“I was as well,” P.J. tells him. P.J., like Bobby, has a tendency to confide in Cal, possibly because Cal lacks the long familiarity to give them shit. “Listening to music, I was. I was all stirred up when I got in; couldn’t sit still. I tried to sit down to my tay, and wasn’t I up and down like a hoor’s knickers, forgetting the fork and then the milk and then the red sauce. When I do be like that, the only thing that’ll set me straight is a bitta music.”

Clearly the music only partly did its job. This is a very long speech for P.J. “What’d you listen to?” Cal asks. P.J. sings to his sheep sometimes, mostly folk songs.

“Mario Lanza,” P.J. says. “He’s great for settling the aul’ spirits. When I’m the other way, when I can’t get outa the bed, I’d listen to this English young one called Adele. She’d put enough heart in you for anything.”

“What the hell were you all stirred up for?” Mart inquires with interest, glancing across at Rushborough to make sure his voice is low enough. “Sure, you knew what was in there all along.”

“I know,” P.J. says humbly. “But ’twas some day, all the same.”

“We don’t get many like this,” Mart concedes.

Rushborough, taking a brief second to scan Cal as the rest of the men laugh at his punch line, has picked up on the tail end of this. “My God, you must lead more exciting lives than I do, I’ve never had a day like this,” he says, laughing, leaning forward over the table. “You do see what this means, don’t you? It means we’re on the right track. I knew the gold was out there, I always knew that. But what I was afraid of, what I was terrified of, was that my grandmother’s instructions weren’t good enough. It’s not as if she gave me a map, you know, X marks the spot. She was playing a game of Telephone that had been going on for centuries, describing a place she hadn’t seen in decades—all these directions like ‘And then follow the old streambed down to the west but if you reach Dolan’s back field you’ve gone too far,’ my God”—he throws himself back on the banquette, arms flying wide—“sometimes I wondered if I was stark raving bonkers to go chasing after something so vague. She could have been miles off target, literally miles. I was braced to find nothing but mud today, and go home with my tail between my legs—not that it would have been a waste of time, it’s been entirely worth it just to meet you and see this place at last, but I can’t deny it: I would have been heartbroken. Devastated.”

Cal has professional experience of shitbirds like this, whose lies take up so much space that people believe them just because disbelieving all of that would be too much work. He has no certainty that, when he says his own piece, the guys will be swayed. He’s sharply aware that he’s a stranger, no less than Rushborough, and one who’s given them trouble before.

“But this”—Rushborough seizes the bottle of gold and clasps it between his hands, like he can’t keep away—“this is proof. My grandmother, God bless her—I’ll have to, I don’t know, lay flowers on her grave or light a candle in the church, to beg her forgiveness for doubting her. She led me straight as a, what am I looking for? not a die, a, an arrow, that’s it, straight as an arrow to the spot—”

“Jaysus, man,” Johnny says, laughing and clapping Rushborough on the shoulder. “You’re bouncing off the walls here. You need something to settle you, before you give yourself a heart attack. Barty! Get this fella a brandy.”

“And the same for all of us!” Rushborough calls over his shoulder, laughing. “I know, I know, I’m excited, but do you blame me? It’s the gold at the end of the rainbow!”

The other thing that strikes Cal is how much the guy is putting into it. This is some Hallmark-level emotion he’s got going on. For it to be worth this amount of effort, he and Johnny must be planning to take Ardnakelty for everything it’s got.

The brandy goes down with a toast to Rushborough’s granny and a scattering of cheers. Cal holds his, but doesn’t drink it; he’s not going to take anything from this guy. He sees Rushborough’s eye slide over him again, noting.

“Well, chaps,” Rushborough says, putting down his glass and stifling a yawn, “or lads, I should say, shouldn’t I? Lads, I’m afraid I’m going to have to call it a night. I hate to break up a lovely party, and I don’t know whether it’s the adrenaline or simply my shameful city lifestyle taking its toll, but I’m exhausted.”

There’s plenty of protest, but not the kind that risks making Rushborough change his mind and stick around. Just like Cal expected, the men want some time to themselves.

“Would you mind,” Rushborough says a little shyly, putting a finger on the bottle of gold dust, “if I kept this? I’ll get it properly weighed and pay each of you for your share, of course. But—I know it’s sentimental, but…the first fruits, don’t you know. I’d like to have something made out of this. A new setting for my grandmother’s nugget, maybe. Would that be all right?”

Everyone thinks this is a wonderful idea, so Rushborough pockets the bottle and jabbers himself out. The place is starting to fill up; people turn to nod and lift their glasses as he goes by, and he doles out smiles and waves in exchange.

“He went for it,” Con says, leaning forward over the table, as soon as the pub door closes behind him. “He did, didn’t he? He went for it.”

“Et it up with a spoon,” Senan says. “The fuckin’ sap.”

“Ah, here,” Johnny says, pointing at him. “ ’Twouldn’t take a sap. Ye were only magnificent, every one of ye. I almost believed ye myself. That’s what done it. Not him being a sap. The lot of ye playing a fuckin’ blinder.” He raises his pint to them all.

“Don’t be getting all modest on us, young fella,” Mart says, smiling at him. “Credit where credit’s due: you did the heavy lifting. You’re very convincing altogether, when you wanta be. Hah?”

“I know Rushborough,” Johnny assures him. “I know how to handle the man. I won’t let ye down.”

“What now, so?” Francie demands. Francie is looking stubbornly skeptical. His face naturally inclines that way, being bony and thin-lipped, heavy on the eyebrows, but its usual cast has intensified.

“Now,” Johnny says, relaxing back on the banquette, his face shining with glee, “we’ve got him. That fella’ll do whatever it takes to get stuck into the serious digging. All we haveta do is take the cash and let him at it.”

“If there’s anything worth having on my land,” Francie says, “and I’m not saying there is, I don’t fancy waking up one morning and finding out I’ve handed over the rights to millions for a coupla grand.”

“Fuck’s sake, Francie,” Johnny says, exasperated. “What is it you want, at all? If you think there’s millions on your land, then ask Rushborough can you buy into his company and get your share. If you believe there’s nothing there, then take the few grand for the mining rights, and let him dig his wee heart out. You can’t have it both ways. Which is it?”

Cal is becoming clearer on the next step in Johnny and Rushborough’s plan. He stays quiet, letting things play out a little longer. The more Johnny says, the more the guys will have to chew on, after Cal throws his grenade.

“It’s none a your business, is what it is,” Francie tells Johnny. “Ye can all do whatever you want. I’m only saying, he can’t walk onto my land and take what he likes.”

“Jesus fuck, you’re some dose, d’you know that?” Sonny explodes at Francie. “Here’s everything going great guns, and you sitting there with a puss on you that’d sour milk, looking for holes to pick. Would you not shut your gob just for the one evening, and let the rest of us enjoy ourselves?”

“He’s thinking a-fuckin’-head,” Senan snaps. “You should try it yourself sometime.”

“He’s being a fuckin’ moan.”

“Arrah, shut the fuck up, wouldja, and let the men with sense do the talking—”

All of them are too loud and too quick off the mark. Cal can feel the electric charge jittering through the air. Someone is liable to get his ass kicked tonight. Cal is aware that, once he says his piece, there’s a fair-to-middling chance it could be him.

“D’you know something?” Bobby demands suddenly, of Senan. “You’re awful fond of telling people to shut up. No one made you king of this place. Maybe you oughta shut up yourself, once in a while.”

Senan stares at Bobby like he just grew another head. Bobby, terrified by his own new daring but not about to back down, pulls himself up to his full height and stares back. Mart looks like he’s having the night of his life.

“Sweet fuck,” Senan says. “If this is what just the smell of gold does to you, I’d hate to see what you’ll be like if anything’s found on your land. You’ll lose the run of yourself altogether. You’ll be swanning around with a tiara and a big diamond ring on you, expecting people to kiss it—”

“I’m only saying,” Bobby tells him, with dignity. “He’s as much right to an opinion as you have.”

“Sir Bobby, will it be? Or Your Lordship?”

“Ah, lads, lads,” Johnny says soothingly, raising his hands to quell the argument and bring everyone back on track. “Listen to me. Francie here’s got a point. The man just wants to be sure he’ll get value. What’s wrong with that? Don’t we all?”

“Fuckin’ right,” Senan says.

“Sure, I wouldn’t want your man walking away with the lot, either,” Con says. “Not off my land.”

A shift runs through the other men, a low mutter of assent.

“Do we haveta let him?” P.J. asks, worried.

“You don’t haveta do anything you don’t wanta,” Johnny reassures him. “Have a think about it. Take your time. The only thing you oughta keep in mind is, let’s say you reckon there’s gold there, and you decide to ask Rushborough can you invest in his company: you’d want to do it soon. Once he finds gold, them shares’ll get an awful lot dearer.”

This silences P.J.; he takes refuge in his pint while he tries to disentangle it. Sonny and Con glance at each other, questions passing between them.

“How much would it be?” Dessie asks. “Investing, like.”

Johnny shrugs. “Depends, man. On what percentage you want, how much he reckons he’ll find, all that. I threw in a few grand and that got me a fair aul’ chunk, but that was when all your man had was some fairy tale off his granny. He might rate it higher now, after today.”

“If we all stick together,” Senan says, “he’ll rate it at whatever we say, or he can do his digging in his own back garden.”

“I’m not promising he wants investors at all,” Johnny cautions them. “He’s got other lads sniffing around, back in London; he might not have the room for anyone else.”

“Like I said. If there’s the lot of us in it, he can take it or leave it.”

“Who says I want to invest anything?” Francie demands.

Sonny throws himself back on the banquette with a roar of frustration. “Fuck’s sake, you’re the one that started all this—”

“Lads, lads,” Johnny says, soothing again. “No one needs to decide anything tonight. Just talk to Rushborough. Nice and delicate, now; don’t go wading in like you’re dealing with some aul’ bull of a lad at the cattle mart. Just put out the feelers, and see what he says.”

Cal is done waiting. He figures this should be plenty to help the guys put the situation into a fresh perspective, once they have his two cents’ worth to get them started.

“Johnny,” he says. He doesn’t raise his voice, but he makes sure it takes up enough space that the guys fall silent. “I got a question for you.”

For one blink, Johnny stares. Then: “Oh, holy God,” he says, mock-terrified, putting a hand to his heart. “This sounds awful serious altogether. Did I forget to pay my telly license, Guard? Are the treads gone on that aul’ banger of ours? Give us one more chance, I’m begging you, I’ll be a good boy…”

Cal waits for him to run himself down. The other men are watching. Some of them, Sonny and Dessie and Bobby, are grinning along at Johnny’s little song-and-dance routine. P.J. merely looks bewildered. Senan and Francie aren’t smiling.

“No, hang on,” Johnny says, lifting a finger like Cal tried to break in on him, which he didn’t. “Don’t tell me. I’ve got it. I’ve been very bold, Guard. I crossed the road without—”

Then his eyes slip away, over Cal’s shoulder, and Trey’s voice says, “Dad.”

Cal turns fast. Trey is standing at the entrance to the alcove. She’s just standing like always with her feet planted and her hands shoved in her pockets, wearing an old blue T-shirt and her worn-out jeans, but out of nowhere Cal is slammed by the sight of her. Browned by the summer and muscled by their work, her features stronger and more marked than he remembers them being just a couple of days ago, she doesn’t look like a kid; she looks like someone who could handle herself. Cal’s heart squeezes so tight he can’t breathe.

“Well, wouldja look who it is,” Johnny says, after a fraction of a second. “What’s the story, sweetheart? Is there something wrong at home?”

“Nah,” Trey says. “Got something to tell you.”

Johnny’s eyebrows go up. “Well, holy God,” he says, “isn’t this all very mysterious. D’you want me to come outside, is it?”

“Nah. Here’s good.”

Johnny is eyeing Trey with an indulgent half-smile, but Cal can see him thinking fast. He’s not at sea, exactly, but something here has taken him by surprise. Something is going on.

“Are you after doing something a wee bit bold,” he says, “and you’re worried I’ll be angry with you?” He wags his finger playfully at Trey. “Ah, now. Daddy won’t be angry. Sure, didn’t I do plenty of bold things myself, when I was your age?”

Trey shrugs. P.J., trapped amid what looks like family complications, is shuffling his feet around and trying to come up with a conversation to have with Mart. Mart is ignoring him and unabashedly soaking up the drama.

“All right,” Johnny says, reaching a decision. “Come sit here and tell me all about it.” He pats the banquette beside him. Trey moves over to him, but she stays standing. Her bottom lip looks swollen.

“When your man Rushborough called round, that evening,” she says. “And he was telling you where his granny said there was gold. I listened in.”

“Ah, God. And you were worried I’d be angry with you for that?” Johnny laughs affectionately up into her face, giving her arm a pat. Trey doesn’t move away. “God love you, no one coulda resisted the temptation. Sure, any of these great big grown-up lads, if they’da been there”—he wags a finger teasingly around the table—“they’da had an ear up against the door. Wouldn’t they?”