittering back and forth between Trey and Rushborough. “What are you doing here?” he asks Trey.
“Shh,” Rushborough says. He hands Johnny the camera. “Have a look at this,” he says pleasantly.
Johnny’s face as he watches the video gives Trey a savage flare of exultation. He’s white and blank, like the thing in his hand is a bomb and he’s helpless against it; like he’s holding his death. He lifts his head once, his mouth opening, but Rushborough says, “Finish watching.”
Trey puts a hand on Banjo and gets ready. She puts no store in Rushborough’s talk about not letting her dad be angry with her; she’d rather put her faith in the mountain. The minute her dad loosens his hold on the camera to start coming up with excuses, she’s going to grab it, shove her dad into Rushborough, and run for her abandoned house. You could look for someone all year, on this mountain, and never find a sign. And once the townland learns that Rushborough is gone, her dad won’t have a year.
When the video ends and Johnny lowers the camera, Trey waits for him to start spinning whatever story he thinks Rushborough’s thick enough to believe. Instead he lifts his hands, still holding the camera, its strap swinging crazily.
“Man,” he says. “It’s not a problem. Honest to God. She’ll say nothing. I guarantee it.”
“First things first,” Rushborough says. He takes back the camera. He asks Trey, “Who have you told about this?”
“No one,” Trey says. She doesn’t get why Rushborough is acting like the boss, giving her dad orders. None of this makes sense. She has no idea what’s going on.
Rushborough looks at her with curiosity, his head to one side. Then he backhands her across the face. Trey is flung sideways, trips over her feet, slams into the arm of the chair, and falls. She scrambles up, putting the chair between herself and Rushborough. There’s nothing to grab for a weapon. Banjo is on his feet, growling.
“Call your dog,” Rushborough says. “Or I’ll break his back.”
Trey’s hands are shaking. She manages to snap her fingers, and Banjo reluctantly eases back to her side. He’s still growling, low in his chest, ready.
Johnny hovers, his hands fluttering. Rushborough asks again, in the same tone, “Who have you told?”
Trey says, “I never said a word. Them bastards can all go fuck themselves. Alla this place.” Blood comes out when she talks.
Rushborough lifts his eyebrows. Trey can tell by him that he knows she means it. “Well,” he says. “Why?”
Trey lets her eyes slide over his shoulder to her dad, who’s trying to find something to say. “If it hadn’ta been for them treating you like shite,” she says, “you wouldn’ta gone.”
It comes out perfect, raw with just the right mix of anger and shame, something she would never have said unless it was ripped out of her. Her dad’s face opens and melts.
“Ah, sweetheart,” he says, moving forward. “Come here to me.”
Trey lets him put his arms around her and stroke her hair. Under the spices, he smells like burnt rubber from fear. He says stuff about how he’s home now and they’ll show those bastards together.
Rushborough watches. Trey knows he isn’t fooled. He knew when she was lying, just like he knew when she was telling the truth, but he doesn’t seem to care.
Trey doesn’t fear easily, but she’s afraid of Rushborough. It’s not that he hit her. Her dad has hit her before, but that was just because he was angry and she happened to be there. This man has intention. She can feel his mind working, a glinting efficient machine ticking along dark tracks she doesn’t understand.
He gets bored and flicks Johnny’s arm away from Trey. Johnny moves back fast. “What about the American bloke?” Rushborough asks Trey.
“Said nothing to him,” Trey says. Her cut lip has left blood on her dad’s shirt. “He’d tell the others.”
Rushborough nods, acknowledging this. “This is his camera, right? What did you tell him you wanted it for?”
“School project. Wildlife photos.”
“Oh, the birds. That’s not bad. I like that. Actually,” he says to Johnny, “this could all work out very very nicely.”
He points Trey back to the armchair. Trey sits, taking Banjo with her, and blots her lip on the neck of her T-shirt. Rushborough takes his place on the sofa again.
“Just making sure I’ve got this right,” he says. “Your idea was, I’d see this”—he taps the camera—“and I’d piss off back to England. These blokes would be left with their dicks in their hands, no cash payout, buggering about in the river trying to get some of their gold back. Is that right?”
His accent has changed. It’s still English, but it’s not posh any more; he just sounds ordinary, like someone that would work in a shop. It makes him more frightening, not less. He feels nearer this way.
“Yeah,” Trey says.
“Because you don’t like them.”
“Yeah.” Trey presses her hands on her thighs to still them. Bit by bit, things are coming together.
“I’da been run outa town,” Johnny says, outraged, the thought suddenly occurring to him. “Without a cent to show for any of this.”
