[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
and welcomed sleep, but Collins seemed to have wound him-
self up by talking of Ireland, and he continued his monologue,
snatches of which Miles heard becoming distorted and echoic as
he fell toward darkness and release.
When he awoke, the sun was shining. His watch said ten,
180
Watchman
which meant that he had slept for only three hours, yet he felt
utterly refreshed and wide awake. He felt for the gun and stroked
it, then looked across to where Collins had pulled the quilt right
up over his head and was breathing with the deep regularity of
sleep. Miles slipped out of bed, leaving the gun under the pil-
low, and picked up his clothes from in front of the fire, which
was still burning. His clothes were dry, except for a patch of
damp here and there. The faint odors of sweat and dried urine
were not inviting, but he dressed anyway, leaving off his shoes.
Collins s breathing was becoming rather too deep, and he might
wake himself with a snore soon. Quickly, Miles returned to the
bed and slid the gun into his pocket, wrapped still in its plastic
packet.
What now? He could disarm Collins, or he could make his
escape. He had heard no sounds from the kitchen or from up-
stairs. The farm seemed utterly deserted: no hens clucking in
the yard, no dog, no tractors or jeeps, no clanking of machin-
ery at all. This was the Marie Celeste of agriculture: the bread
and butter lying out, the kitchen still warm from the previous
evening, the door unlocked. It all seemed to him for the first
time very strange, and he wondered why he had not mentioned
this to Collins, who now snorted once, turned beneath the quilt,
and began to breathe more regularly again.
Miles, stepping over the pile of clothes, the outstretched
legs, the shoes, managed to pull open the door without a sound,
watching the figure in the chair as he did so. He entered the
short hallway and tiptoed into the kitchen, closing that door be-
hind him. So far so good.
Then he caught sight of the girl at the kitchen table, and
felt his chest tighten into a clenched fist. But the girl stared at
him as though it were the most natural thing in the world for a
stocking-footed stranger to appear before her. She was eating
bread and jam, and, sure enough, Miles could smell the unmis-
takable aroma of newly baked bread, half a loaf of which sat
on the table alongside a new wedge of butter. The girl turned
her sleepy gaze back toward the table. She was nine or ten, her
eyes and hair dark, her face thin and sharp. Miles could think of
181
Ian Rankin
nothing to say, so he decided to ignore her. He started to walk
toward the kitchen door, deciding at that moment, shoes or no,
to leave, but he kept his eyes on the girl in case she should set
up a hue and cry.
Finally, he decided to make a sign to her that she should
remain quiet, and that was what he was doing when the door
pushed itself open and Will Collins came in from the yard, clean
clothes on his back and black Wellington boots on his feet.
No need for that, Mr. Flint, he said casually. Marie s
dumb, can t utter a sound. She won t give you any trouble.
Who the hell is that in the room? gasped Miles.
Oh, that s Champ. He lives here. Has he fallen asleep by
any chance? I take it that s why you re out here. And about to
leave us by the look of it. Well, go ahead.
Collins made a sweeping gesture with his arm, holding the
door ajar for Miles.
Go on, he said. Though I should warn you that your
friends are still in the neighborhood. They won t be for long.
I ve just telephoned the local gardai with an anonymous tip-off
that they re here and have broken the immigration laws in the
process. They ll be chased off in a hurry, I should think, but if
you want to take your chance just now, be my guest.
Collins was smiling like a schoolboy: he d gained the upper
hand again and was delighted with himself. Miles walked back
to the table and sat down across from the girl. He smiled at her,
and she smiled back.
Suit yourself, Collins said, closing the door with a slam,
which eventually brought the man called Champ staggering into
the room.
He s made off, Will! he shouted before seeing Miles seated
quite peaceably at the table. Oh, Jesus, mister, what a fright you
near gave me.
Laughing, Collins went to the stove to pour out more tea.
In the rich, primitive warmth of the kitchen, they smoked cig-
arettes and played gin rummy. Miles took long puffs of those
182
Watchman
cigarettes he won, though he had not smoked for years. As an
undergraduate, he had affected a liking for Gauloises so as to
appear bohemian. Now he smoked to blend in with Collins and
Champ. It was an old and trusted psychological ploy become
like your captors. It made their minds easier to read, and also
made it more difficult for them to justify murdering you. So he
smoked, not heavily or with any conspicuous show, just enough.
And, playing cards, he made sure that he lost as often as he won,
even if it meant cheating against himself.
More often than not, they used candles instead of the low-
wattage electric lighting. This made the room more intimate
still, so that everyone felt very comfortable in the presence of
everyone else. Just the desired effect. Miles was practicing on
Champ now, trying to ingratiate himself. Champ was a simple
man, but not simple-minded. He had told Miles that working
the land gave a man time to think, lots of time, and offered also
the opportunity for a kind of communion with natural justice,
so that the man-made farce called justice came to seem utterly
ridiculous.
The farm, however, was no longer a working concern. Most
of the fields had been sold to a property developer in Dublin,
who would let it molder until the time was right for building or
selling. Miles reckoned that Champ was fifty, though he might
be a bit younger or a bit older. The land did that: it made the
young old before their time, and the old seem eternally young.
During the days, Collins wandered through the fields and
around the farm, keeping himself to himself. He had agreed to
allow Miles an amount of freedom, and so Miles too walked the
farm, inspecting the carcasses of rusting cars and antiquated ma-
chinery, watching the wooden planks of the cowshed crumble to
dust beneath his palm, rotten with woodworm. Everything here
had run down in accordance with the rules laid down by nature
[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]