The Sleepers of Erin (27 page)

What was it I’d said? Sooner or later someone
has
to chuck in the sponge on vengeance and settle for forgiveness. Otherwise we’re all at war for ever and life’s nothing but a succession of holocausts.

But why should that somebody be me?

Then I thought of Sal, Joxer, the two duckeggs off the motorway bridge, Jason and his oppo, how close I’d come to it. And suddenly there were reasons it had to be me. Wait for all the other idle sods in the universe to walk away from revenge and you wait for ever. Besides, I remembered the ugly thunk of Gerald’s arrows as they hit the castle rider. I might even win the torc back, but there’s no pockets in shrouds.

And there were other antiques waiting, to get to know and to love.

Patricia would be delighted to see me. She always was, being so clueless about antiques. And I’d let her see my latest purchases, a valuable Henry oil, and an original Celtic torc, for a consideration. She’d agree, of course. Patricia’s considerations were famous and very, very considerate.

The trouble with Paul Henry as an artist was that he copied his own Irish paintings, which causes a bit of turmoil when connoisseurs glimpse one of his. There’s always this row about provenance, too, though I’d have to play that one off the cuff. But nobody achieved that green like him, and those white cottages – always too stark when you look too closely at the brushwork – melt into the lovely landscape when you step back.

I wondered if anybody had tried to forge them yet. Maybe Pat – sorry, Patricia – was still friendly with that faker in Goldhanger and we could do a deal. I’d have to watch his technique, though. Him and his lunatic use of yellow ochre and umbers. In this game you can’t be too careful . . .

I slammed the door and stepped out, whistling, heartbreak forgotten.