Slasher vs. Mafia: Three Serial Killers Walk Into a Bar | Part 2

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Find support and feel lighter in therapy. Sign up and get 10% off at BetterHelp.com slash DNS. That's betterHELP.com slash DNS. Mandy Fitz had only gotten back from an extended 16-hour shift in the ER a few hours earlier, when the hospital called her. She could hear the panic in the nurse's voice. It seemed that just as the injuries from the stadium riot were slowing, wounded prisoners from over at all Saints were being brought in by the truckload. It was all hands on deck. Yeah, okay. Heading out now. I just got to drop off Gracie first. No. I'll be still out of town. Yeah. I'll be there as soon as I can. Rolling on a fresh set of scrubs and her winter coat. Mandy reluctantly scooped up her three-year-old daughter from the bed. Santa? Asked Gracie, rubbing her sleepy eyes. No, baby. Just mommy. We still got a few more days until Christmas. Gracie blinked and looked out the apartment window as her mom pulled her arms into her coat sleeves. It's really dark. I know. You can sleep more in your car seat, okay? But mommy's got to go back to work. Again. I go in daycare? No, baby. I'm taking you to grandpa's. Oh, I wound up, Bob. Carrying her daughter against her chest, Mandy walked down the icy apartment steps to their minivan. Her father-in-law was always happy to watch Gracie, but it wasn't like him to ignore her texts. Mandy figured he probably just had his phone on Do Not Disturb for the Night. What else would the old bar keep the up to at 5.30 on a blustery winter morning? Young Fitz had never felt older. He was trying his best to keep the pair of infamous killers beside him. Fitz is old friend Dermott McMurrow and serial killer Jasper David Rath from tearing each other apart in their fury and fear, while also hoping to get through the night all in one piece himself and avoid federal prison if he could help it. They had just driven the getaway car through the snowy alleys of Little Dublin over to the boarded up shops behind the cathedral and deposited the vehicle in the garage of a former auto repair shop. The suited corpse was still in the car's trunk, which made Fitz sick to a stomach, but at least it would take the authorities longer to track it down off the street. One big fucking headache at a time, he said, pocketing the car's keys and putting back on his head. That's all we can do for poor Mr. Charlie for the time being. Now we three got hurry back to the pub before anyone spots us. A son will rise in less than an hour. Neither fugitive responded. Jasper was still too shocked about the driver's death to speak, and Dermott looked torn between anger and Jasper for causing the death or angered himself for contributing to the situation. Fitz tried to catch Dermott's eye to remind his friend that the real urgency was getting him to the docks in time to stow away on a departing cargo ship. But Dermott's shoulders were slumped, his bearded face downcast. Fitz sighed and pulled his phone from his pocket. Jasper had knocked it into the snow earlier. The screen was cracked and the whole thing was wet and cold. He clicked the side buttons. Nothing. Damn it. Alright, follow me and try not to look suspicious. This last request might as well have been a joke. Fitz himself was nothing special. A typical Celtic man in his mid fifties, with glasses, a grey mustache and a beer belly that came with his profession. With Jasper David Rath was the stuff of nightmares. It's all and God. With wiery muscles, both old and new scars on his face and hands and dark eyes like a shark. Never mind that he dressed in some of Fitz's son's old clothes. A sweatshirt and gacky pants. The face of the sundown slasher was known to all in the city. And Dermott's Masha McMurrow, the assassin who had taken down a criminal cartel one busted skull at a time back in the 90s? Well, he was almost nine feet tall now. Taller even than when he and Fitz worked together in their youth. His primal features, ginger hair and beard and giant hands were hard to miss. He was wearing a disguise too. Sweat pants and a bathrobe. Though the fabric of each was stretched to its limits, trying to fit his muscled limbs and torso, he looked ridiculous. Grateful for the cover of night in the blinding snow, Fitz pulled open the back door of the auto shop and stepped inside. The icy wind burned his cheeks. He had only taken two steps, the others close behind him. When Dermott seized the back of his coat, Fitz lurched to a stop, squinting through the snow in the air. By the flicker of the street lights, he saw them. Three cars were parked in the street ahead, with half a dozen silhouettes standing behind them, guns drawn, police badges glinting at their chests. Fitz looked left, then right, and saw more cars and cops on either side. Fitz sighed. Well, fellas, he said over his shoulder. It seems as my people would say that the proverbial jig is up. Jasper ignored this and marched forward, weaving around Fitz and coming to a stop in the center of the road. His hands clenched into fists at his side. His baggy borrowed sweatshirt, blowing in the wind. The crazy bastard was going to try to fight, which meant the cops would open fire, which meant Fitz and Dermott were about to be pumped full of lead. Fitz began to raise his hands and surrender, but found himself suddenly lifted off the ground and tugged backward in Dermott's grip. Half a second later, he was set on his feet inside the garage again, and heard Dermott shove the door shut, leaving Jasper stranded outside. Fitz raised an eyebrow. "'Ah,' thanks,' he said, a little breathlessly, dusting himself off. Dermott began to rush around the garage, searching for another way out. But the fact that they let that happen just means they're hoping to take us alive! The left surrounded the whole block, Derm. Our only hope is to turn ourselves in. Dermott ignored him and moved faster, and bent forward to fit under the low ceiling. Coming upon a boarded up doorway with rusty engine parts stacked around it, Dermott began to scoop away the junk in the boards with his giant hands. In his coat pocket, Fitz felt his phone, vibrate. Out of habit, he pulled it out. The screen was flickering on and off, the image skewed by the cracks in the glass, but it was working again. He had messages waiting for him. Lots of them. He tapped at the screen, trying to get the texts to load. In the street outside, Jasper stood very still. Like a predatory beast, his muscles taught, his gaze panning the enemies before him. "'So you're the famous JDW!' shouted one of the cops, taking cover behind his car. The psycho killer, who brings a knife to a gunfight, it somehow lives to tell the tale. You know, my wife has a sword, a crush on you!' Some of the other cops laughed. "'I don't get it. I think you're an ugly son of a bitch. You agree boys?' "'Damn right, skillet!' called a cop to the left. Jasper ignored their jeering, and the sounds of banging around in the garage behind him. None of that mattered. The next few seconds, his manner of attack, the fight, that's all he had to worry about. He could feel the kitchen knife in his right pocket, four and a half inch stainless steel blade. He could work with that. But the handle was made of cheap plastic, and the tang would be short and narrow, liable to break. He'd have to keep that in mind. "'It's pretty funny. You're fellow twisted leaving you behind out here. Or maybe probably the last picked in Jim Class II, eh Jasper? We'll deal with the other two, but you're the main attraction anyway!' The man grinned. "'And you're lucky. Ordinarily, we'd strip you down right here right now. In skin you alive, it is our way. But with all this hula belug going on, you'll be worth more alive to the right buyer. But just remember who it was that caught you!' The idiot cop took one hand off his service weapon, reached to his collar, and pulled his shirt down into the side over his collarbone. "'Recognize it!' Jasper narrowed his eyes, then shrugged. "'It's a tattoo, dumbass. A deer skull and antlers. The same tattoo that was on 12 of your fellow inmates and all saints. Men who use sliced apart during your escape. "'That's plausible. I killed many fools last night. The cop scaled. You messed with the wrong gang, buddy. You messed with the mighty Venice sinners!' The policeman cheered. Jasper cocked his head. "'What?' "'The Venice sinners! The gang!' Your gang is called the Venice sinners? As in, Venice in plus sinners? That's a terrible name. Shut up!' That's the worst name I've ever heard of!' It's nearing. The cop started to march around his car toward Jasper, but stopped at the sound of another vehicle approaching up the road. A car with a distinctive, throaty rumble from its engine. As Jasper listened, the engine powered off, a car door slammed, and a pair of heavy feet crunched through the snow, coming toward them. The cops all snapped to attention, clapping their hands over their collarbones and bowing, as a tall police officer sonnered from the white-out. Jasper tensed, sliding the toe of one shoe back and over as he pivoted his body to face this new arrival. Who, like him, had an air of the predatory power about him? The officer marched right up to Jasper and stopped. They were the same height, and as Jasper glared into his eyes, the man lifted a vape and to his mouth, sucked, and exhaled into Jasper's face. Jasper winced. The air was all smelled like chemical fruit and farts. So, the officer growled, looking Jasper up and down. You are the sun, down, slasher. Hmm, hell of a thing you pulled off at all saints. A bad level of carnage was. Looked to be a battle worthy of grimbe, and congratulations on your escape. He raised his vape again, in his left hand, and Jasper's gaze darted down to the cops belt, where his right hand lay atop his holstered pistol. My name is left-handed Arlen Slager. More of the sickly sweet smoke came out with his words and mixed in the snow in the air. The figure is originally a Dutch name, you know. And it means butchery. I thought you might find that interesting. A thoughtfully built wardrobe really comes down to pieces that mix well, last, and don't make you feel like you overpaid. And that's exactly why I've been loving quint slightly. They make up everyday essentials using premium fabrics and thoughtful design, without the luxury markup. I picked up one of their linen shirts and immediately noticed the quality. Light, comfortable, and not flimsy like cheaper linen. The shoes were the same deal. Clean look, super comfortable, and they feel like something that should cost a lot more. 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To Jasper's astonishment and confusion, the officer stepped back, removed his right hand from his holster and began to pull off his jacket. Do you know the forgotten story of this city slasher? They straights here. They are far older than his often remembered. And their bedrock is far more saturated with the blood of glorious battle than is written in any textbook. Slager folded his jacket and set it on the snowy roof of the nearest car. His men cast curious looks at one another, as their commanding officer loosened and pulled off his necktie next, then began to unbutton his shirt. Grim Bay was founded by Vikings long before Christobal Columbus ever found his Italian in the new world. And the Vikings that came to this place? Now they were warriors. Merciless and proud. And upon the rocky shores of this bay, they did wage mighty battle against the Algonquian Braves. As Slager pulled off his shirt and set it on to his folded coat, Jasper took note of the many tattoos and scars on his body. Slager had the matching deer skull on his upper left chest, but also a military insignia on his right shoulder. A blood type inked on his wrist and more tattoos too faded to make out. There were dog tags strung around his neck and lattice pattern electrical burn scars all up and down his ribs. As he turned to face Jasper straight on, he unclasped his utility belt, pistol and all, and let them fall into the snow at his feet. A few of the cops behind the cars looked nervous, but not Slager. He grinned. But you and I are about to do. It is like the holy ritual of Grim Bay. Do you understand? Violaence in its purest form. Jasper blinked to shake out the snowflakes gathering in his eyelashes. He bent his knees ever so slightly and wiggled his fingers, ready to grab for his weapon. The cycle of vengeance, repeating, lacked the seasons. And time and time again it comes down to this, the lone wolf killer. Slager's eyes flashed to Jasper. And the horde that seek to strike him down. He took one last hit on his vape. Weapons away, Jans. He called out. I want this to be a fair fight. Butcher to Butcher. The other officers reluctantly lowered their guns, as Slager twisted to toss his vape pen next to his clothes. And at that moment, a wicked wind arose, sharp and shrill, and sweeping up a cloud of snow in front of the streetlights. So that for one, tiny instant, they were cloaked in darkness. Jasper lunged, kicking up snow onto Slager's bare back as he pulled out the knife and swung. Then the light was back, and the cop had spun to meet the attack, snatching Jasper's wrist in one fist and punching with the other. Jasper ducked to dodge the blow, dropped his knife from his seized right hand, caught it in his left and stabbed. Slager released Jasper's wrist and lurched backward. The blade whistled, but only grazed his chest. Cheater! Shattered a cop to Jasper's right. The sundown slasher moved by instinct, bending sharply backward at the waist, and he felt the woosh of a bullet pass inches before his face. The cop to his left, let out a grunt, and fell into the snow. Watch your crossfire, you morons! Barked Slager. And I told you, this bastard is mine, blade or not. Jasper leaned upright again, his fist tightened around the shitty plastic handle of his weapon. He stared into Harlan's slager's eyes, determined not to let this man or any of them, since just how much he was struggling internally. Jasper had never felt such fatigue at the start of a fight. He was like a heavy blanket on his shoulders, pulling him down. The muscles in his left arm were fiery hot with pain, while the rest of him shivered in the wintery storm. His overall energy was so low, and the butterscotch pudding churning in his stomach wouldn't be enough to fuel him for an extended battle. He had to be quick, to be efficient, to outsmart this hillbilly historian, and dispatch the others one by one. Brexhailed, relaxed his face, and held out his right arm, the knife sideways in his grip. Through the snow, Slager watched him, one thumb tracing the fresh cut on his abs. Jasper slowly opened his hand, one finger at a time. Fair fight. He breathed in through his nose, inflating his lungs, letting the chill in his lungs bring him focus, bring him control, bring him power. Jasper released the knife. It dropped, handle first. Eyes on Slager. Jasper brought up his right foot with a blur of speed and precision, kicking the knife straight at the policeman's face. But Slager was fast too, jerking up his right hand to shield himself. The blade sunk through his palm and out the back of the hand. And before he could do anything besides grimace, Jasper was flying into him, hammering down with his right elbow to jam the knife into Slager's face. It sunk through skin and bone, just above his mustache on the left side, and pierced down through the roof of his mouth. Hand pinned to his own face, Slager fell backward into the snow. Kill this, slash-tard! He spluttered, blood filling his mouth. Jasper drove, the air around him, splitting with the roar of gunfire. He twisted the land on his back in a slide, grabbed the fender of the nearest car, and yanked himself under it. Spending on the icy ground, he emerged between the wheels, just at the boots of another officer. The cop moved to aim down at Jasper, but he wasn't fast enough. Jasper snatched his gun by the barrel and forced it upward. It fired, shooting the leg of the next cop. Pulling himself out from under the car, Jasper smashed the gunman's head into the driver's side window, as the body slumped to the ground, and more shots rang out. Jasper seized two long shards of broken glass from the car window, snapped them free. Gritting his teeth at the pain in his palms, he spun, charged at the next assailant, and raising a sparkling blade over his head. He slashed. While the sound of the battle raged in the street outside, back in the dim garage, Dermott finally got to the obstructed door and kicked it open. Grimissing at the pain this caused his right knee, he turned back to Fitz, but his friend wasn't moving. Fitz was staring down at the phone in his hand, his eyes wide. Fitz blanked and looked up. It's Mandy. My daughter-in-law. She messaged 20 minutes ago. She said he swallowed. She got to go into work early, and that she's bringing Gracie over. She's bringing my granddaughter to the pub. Dermott froze. Oh God, Dermott! He's in there! All the color drained from Fitz's face. Nicky! For an instant, they stood rooted in their dread. Then Dermott spun, tripping over rusted scrap, and charged into the dark hallway beyond the door, barreling into a dusty abandoned apartment next door. Iran blindly forward, his whole king's shoulder slamming against cabinets and door frames, ripping the fabric of his sleeves and cutting at his skin, turning in corner. His forehead smashed against the chandelier, so that dust rained down around him. This gnawly, Dermott stumbled in a circle, trying to ignore the stars in his vision, and the way his whole spine was starting to seize up. He spotted a boarded up doorway and stampeded through it. In a dingy living room on the other side, an old woman had been sleeping on a armchair, and a woke with a gasp as the dusty giant and a torn bathrobe burst through her wall. A little dog in her lap started barking madly. Dermott swung his head to search for an exit, and spotted a window across the room. Snow falling onto the main street outside, he charged through the living room and left, driving his shoulder against the window. Dermott's landing in the street was rough. He stumbled and slipped, glass in bits of wood, and icy snow raining down around him, and felt a lightning bolt of pain, shoot up his left ankle, and into the back of his leg. Crunching, he tried to run again, but his leg wouldn't take the weight, and he fell to one knee. Scream demands voice. Dermott looked up, panting, as a cop outside his parked police car threw down a cigarette and whipped down his pistol. Squeezing his hands into fists, Dermott gritted his teeth, and pushed off from the ground, leaping at the cop. The pistol came up, but Dermott's fist was faster. His backhand sent the cop reeling sideways into his car, denting in the door. The body slumped into the snow. Dermott took another step, and another. Swinging his ape-like arms, he broke into a limping jog, breath hissing through his clamped jaws as he pushed through his pain, speeding up, racing through the neighborhood of his youth. He had to go faster. He had to make it. He had to. Mandy parked out front of the pub, and left the minivan running as she lifted Gracie from her car seat. Gracie was now very much awake and excited by the snowflakes in the air. The first glow of dawn was turning the world, silvery blue, and in the child's eyes, it really was a winter wonderland. Mandy carried her to the front door, and was about to go for the spare key in her pocket when she noticed the broken handle and the plank of wood shoved in front of the door. What in the world? She shoved the board free and pushed the door open. Pops? What happened here? Did somebody try to break you in or? Mandy stepped inside, shivering, and pulled the door closed the best she could. The place was dark. Except for the Christmas lights over the bar, the stools and some of the tables had been shifted, and a pair of grungy orange garments lay heaped in a corner. Pops? She called out, setting Gracie on her feet, and taking hold of her hand. Did you see my test? There was no answer. Mandy started toward the back hall, but Gracie tugged on her hand. Gracie, come on, we got a shhh. Gracie insisted, hopping up and down on her feet excitedly. He's here with mommy. What? Delta! That isn't a problem! He, he, he! Mandy felt a chill run down her back. Mommy doesn't have time for this baby. He's white dear, behind you! Mandy sighed and turned around. Gracie, we really can't. Gracie wins as her mother released her hand and slumped to the floor. The girl's eyes wailed with tears. She didn't understand. S-santa? From the shadows, red B.D. eyes stared at her. Then the short fat man crept forward, dropping something heavy onto the floor. Gracie took a step backward. The man giggled and hopped over her mother's body. Gracie's bottom lip trembled. The Christmas lights the Gracie had helped grandpa hang up, reflected on the old man's bald head and in his unblinking eyes. Green, orange, red. S-santa? Nikolai's scarpe a nato licked his lips and raised his gnarled, wrinkled hands as he approached the child. The rule dribbled from his mouth and it was beard. He reached out, yellow fingernails scraping up her winter coat. He seized his hands around her neck and squeezed. Termets right hand seized both of Nikkie's wrists and jerked the man backward as his left hand reached around Gracie and lifted her up. He turned in place, cradling the child against his heaving chest and blocking her view of the demented cannibal and of her mother on the floor, beside the fire extinguisher with her blood dripping off its lower rim. For a moment, Gracie was stiff and wide eyed in his arms. Then she released a trembling cry and started to wriggle and kick. Dermott didn't let her go. He held her tight, his cheek against her curly hair, tears streaming down his face. She was safe. He had gotten there in time. She was safe. She was safe. He choked on a sob. His whole body shaking. Through the front door, which Dermott had smashed to pieces as he entered, footsteps sounded. Fits ran into view, clutching a stitch at his side, his hat gone, his pale face glistening with sweat. He stood in the doorway, wheezing. Through his lopsided glasses, he stared at Dermott and the child in his arms. Is she? Dermott looked over at him and so did Gracie. Grampa! Dermott exhaled and bent to set the girl down. She ran across the room and into Fitz's waiting arms. Oh, sweetheart! He sighed, clutching her to him. Oh, thank you, thank you, thank you. I know white Santa. I know one who come quips mis. He heard mommy. Fitz gasped and looked around the pub. Oh, Christ! Mandy! Dermott watched as Fitz carried his granddaughter and rushed to check the woman on the floor. She's, she's breathing! I gotta call an ambulance! He looked up at Dermott. I gotta call right now! Dermott nodded, swooning on his feet. He reached out a hand at the bar to study himself as the pub seemed to spin in his dizzy division. Swallowing thickly, Dermott looked around. For Nikki. His elderly cell made it scurryed over to hide under a table in the corner. Dermott could see his eyes glinting there and he could hear him whimpering softly, like a dog caught being naughty, ashamed but also annoyed, and having a treat taken away before he could bite and chew. I need an ambulance! Fitz yelled into his phone. The belly of pub on Warstreet, they'll double him, yeah! Hurry! He lowered the phone. Derm. Dermott turned and met his eyes. You still have time? Dermott glanced out the window. The morning was hazy and through the snow, the surface of the bay shone like an antique silver mirror. Promise me, you'll make it! Dermott breathed in and breathed out. He nodded, straightening up. He looked down at his body. The sweatpants were ripped and wet and the bathrobe was little more than threads. He stumbled over to the bench by the window, grabbed a blanket and tossed it over one shoulder. Then, moving back to Nikki's table, Dermott bent forward and gestured wearily for the man to come out. Nikki giggled, then he crawled out from the side and tried to scurry off behind the bar. Dermott reached out and caught him by the arm. No! Nikki pouted, but allowed himself to be picked up and held against Dermott's chest, like little Gracie had been. Dermott limped toward the door, winsing with each heavy step. For going outside, he looked back at young fits, but his old friend was busy, taking care of the ones he loved. Dermott held Nikki. He didn't want to do it in front of the pub, so he limped down the road, the bay on the right, the brick houses and shops on their left. Some of those houses were boarded up, but others had wreaths on the doors, icicle lights on the roof. He even had a Christmas tree shining brightly in the front window, with twinkling lights and balls and ornaments of every shape and color. Nikki got excited when he saw that, so Dermott halted, and turned to let his cellmate look at all the pretty colors. Nikki giggled. Dermott adjusted his grip, cradling Nikki's head in one arm, then opened his hand, and wrapped his fingers, snug, around the old man's skull. He had closed his eyes, and squeezed. Nikki lied just sepis carpinata was 85 years old. He had been born to a prominent mafia family in 1940. He was doded on by his mother, and beaten daily by his father, and abused often by a brother, a cousin, a teacher, and a priest. He witnessed his first murder when he was 8 years old. He committed his first murder at age 10. By the time he was finally caught, he had strangled 28 children, and cooked, and eaten 15 of them. He had spent the last 50 years behind bars, or he was hated by everyone. He had a recorded IQ of 40. And until he had been transferred to the tower at all Saints Federal Prison, and met his new cellmate, he had never had a friend, nor anyone in his life who had known what he was, and loved him anyway. Nikki loved Christmas. He loved to cook and to eat, and he loved Dermott, and he felt safe in the giant's arms. Dermott opened his eyes, and releasing a shaky breath. He lowered the headless body of the Christmas cannibal into the snowy street. Still bending low, he scooped up handfuls of the fresh snow from the curb, and used it to clean the blood in the brains and the filth from his hands. When he straightened up, sniffling, and unfolded the blanket on his shoulder. He used two fingers to poke a hole in its center, then put his head through the hole, and draped the blanket over himself like a poncho. He started forward again, allowing now, hugging his arms around his chest. It was very cold. From around the bend of the bay, the horn of a cargo ship blared out. He moved faster. During the wintery fog, the sun was rising fast, and Dermott had a ride to catch, and a promise to keep. Jasper dropped the glass blades to the ground. He stood up, panting, blood streaming from both his hands onto the snow around his final combatant. Looking around at the empty cars and the body strewn on the snowy pavement, he wiped the blood and sweat from his eyes with the back of his sleeve, then walked back to where the battle had started. Lieutenant Arlin Slager still lay on his back where Jasper had left him, now dusted with a centimeter of fresh snow. He was stiff and twitching, and Jasper could hear him breathing in weak, blood-gurgling little gasps. Jasper knelt beside him, and reached to check the officer's pants pocket. After a moment, he grinned, and held up Slager's car keys in front of his blue tinted face. Jasper rattled the keys. Slager's eyelids quivered and opened. Jasper leaned in close. I win. He stood up again, spinning the car keys on one finger, then raised one foot to rest the heel of his shoe on the handle of the knife in Slager's face. Slager moaned wetly. Jasper left him there, bleeding out in the snow, and walked to the parked car just up the road. He let out a low whistle. It was a 1987 Buick GNX sleek, black, powerful. Jasper pulled himself into the driver's seat, stifling a yawn, then put the keys in the ignition. The engine roared to life like a purring beast. Jasper sighed, his breath coming out as a cloud. During the car end to drive, he kicked at the gas. The wheels spun out on the ice for a second, then the car launched forward, swirving across the icy pavement. Jasper switched into second gear, jerking the wheel to drift around the next corner. He settled back in the leather seat, savoring the feel of the wheel beneath his stinging palms. He'd probably have to ditch the recognizable car and steal another at some point, but it would be hours before the fools looking for him, pieced together the chaotic chapter of his story that had taken place and little dublin' that night, and the role their corrupt compatriot slager had played in it. He sped from the city, driving through the snow and fog and into the hilly state park north of town. Jasper liked those woods. He used to go out there sometimes when he was younger. They were a good place to practice some killing and to clear his head. And right now, he had a lot of mental clearing to do. The future of the sundown slasher was uncertain, but the present did feel a lot better with the world whooshing by outside. And the vibration of the turbocharged V6 across his skin, like a full body massage. And hey, all in all, as far as birthdays went for Jasper David Rafe, this one? Not too shabby. When the shipping container doors were finally opened, the first things Dermott noticed were the smells of sea air and fresh soil in pine trees. He heard the splashing of the waves and the calling of sea birds. His legs were very stiff as he wriggled out and stood, blinking in the sunlight. The sky was blue and the day was brisk. The sea was at his back, a hilly countryside before him. An old man in rubber boots and a thick woolen sweater stood in the grass nearby, smoking a pipe. So then, the old man said, chewing the end of his pipe. You're the cousin I'm taking in, eh? Big lad, that's for sure. Well, I hope you're not expecting any grand nights outland. My farm is miles from the nearest village. There's plenty of work that'll need doing, but the animals and that, a bit of gardening, tis a quiet life, think that'll suit you son. Dermott McMurray, inhaled through his nostrils, letting in the fresh air, the corners of his mouth twitched in a soft smile. Grand, then we're off. The farmer turned and marched down a path through the pines and dermat followed, limping over mossy stones and ducking beneath branches as they wound their way up, up into those green hills.