“Didn’t think that far,” Trey says.
“For fuck’s sake,” Johnny says. All his other feelings are getting turned into anger, for ease of use. “The fuckin’ ingratitude. Here was me promising you anything you want—”
“Shut up,” Rushborough says. “I’m not upset about that. I’m upset that I’m working with a fucking cretin who got the wool pulled over his eyes by a fucking child.”
Johnny shuts up. Rushborough turns back to Trey. “It’s not a bad plan,” he says. “I’ve got a better one, though. How would you like to make those blokes lose a few grand each, instead of a few hundred quid?”
“Yeah,” Trey says. “Maybe.”
“Wait here,” Rushborough says. He goes into the bedroom. He takes the camera along, with a small knowing smile at Trey.
“You’ll do whatever he says,” Johnny tells Trey, under his breath. She doesn’t look at him. Banjo, disturbed by the smell of blood and fear, licks at her hands, looking for reassurance. She rubs his jowls. It helps her hands stop shaking.
Rushborough comes back carrying a little click-sealed plastic bag. “The original idea was that I found this, yesterday morning,” he says. “You saw me, didn’t you? You’d have been able to tell people you saw me find it. But it’ll be much better coming straight from you.”
He hands the bag to Trey. In it is what looks like a bit of gold foil, off a bar of chocolate or something, that’s been squashed in a pocket for too long. It’s about the size of a nail head, the big old handmade ones that are bastards to replace when they rust. There are bits of white rock and dirt mashed in with it.
“You found it just at the foot of the mountain,” Rushborough says, “about half a mile east of here. You overheard me talking to your dad, you recognized the place I was describing, and you went off to do a little private gold-mining of your own. You can be cagey about the exact spot, because you shouldn’t have been digging without the landowner’s permission, but you’re dead pleased with yourself, and you can’t resist showing this around. Have you got all that?”
“Yeah,” Trey says.
“Has she got it?” Rushborough asks Johnny. “Can she pull it off?”
“Oh, God, yeah,” Johnny assures him. “The child’s smart as a whip. She’ll do a great job. If you think about it, this is all for the—”
“Good. That’s all you have to do,” Rushborough says to Trey, “and you’ll be taking thousands straight out of those blokes’ pockets. Won’t that be fun?”
“Yeah.”
“Don’t lose it,” Rushborough says. He smiles at her. “If you do a good job, you can keep it. Little present. Otherwise, I’m going to want it back.”
Trey rolls up the bag and tucks it in her jeans pocket. “There,” Rushborough says. “See? All on the same side here. It’s all going to be lovely-jubbly, and it’s going to make us all happy.” To Johnny he says, “And you’re not going to give her any shit. Stay focused.”
“Ah, God, no,” Johnny assures him. “I wouldn’t. Sure, everything’s grand, man. All coola-boola.” He’s still white.
“Eyes on the prize,” Rushborough says.
“I gotta give back the camera,” Trey says.
“Well, not yet,” Rushborough says reasonably. “I’ll hold on to it for a little while, just in case it might come in useful. There’s no reason your school project shouldn’t take a few days.”
“All sorted, so,” Johnny says, heartily and too fast. “All tickety-boo. Let’s get this girl home to bed. Come along, sweetheart.”
Trey knows she’s not getting the camera back, at least not tonight. She stands up.
“Let me know how it goes,” Rushborough tells her. “Don’t make a balls of it.” He brings his heel down on Banjo’s paw.
Banjo yelps wildly and snaps at him, but Rushborough is already out of range. Trey grabs Banjo’s collar. He whimpers, holding his paw high.
“Come on,” Johnny says. He gets a grip on Trey’s arm and pulls her towards the door. Rushborough moves out of the way, politely, to let them pass.
When the door shuts behind them, Trey shakes off her dad’s hand. She’s not worried that he’ll hit her for taking the video. He’s too afraid of Rushborough to step out of line.
Sure enough, all he does is blow out his breath in a comical puff of relief. “Christ almighty,” he says, “life’s full of surprises, all the same. I haveta hand it to you, I never saw that one coming. I’d say you got a bit of a shock yourself, hah?” He’s managed to get some of the whimsical note back into his voice. In the heavy moonlight Trey can see him grinning at her, trying to make her grin back. She shrugs instead.
“Is your lip sore?” her dad asks, ducking his head to peer at her face. He’s doing his gentlest, most sympathetic voice. “Sure, it’ll heal in no time. You can say you tripped over.”
“It’s grand.”
“Are you upset that I didn’t tell you the whole story? Ah, sweetheart. I just didn’t want to get you mixed up in this, any more than I hadta.”
“Don’t give a shite,” Trey says. Banjo lets out a whimper every time he puts that paw to the ground. She strokes his head. She doesn’t want to stop and look him over till they’re out of Rushborough’s sight.
