I Hear the Sirens in the Street

not our case and the O’Rourke case has been yellowed,” he said, his voice rising a little.
    “I know, mate, look, just do it, will ya?”
    He sighed. “Of course.”
    “Thanks, pal.”
    “No problem.”
    I hung up.
    “Everything okay?” Emma shouted from the kitchen.
    “Aye. Everything’s fine.”
    I made another quick phone call to Interflora and had them deliver flowers to Gloria at the DeLorean plant. It was thirty-five quid, but it’s always smart to keep the sheilas sweet.
    Emma came up behind me.
    “Ordering flowers?”
    “Me mother’s birthday.”
    “You are such a dutiful son.”
    “Aye, I am.”
    “The stock’s on. It’ll take an hour. Do you ride? I borrow Stella from Canny McDonagh down by the sheddings. She’s got a young hunter called Mallarky that needs a run or two.”
    “I haven’t been on a Dob for fifteen years.”
    “You don’t forget.”
    “Are you sure?”
    “Quite sure.”
    We put on coats and she lent me Martin’s riding boots.
    Canny McDonagh wasn’t home, but Emma made free and easy with the farm and in the stable block she harnessed and saddled both horses. Mallarky was a big hunter but he had just gorged himself on oats and was no bother at all.
    We rode over the fields till we reached a beach on the Irish Sea side of Islandmagee. She galloped Stella and I got Mallarkyup to a canter. Cora barked happily along side.
    When they’d had a good run we dismounted them and walked them in the surf.
    It was colder now. The beach was empty. Emma threw a stick to the dog and she ran to fetch it in the water.
    I looked north. You could see up the glens to the Atlantic Ocean. The wild deep blue of it chilling my retinas from here.
    The sun began to set behind the cloud banks to the west.
    “Look! There!” she said.
    A massive gorse fire was burning on a hill in Scotland.
    “Jesus, will you look at that.”
    “Sometimes the heather will burn for days,” she said.
    We watched it until the set sun. It was getting dark now.
    “We better get these horses back, don’t you think? I’m not that confident about riding at night.”
    “Yes. All right.”
    We rode back and Cora barked and Canny McDonagh still wasn’t home, so she left him a note, telling him what she had done and that Mallarky had taken the canter well.
    Mussels and country bread at the kitchen table.
    She lit a paraffin lamp.
    “Do you fancy something stronger?” she asked, when I finished a second Harp.
    “Poteen?”
    “You won’t tell the excise, will you?”
    “Are you joking? Cops and the excise are natural enemies.”
    She took an earthenware jug from under the sink.
    “Everybody distils their own round here,” she explained.
    She poured me an honest measure and we clinked glasses.
    We drank and it was evil rough stuff, around 120 proof.
    We both coughed. She poured us another.
    “Yikes, do you have anything to cut this with?” I asked, knocking back shot number two.
    “There’s orange juice in the fridge.”
    I went to the fridge, looked out a couple of tall glasses and made us a couple of screwdrivers.
    She drank hers and moved closer to me on the couch.
    “You’re not married, are you?” she asked, looking at me with those azure eyes and those full lips with the little dent in the middle of the lower.
    The eyes. The pale cheeks. The dangerous red hair.
    “Would it make a difference?”
    She shook her head. “I don’t think so,” she said, and placed her cold hand on mine. “As you can imagine, it’s been some time.”
    We went to the bedroom.
    The big south-facing window looked out over the valley and the clear night gave up the winter constellations. Naked, she was beautiful, but gaunt and pale, like a case, like something washed up in the Lagan.
    I took her, and I was gentle with her, and I held her and she slept in my arms. I listened to her heart and watched her chest heave up and down.
    She was frowning in her dream.
    Those closed blue eyes could not see any good in the future.
    I fell asleep watching her.
    She woke me in the wolf’s tail – that grey Irish light that comes before the dawn.
    “Huh, what is it?” I asked.
    “I heard a noise!” she said. “Something’s outside.”
    I sat up, rubbed my face.
    “What?”
    “Outside. I hear something. I’ll get the rabbit gun.”
    “No, I’ll go.”
    I pulled on my jeans and sneakers and my raincoat. I grabbed a torch and my .38.
    Cora growled at me as I walked into the yard.
    It was drizzling, the ground was