to him and Rita my wife would telephone the barracks and ye’d park the car up on the road and walk in the back door and I’d express surprise . .. instead of that ye burst in . . .’
‘So why didn’t you telephone the barracks when he got here?’
‘He stayed two minutes ... he wanted a sleeping bag that he left here before he went to England . . . and at this very moment he could be on the other side of that ditch resolving to kill me and my family for talking to scumbags like you.’
‘We have to bring him in,’ Corbett says.
‘Ye took your time over it,’ Cooney says with a sneer.
‘We had nothing on him . . . until Cissy’s car was found.’
‘A pile of ash . . . you won’t get his dabs on it.’
‘Is he armed?’
‘He says he has an axe and an iron bar.’
‘Where did he go?’ Corbett does not so much ask, as fling the question from the doorway.
‘Off.’
‘For feck’s sake, cut out the fascism, Jim.’
‘Look, cut out your own fascism . . .he goes one direction, then he turns round and comes back the same way . . . there is no method . . . there’s only chaos, madness.’
‘What’s his mental state?’ O’Heirlihy asks.
‘Hyper.’
‘So where might he be?’
‘I’d try the Congo ... he often calls to Minogue in a caravan up there.’
‘You hide him on us again and you’re done,’ Corbett says and goes out.
They are on the mountain road by the cow walk where Moira Tuohey had reported dropping him off. Desolate country. The odd light from a window only emphasising the long and tedious distances, neither dog nor man in sight. Sometimes they slow down to peer out at a bit of plastic or a torn coat on the wayside, both hoping and not hoping that they will find traces of him.
‘I wonder what brought him back.’
‘To hurt the father . . . nothing more and nothing less.’
As they veer off the road over a bed of rocks into a 96
field, O’Heirlihy whistles to give himself pluck. In the thick, sightless, mountain darkness the weak light from the caravan gives the appearance of a ship far out at sea, receding from them. Next to it is a second caravan, sunk into the ground, saplings forking out of the roof.
‘Oh, state of the art,’ O’Heirlihy says, then, ‘We’ll park the car so that the headlights shine directly on the door.’
They trip and stumble on stones and various bits of machinery, greeted by a growling dog and hens huddled under the adjoining caravan.
‘Do we knock or do we call?’
‘We shout.’
Minogue opens the door of the caravan and extends his arms in mock crucifixion. He is in his shirt sleeves and wearing rubber waders up to his thighs.
‘Have you seen O’Kane?’
‘As a matter of fact I have.’
‘Bring him out.’
‘Come in yourselves and get him.’
Then O’Kane appears. It was as if he didn’t walk out of the back room, but flew, abrupt and raving, holding something and shouting, ‘Get back or I’ll blow your fucking heads away.’
The light from inside the caravan gives a puny feeble glare so that it is impossible to say what he is holding, whether it is a gun, a hurley stick or an iron bar. ‘Put that weapon down,’ O’Heirlihy says edging forward in a youthful show of bravura.
‘You young eejit, I’ll put you in a bog hole,’ O’Kane says, leaping in a transport of joy and fury, wielding the thing with long swinging thrusts.
‘Come back . . . we’re not going to die for that fucker,’ Corbett says and the two of them take cover
behind the car, watching as he races back and forth, the caravan bouncing, calling theni cowards, assholes, threatening them and all belonging to them. Then, as if he has wings, he floats from the caravan over barbed wire and into and beyond a copse of young evergreen trees. They move from where they have been crouching, vexed and confounded, listening for, but not hearing the sound of his feet running through the dark. Corbett massages his stiff knee with a kind of weary fatalism.
‘So why didn’t you telephone the barracks when he got here?’
‘He stayed two minutes ... he wanted a sleeping bag that he left here before he went to England . . . and at this very moment he could be on the other side of that ditch resolving to kill me and my family for talking to scumbags like you.’
‘We have to bring him in,’ Corbett says.
‘Ye took your time over it,’ Cooney says with a sneer.
‘We had nothing on him . . . until Cissy’s car was found.’
‘A pile of ash . . . you won’t get his dabs on it.’
‘Is he armed?’
‘He says he has an axe and an iron bar.’
‘Where did he go?’ Corbett does not so much ask, as fling the question from the doorway.
‘Off.’
‘For feck’s sake, cut out the fascism, Jim.’
‘Look, cut out your own fascism . . .he goes one direction, then he turns round and comes back the same way . . . there is no method . . . there’s only chaos, madness.’
‘What’s his mental state?’ O’Heirlihy asks.
‘Hyper.’
‘So where might he be?’
‘I’d try the Congo ... he often calls to Minogue in a caravan up there.’
‘You hide him on us again and you’re done,’ Corbett says and goes out.
They are on the mountain road by the cow walk where Moira Tuohey had reported dropping him off. Desolate country. The odd light from a window only emphasising the long and tedious distances, neither dog nor man in sight. Sometimes they slow down to peer out at a bit of plastic or a torn coat on the wayside, both hoping and not hoping that they will find traces of him.
‘I wonder what brought him back.’
‘To hurt the father . . . nothing more and nothing less.’
As they veer off the road over a bed of rocks into a 96
field, O’Heirlihy whistles to give himself pluck. In the thick, sightless, mountain darkness the weak light from the caravan gives the appearance of a ship far out at sea, receding from them. Next to it is a second caravan, sunk into the ground, saplings forking out of the roof.
‘Oh, state of the art,’ O’Heirlihy says, then, ‘We’ll park the car so that the headlights shine directly on the door.’
They trip and stumble on stones and various bits of machinery, greeted by a growling dog and hens huddled under the adjoining caravan.
‘Do we knock or do we call?’
‘We shout.’
Minogue opens the door of the caravan and extends his arms in mock crucifixion. He is in his shirt sleeves and wearing rubber waders up to his thighs.
‘Have you seen O’Kane?’
‘As a matter of fact I have.’
‘Bring him out.’
‘Come in yourselves and get him.’
Then O’Kane appears. It was as if he didn’t walk out of the back room, but flew, abrupt and raving, holding something and shouting, ‘Get back or I’ll blow your fucking heads away.’
The light from inside the caravan gives a puny feeble glare so that it is impossible to say what he is holding, whether it is a gun, a hurley stick or an iron bar. ‘Put that weapon down,’ O’Heirlihy says edging forward in a youthful show of bravura.
‘You young eejit, I’ll put you in a bog hole,’ O’Kane says, leaping in a transport of joy and fury, wielding the thing with long swinging thrusts.
‘Come back . . . we’re not going to die for that fucker,’ Corbett says and the two of them take cover
behind the car, watching as he races back and forth, the caravan bouncing, calling theni cowards, assholes, threatening them and all belonging to them. Then, as if he has wings, he floats from the caravan over barbed wire and into and beyond a copse of young evergreen trees. They move from where they have been crouching, vexed and confounded, listening for, but not hearing the sound of his feet running through the dark. Corbett massages his stiff knee with a kind of weary fatalism.
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