The Hunter

by Tana French

You might not believe that, and I wouldn’t blame you, but at least have a think about it before you decide it’s only rubbish. There was nothing I could do for you here. You know yourself: this shower of gombeens act like the

spitfires

them be, not trying to work out what to do about either one

heart attack.” “Don’t need new jeans,” Trey says, by reflex. “These’re grand.” “You give me any shit,” Cal says, “and I’ll stop by the barber while we’re there and get this whole beard shaved off, clean as a whistle. You can say hello to my chin warts.” “Changed my mind,” Trey tells him. “I wanta meet them. Go for it.” “Nah,” Cal says. “No point. The weather’s changing. Smell: there’s rain coming.” Trey raises her head. He’s right. The sky is too dark to see clouds, but the air is stirring against her cheek, cool and damp in her nose, moss and wet stone underlying