It was as if she had been waiting behind her door. It slammed back against the wall, light spilling out into the hall so he had to shield his eyes for a second. She was still wearing the coat, he noticed, blinking up at her.
“Mr Field. What happened?”
“It was the fu- it was the dog. It was Oscar. I just – I needed the toilet. I was just looking for it. I got confused.” Stop talking. Start thinking. He couldn’t hit her. Not an old woman. But if he ran downstairs… an image flashed into his mind. The shotguns. He curved his hand around an imaginary stock, practically feeling it against his palm. If he was quick, he could deal with her before she had a chance to phone the guards. That assumed she didn’t have a phone upstairs, it assumed the shotguns were loaded, and it also assumed he had the nerve to do it. Murder. Kill her, in cold blood. Blow her away. Then spend a million years trying to wipe his prints and DNA off every bit of the house. It was a bit different from pocketing a few knick-knacks, when you thought about it.
He was still lying on the ground, grovelling in front of her. He got up slowly, picking up his bag as if it were nothing of note.
“It’s the middle of the night. Where were you going?” She didn’t sound panicked, which was something.
“I was looking for the toilet. I got confused about which stairs it was off.”
“The back stairs.” She pointed. “Down there.”
“That explains why I couldn’t find it.” He tried a smile. “Sorry for disturbing you. And for stepping on the dog. Sorry about that, Oscar.”
The mutt gave him a wall-eyed glare.
“I’ll head down there, so. Sorry again.” The toilet wasn’t a bad plan, actually. The tension was squeezing his guts. He needed a crap. He walked away in the direction she had indicated, waiting for her to call him back to ask for a better explanation, or to tell him to empty his pockets, and what’s in that bag?
She said nothing. He risked a look back at her as he turned the corner to go down the narrow back stairs, and she was standing in the light, leaning over, talking to the dog. He allowed himself a small grin of triumph as he headed into the dark. They were like children. They couldn’t imagine you would do them wrong, so they believed every word you said to them. Fools. He was glad he had taken advantage of her now. He’d have kicked himself twelve ways to Sunday if he’d left empty-handed because of what? An attack of conscience? She wasn’t even nice to him.
In the morning, he came downstairs carrying his bag to find his hostess in the hall. “Ah, you’re up at last. Did you sleep well?”
What time she got up at, he couldn’t imagine. It was only seven o’clock.
“I didn’t, no. I think the roof is leaking, to be honest with you.”
It had started raining heavily while he was taking his celebratory shit, the water gurgling in cast-iron drainpipes and spilling from unreliable guttering. He had got back to his room to discover the bed was saturated, the ceiling still dripping. The remainder of the night he spent curled up on the floor, trying to find a position where his bones didn’t ache and the draught from under the door didn’t cut through the one blanket he’d been able to salvage.
“Oh, dear.” She didn’t sound surprised. “I’ve had breakfast already. But there’s some porridge if you’d like.”
“No. Thank you.” He’d yak if he tried. “I’ll get something later.”
She was looking thoughtful. “I don’t suppose – I shouldn’t ask, but maybe if you would – if you have a head for heights, which I must admit I don’t-”
Payment for the night’s board. He put the bag down, resigned. Always leave them grateful. “What can I do? Is it the roof?”
“Could you see if there are many slates gone? The man who looks after it is away.”
“How do I get up there?”
“Through the attic. But you’ll need to get the ladder. Cormac always uses his own.”
“No problem. Where is it?”
“It’s in the shed.” She gestured vaguely to the back of the house. “Out there. The door is jammed, though. You’ll have to go out the front door and walk around. And I think it might be quite near the back.”
He was true to his promise, getting back to Dublin in record time with the radio blasting dance music and the heater blowing out a fug of hot air. He’d earned his money, that was for sure. First getting the fucking ladder out from what turned out to be a barn the size of a bus garage, full to the roof with junk. “Shed” my arse. Then getting it into the house while Clemmie waved her hands and shrieked warnings to him every time he came near a light fitting. Then propping it up on the rotting floor of the attic, discovering that the rungs were shaky in the extreme, and making it out on to the leads of the roof in time for the rain to start again. He had taken shelter by a chimneystack and enjoyed an illicit cigarette, thinking of her waiting patiently for him to return. She would think he was doing a thorough job if he didn’t hurry back. Another cigarette put manners on the hunger that was beginning to twist at his stomach. He didn’t waste any time looking for missing slates. It was something of a surprise to find there were any up there at all. A deep breath, then back down the stairs with the ladder. He took it back to the shed, jamming it in as best he could between a knackered old Riley with deflated tyres and a load of rusty milk churns.
The relief of getting on to the M50, within reach of civilization. The joy of seeing Dublin spread out before him as he came over the mountains, the Pigeon House towers striped red and white in the distance, Howth Head glowing green behind them. The fucking sun came out and everything. Welcome to the Promised Land, my child.
In his case, welcome to the Sundrive Road. There was a house there, a small one, not the kind you’d notice, and it was the home of the finest fence he’d ever met, a fat man named Ken who had every book you could imagine on antiques and never needed to consult one of them. Anthony didn’t ask what happened to the things he brought him. The fat man paid cash and that was all that mattered to Anthony. That and getting rid of the stuff before the guards came calling.
Ken’s wife was a comically small woman, a little elf of a thing. Would he have a cup of tea? And a sandwich? He practically took the hand off her; he was desperate for something.
Ken was scratching himself in the front room, layered in cardigans and jumpers as if he were capable of feeling the cold. The room was hot anyway. He drew the blinds without getting up from his chair.
“Stick the light on there and let’s have a look at what you’ve got.”
Anthony sat on the other side of the coffee table and dug in his bag, setting out his bundled-up dusters where Ken could reach them. The fence tapped his fingers against his belly, waiting for his wife to come back with the tea.
“Tell me about the house.”
Anthony described it in as much detail as he could. Ken listened, asking questions, thinking. The Purdeys had him shifting in his chair with what could only be excitement.
“Shame you didn’t find out anything about the paintings. Never mind. I’ll make a note.”
Mrs Ken rattled in with a tray and handed Anthony a mug and a ham sandwich. Ken got the same, and a plate of biscuits. He needed to keep his strength up, Anthony reflected. Poor man couldn’t be expected to wait until lunch.
As soon as the door closed behind her Ken’s pudgy fingers went to work, unexpectedly delicate as he began unwrapping what Anthony had brought him. The first thing was the silver sauce boat. Even though he knew what was inside each parcel, Anthony still felt a thrill as the last fold of yellow cloth fell away – to reveal something that was definitely not an eighteenth-century sauce boat.