Free There Are Little Kingdoms by Kevin Barry

thimble in his hand. It would go through you, if you were unfortunate enough to be in any way soft-natured.
    He follows the creek, goes past the factory, and the creek begins to quicken once it rounds the bend that leaves Mungret behind. Ahead of him on the pathway there’s a distraction. On the last high bank of the creek there are some boys gathered and as he approaches them he grows wary because he can see the shimmer of their gold in the afternoon sun. They wear streaks in their hair and dress shirts in bright colours. They have alert brows and startled eyes. There are six of them, no, seven, there’s eight of them, count, nine? Travellers.
    ‘Story, boss?’
    ‘What’s the story, big man?’
    ‘Some size of a creature we’ve on our hands here, boys. Look it!’
    They stand in a half-circle to block the pathway but they keep switching position, they keep dancing around the place, it’s as though they’re on coals, and their voices have hoarse urgency.
    ‘Where you headed, sir?’
    ‘Are you headed for the hills, I’d say?’
    ‘Come here I wancha? Where do they keep you, do they keep you in a home?’
    ‘What brings you out this way, sir? And what size are you at all, hah? If you don’t mind me asking, like. You must be seven foot tall?’
    ‘Tell me this and tell me no more. What size is the man below? The women must think it’s Leopardstown.’
    ‘Now listen,’ says Foley. ‘That’s the kind of talk I won’t abide.’
    ‘It has a tongue!’
    ‘Ah come here now and go easy. Where do you live, fella? Are you inside in the city? Are the Health Board looking after you?’
    They move in closer, and the talk changes to a confiding tone.
    ‘Listen. You’d do us a turn, hey? You see what it is, we’re short a few yo-yo for a game of pitch ‘n’ putt below in Mungret.’
    ‘Pitch ‘n’ putt my eye,’ says Foley. ‘You fellas are no more playing pitch ‘n’ putt.’
    ‘You’re calling us liars?’
    A leader emerges. He spreads his arms like he’s nailed to a cross and he looks to the sky in great noble suffering and he bellows from deep:
    ‘Hold on, boys!’
    It should have been obvious who the leader was. His shirt is of the richest purple and his hair is the most vivaciously streaked. His gold shimmers in the sun and he slaps a stick off the ground.
    ‘Hold on, boys. What we’re dealing with here is no old fool. You’re right, sir. We are having nothing at all to do with the pitch ‘n’ putt. Truth be known, there is a tragedy we’re dealing with. Martin here—the runt—Martin’s mother is laid out below in Pallasgreen. Misfortunate Kathleen! God rest her and preserve her and all belongin’ to her. And the situation we’re after been landed in, through no fault of our own, we’re short the few euro to wake her right. So help us out there, boss, will yuh? Martin is in a bad way.’
    ‘I’m bad, sir,’ says Martin. ‘I am bad now. And I guarantee you there’ll be prayers said.’
    ‘Shush now,’ says the leader, and again he slaps the stick off the ground, but Foley just smiles.
    ‘Out of my way, gentlemen,’ he says. ‘I’m going to walk on through.’
    The leader slaps the stick again and exhales powerfully through his nose.
    ‘We’re not getting through to you, hey? Put your hand in the pocket there and help us out, like.’
    They dance around him again, they swap and jostle with each other, they have terrible static in them, but Foley doesn’t move, and Foley doesn’t speak. The leader comes a step closer.
    ‘Who the fuck do you think you are?’
    Foley smiles.
    ‘Look,’ he says. ‘We’re off on a bad footing. Can we not be civilised? Can we not calm ourselves? Look. I’ll tell you what. Will you shake my hand?’
    The leader smiles. Negotiations have been smoothed. He opens his face to Foley. He is a reasonable person.
    ‘Of course,’ he says. ‘Of course I’ll shake.’
    Foley closes his hand softly around the boy’s hand then and a cold quiver