“I got no plans to go anywhere,” Cal says. “Who’d you bet against?”

“Don’t be minding that. They’re a crowd of aul’ fools, down there; wouldn’t know a good bet if it walked up and bit them.”

“Maybe I oughta stick a few bucks on myself,” Cal says. “What are my odds like?”

“Never you mind. If you win it for me, I’ll give you a bit offa the top.”

“You’re looking good,” Cal says. It’s true. Mart doesn’t have the raw materials to look fresh-faced, exactly, but both his perkiness and his movements have lost the effortful quality of the last few days. He appears to have no intention of explaining his presence at Cal’s gate. “You get your beauty sleep last night?”

“Oh, begod, I did. Slept round the clock. Whatever that yoke was, it won’t be bothering anyone’s sheep again.” Mart pokes Cal’s kill bag with his crook. “You did well there. What’ll you do with the ones you don’t eat?”

“I was thinking about that myself,” Cal says. “That little freezer compartment won’t hold ’em. If I knew where to find Malachy, I might give him a few, in exchange for the other night.”

Mart considers this and nods. “Might not be a bad idea. Malachy lives up the mountains, but. You won’t find his place. Give ’em to me; I’ll see he gets them.”

Mart and Kojak walk up to the house with Cal to get a bag for the fish, but they don’t come in. Mart leans a shoulder in the door frame, a ragged and bumpy outline against the sunset. Kojak slumps at his feet.

“The mansion’s looking well,” Mart says, inspecting Cal’s living room.

“It’s slow work,” Cal says. “I got a lot left to do before winter hits.”

“I see you’ve got yourself an apprentice,” Mart says, bending to pick brush out of Kojak’s fur. “That oughta speed things up a bit.”

“How’s that?”

“Trey Reddy’s been helping you out.”

Cal has been waiting for this for weeks, but the timing is interesting. “Yep,” he says, finding a big Ziploc bag in his cupboard. “Kid came round looking for work, I figured I could use a hand.”

“Didn’t I warn you about them Reddys?” Mart demands reproachfully. “Buncha gurriers. They’d rob the nose off your face, and sell it back to you the next day.”

“You did,” Cal says. “Kid didn’t give a last name; took me a while to make the connection. And I’m not missing anything that I know of.”

“Better keep an eye on them tools. They’d sell for a few bob.”

Cal goes to the mini-fridge for his ice tray. “He seems like a pretty good kid to me. These gonna be enough to keep the fish cold till you can get them to Malachy?”

Mart says, “He?”

“Trey.”

“Trey Reddy’s a girl, bucko. Did you not spot that?”

Cal straightens up fast, ice tray in his hand, and stares.

Mart starts to laugh.

“Are you shitting me?”

Mart shakes his head. He can’t talk. He’s laughing so hard that he doubles over, banging his crook on the ground.

“Trey’s a fucking boy’s name.”

Cal’s outrage sends Mart into a fresh gale of giggles. “Short for Theresa,” he manages to explain, through them. “The face on you.”

“How the hell was I supposed to know that?”

“Holy God,” Mart says, straightening up and wiping his eyes with a knuckle, still giggling. Apparently this is the funniest thing that’s happened to him in weeks. “That explains it. Here was me wondering what the bloody hell you were at, letting a young girl hang around you, and all the time you hadn’t a notion she was a girl at all. Doesn’t that beat Banagher?”

“The kid looks like a boy. The clothes. The fucking haircut.”

“I’d say she might be a lesbian,” Mart says, considering this possibility. “She picked the right time to be one, anyway, if she is. She can get married and all, these days.”

“Yeah,” Cal says. “Good for her.”

“I voted for that,” Mart informs him. “The priest in town was bulling at mass, swearing he’d excommunicate anyone that voted yes, but I didn’t pay him any heed. I wanted to see what would happen.”

“Right,” Cal says, easing his voice. “What did happen?” Now that the initial shock is past, he doesn’t feel like letting Mart know just how pissed off he is with Trey. In fact, he’s not sure why he’s so pissed off, given that Trey never claimed to be a boy, but he is.

“Not a lot,” Mart admits, with some regret. “Not around here, anyway. Maybe up in Dublin the gays are all marrying the bejaysus out of each other, but I haven’t heard of any in these parts.”

“Well look at that,” Cal says. He’s only half-hearing Mart. “You went and pissed off the priest for nothing.”

“Fuck him. He’s only an aul’ blow; too used to getting his own way. I never liked him, big Jabba the Hutt head on him. It’s healthier for men to live with men, anyway. They don’t be wrecking each other’s heads. They might as well get married while they’re at it, have a day out.”

“Can’t hurt,” Cal says. He bangs the ice tray on the counter and throws cubes into the Ziploc.

Mart watches him. “If Trey Reddy’s not robbing you,” he says, “then what does she want out of you? Them Reddys, they’re always looking for something.”

“Learn a little carpentry,” Cal says. “He didn’t ask for pay—she. I was thinking about throwing her a few bucks, but I’m not sure if she’d take it right. What do you think?”

“A Reddy’ll always take money,” Mart says. “Mind yourself, but. You don’t want her thinking you’re a soft touch. Are you going to let her keep coming round, now you know she’s a young one?”

There is no way on God’s green earth that Cal would have let a little girl hang around his yard, never mind come inside his house. “Haven’t had time to think about that,” he says.

“Why would you want her about the place? Don’t be telling me you need the help with that bloody desk.”

“She’s handy enough. And I’ve been enjoying the company.”

“Sure, what kind of company is that child, at all? You’d get more chat out of that aul’ chair. Do you ever get two words out of her?”