The Dying of the Light. Derek Landy

he says.

      They wait, but he offers nothing more. The old man, Gant, widens his smile. “And where do you hail from, Danny? Are you a native of Meek Ridge?”

      “I am.”

      “That must have been marvellous, to have been raised in such beauteous surroundings. I myself cannot remember a town with such natural charm. Can you, Mr Wallow?”

      “I cannot,” says Jeremiah.

      “You have lived here all your life, then?” Gant asks Danny. “You have watched the comings and goings of your friends and neighbours? And this being, in fact, the General Store, situated as it is on the main thoroughfare, I doubt there is anything, or indeed anyone, that escapes your notice for very long, now is there?”

      Danny waits for him to get to the point.

      “I dare say you hear an awful lot of accents, do you not?” Gant says. “Accents and dialects and brogues and burrs. What’s your favourite? Do you have one? I personally have always been partial to the Scots accent. It’s the way they roll their r’s. Do you have a preference, Danny my boy?”

      “Not really.”

      “No? No favourite? What about you, Mr Wallow? Or may I call you Jeremiah?”

      “I insist on it,” says Jeremiah. “And I would say, if asked, which you have, that out of all the accents in all the world, Irish is my favourite, what with me being a Boston boy.”

      Gant claps his hands. “Irish! Yes! Oh, those beautiful lilts and those soft t’s, every word an event unto itself. I knew an Irishman once – he could charm the birds out of a bush, as the saying goes, and it was all down to that accent. What do you think of the Irish accent, Danny?”

      Danny works very hard to keep his expression neutral. “Don’t have much of an opinion on it.”

      “You don’t?” says Gant. “Well, my boy, in that case, you need to listen to an Irish person speak in order to form one. What are we without our opinions, after all? When was the last time you heard an Irish person speak?”

      Gant looks at him, all smiles, while Jeremiah’s eyebrows are raised in a gently quizzical manner.

      “Guess it was the last time I saw a Liam Neeson movie,” Danny says.

      Gant waves his hand dismissively. “Movies hardly count. Real life, now that is the only experience worth having. When was the last time you heard an Irish person speak in real life?”

      “Years ago,” Danny says. “Probably when I was in LA. Don’t really remember.”

      Gant’s smile fades a little. “I see.”

      “No Irish around here?” Jeremiah asks.

      Danny shakes his head.

      “No Irish girls?” Jeremiah says. “Irish women? You sure?”

      “Meek Ridge doesn’t have a whole lot to offer,” says Danny. “We don’t get many people moving in. We usually get people moving out.”

      “And you say,” presses Gant, “no Irish?”

      “Nope.”

      “Well … that is odd.”

      “You were expecting some?” asks Danny.

      “Expecting one,” says Gant. “Friend of mine. Niece, actually. Dark hair. Tall. Pretty. Kind of girl you’d remember.”

      “What’s her name?”

      Gant smiles again. “Thank you for your time, Danny, but I must be going. Jeremiah, might I offer you a lift?”

      “That would be most kind,” says Jeremiah, trailing after the old man as he walks from the store.

      They leave, and the bell tinkles, and silence rushes in.