Free The Riders by Tim Winton

God’s truth. The only end some things have is the end you give em. Now listen to me goin on in your ear like a radio.’
    Scully waved his apology aside. ‘You’re a good brother to him.’
    â€˜There’s a grand singin pub over to Shinrone I’m goin to tomorrow night. Why don’t ye come with me and we’ll celebrate your last night as an Irish bachelor.’
    Scully squinted, hesitating. He felt as reluctant as a hermit, and foolish for feeling so.
    â€˜Come on, Scully, be a divil!’
    â€˜Okay,’ he smiled. ‘Thanks.’
    Scully stood in the blue cloud the AN POST van left behind and heard Pete go crashing gears through the village. He stampedhis feet and heard girls squealing behind him. The little van suddenly braked on the hill, U-turned and came whinnying back. Pete pulled in again, blushing fiercely and shoved an arm out the window.
    â€˜Knew I stopped by for somethin. Telegram, Scully.’
    He opened it while Pete drove off again.
    SETTLEMENT THROUGH. CONFIRMED AE46 SHANNON SUNDAY MORNING. JENNIFER.
    He stuffed it in his pocket and stood uncertainly there by the school, imagining them suddenly here with him. His hands shook. And then he realized – the bastard had read it. Peter knew before be did. Country life!
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    S ATURDAY NIGHT S CULLY SHAVED and pulled on his best jeans, his roo-skin boots and a black pullover. From the tin trunk in the Transit he pulled the sleek black greatcoat bought one day in Place Monge in the desperate days of Paris. Four hundred francs secondhand. He shook his head even now at the thought. He’d worked hard for that coat. He brushed it down by the hearth and hung it up a while to air while he scrubbed his teeth with iron concentration. Scully, he thought, you look like a convict. You confirm every Englishman’s deep and haughty suspicion. You can’t help the face, but for goodness’ sake get a haircut.
    He stoked the fire and loaded it with turf, and then gathered up the house keys, big medieval things, that felt heavy as a revolver in his pocket.
    He read the crumpled telegram again. CONFIRMED, SUNDAY . The paper lay pale and odd on the scrubbed pine table, casting shadows from the firelight across the wood.
    He thought of the night they bought this place. When he woke in the wide musty room above Davy Finneran’s pub to see Jennifer standing naked at the window, lit by the neon of the chipper across the street as the last drinkers rolled home down the street. Her body was dark from the Greek sun. The bed held the scent of their sex. Billie slept on a sofa by the door, her limbs every which way. Scully didn’t move for a while. He lay in the hammocky bed, his mouth dry from celebrating. He just watched her over by the window as the church bells tolled. Her shoulders twitched; she sniffed. Scully loved her. He was not going home, he would never see his house and all his stuff again, but he loved her and she must know it. She wiped her eyes, wiped them and turned, startled to see him awake.
    â€˜A . . . a dream,’ she whispered.
    But she seemed not to have even been to sleep.
    â€˜You alright?’
    She nodded.
    â€˜Come to bed.’
    For a moment, her body suddenly graven, she hesitated before padding across to him. She was cold, almost clammy against him.
    â€˜I’m sorry,’ she murmured.
    â€˜About a dream?’
    Her breath was warm against his shoulder. He held her to him and slept.
    Now Scully heard the Renault labour up the hill. He stoked the fire and switched out the light and went outside to meet Peter.
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    P ETE-THE -P OST DROVE THEM slowly through the gathering rain to Shinrone, passing the half-pint of Bushmills to Scullynow and then who sipped and watched the tunnel the headlights made between the hedges and stone walls.
    â€˜That’s a grand coat.’
    â€˜Bought it in