The Hunter полностью

“I fuckin’ know that,” Johnny snaps, with enough of a snarl in his voice that Trey goes up on her toes, but he’s too focused on himself to take time out for anyone else. He dabs his fingers gingerly at his nose and examines them. “Get me cleaned up.”

Sheila goes out. Johnny turns like he can’t stay still, and his eyes catch on Trey. Before she can move, he’s lunged across the room and grabbed her by the wrist. His eyes are dilated almost black, and there are bits of brush in his hair. He looks animal.

“You fuckin’ squelt to that Yank. What the fuck are you—”

“I did not—”

“You’ll get me kilt. Is that what you want? Is it?”

He jerks her wrist, hard, digging in to bruise her. “I said fuckin’ nothing,” Trey snaps, right in his face and not flinching. Banjo is whining.

“Then how the fuck does he know? No one knew, only you. What the fuck, what are you playing at—”

His hand on her wrist is shaking in sharp spasms. Trey wrenches herself free with such unexpected ease that she stumbles backwards. Johnny stares, and for a second she thinks he’s going to come after her. If he does, she’ll punch him bang in his broken nose. The only time she’ll bow to her dad’s will, from now on, is when it matches her own purposes.

Maybe Johnny sees that. Either way, he stays put. “Lena Dunne,” he says. The injuries have turned his voice clotted and ugly. “Didja talk to her? She’d squeal on me, no problem to her, uppity bitch—”

“I said nothing. To anyone.”

“How the fuck does Hooper know, so?”

“He coulda just guessed. He’s not thick. Just ’cause the rest fell for it—”

Johnny spins away from her, lurching around the room, hands in his hair. “This is what you get when you mess with fuckin’ cops. I knew it, the minute I got a smell of him, I knew he was trouble— What the fuck are you doing hanging around with a cop? Are you fuckin’ simple?”

“Don’t wake the children,” Sheila says, in the doorway. She’s holding a saucepan of water and an old red-checked dish towel. “Sit down.”

Johnny stares at her for a second, like he’s forgotten who she is. Then he drops onto the sofa.

“Get to bed,” Sheila tells Trey.

“You stay put,” Johnny says. “I’ve use for you.”

Trey moves closer to the door, just in case, but she stays. Sheila sits on the sofa beside Johnny, dips the towel in the water, and squeezes it out. When she dabs at his face, he hisses. Sheila ignores it and keeps working, in short systematic swipes like she’s getting a spill off the cooker.

“He’s got nothing,” Johnny says, wincing as Sheila catches a sore place. He sounds like he’s talking to himself. “He can say what he wants. No one’ll believe the likes of him.”

There’s silence in the room, only the drip as Sheila wrings out the cloth. Alanna has stopped tossing. The water in the pan is turning red.

“You tell me,” Johnny says, twisting to get one eye on Trey. “You know the man. Is Hooper going to run around this townland bleating it to everyone that there’s no gold?”

“Dunno,” Trey says. “He might not.” Cal’s relationship with Ardnakelty baffles her. He would have every right to a handful of well-honed grudges, but he’s easy and mannerly with everyone, to the point where she can’t even spot where the grudges might lie. That doesn’t mean they don’t exist, though. Cal, even if he’s pissed off with Johnny for fooling him, might accept this chance to sit back and let the townland walk into Johnny’s trap. She knows, from stories he’s told her about his childhood, that his code allows for revenge, and that he knows how to take his time.

“If he does, will the place believe him?”

“Dunno. Some of ’em will.”

“Francie fuckin’ Gannon. That dry aul’ shite’s just looking for an excuse to wreck everything.” Johnny spits blood into the pan. “I can do without Francie. Everyone knows what he’s like, sure. How about the rest? Do they trust Hooper?”

The question is a complicated one, and Trey has no intention of going into the details. “Sorta,” she says.

Johnny gives a harsh laugh. “Look at that. A fuckin’ cop, and a Yank, and my own home place’d take his word over mine.” His voice is rising. “Every fuckin’ time, any chance they get, spitting in my face like I’m—Aah!” He flinches and slaps Sheila’s hand away furiously. “The fuck was that?”

“I said not to wake the children,” Sheila says.

They stare at each other. For a second Trey thinks he’s going to hit her. She readies herself.

Johnny slumps back into the sofa. “Sure, it’s not the end of the world,” he says. His nose is still bleeding; Sheila mops up the trickle. “No need to panic. Some of the lads’ll stick. And they’ll bring in more. We’ll find a way. It might take a wee bit longer, but we’ll get there in the end, so we will.”

“Course,” Trey says. “It’ll be grand. I’ll help.” She’s not going to let her dad give up and do a legger, when he’s only taken a few hundred quid off each of those men. Brendan is worth more than that.