T
HE OLD PICK-UP
roared and clattered through the night. From the passenger seat, Trish watched the hedgerows emerging briefly from the darkness and vanishing into it again behind her. There had been a bit of a gathering after the sales; a few drinks, and it had got late. The narrow roads they were travelling on had long been empty.

Her boss, Gerard Keane, drove with an arm draped out of the window. He never seemed to feel the cold. He would be out and around the farm in shirtsleeves, even in the dead of winter. Trish envied him. She never seemed to be warm. She pulled her jacket closer around her now and snuggled down into the corner of the seat against the door, looking forward to home and a hot water bottle. But a moment later she was sitting up again as Gerard pulled the rig into the side of the road.

‘There’s a mare and foal here that a fellow wants to sell,’ he said as he pulled up the hand-brake and turned off the engine.

‘Haven’t you enough of them?’ said Trish.

‘Too many,’ said Gerard. ‘Are you coming to have a look?’

‘In the dark?’

Gerard didn’t answer, but dug the sheep lamp out from behind the seat and held it up. Trish shook her head and huddled against the door again. She watched the beam of the lamp as it swung away across the field, then turned on the cab light and picked up the crumpled sale catalogue. In the trailer behind her the new fillies moved restlessly, causing the pick-up to rock on its springs. One of them was called Harpist Bizarre, by Strange Dancer out of a mare called O’Carolan’s Lass. Trish liked her. She had already nick-named her Harpo. The other one wasn’t registered. She was a lot plainer and not as easy to like or to name. Trish decided to leave it to Martina. She was sure to like the filly; she liked anything or anyone that was a bit awkward, misfitting, like herself.

While she mused, the torch-beam came back across the field, fencing shadows. Trish put down the catalogue, but Gerard didn’t get back into the cab. Instead he came over to the passenger-side window.

‘Come and have a look,’ he said.

It wasn’t quite an order, but it wouldn’t have been easy to refuse.

‘All right.’ Trish opened the door and dropped down on to the gravel of the hard shoulder. As she followed Gerard over the gate a gust of wind blew her down from it and into the quagmire that the horses had created on the other side. The mud dragged at her feet, and for a dreadful moment she felt that the darkness behind her was dragging at her soul in the same way. She struggled through and ran on after the retreating light.

There were a couple of mares in the field, and one of them had a new foal, but Gerard had not brought Trish into the field to look at them. As they got to the three-sided corrugated-iron shelter where the horses stood, he took her arm and led her around to its furthest side. She was off guard, disarmed by the night, and when he pushed her against the wall she couldn’t believe what was happening. Clumsily, he tore at her clothes and pressed hard, tense lips against her face.

Trish was so shocked that she could barely react. She was accustomed to his lascivious stares and suggestive jokes. She had given as good as she got and felt comfortable with it; a harmless kind of slagging between a middle-aged boss and a young employee. She had never expected anything further.

He thrust his hips against her and tried to push his tongue into her mouth but by now she had found her strength. She succeeded in getting her hands between their bodies, and pushed him away.

‘Come on, Trish,’ he said, trying to close in again. ‘I’m mad about you. You know that!’

She ducked out under his arm and made for the gate in the darkness. He came after her, the torch beam wavering behind her and making her shadow loom and shrink and lurch. Inside the gate he caught at her arm. She snatched it away.

‘Get off me!’

‘Oh, for fuck’s sake!’ The fury in his voice frightened her, but she climbed carefully and headed towards the pick-up. The light was still on in the cab, and she got into the driver’s seat, but he had taken the keys with him. The road was dark and empty. Trish turned on the radio, but without the key in the ignition it wouldn’t work. In the trailer, the fillies were quiet now, as though they too were awaiting their fate.

Trish listened to the night for what seemed like a long, long time. It occurred to her to get out and walk, even though they were miles from anywhere. But the night was too dark, and the gusting wind too fickle, and no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t rid herself of the feeling that there was something out there, and that it wished her no good.

When Gerard eventually returned he seemed diminished. He started the engine and pulled away again, and drove too fast along the empty roads in a grim silence. Finally he said: ‘You led me on.’

‘I did not.’

‘You did. You were always coming on to me, you little bitch.’

Trish looked out at the passing darkness, afraid of the malevolence in his voice. But he said nothing else, and before long they had passed through the deserted streets of Rathcormac and were turning into the boirin that led down to the farm and the houses. Relief washed through Trish’s bloodstream. For the first time she began to think beyond the present moment, about what the consequences of what had happened might be. She began to think about leaving.

They unloaded the anxious fillies in the yard and shut them into a waiting box together. Gerard leaned against its door as though he was looking in at them, but he wasn’t.

‘Brigid and I …’ he said. ‘We don’t …’

Trish shrugged and moved away. ‘It doesn’t matter,’ she said. Gerard helped her to lift the front ramp and secure it.

‘See you tomorrow,’ he said. He seemed contrite. Trish was beginning to feel sorry for him.

‘You said I could stay off tomorrow,’ she said.

‘So I did. What’s that you were going to do?’

‘I might be changing my car. In Limerick.’

‘That’s right. Good luck, so.’

‘Goodnight.’

Trish went into the old cottage. It had been the farmhouse, until Gerard had married and built a grand new house on the other side of the farmyard. Gerard’s father, Thomas, had stayed on in it for a year or two, until they had built him a bungalow at the edge of the lake. Usually it was comfortable enough, but now it was damp and cold, and it was too late to go about lighting a fire. Trish was tired and unhappy. For all its failings, the place had been her home for more than a year. It would not be that easy to just up and leave it. And there were other factors as well; friendships and loyalties, matters of pride. She decided to go to Limerick and look at the car, as she had planned. By the time she came back the next evening she was sure to know what to do.

But by that time, a new set of circumstances would make her problems insignificant. By that time, Martina would have disappeared.

Day

O
N THE EVENING THAT
followed, Aine dropped her schoolbag inside the back door and ran through the house. No one was there. The range was warm, not hot. She found the right tool and lifted the plate above the fire-box. A few red embers lay half buried among the drifts of soft ash. Aine threw a few sods of turf in on top of them, puffing and waving at the ash clouds that rose, then replaced the plate and went to the bottom of the stairs.

‘Martina!’

There was no answer. Aine went back into the kitchen and looked into the fridge, the bread bin, the fitted presses above her head. There was plenty of food, but the sight of it made her realise that it wasn’t really food that she wanted. It was a welcome. She picked up her bag again and went out. Behind her the ashes slowly dropped and settled in a thin, barely visible layer, over everything.

Further on down the boirin, Aine wandered through another hallway and went through another empty house before eventually being greeted on the back doorstep by Popeye, the lurcher, who led her out to the vegetable garden at the side of the house.

Thomas was clearing winter weeds from the wet, sour-looking soil.

‘’Lo, Granddad,’

Thomas turned, the wrong way at first and then the right way.

‘How’re you, Aine. Are you well?’

‘I am,’ said Aine. ‘And yourself?’

Thomas shrugged and turned back to the garden. ‘Sure, I have one leg in the grave, God help me,’ he said, but he was grinning; winding her up as usual.

‘As long as you don’t put the other one in,’ said Aine, as she had heard her mother say once.

‘I will, begod,’ said Thomas. ‘I will some day.’

He continued with his work, turning the earth slowly with the fork, slowly shaking loose soil from the roots of the weeds he pulled, then throwing them slowly aside. Aine sat beside Popeye on the wall and noticed that it was the first really warm day of the spring. The lake in front of the house was calm and still; dark in the middle, paler towards the edges where reeds grew. Thomas picked a stone from the soil and examined it carefully from every angle before he tossed it aside.

‘Martina’s not at home,’ said Aine. She meant to tell Thomas that there was no provider and that she was hungry.

‘She’s out on Specks,’ said Thomas. ‘I saw her go off.’

‘Oh.’ He had not understood. Aine jumped down and went nearer. He was inspecting another stone, pushing the damp mud from it with his thumb.

‘Why are you looking at it like that?’ said Aine.

‘Eh?’

‘What are you looking for?’

Thomas grinned as though he were embarrassed. ‘I’m not rightly sure,’ he said. ‘I suppose I’m looking for one with a signature.’

‘Whose signature?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Thomas, and then his grin became mischievous. ‘God’s?’

Aine helped him to look for a while and as soon as she forgot about being hungry he said that it was time they had some tea.

Joseph was on the school bus, coming out from town. The girls sat at the front end and the boys sat at the back and made a lot of noise. The front end smelt of cheap deodorant and the back end smelt of musk and methane. Joseph was saying: ‘He’ll never let me. I’m supposed to be studying.’

‘We all are,’ said Stephen, who lived in Rathcormac beyond the lake. ‘It’s Friday, isn’t it?’

‘Yeah,’ said Joseph. ‘But he still wouldn’t let me.’

‘Don’t tell him, then.’

‘What. Just go?’

‘Yeah. Come now. Stop on the bus.’

‘Jaysus,’ said Joseph. ‘He’d kill me.’

‘He hasn’t yet, has he?’

‘Jaysus,’ said Joseph again, but he was grinning and there was a spark in his eyes as he said: ‘Will I?’

Aine and Thomas drank big mugs of sweet, milky tea and ate slices of Thomas’s home-made bread covered in red jam. Afterwards, Thomas said: ‘Will we go to the island?’

Stephen’s mother had chicken sticks and chips waiting on the table for him when he came in. When she saw Joseph behind him her face fell and she went to the freezer to get some more.

‘I’m all right, Mrs O’Neill,’ said Joseph. ‘Honestly.’

‘You share what’s there,’ she said, ‘while I put some more down in the microwave.’

‘Feckin’ chicken feckin’ dippers!’ said Stephen under his breath. ‘She still thinks I’m a three-year-old.’ He picked one up and dipped it into the bowl of ketchup carefully set beside the plate. ‘Yech!’

‘They’re all right,’ said Joseph, tucking in. Stephen nibbled the end of one; rounded it into a finger or a phallus.

‘Chick dipper,’ he said.

Joseph giggled. ‘Chick sticker.’

Stephen picked up a long chip. ‘Big fucker.’ He dipped it in ketchup and sucked it off.

‘Big sucker!’ said Joseph.

They straightened their faces rapidly as Mrs O’Neill came in with more limp and steaming chips.

‘Do you want Pop Tarts?’ she said.