The marathon reading of Irish mythology continued, night and day, long after he had gone unconscious, for the women knew he was lonely for the sound of their voices. The last time he was coherent was two days before his death. He looked at Catherine’s shoes. “Do something about those shoes,” he said, “they need polishing.” He struggled up and made his way to the toilet. Coming back to bed he saw Maisie and said: “That’s it, I won’t be doing that again.” She read on.

Those last two days there was always a woman’s voice in his subconscious. Then at last the voice stopped.

III. The Hares

III

THE HARES

17. The Mourners

17

The Mourners

Jonathan Adams was buried in Fermanagh. Only there, it was finally decided, could his tombstone proclaim that he had been a Sergeant in the Royal Ulster Constabulary. The hearse that took him North was from Belmullet. His family followed behind in a hired car. And behind them in a Fiat rusted by salt from the sea came Joe Love, Bernie Burke and Eitne Noone. Despite Maisie’s entreaties the Mullet folk had decided to attend the funeral in the North.

Outside Blacklion, on the Florencecourt Road, when they were safely in the North, the cortege came to a stop.

“Looks like a roadblock,” said Bernie Burke, who was driving.

“Well don’t do anything hasty,” advised Joe Love.

“What’s going on?” asked Eitne.

With a sense of disbelief, the Mullet mourners saw another hearse emerge from a side road. Soldiers climbed out from behind a hedge. Three police Saracens cruised up behind.

“Are we going to be kidnapped or what?” asked Bernie.

“Just keep looking ahead,” whispered Joe.

A soldier appeared at the window and Bernie wound it down.

“Morning,” said Bernie.

“OK,” said the soldier, “you with the funeral?”

“Yes.”

“OK.”

A man in a black bowler and long black coat appeared, and along with him, two men dressed in ill-fitting black suits. The three swiftly tipped Jonathan Adams’ coffin into the Northern hearse. His policeman’s gloves and cap were placed on it and armfuls of funeral bouquets alongside. The hearse from Belmullet returned to the South and the new cortege took off into the North. “Jazus,” said Bernie, “they’re putting the foot down.” They went off up back roads, skirting towns till they arrived at the station in the village where the dead man had served his time. All the vehicles slowed to a halt, and stayed there outside the fortress, with their engines running, for a long surreal moment.

Joe Love turned to Bernie: “I told you he was an important man.”