by Scott Hunter
‘Pay no attention.’ Jerry winked. ‘A new face is always worth a comment or two.’
Moran nodded through a mouthful of chicken sandwich. It wasn’t bad; a bit heavy on the mayonnaise, but tasty enough. Jerry rattled on between slugs of whiskey.
‘Donal’s a worry, right enough,’ the barman said. ‘He wants to sell up, but Padraig’s not for it. The boy’s good at the job, y’know. But between you and me Brendan, Donal had something better in mind for the lad. Somethin’ better than bein’ up to your neck in sheep shit all day long.’
Moran sipped his stout and the flavour hit his palate like a time bomb, the memories crowding his mind, jostling for attention. The five of them: himself, Donal, Aine, Geileis and Janice – five teenagers on the cusp of change. For Moran the months ahead would see his entry into the Gardai as a cadet. Geileis would head off to London and university. Janice would begin her studies in Cork. Donal and Aine would be married within two years. But for now, for these moments, they were carefree, young, full of life, enthusiasm and the future.
‘You all right, Brendan? You look a wee bit pale, sure you do.’
Moran shook his head. ‘I’m fine. Just being here brings it all back.’
Jerry nodded sagely. ‘I’m sure it does. Where does the time go, eh?’ He finished his whiskey with a flourish.
‘So you know that Aine’s missing.’ Returning to the subject, Moran finished the last of his sandwich and wiped his mouth with a napkin.
Jerry found some glasses to polish and set to work with a grubby tea towel. ‘Like I said, it’s hard not to know what’s going on locally.’
‘Any ideas? Donal’s all over the place. He just can’t square it with how things have been these last years. They’ve been fine together, he tells me.’
Jerry avoided eye contact, focused on his polishing. ‘Well, well. I can’t say for sure when I last saw Aine, that’s God’s honest truth. She keeps – kept – herself to herself. Donal too. I mean, he’s always busy up at the farm. Semi-retired, he says, but he’s always up to something.’
‘But she’s not really the leaving type, Jerry, is she?’ Moran was doing his own re-focusing, nudging Jerry back on track.
‘Well you see, I just don’t know the lady well enough anymore, Brendan.’ Jerry paused for a second, glass in hand, tea towel poised.
‘Come on, Jerry. You hear things all the time. You must have formed an opinion.’
Jerry leaned over the bar, voice lowered. ‘I have a quiet life here, Brendan. I’d like to keep it that way. If you get my meaning.’
Moran took a deep pull of stout and set his glass down on the bar’s scarred wooden surface with a firm clunk which made Jerry blink. He held the barman’s gaze.
‘I’m here to find out what happened, Jerry. I could use a friend or two. I need to know I can count on you. Feathers are going to be ruffled a little, but I can’t help that. Now I’m asking – for old time’s sake – can I count on you?’
Jerry pursed his thin lips and looked at the floor. The sound of clanking pans and female voices drifted into the bar from the kitchen. A local came in with a gust of rain and nodded briefly before taking a stool at the opposite end of the bar.
‘Jerry.’ Moran kept his voice low. ‘I was followed from the moment I drove away from the ferry. Two guys, driving a black Passat. I left them east of Youghal but they’ll get here eventually, if they’re not here already. Any idea who they might be?’
The barman gave him a look and moved off to serve the other customer. When he came back his expression had changed from evasive bonhomie to one which Moran recognised at once. There was no mistaking the branding of fear stamped across the man’s face.
‘Not here, Brendan.’ His voice was little more than a whisper. ‘Not with the girls working out the back and my locals coming and going. Meet me tonight at Geileis’ cottage and I’ll tell you what I know.’
‘Geileis is here?’ Moran was stunned. ‘I thought she lived in London?’
Jerry shook his head. ‘Her husband died three years ago. She came home.’
‘Donal never said… My god, I’m amazed. Geileis, of all people …’
‘Back of the high street, up the hill near the church. You’ll see it on the right. Blue gate. Seven o’clock.’
Jerry turned his back on Moran and went into the kitchen. Five minutes later he still hadn’t reappeared, so Moran gave a brief nod to the bar’s only other customer and left.
Set slightly back from the lane on the gentle slope leading away from the village, the cottage was easy enough to find. Moran unlatched the blue gate and ducked under low branches to the front door. He found himself hesitating on the threshold.
Geileis. It had been so long. Too long. Moran was seized by a sudden panic. The impulse to turn and walk back the way he had come was almost overwhelming. Before he could change his mind he took the tarnished brass knocker in his hand and gave two sharp raps.
And waited, heart bumping in his chest.
The sound of footsteps, but not from within. He turned in time to see a woman of around his age appear at the corner of the cottage, carrying a wicker gardening basket in the crook of her arm. Her hair was greying at the temples but the flame-red tresses he remembered had not vanished entirely; they were tied in a long plait which fell over one shoulder onto a lightly-patterned pinafore dress. The green eyes met his and for a moment all he could see was Janice. He opened his mouth but found no words.
It was Geileis who broke the silence.
‘I heard you were in town. My god, Brendan, but you don’t look too bad. Not bad at all.’
Geileis smiled and Moran’s world rocked unsteadily. The similarities between Janice and her sister had always been marked, but time had closed the gap even further. It was Janice’s smile which greeted him, her voice inviting him to come away in. They hugged and Moran caught a faintly familiar perfume.
At last he found his voice. ‘Nice to see you,’ he said, and realised how weak a greeting it sounded.
‘Jerry’s just arrived.’ She tapped her basket. ‘I thought I’d have half-an-hour or so to bed in the last of the spring-flowering bulbs before you joined us,’ she said brightly. ‘I’ll put the kettle on.’
Geileis slid the front door open with a practised movement of her foot. ‘The wood’s a wee bit swollen after the rain. Mind your head.’
Moran followed her in, ducking under the lintel as instructed, and found himself in a cosy front room which smelled faintly of roses and woodsmoke – a homely, comforting, female kind of fragrance. There was a two-seater settee, a spindle-backed rocking chair and a more serviceable-looking armchair by the unlit fire. Jerry occupied the latter, but made no effort to rise. He was nursing a glass in one hand, and raised the other in half-hearted greeting.
‘You came, then.’
‘Of course.’ Moran wrinkled his nose as he caught the unmistakable tang of liquor on the man’s breath. ‘Weren’t you expecting me to keep this appointment, Jerry?’ Moran held Jerry’s gaze until the barman looked away, his fingers nervously stroking the rim of his glass.
Geileis bustled back into the room and handed Moran a steaming mug. ‘Tea. Strong, a dash of milk. No sugar.’
Moran smiled as he accepted the drink, seating himself on the settee. ‘You remembered. I’m impressed.’
‘I remember a lot about you, Brendan Moran,’ Geileis’ eyes twinkled as she moved towards the rocking chair.
There was more than pleasure reflected in those eyes and Moran found himself responding with a nervous smile while a confusion of emotions raged inside him. He was saved from further embarrassment by Jerry’s abrupt intervention.
‘She’s left of her own accord, Brendan. I’ll tell you that much.’
‘And why would she do that, Jerry?’ Moran said quietly, and took a sip of tea as he waited for Jerry’s response.
‘Why indeed?’ Geileis agreed. ‘She has absolutely no reason to go off on her own to do anything. Her life is here. She wa
s perfectly content when we met up last month. At least she seemed to be. What have you heard, Jerry? Is she in debt? Has she had some kind of breakdown?’
‘No, no. Nothing like that.’
There was a sudden noise from outside, a scuffling, scraping sound followed by a metallic clang. Jerry jumped, and whiskey splashed from his glass onto his trousers. He sprang from the chair as if stung.
Moran was at the door, shooting Geileis a quizzical look over his shoulder. He unlatched the front door and looked out. All was still.
‘It’s probably our local fox. Or cats.’ Geileis was at his shoulder. ‘Always trying to get into the bin.’
Moran waited for a few seconds, listening intently, as Geileis went down the side of the cottage, held up the bin lid with a grin and a shrug, and secured it in position, weighing it down with a brick for good measure.
Jerry was pacing the floor as they went back inside. Geileis shut and bolted them in, and then drew a pair of heavy velvet curtains across the front door – more for Jerry’s benefit, Moran suspected, than for any security concerns of her own.
‘It’s all right, Jerry.’ Geileis placed her hand on his arm. ‘Just a fox.’
It took a few minutes and a large refill to calm Jerry down sufficiently that they were able to continue the earlier conversation.
‘You were saying, Jerry?’ Moran prompted. ‘Aine had to leave? But why?’
Jerry raised a shaking finger. ‘She left to protect them – Donal, Padraig and Caitlin, I reckon. I think she had to go, y’see.’
‘Protect them from what, Jerry?’ Moran posed the question but he already suspected what the answer might be. Aine’s background had always been something of a blank page, which Moran had found easy to fill with questionable associations – but they’d all been aware of that, especially her husband-to-be. As promised, she’d cut all such ties a long time ago, slipped the leash of her past and made a new life for herself as a sheep farmer’s wife.
But now Moran could see a bleak possibility in Jerry’s terrified eyes.
Perhaps the leash had been reapplied.
Perhaps Aine had been recalled.
CHAPTER SIX
The stillness of the cottage wrapped itself around the three of them as Moran and Geileis digested Jerry’s words. Geileis made a low sound in her throat and rocked gently on the rocking chair, one pale hand over her mouth and an arm wrapped protectively around her midriff.
‘Who, Jerry?’ Moran placed his empty mug carefully on the side table by the settee. ‘Who are we dealing with here?’
Jerry moistened his lips. ‘I’ve said too much. I should never have come. Just leave it there, Brendan. You wanted to know why. Now you know. You’ll understand why she had to go. Donal knows; he just won’t admit it.’
‘No choice,’ Moran said quietly. ‘She had no choice, is that it?’
Jerry looked into his glass. Geileis went quickly into the kitchen and reappeared with a half-bottle of whiskey. She poured a shot into Jerry’s empty glass and returned to the rocking chair, shooting Moran a covert glance of encouragement as she passed by.
Jerry took another deep slug. His face was grey and drawn, thinning hair dishevelled. Moran remembered him as a youngster from way back – up for anything, two years younger than the rest of their group and always eager to impress. His pranks had passed into their – and local – folklore, but now here was this skinny, frightened middle-aged man who looked ten years older than he was, trembling over his whiskey like a drunken informer from some gumshoe TV series.
Jerry allowed his gaze to fall somewhere between Moran and Geileis. Into the air he said, ‘No choice. You’re right, of course. Like you always were, Brendan. On the button, as they say nowadays.’
Moran leaned forward. ‘I need a name, Jerry.’
Jerry’s tongue flicked nervously over his bottom lip. ‘I know you do. But I can’t give you one. God’s truth.’
‘Think hard, Jerry. At least give me something to go on. The last thing I want is to compromise your safety.’
‘Oh, is that right?’ Jerry snorted. ‘These folk don’t mess around, Brendan. They’ll kill me, I’m tellin’ you.’
‘Knowledge is empowering, Jerry. The more you tell me, the more chance I have of getting to the bottom of this and making an end of it. If that’s what you want.’
‘It’s never over, is it? No one can make an end of it. It doesn’t matter what bloody agreements the politicians put in place.’ Jerry stared miserably into his tumbler. ‘There’s always a few who’ll not accept it.’
Geileis broke her silence. ‘You said it, Jerry. A few. That’s the point. The majority have moved on. It’s just the remnant that’s left. And that’s the cancer that’s got to be cut out.’ Her voice trembled a little and she lifted her cup, took a sip of tea.
‘Easy to say.’ Jerry’s voice quavered.
‘I thought things had changed for the better when I decided to come home,’ Geileis went on. ‘And they have. But we have to keep it that way. We have a responsibility.’
‘Responsibility?’ Jerry’s voice rose. ‘To get ourselves killed?’
‘To make sure the peace is kept. To make sure we have a stable country for our kids’ generation, Jerry.’ Geileis’ voice carried a slight tremor.
‘I have no kids.’
‘But Donal does, Jerry. Caitlin’s a fine young woman. And like me she’ll want to come home one day, I know. So let’s make sure she, and others like her, have the option.’
‘Caitlin’s living away?’ Moran asked. ‘Donal never mentioned that.’
‘There’s a lot Donal doesn’t mention.’ Geileis’ mouth was a thin line. ‘And that’s the problem.’
‘Where is she?’
‘London, I believe. But Donal tells me she’s buying in Reading. Nice flat, apparently. Boyfriend too. She’s doing well.’
‘My patch,’ Moran said, half to himself.
‘You should look her up,’ Geileis said. ‘She’d be pleased to see you.’
‘I wouldn’t recognise her,’ Moran said. ‘Last time I saw her she was running around the bay with a sunhat and little else.’
‘She’ll just love being reminded of that.’ Geileis smiled broadly for the first time and Moran’s heart lurched. Not just the smile; Janice was in the eyes too. He hid behind a cough and took a sip of tea.
Jerry had fallen silent during this exchange. However, he had apparently reached some decision, because he got up rather unsteadily and addressed them both.
‘You’d be best talking to the islander, Brendan. He’s out of it now, but he’ll have the information you need.’
‘The islander?’
‘That’s what they call him.’ Geileis looked slightly alarmed. ‘He lives on Great Blasket. On his own. His name is O’Shea. Joseph O’Shea.’
‘On Blasket?’ Moran frowned. ‘No one lives on Blasket.’
‘Well, O’Shea does,’ Jerry waved his tumbler. ‘Nowhere else would have him.’ He laughed, a cracked, strained sound.
‘Ex para?’
‘What do you think?’
‘ONH?’
Jerry shook his head. ‘Even they rejected him. Unmanageable, they said.’
‘OK, now we’re getting to it.’ Moran paused as Geileis recharged Jerry’s tumbler. Once the operation had been completed the barman sank back into the armchair. Moran pressed home his advantage.
‘So this guy, O’Shea, can point me to the organisation responsible for Aine’s recall?’
‘Depends how he is when you find him.’ Jerry shrugged. ‘Like I said, he’s not an easy one to manage.’
‘It’s a question of approach, Jerry. I’ve done this sort of thing before.’ Moran sounded more confident than he felt. He became aware of Geileis’ eyes on him.
‘Just keep me out of it, OK?’ Jerry’s hand shook as he raised his tumbler to pale lips.
‘We’re already past that stage, Jerry,’ Moran said evenly. ‘We’re in it already, so we pull togeth
er and we finish it together. Just like the old days.’
After they’d seen Jerry off, a little unsteadily, down the lane, Geileis turned to Moran with an unspoken invitation, and moments later he found himself in the lounge with a stronger drink in hand.
‘He’s terrified,’ Geileis said, arranging her plait to fall over her right breast. She sipped from a glass of red wine, her long fingers curled around the stem.
‘He knows more than he’s letting on.’ Moran settled into the sofa and sipped the Irish, enjoying the smoothness as it slipped down his throat. It was easy to drink. Far too easy.
‘Are you really going to visit this O’Shea?’ Geileis’ eyebrows drew together in concern. ‘He sounds wild – dangerous. You don’t know what he might do – or who he might tell,’ she added, nipping her bottom lip in consternation. ‘Why not leave it to the Gardai, Brendan? They’ll know how to handle it.’
‘They’ve made a grand job of it so far, right?’
‘But you’re just one man,’ Geileis pointed out. ‘I mean, you don’t know what you’re up against. If it’s something to do with, you know, the paramilitary, then … oh, I don’t know. It’s far too risky, Brendan.’
Moran nodded slowly. ‘So what do you suggest I tell Donal? Sorry, brother, it’s out of my league? You’ll just have to wait and see what happens?’
‘No! I mean, obviously not. Oh, I don’t know what you should do – what we should do.’ Geileis drank deeply from her glass. When she looked up her eyes reflected the firelight. ‘Will you stay for something to eat? I’ve made a casserole – it’s too much for one person. I could freeze the rest, I suppose, but…’
‘Thanks. I’d like that.’
There was a brief lull in conversation as Moran digested the implications of the offer and the alacrity of his positive response.
Is this wise, Brendan?
Geileis broke the silence. ‘We both know there’s an elephant in the room, Brendan. We can talk about it, if you like.’
Moran took a deep breath and slowly exhaled. ‘It’s hard, Geileis. I nearly didn’t come. I wasn’t sure how I would handle all … all this.’ He waved his hand vaguely. ‘I mean, seeing you all again. Being back here. Coming home.’ He trailed off.