BUTTE, MONTANA 1891
ONE
The First Encounter
On Wyoming Street in the evening a patent Irish stumbled by, some crazy old meathead in a motley of rags and filthy buck-skin, wild tufts of hair sticking out the ears, the eyes burning now like hot stars, now clamped shut in a kind of ecstasy, and he lurched and tottered on broken boots like a nightmare overgrown child, like some massive obliterated eejit child, and he sang out his wares in a sweet clear lilting –
Pot-ay-toes?
Hot po-tay-toes?
Hot pot-ah-toes a pe-nny?
His verse swung across the raw naked street and back again, and was musical, but he had no potatoes at all. Tom Rourke turned and looked after the man with great feeling. To be old and mad and forgotten on the mountain – was it all laid out the fuck ahead of him?
*
It was the October again. Rourke himself approached the street at this hour in suave array and manic tatters. He was nine years climbing the slow hill of Wyoming Street and there was not a single medal pinned to his chest for it. In the evening sun the East Ridge glowed sombre and gold and an ignorant wind brought news of the winter. He was appalled at the charismatic light. He marched into the cold wind. He gave out yards to himself. He rejected once more the possibility of God. His body was tense and his mind abroad. He was turned first one way, now the other. He walked as calamity. He walked under Libra. He was living all this bullshit from the inside out. Oh, he scathed himself and harangued and to his own feet flung down fresh charges. But there were dreams of escape, too – one day you could ride south on a fine horse for the Monida Pass.
In truth he was often a bit shaky at the hour of dusk and switchable of mood but there was more to it this evening. Somehow his dreams were taking on contour and heft, and the odd stirrings that he felt were deep and premonitory, as at the approach of a dangerous fate.
Now a train eerily whistled as it entered the yards of the Union Pacific and he was twitching like a motherfucker out of control.
Shortlist for the Walter Scott Prize 2025
THE HEART IN WINTER by Kevin Barry (Canongate)
THE MARE by Angharad Hampshire (Northodox Press)
THE BOOK OF DAYS by Francesca Kay (Swift Press)
GLORIOUS EXPLOITS by Ferdia Lennon (Fig Tree)
THE LAND IN WINTER by Andrew Miller (Sceptre)
THE SAFEKEEP by Yael van der Wouden (Viking)
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I loved the Night Boat to Tangier!