“Will do,” Cal says, still grinning. “Cross my heart.”

“Come here to me, Columbo, while I have you,” Mart says, dipping a cookie into his mug. “Tell me you don’t suspect that little scutter Eugene Moynihan of getting at my sheep.”

“Huh?” Cal says.

Mart throws Cal one bright-eyed glance. “I heard you were having a great aul’ chat with him this morning. Were you interrogating him? I’d say he’d crack in minutes, that fella. One stern look offa you and he’d be bawling for his mammy. Was he?”

“Not that I noticed,” Cal says. “But I didn’t give him anything to bawl about.”

“Eugene didn’t touch my ewe,” Mart says. “Nor did Fergal O’Connor.”

“Never thought they did,” Cal says, truthfully.

“So what were you at with them?”

“All I want,” Cal says, with mounting irritation, “is someone who’ll help me rewire my kitchen so I can put in a washing machine and wash my damn underpants in my own home, instead of hauling them to town every week. Only I keep getting the runaround. One guy says I need this guy, so I go looking and nah, he’s not around, I need this other guy. Track him down and he doesn’t know a cable from his ass, I need this other guy. Track him down”—Mart has started giggling—“and he acts like I asked him to unclog my toilet with his bare hands. I’m trying to give work to local folk here, outa plain good manners, but I’m about ready to give up on that bullshit and hire a professional, just so I have that washer before I get too old to work it.”

Mart is wheezing with laughter. “God almighty,” he says, wiping his eyes, “cool your jets there, buckaroo, or you’ll give yourself a heart attack. I’ll find you someone local who’ll put in a washing machine for you. Get you one at a good price too.”

“Well,” Cal says, settling himself down but still a little bit ruffled. “I’d appreciate that. Thanks.”

“And sure, how would Eugene Moynihan be any use to you, anyway? He wouldn’t lower himself to get his hands dirty wiring anything,” Mart points out, with vast scorn. “Who was it told you he would?”

“Well,” Cal says, scratching his beard thoughtfully, “I’m not rightly sure. It was some guy in the pub. He pointed me towards a coupla people who might be able to help me out, but I can’t seem to remember his name—I’d had a few beers when I was talking to him, and I gotta admit, I haven’t got everybody straight yet. Old guy, seems like. Short hair. Few inches taller’n you, maybe, but I could have that wrong. Got a cap.”

“Spanner McHugh? Dessie Mullen?”

Cal shakes his head. “All I know is, he sounded like he knew what he was talking about.”

“Not Dessie, so,” Mart says with finality.

Cal grins. “Well, he didn’t exactly turn out to be on the right track. Mighta been Dessie after all.”

“I’ll ask him. He can’t be sending strangers on wild-goose chases like that. He’ll give us a bad name.” Mart finds his tobacco packet and tilts it at Cal.

“Appreciate the offer, but I better get moving,” Cal says, pushing back his chair and picking up his plate. “Much obliged for the meal.”

Mart cocks an eyebrow. “Where’s the rush? Got a big date?”

“Date with YouTube,” Cal says, putting his plate in the sink. “Seeing as no one else around here is gonna help me rewire my kitchen.”

“Don’t be messing about with that YouTube; you’ll have the place burned to the ground. I told you I’ll get that washer sorted for you.” Mart points his cigarette at Cal. “And come here to me: if you don’t have a date, let you come down to Seán Óg’s tonight.”

“What’s going on?” Cal asks. “It your birthday?”

Mart laughs. “Holy God, no. I gave up them yokes years ago. Just come on down, and you’ll see what you’ll see.” He blows a thin stream of smoke between his teeth and gives Cal an extravagant wink.

Cal leaves him there, tilting his chair back and humming along to Dusty Springfield, and lets himself out. Kojak thumps his tail and rolls one eye at him as he passes. Cal walks home wondering what it was, somewhere around P.J. and his sheep and the killings, that Mart decided not to tell him.

In the end, Trey doesn’t show up till late afternoon. “Hadta do the messages,” he says by way of explanation, knocking mud off his sneakers against the doorstep.

“Well, that’s good,” Cal says. “You gotta help your mama out.” After some bewilderment at the start, he worked out that around here “the messages” is the grocery shopping. One of the reasons he picked Ireland was so he wouldn’t have to learn a new language, but sometimes he feels like the joke is on him.

Trey is wired tight today; Cal can see it, in the jut of his chin and the shift of his feet on the step. He takes a quick glance behind him, like someone might be watching, before he comes inside and shuts the door.

“I was just tidying up this thicket of mine,” Cal says, sweeping beard clippings off the table into the cardboard box he uses as a wastebasket. His beard was getting pretty unruly, and it occurred to him that if he’s going to go round asking nosy questions, it wouldn’t hurt to look respectable. “Whaddaya think?”

Trey shrugs. He fishes a packet out of his parka and hands it to Cal. Cal recognizes the wax-paper packaging: half a dozen sausages, out of Noreen’s fridge. It hits him, all of a sudden, why Trey keeps bringing him things. This is payment.

“Kid,” he says. “You don’t have to bring me stuff.”

Trey ignores this. “Fergal and Eugene,” he says. “What’d they say?”

“Were you following me?” Cal demands.

“Nah.”

“Then how’d you know I already talked to them?”

“Heard Eugene’s mam saying to Noreen, when I was getting the messages.”

“Jesus,” Cal says, heading for the fridge to put the sausages away. “A guy can’t pick his nose around here without the whole townland telling him to wash his hands.” He wonders how much longer he can keep this thing under wraps, and what the townland will think when it comes out. He finds that he has no idea, either of the answer or even of what factors might influence it. “What’d Eugene’s mama say?”

Trey follows him. “Just that you were asking for someone to do wiring. Face on her like a bulldog licking piss off a nettle. What’d they say?”

“How come? She doesn’t like the look of me?”