The Hunter полностью

Rushborough, taking a brief second to scan Cal as the rest of the men laugh at his punch line, has picked up on the tail end of this. “My God, you must lead more exciting lives than I do, I’ve never had a day like this,” he says, laughing, leaning forward over the table. “You do see what this means, don’t you? It means we’re on the right track. I knew the gold was out there, I always knew that. But what I was afraid of, what I was terrified of, was that my grandmother’s instructions weren’t good enough. It’s not as if she gave me a map, you know, X marks the spot. She was playing a game of Telephone that had been going on for centuries, describing a place she hadn’t seen in decades—all these directions like ‘And then follow the old streambed down to the west but if you reach Dolan’s back field you’ve gone too far,’ my God”—he throws himself back on the banquette, arms flying wide—“sometimes I wondered if I was stark raving bonkers to go chasing after something so vague. She could have been miles off target, literally miles. I was braced to find nothing but mud today, and go home with my tail between my legs—not that it would have been a waste of time, it’s been entirely worth it just to meet you and see this place at last, but I can’t deny it: I would have been heartbroken. Devastated.”

Cal has professional experience of shitbirds like this, whose lies take up so much space that people believe them just because disbelieving all of that would be too much work. He has no certainty that, when he says his own piece, the guys will be swayed. He’s sharply aware that he’s a stranger, no less than Rushborough, and one who’s given them trouble before.

“But this”—Rushborough seizes the bottle of gold and clasps it between his hands, like he can’t keep away—“this is proof. My grandmother, God bless her—I’ll have to, I don’t know, lay flowers on her grave or light a candle in the church, to beg her forgiveness for doubting her. She led me straight as a, what am I looking for? not a die, a, an arrow, that’s it, straight as an arrow to the spot—”

“Jaysus, man,” Johnny says, laughing and clapping Rushborough on the shoulder. “You’re bouncing off the walls here. You need something to settle you, before you give yourself a heart attack. Barty! Get this fella a brandy.”

“And the same for all of us!” Rushborough calls over his shoulder, laughing. “I know, I know, I’m excited, but do you blame me? It’s the gold at the end of the rainbow!”

The other thing that strikes Cal is how much the guy is putting into it. This is some Hallmark-level emotion he’s got going on. For it to be worth this amount of effort, he and Johnny must be planning to take Ardnakelty for everything it’s got.

The brandy goes down with a toast to Rushborough’s granny and a scattering of cheers. Cal holds his, but doesn’t drink it; he’s not going to take anything from this guy. He sees Rushborough’s eye slide over him again, noting.

“Well, chaps,” Rushborough says, putting down his glass and stifling a yawn, “or lads, I should say, shouldn’t I? Lads, I’m afraid I’m going to have to call it a night. I hate to break up a lovely party, and I don’t know whether it’s the adrenaline or simply my shameful city lifestyle taking its toll, but I’m exhausted.”

There’s plenty of protest, but not the kind that risks making Rushborough change his mind and stick around. Just like Cal expected, the men want some time to themselves.

“Would you mind,” Rushborough says a little shyly, putting a finger on the bottle of gold dust, “if I kept this? I’ll get it properly weighed and pay each of you for your share, of course. But—I know it’s sentimental, but…the first fruits, don’t you know. I’d like to have something made out of this. A new setting for my grandmother’s nugget, maybe. Would that be all right?”

Everyone thinks this is a wonderful idea, so Rushborough pockets the bottle and jabbers himself out. The place is starting to fill up; people turn to nod and lift their glasses as he goes by, and he doles out smiles and waves in exchange.

“He went for it,” Con says, leaning forward over the table, as soon as the pub door closes behind him. “He did, didn’t he? He went for it.”

“Et it up with a spoon,” Senan says. “The fuckin’ sap.”

“Ah, here,” Johnny says, pointing at him. “ ’Twouldn’t take a sap. Ye were only magnificent, every one of ye. I almost believed ye myself. That’s what done it. Not him being a sap. The lot of ye playing a fuckin’ blinder.” He raises his pint to them all.

“Don’t be getting all modest on us, young fella,” Mart says, smiling at him. “Credit where credit’s due: you did the heavy lifting. You’re very convincing altogether, when you wanta be. Hah?”

“I know Rushborough,” Johnny assures him. “I know how to handle the man. I won’t let ye down.”

“What now, so?” Francie demands. Francie is looking stubbornly skeptical. His face naturally inclines that way, being bony and thin-lipped, heavy on the eyebrows, but its usual cast has intensified.