‘Get up!’ Sean Rogan said.
Behind him, Hannah Costello stood by the brake, an arm around the boy’s shoulders and Morgan laughed
gently from the doorway. ‘A touching scene.’ He came forward as Fletcher scrambled to his feet. ‘I’m Harry Morgan, Mr. Rogan, and this relic of a more primeval time is Jesse Fletcher. You’ll have to excuse his lack of manners. They weren’t handing out brains the day he was born.’
‘One of these days I’ll fill that big mouth of yours full of dirt,’ Fletcher said viciously and turned and went inside.
‘Where’s my uncle?’ Hannah demanded.
‘He went into Ambleside in the truck for supplies. I’ll be surprised if we see him back before the pubs close.’
He stood to one side with a slight, mocking grin and Rogan moved past him into the house. When he went into the large, stone nagged living room, Fletcher was sitting in a chair by the window, a bottle in one hand, a glass in the other.
Rogan ignored him and turned as Hannah and Morgan followed him in. ‘Where’s the boy?’
‘Taken himself off into the hills,’ she said. ‘He won’t be back till dark. He often does that.’
‘What about beds?’
‘There are two rooms upstairs. I’ve got one, my uncle and Brendan share another.’
‘Jesse and I are across the passage,’ Morgan said.
Fletcher snorted. ‘Maybe he’d like us to move out?’
Rogan looked at him calmly. ‘When I do, I’ll let you know.’
He brushed past Morgan and followed Hannah along to the kitchen. Fletcher swallowed his whisky with a curse. ‘The great Sean Rogan-what a laugh. Just a big Irish bogtrotter. One belt in the right place and he’d split clear down the middle.’
‘Why don’t you tell him that, Jesse?’
‘Maybe I’ll do just that.’
Morgan chuckled. ‘Let me know when, I’d like to be there.’
In the kitchen, Rogan sat on the edge of the table and
lit a cigarette, and Hannah took off her coat and hung it behind the door. ‘Ham and eggs all right?’
‘Fine,’ he said and walked to the window.
The wind rushed through the old beech trees which encircled the place, plucking most of the remaining leaves from the brandies and lifting them high over the roof top, and his eyes lifted to the heather-covered hillside and the mountains beyond.
‘Quite a place. Anyone ever come here?’
‘Only a few fell walkers or climbers and we see them mostly during spring and summer. The road peters out a quarter of a mile from heie. A hundred and fifty years ago they mined for lead up there till the vein ran out. You can still see the old workings. Brendan can tell you all about that.’
‘He seemed a nice enough kid.’
She nodded. ‘A bit slower than other people, that’s all. Uncle Paddy treats him like a dog, that’s a lot of the trouble.’
‘A sweet bunch Colum’s surrounded himself with.’
‘What did you think of the two in there?’
‘Fletcher’s just a second rate tearaway. A good man in a clinch with an iron bar or at putting in the boot. Morgan’s a different proposition. For one thing he’s got brains.’
‘Don’t let that fool you,’ she said. ‘Fletcher I can understand. He’s too ignorant to be anything else, but Morgan’s bad because he wants to be. You’ll have to watch him. His favourite occupation seems to be stirring up trouble, then standing back to watch the fun.’
‘The best way I know to burn your fingers/ Rogan said. ‘Someone should tell him.’
She placed ham and eggs before him and a plate piled high with fresh bread and butter and sat on the other side of the table, a cup of tea in her hands, and watched him eat.
‘You needed that,’ she observed when he finally pushed the empty plate away with a sigh.
He smiled slightly. ‘And not because I was hungry. I’m the great one for symbolic actions. Not that they fed us too badly in there. It’s just that it tastes different on the outside.’
They lit cigarettes and sat there smoking in a companionable silence, rain tapping lightly against the window, and after a while Morgan came in and found them there. He took a cup, helped himself to tea from the pot and sat on the edge of the dresser. ‘How was O’More?’ ‘In good shape,’ Rogan said.