“ ’S OK,” Cal says. “They’ll be back. You got close enough that it’ll take ’em a while, though, and it’s time we were both heading home.” The dusk is coming down thicker; soon enough, Mart or P.J. will be heading for the wood to keep watch.

“Aah! Five more minutes. I almost had that one.”

The kid looks bereft. “So you’ll get one next time,” Cal says. “No rush; they’re not going anywhere. Now lemme show you how to unload.”

They unload the gun and start back across the field towards the house. Trey is whistling to himself, something Cal hasn’t known him to do before, a jaunty little tune that sounds like something that might come out of the tin whistle in Seán Óg’s; like it might be about setting out on a spring morning to see a pretty girl. The rooks are settling down and the first of the night creatures are out: a bat dips over the tree line, and something small scuttles in the long grass at their approach.

“Nice one,” Trey says, glancing up sideways at Cal. “Thanks.”

“My pleasure,” Cal says. “You got a good eye. You’ll learn fine.”

Trey nods and, with nothing left to say, slopes off towards the cover of the hedge. Cal tries to watch after him, but long before he reaches the road he’s invisible, vanished into the dusk.

Cal finds himself curious about what’s going down at Seán Óg’s tonight. He makes a grilled cheese sandwich for dinner and then takes a bath, to spruce himself up for whatever it might be. It’s Saturday, so he phones Alyssa, but she doesn’t pick up.

ELEVEN

When Cal sets out for the pub, the darkness has a sawtooth edge of cold. Smoke is rising from Dumbo Gannon’s chimney, and as Cal passes his house he catches the scent of it, rich and earthy: the turf that people round here cut from peat bogs up in the mountains, dry out, and burn. The fields and hedges seem filled with sharp, restless movement; all the animals are feeling the countdown to winter.

The door of Seán Óg’s opens on brightness and a warm fug, leaping with loud voices and music and curling with smoke. Mart, at his alcove table surrounded by his buddies, lets out a welcoming roar when he sees Cal step in. “The man himself! Come here to me now, Sunny Jim, and take a seat. I’ve something for you.”

Mart’s alcove is crowded: Senan is there, and Bobby, and a bunch of other guys whose names Cal isn’t sure of. All of them have a high-colored, glittery-eyed look, like they’re a lot drunker than Cal would expect at this hour. “Evening,” he says, nodding to them.

Mart moves along the banquette to make room for him. “Barty!” he calls up to the bar. “A pint of Smithwick’s. You know this shower of reprobates, amn’t I right?”

“We’re mostly acquainted,” Cal says, taking off his jacket and settling himself on the banquette. Mart has never invited him into his corner before, except when they need a fourth for cards. Tonight the musical corner has a fiddle and a guitar as well as a tin whistle, and they’re singing some song that involves roaring out “No! Nay! Never!” and hitting the table. Deirdre is singing along, half a beat behind, almost smiling and more animated than Cal has ever seen her. “What’s going on?”

“There’s a gentleman here I’d like you to meet,” Mart says, gesturing with a flourish to a slight, thin-faced guy tucked into a corner. “This is Mr. Malachy Dwyer. Malachy, this is my new neighbor, Mr. Calvin Hooper.”

“Pleasure,” Cal says, shaking hands across Mart and starting to get a clearer sense of what tonight is all about. Malachy has messy brown hair and a dreamy, sensitive look that doesn’t match the wild renegade he was picturing. “I’ve heard plenty about you.”

“Mal, meet Cal,” says Bobby, getting the giggles. “Cal, meet Mal.”

“The state of you,” Senan says in disgust.

“I’m grand,” Bobby says, miffed.

“Mr. Dwyer,” Mart tells Cal, “is the finest distiller in three counties. A master craftsman, so he is.” Malachy smiles modestly. “Every now and then, when Malachy has a particularly fine product on his hands, he’s gracious enough to bring some of it in here to share with us. As a service to the community, you might say. I thought you deserved an opportunity to sample his wares.”

“I’m honored,” Cal says. “Although I feel like if I had any sense I’d be scared, too.”

“Ah, no,” Malachy says soothingly. “It’s a lovely batch.” He produces, from under the table, a shot glass and a two-liter Lucozade bottle half-full of clear liquid. He pours Cal a shot, careful not to spill a drop, and hands it over. “Now,” he says.

The rest of the men watch, grinning in a way that Cal doesn’t find reassuring. The liquor smells suspiciously innocuous. “For Jaysus’ sake, don’t be savoring the bloody bouquet,” Mart orders him. “Knock that back.”

Cal knocks it back. He’s expecting it to go down like kerosene, but it tastes of almost nothing, and the burn doesn’t have enough harshness even to make him grimace. “That’s good stuff,” he says.

“Didn’t I tell you?” Mart says. “Smooth as cream. This fella’s an artist.”

Right then the poteen hits Cal; the banquette turns insubstantial beneath him and the room circles in slow jerks. “Whoo!” he says, shaking his head.

The alcove roars with laughter, which comes to Cal as a pulsing jumble of sound some distance away. “That’s some serious firepower you got there,” he says.

“Sure, that was only to give you the flavor of it,” Malachy explains. “Wait till you get started.”

“Last year,” Senan tells Cal, jerking a thumb at Bobby, “this fella here, after a few goes of that stuff—”

“Ah, now,” Bobby protests. People are grinning.

“—he got up out of that seat and started shouting at the lot of us to bring him to a priest. Wanted to make his confession. At two o’clock in the morning.”

“What’d you done?” Cal asks Bobby.

He’s not sure whether Bobby will hear him, since he’s finding it hard to gauge exactly how far apart they are, but it works out fine. “Porn,” Bobby says with a sigh, leaning his chin on his fist. The drink has given him an air of dreamy melancholy. “On the internet. Nothing shocking, like; just people having a bit of a rattle. It didn’t even download right. But whatever was in that batch of Malachy’s, it gave me palpitations, and I got it in my head I was having a heart attack. I thought I oughta confess my sins, in case I died, like.”

Everyone is laughing. “That wasn’t my stuff giving you them palpitations,” Malachy tells him. “That was your guilty conscience coming out.” Bobby tilts his head, acknowledging the possible justice of this.