‘Look.’ She pointed at Peter, curled up on the chair next to the fire. ‘What would happen to him if we were evicted from this place? If your father and brother lost their jobs on the estate? If I were dismissed from my position?’
‘I’ll be careful, Mam. You don’t have to worry about that.’
This didn’t seem to settle her. ‘It’s not you I’m worried about.’ Her gaze drifted across to Peter.
Knox didn’t really consider himself to be Protestant, even though his mother and especially his father had brought him up to fear God and Catholics; to fear Catholics more than God. It had always felt odd, and not a little false, to hate in such an indiscriminating way, for there were many more Catholics than Protestants in Tipperary, and Knox had always tried to judge people according to their merits. These days, he couldn’t say with any certainty that he hadn’t been attracted to Martha precisely because she was Catholic; because she stood for everything he had been warned against. It helped that Martha was as unkind about Rome as he was about the Church of Ireland. But even though they had been married for five years, it sometimes struck him that neither of them had fully escaped their childhood indoctrination. In arguments, he always saw himself as the rational one; felt that her positions were oblique and hard to fathom. Only when he thought about it did he realise that Protestant ministers had always said the same thing about Catholic doctrine. Sometimes he wondered how she saw him. He knew she found him too literal-minded at times. ‘Why is the wafer only ever just a wafer to you,’ she would say during arguments. With this attitude came a kind of dogmatism; Knox often had trouble seeing things from a different perspective. He lacked imagination, though Martha always said he retained the ability to empathise with others. But when you believed so ardently in the rightness of your views, it was hard to compromise, even if someone like his mother wanted him to look the other way. Perhaps, he decided, it was simply pig-headedness: the one thing he had inherited from his father.
In the village, he entered the taproom of the New Forge Inn and wiped his boots on the mat. The New Forge was the only place that offered accommodation and it had been closed on his previous visit. He approached the counter and asked the pot-boy to fetch the landlord. While he waited, Knox noted the clumps of sawdust on the wooden floor and the black tallow rings on the low ceiling. When the landlord finally appeared, he was a man of about forty with dark black hair, a stocky figure with a pockmarked face. He addressed Knox in English.
Knox took out the copperplate and placed it on the counter. ‘D’you recognise him? I’m wondering if he took a room here some time last week.’
The landlord peered down at the image.
‘This would have been on Saturday or Sunday night,’ Knox added.
‘Aye.’ The landlord shot him a wary look.
‘You recognise him?’
‘I think so.’ He had another look at the copperplate. ‘I was wondering when he’d be back or someone would come asking for him.’
‘You rented him a room?’ Knox felt his heart skip a beat. He hadn’t expected his intuition to be right.
‘He turned up on Saturday night and paid in coin for a week.’
Knox tried to rein in his excitement. ‘Did he tell you his name? Where he was from?’
‘I couldn’t place his accent. But he wasn’t from here. At a guess, I’d say he was an Englishman.’
Knox nodded, already wondering what he would do with this new information. ‘But did he give you a name?’
‘I’m sure he signed in. Wait just a minute.’ The landlord went to fetch the visitors’ book. Placing it on the counter, he opened it up and pointed to one of the entries. ‘Didn’t put down an address.’
The landlord swivelled the book around and pushed it towards Knox.
Knox scrutinised the entry. There was just one word, penned in a style that lacked ornamentation.
Pyke.
Nothing more. ‘He didn’t say what had brought him to Dundrum?’
‘He didn’t say and I didn’t ask.’ The landlord gave Knox a hard look. ‘I’m assuming something’s happened to him.’
‘He’s dead.’ Knox waited a moment. ‘But I’d appreciate it if you kept this information to yourself.’
The landlord nodded. Perhaps he’d been expecting this. ‘I put him in the room at the back. He wanted somewhere quiet. I haven’t checked the place since he took it. Maybe he left some possessions behind.’
Knox followed the stocky man up the stairs and waited as he unlocked the door to the dead man’s room. There was a frock-coat and a plain, white shirt hanging in the wardrobe but no sign of a suitcase. The landlord opened one of the drawers and whistled. Knox joined him, staring down at the pistol and hunting knife that lay inside. He reached out and inspected them.
‘I’d like to hold on to these,’ Knox said, having ascertained that the pistol was loaded.
The landlord didn’t raise any objections and they completed their search of the room without turning up anything else.
‘So how did he die?’ the landlord asked as they made their way down the rickety stairs.
‘Froze to death.’
The landlord turned to face Knox. ‘Wouldn’t be the first to die that way, would he?’
Knox turned the corner of the newspaper and looked over at Jeremy Brittas, who was snoozing in his armchair. He had stopped to see his neighbour on his way home and had been pressed into performing his usual duties. But as soon as he tried to put the newspaper down, the old man’s eyes opened. ‘I’m listening, dammit.’
There was a letter in the paper entitled ‘Free Trade Run Mad’ and a longer piece — ‘Mr Smith O’Brien’s Concluding Letter to the Landed Proprietors of Ireland’ — which Brittas would not want him to read. Knox surveyed the opening lines and found himself nodding his head in agreement.
‘Read it out loud, man.’
‘ If a foreign invader had subjugated your native land, and had imposed upon it the payment of an annual tribute amounting to four or five million sterling, in addition to… ’
‘I don’t want to know what some hot-under-the-collar Repealer thinks. Read me something else.’
‘ Very large arrivals of Indian corn and barrel flour are reported in Sligo. ’ Knox felt his ire begin to rise. ‘ There are large quantities in the hands of private speculators, many of whom never did business in the grain or flour trade before. ’ As Knox put down the newspaper he noticed that his hands were shaking.
‘What is it now?’ Brittas peered at him through his wire-framed spectacles.
‘Does no one else see the sheer lunacy of it alclass="underline" putting the relief effort in the hands of jackals?’
Brittas sat forward, a puzzled look on his face. ‘You’re upset, boy. What is it?’
Knox gestured to the newspaper lying crumpled at his feet. ‘It’s just words and stories to you, isn’t it? Opinions to be contested or corroborated.’
‘That’s what a newspaper is.’
‘This…’ Knox reached down and grabbed the newspaper. ‘This has been sanitised for the likes of your good self.’
‘Sanitised?’
Knox could feel tears in his eyes but he fought to keep them at bay. ‘The other day I saw a pit full of bodies, fifteen or twenty of ’em, limbs intertwined. Today I passed a corpse lying in the hedge-row. I didn’t stop.’
‘But the Tip Free Press is a liberal paper,’ Brittas said, still not grasping what Knox was saying.
Knox picked up the crumpled newspaper and threw it on to the fire. ‘I think I should stop coming here for a while.’
‘But I… how will I… I don’t understand what’s come over you.’
Knox wanted to say something pithy that would reassure his neighbour — whom he had always liked and admired — but there were no words left to him.
Knox often found himself staring down into the cot while James slept, amazed just by his existence, by his fingernails and little nose; amazed that, in some small way, he had been responsible for creating a life. Since the autumn, he had spent more and more time watching his son sleeping, either as a way to forget about the terrible things he been forced to witness or to remind himself that the goodness in the world hadn’t been entirely extinguished. Before Christmas, Knox had come across a mother and her baby lying by the road to Golden. It had been a beautiful morning — crisp, clear, the sky as blue as a painted plate. The mother and child were frozen as solid as bricks, the mother still clutching the infant tightly to her body in a pitiful attempt to keep it warm.