An Iron Rose

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‘Mac,’ the voice said. ‘Ned’s dead.’

I couldn’t take it in. I screwed up my eyes and tried to focus, head full of sleep and beer dreams.

‘What?’ I said.

He said it again.

‘Jesus, no. When?’

‘Don’t know.’ There was a pause. ‘He’s hangin in the shed, Mac. Can you come?’

Dead? Ned? What time was it? Two forty-five am. Sunday morning. I pulled some faces, fighting the fog and the numb incomprehension. Then I said, ‘Okay. Right. Right. Listen, you sure he’s dead?’

There was a long silence. Lew sniffed. ‘Mac. Come.’

I was starting to think. ‘Ambulance. You call the ambulance?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Cops?’

‘No.’

‘Call them. I’ll be there in ten,’ I said.

In the passage, Drizabone off the hook, straight out the door. Didn’t need to dress. I’d fallen asleep in a cracked leather armchair, fully clothed, half-eaten pie on the arm, television on.

I didn’t see the dog but I heard him land on the tray. Little thump. Short route through Quinn’s Marsh, saved a few minutes by bumping open the gate with the roobars and putting the old Land Rover across the sheep paddock behind Ned Lowey’s house. You could see the house from a long way off: all the lights were on.

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