The Black Snow by Paul Lynch Page A

back in front of him, took a chequered towel and began to dry glasses. When she was done she sat back down on the stool and hung a pipe from the wrinkles of her mouth. A side door opened and an old man slid out. His ears were red seashells and his chin bore sprouts of thick whiskers and he carried in his hand a hatchet. He stood to the far end of the counter that had a hole in it the width of a man as if something had risen to bite a piece out of it. He swung at the hollow with his hatchet and the grinning blade bit the wood with a wallop and Barnabas flinched. He watched the old man collect the flitches of counter wood and go back out the door. Barnabas sucked on the pint and lit a pre-rolled cigarette, blew a draft of smoke towards the low ceiling that hung there in slow turmoil. He looked at the old woman and nodded towards the counter.
    I can see that being a problem down the line, he said.
    Annie Tully lit him with a glare. Mind yer own business, Barnabas.
    Her face changed as soon as she spoke and she leaned in towards him. I’m sorry, Barnabas. I didn’t mean that. It was a terrible thing happened to yous.
    What’s that you’re talking about now, Annie?
    She saw something in the look he gave her had the smell of trouble off it.
    What happened up on the farm.
    Oh that, he said.
    He screwed his eyes at her and let her talk and as she talked he saw clearly the ancient scores in her skin as if she had been marked up in her old age for some benediction. Her throat across-hatch of lines and the wrinkles around her mouth held within them the shadows of the pub.
    And never mind what people are saying about ye. This town. People jabber on just to make sound for their ears. They’re always at it. I don’t pay them any heed. And neither should you.
    He concentrated on her words and his breathing slowed up in accordance and he leaned in towards her, trussed her up good where she stood with his eyes. And tell me now, Annie. What is it people are saying about me?
    She tried to retreat, found she couldn’t and he took a read of her face, saw she knew she had gone too far. She shrugged, withdrew back to her chair. You know how it is, she said.
    I don’t, Annie. Goan tell me.
    Annie picked up the towel again and began to fumble with it till she hitched up her voice. I don’t like your tone.
    He leaned into her and his voice rose up like he didn’t give a damn. Is it that they’re saying I’m responsible for a man’s death? Is that it? Is that what they think? That I went out and deliberately killed a man? Sent him in to do my dirty work? That I stood there like some cunt and sent Matthew Peoples into the fire? I was in there too you know. I went in there after him. I was nearly kilt by it too only for Peter McDaid. That man just about got me out so he did and he didn’t make no decision about who he was choosing for there were no choices to be made. That smoke in there was thicker than hell. I might as well have died, Annie, because I lost it in there and went black.
    The young men to his side began to look around and the old woman cut them a dangerous look. She relit her pipe and was silent a while as she toked on it and then she spoke. How is Eskra taking it?
    Barnabas took a long drink. I’m beginning to think that fire was started deliberate. Things like that just don’t start on their own.
    The old woman eyed him and shook her head, turned to the stall of drinks and poured a glass of whiskey. She put it down softly in front of him. Hearken to me here now, Barnabas. This one’s on the house. I know you’re down on yourself but there ain’t no point trying to blame others for what happened even though it’s natural. What’s done is done. It happened the way it did even if you don’t know what caused it. If I were you I’d be careful of trying to find blame for things for I know only too well it can lead you up the wrong path.
    She sucked on her pipe and saw it had gone out again, leaned forward and sparked a