The doorbell’s ring was ten times louder this time.

“Gas company,” came a Dublin accent. “Anybody home here?”

Mulhall picked up his underpants and jeans on his way to the window. He got his second leg in as he inched the curtain away from the wall. The white van out on the road was open, and there were tools and pipes on the bed of it. An average looking joe in overalls was setting up a workmate by the curb.

“I don’t know anything about this, Darren-”

“Shut up a minute, will you.”

He realized that he was shaking, and that she could see it.

“They look okay,” she said. “Don’t they?”

“I’ll decide that,” he said.

He put the pistol on the bed, and leaned his back against the wall while he pulled on his jeans. A cool head, and a dry pants, he thought. Overreacting was the worst thing to do.

“Give me me Nikes there. No — no socks.”

His T-shirt was on the chest of drawers.

“Me phone,” he said. “Were you using it?”

She shook her head, but her eyes stayed on the pistol.

“No, no. I don’t think I did.”

“Go back downstairs. Tell him you’re coming.”

She seemed paralyzed. Her eyes moved from the pistol and back to him. He swore and shoved her toward the door. He tried to keep in step with her as she descended the stairs, whispering.

“Tell him you’re coming, I said.”

She pulled at the belt of her dressing gown, losing one end. He laid his arm on her shoulder, with the pistol pointed at the hall door. He felt her start when she saw it.

“Jesus, Darren, what’s the need of that?”

Her voice was strained with the panic.

“Just keep going, will you.”

He looked down the hallway. Martin had set up an escape route when they moved in here three or four years ago, and one night last summer he had shown Mulhall the setup, his master plan of getting out in a hurry.