Silent as the Dead

by Scott Hunter

  The car. The car. Oh God. Oh God, no, please God, no …

  A lorry sounded its horn, jolting Moran back to the present. He moved over, the lorry overtook. The driver glared. He raised his hand apologetically. Coffee. That’s what he needed. Moran opened the window. Cool, diesel-laced air circulated and he breathed it in deeply.

  Get a grip, Moran. You’re not even there yet …

  He pulled over at the next café and bought a bitter, cheap coffee. He sat in the window, watched the rain. Even now, thirty-five years later, it was still too soon to come home.

  ‘You’re looking well, Brendan. The years have been kind,’ Donal Hannigan said, handing Moran a half-filled tumbler of Irish. ‘I mean it. England must suit you.’

  Moran accepted the glass and raised it. ‘You’re not looking so bad yourself, Donal. Good health.’

  ‘And to you.’ Donal raised his glass in response. He was a thick-set, ruddy-faced man of around Moran’s own age. A life in hill farming had hardened him to the elements and he carried little excess weight. His hair was grey, but thick and abundant, as was his beard, which he wore longer than Thames Valley fashion would prescribe. ‘My only trouble is the knee,’ he told Moran. ‘But I’ll have a little op soon to put that right. When all this is blown over.’

  ‘Tell me what happened,’ Moran said. ‘Everything you can remember from your last few conversations with Aine.’

  The fire sparked in the grate as Donal began to speak, hesitantly at first and then, as he warmed to his theme, more confidently. He spoke about his relationship with his wife, the early years when strong opinions and optimistic idealism had prompted many an explosive argument – when political passion had all but wrecked their passion for each other. But things had mellowed with the passing of time and inevitably the demands of a young family had prompted a reprioritisation. Old contacts fell by the wayside. The farm prospered. Ireland moved on, and the Hannigans moved with it.

  ‘The thing is, Brendan,’ Donal said, placing his empty glass carefully on the polished occasional table next to his armchair, ‘she’s been so happy these last few years.’ Donal shook his head. ‘I can’t see that she would have any reason to just up and … leave, as she’s done.’

  ‘From what I remember of Aine, she always knew her own mind,’ Moran said. ‘So if there were problems, issues, whatever, once she’d made a decision she’d more than likely–’

  ‘–We’re all right, Brendan,’ Donal interrupted. ‘Let’s get that straight. The two of us. Now the kids are grown and doing their own thing – well, not Padraig, maybe – we get on just fine. The only stuff we argue about these days is whether to watch Gogglebox or Strictly.’

  Moran laughed. ‘I wouldn’t know what either of those are, Donal. Look, I don’t want to pry but you’ve asked me here for a specific reason. The Gardai have come up with zilch …’ Moran spread his hands. ‘So, I just need to know, well, how things are, that’s all.’

  Donal nodded. ‘Sure. I’m a little over-sensitive just now, as you can imagine.’

  ‘It’s been over three weeks?’

  ‘Twenty-four days.’

  Moran nodded. Donal suddenly looked tired, worn out. He was a year younger than Moran but recent events had clearly taken their toll.

  ‘Hello?’ The lounge door swung open.

  ‘Padraig – you’re back.’ Donal was on his feet. ‘Here’s the lad keeping the wolf from the door.’ Donal smiled broadly. ‘Padraig, this is my very old friend, Brendan Moran.’

  Moran extended his hand.

  Padraig’s grip was dry and firm. ‘The policeman. Da told me he called for you.’

  ‘I’m here as a friend, Padraig,’ Moran said.

  ‘Sure you are. You’re going to find out what happened to Ma when the Gardai have been over every inch of this county and found nothin’?’

  ‘Padraig–’ Donal began.

  Moran raised his hand. ‘It’s all right. You’ve had a stressful time, I understand.’

  ‘Oh, you do?’

  ‘Padraig, please–’

  ‘I hear you’re doing a grand job on the farm,’ Moran said as Donal placed a pacifying hand on his son’s shoulder.

  Padraig shrugged. ‘Nothing that Da hasn’t been doing for a lifetime.’

  ‘You’re damn good at it, Padraig. You’ve a better feel for it than I ever had.’ Donal clapped his son on the arm. Padraig was an inch or two taller than his father, with reddish brown hair as thick and abundant as Donal’s. As Moran had feared there was more than a trace of his late aunt in the contours of the young man’s face, something about the way his mouth turned up slightly at the corners, the almost delicate flare of his nostrils, the colour of his eyes, somewhere between grey and green …

  Padraig moved towards the door. ‘I’ll away and put the quad to bed for the night. I’ll not be wanting any tea, Da. I’ll be at O’Neil’s if you want me.’

  The door closed and Padraig was gone. Moran heard the roar of the quad bike’s engine receding into the distance.

  ‘I’m sorry.’ Donal stood by the fireplace, empty tumbler in hand. ‘He’s taken Aine’s disappearance hard. He’s looking for someone to blame. And that’ll be me.’ Donal covered his eyes and lowered his head. His mouth formed a thin line. After a moment he said, ‘Hell. I’m sorry.’

  Moran took Donal’s shoulders and gripped them firmly. ‘Listen to me, Donal. We’ll get to the bottom of this, I promise. I’ll have a wee wander about tomorrow; maybe I’ll hear things you’re not party to. Now come away into that fine kitchen of yours and I’ll show you how to make a mixed grill you’ll remember for years to come.’

  Donal ran a hand through his hair, took a steadying breath and grinned. ‘For all the right reasons, I’m hoping.’

  Moran encouraged the laughter that followed, all the more so because he knew it was unlikely to last.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Moran woke suddenly. For a brief moment he had no idea where he was, but the wooden beams above his bed provided the first clue and the gentle lowing of a cow outside the small window the second. He’d slept well, a pleasant surprise.

  Moran lay on his back and wondered where to begin. Locally was the obvious answer. The outskirts; the outer strands of the spider’s web. He knew from experience that it only required a small agitation of the appropriate thread to bring the bigger insect – or insects – scuttling. The trick was not to be stuck in place when they did.

  He eased himself into an upright position with a short groan and performed the daily leg massage routine before committing his weight to the bare boards of the guest bedroom. He’d managed to wean himself off the stick a few months back, contrary to his physio’s advice, but then Moran had never been much good at taking advice. Besides, it felt better not having to rely upon what DI Charlie Pepper laughingly referred to as his third leg. Nearly three years had passed since the explosion at Charnford Abbey which had almost claimed his life. It didn’t seem possible. Where had the time gone?

  Into the dustbin of history, Brendan my lad. That’s where it all goes …

  Downstairs he found a note from Donal explaining how best to use various kitchen appliances and letting him know that he and Padraig would be out for most of the day. Moran also found a table laid for breakfast and a cosy atmosphere courtesy of the ancient range, the heart of the farmhouse. Moran remembered sitting in almost this exact spot when the farm had belonged to Donal’s late parents. The ghosts of those earlier generations, of which he had been a part, moved quietly around him, their spirits as tangible as the farmhouse walls. There was Mrs Hannigan, apron-clad by the range, stirring a home-made stock and toasting muffins for the teenagers. Over there was young Donal, and next to him his sisters, Geileis and Janice, while over there by the back door Moran himself had lingered, the awkwardness of adolescence tripping his tongue.

  ‘Are youse comin’ in or stayin’ out in the cold, young Brendan?’ Mrs Hannigan teased.

  ‘I’m comin’ in, if that’s all r
ight, Mrs H,’ Moran heard himself speak aloud.

  ‘I’m thinkin’ young Janice’ll be pleased to hear that, so I am,’ Mrs Hannigan’s ghost replied.

  Moran sat at the table and allowed the images to disperse in their own time. Pinching the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger he squeezed his eyes tightly shut.

  Come on, Brendan, keep it together…

  He helped himself to a slice of bread which he then set about toasting by means of the intriguingly designed range toaster. Pleased with the results, he fried an egg to go with it. A pot of fresh coffee had already been prepared and he helped himself to two mugs in quick succession. Pleasantly caffeinated, he sat at the broad breakfast table and considered his itinerary.

  It was time to agitate the first thread.

  The path down to the beach was a cross between a walk and a skate; loose stones beneath his feet and the restrictions of a damaged leg made Moran question the wisdom of his descent on several balance-challenging occasions. But he wanted to feel the wind on his face, to assess the land from the shore, order his thoughts – the beach seemed a good starting point. The path petered out and he found himself on even ground. The beach was deserted, the tide coming in. He walked past rocky outcrops onto an expanse of sand slicked with pools of sky-reflecting saltwater. The temperature was moderate, a mild autumn for the wild west coast.

  It was a haunted landscape, and it was all too easy to believe the local legends and mysteries, of which there were many. The story of Jenny MacLennan came to mind. She had lived on this very stretch of coastline with her invalid husband, he a shell-shocked veteran of the First World War, she a front-line nurse traumatised by her experiences of the Western Front. Here, apparently, amid the beauty and tranquillity, she had cold-bloodedly murdered her friend, Orla Benjamin, the wife of a senior war cabinet official. MacLennan had protested her innocence right up to the end, however, citing the ghost of a long-dead landowner as the perpetrator of a crime which had fascinated and horrified the nation in equal measure. And then there had been the policeman – Keene? Keefe, was it? – who had disappeared under mysterious circumstances whilst continuing to pursue the murder investigation post-retirement. He had apparently never believed Jenny MacLennan capable of murder, and had spent the last years of his life in an obsessive quest to find the truth.

  A haunted landscape, indeed…

  Moran dug his hands deeper into his coat pockets and looked out to sea where the humps of the Blasket Islands rose from the water like a school of primeval monsters. Uninhabited since the late Fifties, the islands were raw and inhospitable. You could get a ferry over to have a look, if you fancied it. Maybe he’d do that later in the week. Beyond Great Blasket, one or two grey hulls broke the distant line of the horizon – passing trade from America no doubt, en route to who-knew-where. This coastline had seen them all; Viking warships, Spanish Armada remnants, wallowing oil tankers, distant convoys, U-boats, ships which just disappeared…

  Like the policeman.

  Like Aine Hannigan…

  He walked along the line of the incoming tide, maintaining a short distance from the foaming water, and thought about Aine. Strong-minded, fiery, self-sufficient. Capable. Not the disappearing type. Abducted then? Or absconded with a lover? Both unlikely scenarios. Donal and Aine were, although an odd match in some ways, devoted to each other – as far as he knew. And, as Donal had told him last night, all was well between them. Apparently.

  The church was visible from his wide vantage point on the beach, as he had known it would be. The old stone building had changed little, although closer inspection would no doubt reveal that its proximity to the shore and commanding view of the sea came at a price. Wind, rain and the passage of time would keep the masons at their never-ending task of restoration. But still it stood, defiant against the elements and the indifference of younger generations. Moran felt his feet reluctantly change direction towards the tiny path which led from the beach to the churchyard, hidden from view from where he stood, but never hidden from his thoughts.

  By the time he reached the gate he was out of breath and his leg was aching. He paused for a moment to settle his thoughts as well as his heart. An elderly lady was attending to some horticultural task by the porch and he nodded a silent greeting as he passed. She looked up and met his gaze and for a moment they were two souls in empathy. She too had loved and lost, and it was plain to Moran that her task was one which she undertook not only as a willing member of the church community, but also because it allowed her to spend time in close proximity to the earthly remains of her loved one.

  He walked slowly now, following the route he had taken the first time – on the day of her funeral. Janice’s grave was tucked in the far right-hand corner, beneath the shadow of the high wall but facing west, out to the wind and the open sea. She would have liked the location. It was peaceful and quiet, yet at the same time encapsulated some sense of agelessness. Moran wouldn’t have described himself as religious, but from time to time, given the right location, the possibility of something greater than himself, higher than his own thoughts and perceptions, seemed inescapable.

  It had been years since he had stood on this spot, but he remembered how he had felt at the time.

  And nothing had changed.

  He bent and scratched the moss from one or two letters which were missing their inlay. Worn or stolen? Moran couldn’t understand how anyone could pinch lead or gold plate from a gravestone. The plot was tidy nonetheless; Donal would be a frequent visitor, and no doubt Geileis paid her respects from time to time. Moran got down on his haunches, but soon sank forward until he was kneeling, palms pressed flat on the mound. The inscription blurred before him:

  Janice Hannigan

  B. 2nd January 1954

  D. 11th April 1974

  A loving daughter, a faithful sister

  Here was Janice, his Janice. And who could say if they would ever be reunited in some future existence? He found himself speaking aloud. ‘I’m here. I’m always here. Forever. You and me. Always, always, always.’ He breathed in, then slowly out. How could this have happened? How could she be dead? How could the perpetrators of such a crime walk the earth? How could they live, laugh? How could they endure, when he had been consigned to this hopeless, grief-bound existence? He lowered his head until his forehead touched the grass.

  It was only when the wind got up, carrying fresh rain with it, that he eventually roused himself and made his way back along the path between the stones.

  He looked at his watch. Nearer to midday than not, which meant that the local bars would be open for trade. He couldn’t think of a better opening gambit than to start there, the hubs of the local community. Right now Moran was thirsty and there were questions to be asked. Subtly, of course, but asked nonetheless.

  As he headed back the way he had come, he wondered how long it would take the Passat’s occupants to catch up with him. He had intended to mention it to Donal last night, but something had held him back. Instinct, probably.

  And instinct was something that rarely let him down.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  ‘A pint of black, is it?’

  ‘That’ll be right,’ Moran nodded. ‘And a round of chicken sandwiches, please.’

  ‘No problem, sir. Be five minutes or so.’ The barman drew the dark, treacly beer with care and presented it to Moran with a practised flourish. ‘Good health to you.’

  Moran raised his glass. ‘And to you and yours.’

  ‘You’ve a familiar look about you,’ the barman said. ‘Wait, don’t tell me.’ He stroked his chin. ‘Come on now,’ he said, countermanding his own directive seconds later, ‘help me out, would you?’

  Moran smiled. He’d already recognised a face from the distant past. Jerry O’Donaghue. Older, but recognisable, nonetheless.

  ‘Oh my goodness!’ Jerry’s puzzled expression gave way to surprise. ‘You know me too, I can see that!’ He clicked his fingers. ‘Merciful saints. If it isn’t Brendan M
oran himself, in the flesh.’

  ‘Hello Jerry. It’s been a long time.’

  ‘It’s been a hell of a long time.’ Jerry reached over the bar and pumped his hand. ‘Wait a second – I’ll get the girl to do your sandwich.’ He disappeared to the rear and Moran heard him issuing instructions. He was back in an instant, found himself a glass and banged it against one of the optics. ‘Slainte! Now tell me; what in the name of all that’s good brings you back to this god-forsaken place?’

  ‘I had a call from Donal.’

  Jerry’s face clouded. ‘Ah yes. Of course.’ He shook his head and a strand of thinning hair fell across his forehead. He brushed it back absently, a gesture he probably made a thousand times a day. ‘Terrible thing. Strange, too. She’s a fine woman, is Aine.’

  ‘D’you keep in touch with Donal?’ Moran sipped his stout.

  ‘Brendan, you know as well as I do it’s hard not to keep in touch with folk out here. There’s not a lot going on I don’t get to hear about.’

  ‘That’s what I thought.’

  Jerry drained his glass and helped himself to another. The kitchen door opened and an attractive girl with shoulder-length auburn hair placed a plate of chicken sandwiches in front of Moran, smiled shyly, and scurried back to her duties. Moran heard low voices and a burst of female laughter.