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for his belt.
    ‘It’s put it on I have.’
    Big Sean wraps the sandwiches in clear plastic and puts them in the fridge. Brady reaches out and his hand closes on the glass. The glass feels cold in his hand. It isn’t right to be drinking at this hour, and the stout is bitter.
    ‘Have you a drop of blackcurrant there, Sean?’
    ‘What are you doing with that poison?’ Leyden asks. ‘Destroying a good pint.’
    Brady swallows a long draught. ‘At least I didn’t destroy four good hoofs,’ he says, finding his voice at last.
    Everybody laughs.
    ‘Is that so?’ says Leyden, smiling. ‘And what would you know? There’s nothing but cart horses in Monaghan.’
    ‘Every good cart horse needs shoes,’ says Brady.
    ‘They wear around the Cavan potholes,’ says McPhillips, a Newbliss man.
    ‘Now we have it!’ Norris cries.
    When the banter subsides, McPhillips goes out to place the bets. Sean turns off the radio now that the news is over. The silence is like every silence; each man is glad of it and glad, too, that it won’t last.
    As they sit there, Leyden’s nostril flares.
    ‘Which one of ye dug up Elvis?’
    ‘Lord God!’ Long Kearns cries, coming suddenly to life. ‘That would knock a blackbird off its pad.’
    Leyden swallows half his pint. The shoeing has put a thirst on him so Brady, not liking to leave with the money, orders another round.
    *
    Out in the street, schoolchildren are eating chips from brown paper bags. There’s the smell of fried onions, hot oil and vinegar. It is darker now and the rain is still falling. When Brady walks into the diner, the girl at the counter looks up: ‘Fresh cod and chips?’
    ‘Ay.’ Brady nods. ‘And tay.’
    He sits at the window and looks out at the day. Black clouds are sliding over the bungalows. He thinks again of that night in Cootehill. There was a Northern band in The White Horse. They sat at a distance from the stage and talked. She had a thoroughbred yearling and a three- year-old she thought would make an honest hunter. As she talked, a green spotlight shone through her hair. They danced a little and she drank a glass of wine. Afterwards, she asked him back to the house.
If you bring the chips, I’ll light the fire and put the kettle on
. They ate supper in the firelight . A yellow cloth was spread over the table. She put down wicker placemats, pepper and salt, warm plates. The cutlery flashed silver. Smell of deodorant lingered in her bedroom, a wee candle burning, and headlights were passing through the curtains. When he woke, at dawn, she was asleep, her hand on his chest. He was working then, full time, for Leyden. That morning, walking downthe main street, buying milk and rashers, he felt like a man.
    The girl comes with his order. Brady eats what’s placed before him, pays up, and faces down the street. He has to think for a moment before he can remember where he parked the van. He passes a stand of fruit and vegetables, a bucket of tired flowers, boxes of Christmas cards, ropes of trembling red and yellow tinsel. When he is walking past the hotel, he recognises a tune he cannot name. He stops to listen, then finds himself at the counter ordering a pint. The day is no longer his own. Afew more tunes are played. At some point he looks up and realises McQuaid is there, in a dark suit of clothes, with his wife. Sensing him, McQuaid looks over, nods. Soon after, a pint’s sent down. On Brady’s lips the stout tastes colder than the last.
    ‘The bowld man himself! Have you no home to go to?’ It’s Leyden. He takes one look at Brady, and changes. ‘What’s ailing you at all, man?’
    Brady shakes his head.
    Leyden looks over at McQuaid. The waitress is bringing serviettes, knives for the steak.
    ‘Pay no mind,’ he says. ‘Not a hate about it. The land’ll be here long after we’re dead and gone. Haven’t we only the lend of it?’
    Brady nods and orders the drink. Leyden pulls his stool up close and waits for the pint to settle. Brady