‘That sounds reasonable,’ Miles said, wondering whether or not he had meant it to sound ironic. Irony would not be in his best interests here. He had to keep everything straightforward, since this world into which he had plunged seemed to him about as straightforward as Hampton Court maze. He had already decided one thing: if he could get his hands on Collins’s gun, then he would take the risk. The thought made him tingle, as though he had been bitten by a radioactive spider. Despite himself, Miles Flint broke into a huge, early-morning smile.
The farmhouse was an old two-story building, galloping toward dilapidation. The door was not locked, and inside Collins motioned Miles to sit down and remain silent, while he went upstairs as quietly as was possible. The stairs were a perfect burglar alarm, creaking ponderously with every footstep. The upstairs landing, too, joined in the fun, identifying for Miles the progress Collins was making.
The room in which Miles sat was part kitchen, part lounge. He sat at a heavy wooden table, upon which lay a loaf of uncut bread and a huge pat of butter. There was a wood-burning stove in one corner, with a teapot of truly Brobdingnagian proportions sitting on it. Sheila had always wanted a wood-burning stove. All Miles wanted was a cup of hot, sweet tea and a slice or two of buttered bread.
He knew that he could make a run for it, could take off across the gritty farmyard in his second escape of the day, but Collins was counting on his tiredness, hunger, thirst, and the fact that this place provided shelter from those who might still be searching for him.
Collins was a shrewd man. Miles bided his time, making himself comfortable on the long wooden bench.
A few minutes later, with accompanying squeals of tortured wood, Collins reappeared from upstairs. He stared at Miles, then smiled, yes, you’ve stayed put, just as I knew you would. He went to the stove, opened it, and dropped a firelighter into it. This he lit with a match, then crammed small, neat peat briquettes into the iron interior. A blaze started almost immediately, and Collins closed the door with a satisfied chuckle. He warmed his limbs, motioning for Miles to join him, then filled the old kettle with water and sat it on the heat.
‘No time at all,’ he said quietly, while Miles rubbed his hands and felt the life still in them, the tingle he had felt in that damp field.
‘Nobody’ll bother us for a while,’ said Collins. He cut thick slices of bread and spread butter over them. Miles, busy with the kettle, accepted one and bit into it. The kettle had boiled, and above the sink was an old tin tea caddy. He washed out the huge teapot, then opened the caddy. Inside, wrapped in clear plastic, was a small handgun. Miles looked quickly at Collins, who was busily slicing more bread, then pulled the gun out and slipped it into his pocket. Its weight there felt comforting. Silently, he replaced the caddy and tried another tin box. This contained loose tea and a rusted scoop. Collins still had not looked at him. Miles filled the teapot with hot water, threw in a handful of leaves, and touched his trouser pocket to check that he had not been hallucinating.
‘Here we go,’ he said, pouring the tea out into tin mugs. He was trying to forget about the gun, for he knew that Collins would spot any change in his attitude or even his tone of voice. He did not have a gun, he did not have a gun, he was still at the absolute mercy of Collins.
But he did have a gun. The question now was, would he use it?
‘Have you decided yet?’ asked Collins, wolfing down the last of the bread. They had eaten the entire loaf, and were on to a second pot of tea.
‘Decided what?’
‘Decided why your friends should want you dead.’
‘I’ve got a few ideas, too many ideas in fact.’ Miles sipped at his tea. ‘A colleague of mine tried to warn me before I came out here, I think, but he was vague. He wouldn’t say much.’
‘Some friend,’ said Collins.
‘I didn’t say friend. I said colleague.’
‘What’s the difference?’
Miles shrugged. ‘Anyway,’ he said, ‘what about you?’
‘What about me?’
‘Well, I take it you are a terrorist, an enemy of the British state?’
‘I’m not a Sunday-school teacher,’ said Collins, smiling, ‘but I’m no terrorist. I’m a freedom fighter.’
‘That’s just the same thing viewed from a different angle.’
‘Robin Hood was a freedom fighter. Would you call him a terrorist?’
‘Robin Hood may not have been such a hero after all. Historical research tells us—’
Collins hooted.
‘Would you listen to him?’ he said, raising his eyes to the ceiling as though consulting some friend up there. ‘“Historical bloody research.” Aye, Mr. Flint or Scott or whatever, history’s a funny thing, though, isn’t it? I mean, look at what history’s done to Ireland, and look at how successive British parliaments since God knows when have twisted the real situation here into a pack of lies for their own use. That’s all the history I need to know, and a right biased bastard it is. Shall I give you a history lesson, Mr. Flint? No, perhaps not. Instead, you can tell me, what do you know about the situation here, about the roots of the trouble?’
Miles shrugged his shoulders, feeling suddenly tired. ‘Not much,’ he said, ‘I confess that.’
‘Just what you read in your newspapers and see on TV, am I right?’
‘That’s about it.’
‘But you see, it goes back a lot further than that, a whole lot further. It goes back nearly five hundred years. Ireland was Catholic, you see, just when it shouldn’t have been. That was its only mistake. And the people wouldn’t change their religion, so Protestants had to be brought in instead, and they were given the land that had belonged by right to the Catholics.’
‘Yes, plantation they called it, didn’t they?’
‘Plantation is right. The English turned our princes into slum landlords, and that’s been the way of it ever since.’ Collins stretched. ‘Ach, what’s the point?’ He pointed to a door at the foot of the stairs. ‘There’s a spare room through there. We’ll get some sleep, then see what’s to be done.’
‘Where are we exactly?’
‘County Monaghan,’ said Collins. ‘That’s all you need to know. Better for you if you don’t know. OK?’
Patting his shirt again, he rose from the table. Miles resisted the temptation to pat his pocket in reply.
There was a small bed with a horsehair mattress, and a large armchair in the room, and no space for anything else. The place smelled damp, musty with disuse. But Collins found a two-bar electric heater and plugged it in, sparks flying as the layer of dust that lay upon it ignited. Soon, however, it had heated the room. Collins chose to sleep in the chair, so that he could keep an eye on his ‘prisoner,’ as he put it. He pulled one of several thick quilts from the bed and wrapped it around himself, then maneuvered his way out of his clothes, which he threw in front of the fire, telling Miles to do likewise. The bed was chilled, but Miles soon warmed up. He would have given everything for a hot bath and a shave, followed by a change of clothes, but contented himself for the moment. He had slipped the gun under his pillow before throwing the trousers over toward Collins, who had patted the pockets conspicuously.
What if it were discovered that the gun was missing from its caddy? Well, he had nothing to lose in any case. He felt woozy and welcomed sleep, but Collins seemed to have wound himself 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.