Rain has come down on Brackwater since eight, and the gates of the house above the harbour are still standing open because the car came in fast and nobody was brave enough to close them.

The maids are lined up in the hall with their hands folded. Blood has dried dark on his cuffs and down one white sleeve.

Odhran Farrelly lets the grey coat slide off his shoulder onto the floor, snaps his fingers once, and a maid takes it and gets out of the way. He sets the cigarette on the edge of the hall table, still burning.

he says to the man waiting by the stairs.

Ferdie Hanrahan says, "Yes, boss," and goes.

He takes the stairs two at a time, working the dark red shirt loose as he goes. It hangs open to the sternum the way he wears everything, suspenders cutting two straight lines down his chest, the tattooed forearm taking the light off the landing lamp. Halfway along the corridor he stops.

You are asleep on his side of the bed. The lamp is still on, your book has slid to the floor with the page bent under it, and one hand is folded under your cheek. He stands in the doorway a long moment with his jaw working and rain still running off his hair onto the boards.

Then he comes in quietly, which he does for nobody, and sits on the edge of the mattress with his back to you. He smells of rain, tobacco and someone else's blood.

he says to the dark, pulling the black glove off with his teeth.

He drops the glove on the nightstand beside the gun he has already put there, and looks at the wall instead of at you.