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Ned Strange!
    It was the very first time I'd witnessed his anger and seen the depths of which he was capable. I was in no hurry to see it
     again. Even now I shudder, thinking of it. He had happened to come upon the old book by accident. It was an ancient and decrepit
     volume, sickeningly musty. His voice was trembling as he turned its sodden pages. I could just about make out the title beneath
     his thumb, lettered in flaking gold leaf. The Heart's Enchantment, it read.
    — Look!, he spat, his fucking name is on it. 'John Olson'. He gave it to her as a present, the miserable fucking whore. I knew I wasn't
     wrong. I wasn't wrong about Annamarie Gordon!
    It was the first time he'd ever mentioned Olson in my company. John Olson was a local man who'd made his fortune in the US.
    —He thought he owned the place, he went on, used to drive around in this big fancy limousine Cadillac. You shoulda seen that
     conceited face. I've decided to honour you with my presence. So you can count yourselves lucky. You can count yourselves lucky,
     mongrel scum. That's what Olson was thinking to himself. That's what that look of his was saying, Redmond. Look at me - so what do you think? Am I king of the mountain or am I not? Are you lucky or not to have me home? O Slievenageeha, I think
     that you are. I think that you are very fortunate indeed. And I should know. After all, I'm Mr John. I'm Mr John fucking Olsonl
    He scrunched the stogie beneath the heel of his boot.
    —Cunt, he said. Cunt and hoor: I'd as lief have cut his throat. As true as I'm standing here in my own fucking kitchen. Do
     you hear me, Redmond? Are you listening to me, boy?
    I kept hoping against hope that his mood would change - as it so often did, without any warning. That he'd, out of nowhere,
     erupt into laughter, insisting then that it had all been a joke.
    He didn't, however. He just stood there in silence, picking at the damp book as it disintegrated in his hands. Staring, with
     a fierce and deeply troubling tenacity of purpose, at the blurred italicised signature: 'To Annamarie from John Olson with
     love, Slievenageeha 1963'.
    I began to dread hearing John Olson's name. But whether I did or whether I didn't didn't seem to amount to a whole lot of
     consequence.
    —I'm not sorry for what I done to him, he'd bawl. That was why I went to America, Redmond. They think I didn't go. They think
     I never went near the States. That's what they say. That's what they'll tell you down in the pub. That's what he told you
     that first night. I know. I heard him. Auld Ned would never be able to do the like of that. He'd never ever stray beyond these
     hills. These hills are his home, the only home he knows.
    He hissed:
    —But that's where they're wrong. For Ned did stray. He did go to America. He went there - and a lot of other places too. But they'll never know, the ignorant fools.
    I tried to come up with an excuse to get out. But it was as if he was defying me to do exactly that. He persisted with his
     monologue. I had never heard anything quite so venomous, even from his mouth. I shifted uneasily in the chair. He looked at
     me accusingly.
    —You want to say something. To me. What is it you want to say, Redmond?
    —You said you did something — to John Olson, I said. What was it you did, Ned?
    —I hurt him bad. I cut him with a blade. No I didn't. I beat him. I beat him to within an inch of his life. That's what I
     did to Olson the snake, Redmond.
    His eyes filled up with loathing. I caught a glimpse of my ashen face in the window.
    —Why did you have to do that? I asked him.
    It sounded stupid. I can see that now. I ought to have said nothing.
    He teased his beard and then, all of a sudden, snapped:
    — Why? Did I hear you say why, Redmond? Because he deserved it, you stupid cunt! He deserved it on account of him and my Annamarie!
    It was as if all the shadows in the room had suddenly decided to converge on my chair. As though, collectively, to pose that