by Scott Hunter
Geileis rose from her chair and joined him on the sofa. She placed a hand on his knee and he tensed.
‘It’s all right, Brendan. I know it’s hard. God knows, it’s hard for us all.’
Moran felt a mixture of emotions at the physical contact. He cleared his throat. ‘It’s good to see you, Geileis. I didn’t know you’d come back.’
Her hand remained. ‘You could have called me. I wasn’t that far away.’
‘I know. It’s just–’
‘–Just that you’re a man. And men handle things their own way.’ Geileis smiled. ‘And we know what men do, don’t we? Bottle it up and hope it’ll go away.’
Moran shook his head. ‘You’re wrong. I know it’ll never go away. Every night I see her, Geileis. Every night I remember. I see it all. The rain. The car. The smoke.’
‘I don’t blame you. You know that, don’t you? I never blamed you.’
He nodded, not trusting himself to speak. He got up and moved to the fire, stood with his back to the flames. A spark spat in the grate as the wood settled. Geileis said nothing, just watched him, one long leg crossed over the other.
‘I know you don’t,’ he said eventually. ‘But I’m not sure about Donal.’
‘It wasn’t your fault, Brendan. It wasn’t any of our fault. Donal knows that.’
‘Maybe logically. But emotionally?’ He shook his head. ‘Different story.’
Geileis rose gracefully from the sofa and held out her hand. ‘Let me get you a refill.’
He nodded and handed her the empty tumbler. He watched her walk to the kitchen, hips swaying as she moved, head held confidently. She had lost none of her poise. The quieter of the two sisters, Moran had always been conscious of Geileis’ warmth towards him – even after he and Janice had got together. If his relationship with Janice had caused her pain then she had masked her disappointment well. She treated him as the close friend he was – as a brother. And in a way, that’s exactly what he was – or had been – to the Hannigans.
Moran settled into the sofa, remembering the day his parents had broken the news of their impending move north. Before he could open his mouth to object his father had held up his hand. ‘It’s all right, son. You’re staying put. The Hannigans will take you in, as long as you behave yourself and bring credit to the Moran clan. Think you can do that?’ His father’s eyes twinkled. ‘I’ve no choice, son. The firm want me moved and so that’s how it’ll be. But your mother and I know that your life is here. Your friends, your school. Everything. Am I right?’
‘Right, Da.’ Moran muttered to himself.
‘What’s that, Brendan?’ Geileis reappeared with two recharged glasses.
He shook his head. ‘Nothing. Just daydreaming.’
‘That’ll be right. Sure, it’ll do you a power of good to relax a little.’ She smiled and handed him his drink.
‘Thanks, but I’m hardly here to relax.’ Moran managed a stiff smile. ‘Let’s just call this evening a minor diversion.’
‘Agreed.’ She raised her glass. ‘Well, then. Here’s to us.’
‘To us,’ Moran reciprocated, ‘and to Aine’s safe homecoming.’
They drank and set their glasses down in unison. It felt orchestrated and they both laughed. The tension lifted a little.
Geileis’ expression became thoughtful. ‘I was thinking, Brendan. Maybe Jerry’s got it wrong. Maybe Aine has just taken off, on her own, like.’
‘It’s possible,’ Moran agreed. ‘But unlikely, for two reasons.’
Geileis cocked her head to one side. ‘Namely?’
‘Number one, the state Jerry’s in. Would he be as jumpy as he is for no other reason than some sort of paranoia concerning the past? I don’t think so. But number two is the clincher for me.’
‘Go on.’
‘I was followed here. Two guys.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘As eggs is eggs.’
‘What happened to them? I mean, are they still watching you?’
Moran sipped the Irish. His head was remarkably clear and he was enjoying the excellent quality of the whiskey; Geileis’ taste was impeccable. ‘I last saw them east of Youghal. They’ll catch up – soon, I imagine.’
‘God. You will take care, Brendan, won’t you? This doesn’t sound good at all.’
‘I’m used to this kind of stuff, Geileis. It’s what I do. My DCS would rather I spend my time behind a desk, but somehow that never seems to happen.’
‘Because you don’t let it happen, I’m guessing. There’s plenty of youngsters able to do the dangerous work, Brendan. You should let them. You’ve done your bit.’
‘It’s not about doing my bit. It’s just … I don’t know, how I am, I suppose. The thought of being trapped in an office all day fills me with horror.’
Geileis shook her head and laughed softly. ‘I’ll bet. You were always an outdoor lad, as I remember. Hiking, climbing, whatever – you’d be the first in line.’
Moran smiled ruefully. ‘Those days are gone. Time just seems to go faster. I always seem to be working.’ He shrugged. ‘That’s how it is.’
‘Maybe you need to slow down, Brendan. We’re not getting any younger. Why not give yourself some space, a little time to think and reflect?’
‘God, that’s the last thing I want to do.’
‘I know – I didn’t mean–’ Geileis’ face fell.
Moran gave a dismissive wave. ‘I know you didn’t. It’s all right.’
There was a moment of silence – not awkward, just pensive.
‘Anyway,’ Geileis said eventually, ‘we should eat before the casserole morphs into a burnt offering.’
Moran laughed. ‘Sure. I’ll give you a hand.’
‘Gosh, a domestic policeman. I am impressed.’
‘Ask Donal about my mixed grill next time you see him,’ Moran countered. ‘Once eaten, never forgotten.’
CHAPTER SEVEN
He couldn’t remember the last time he’d enjoyed a meal so much. Geileis was sparkling company, the wine was on a par with the whiskey and the casserole one of the best he had tasted. Afterwards, Geileis served coffee, two perfect double espressos. Moran sat back in his chair and gave a sigh of contentment, the purpose of his visit temporarily forgotten. Somewhere in the recesses of the cottage a clock chimed eleven, each stroke a short but insistent reminder.
‘Good grief. Is it that late?’ He glanced at his watch for confirmation.
‘What’s the hurry? You don’t have to get up for work.’
‘No, but I want to make an early start. I have a boat to catch.’
‘I can’t dissuade you?’
‘I’m only going to talk to the guy, that’s all. What’s the worst that can happen?’
Geileis shivered. ‘I don’t want to think about it.’ She reached over the table and took his hand. ‘I care about you Brendan. I always have done. You know that, don’t you?’
‘I know. We’re family. That’s why I’m here – to help.’
Geileis’ hand applied a light pressure. ‘You never married.’
‘No.’ The amber light which had begun to glow dully in Moran’s head now switched to a vibrant red. ‘I was sorry to hear about your husband,’ he added.
‘Yes, thank you.’ Geileis looked down at her shoes – gathering her strength, Moran thought, so that she could comment appropriately. ‘He was a good guy. Solid, dependable, you know. Bit dull, I suppose.’
Moran, slightly taken aback, gave an awkward laugh.
‘Well, he was.’ Geileis smiled. ‘But I do miss him. What happened wasn’t fair. He went through a lot of discomfort. But then,’ she sighed, ‘we’re all headed that way, aren’t we, at our age? Something ghastly comes along and whoosh, that’s it, we’re done.’
‘Well now,’ Moran said, ‘you are the cheery one, aren’t you?’
‘But it’s true, isn’t it?’
‘We have to make the most of what we have, I suppose. You know, enjoy life as much as it–’<
br />
‘–As it allows us to.’ Geileis sighed, withdrew her hand and gave him an ambiguous look which Moran interpreted as rather more than family-friendly. He felt himself wilting under Geileis’ scrutiny and made a play of finishing the non-existent contents of his coffee cup.
Time to go before things get out of hand, Brendan, old son…
He scraped his chair back. ‘Let me give you a hand with the clearing up.’
‘Don’t worry.’ Geileis gathered up the coffee cups and went to the far corner of the kitchen. ‘I’ll just pop the lot in the dishwasher. It’s no bother.’
‘If you’re sure, then.’ Moran stood irresolutely by the kitchen table.
‘Maybe just collect the glasses from the living room? Then you can be on your way. Your early start and all, remember?’
Geileis’ tone had become more formal, as if he had somehow mishandled the intimacy of their conversation and was now being penalised for his ineptitude.
‘Sure. I’ll bring them in.’ He went into the lounge and found the empties, was about to return to the kitchen when the half-open drawer of a small bureau caught his eye. Some ingrained sense of tidiness impelled him to cross the room to close it, but as he reached down he caught a glimpse of something metallic. A moment’s guilt gave way to a policeman’s curiosity and he slid the drawer fully open.
A small automatic pistol lay half-covered in a soft muslin cloth; three loose bullets lay beside it. He stepped away quickly and returned to the kitchen.
‘Here you go.’
Geileis looked up from the dishwasher. ‘Just put them over by the sink. I’ll hand-wash those.’
‘Well.’ Moran spread his hands. ‘It’s been a lovely evening. Thank you.’
Geileis wiped her damp hands on a dishcloth and held her arms out. They hugged.
‘I can’t tell you how nice it’s been to see you, Brendan.’
‘You too.’ The image of the gun was forefront in Moran’s mind as she leaned forward and kissed him lightly on the cheek.
‘You can’t keep your heart locked away like this, Brendan. You’re not giving yourself a chance. Nor anyone else,’ she added quietly.
Moran cleared his throat, found no words.
‘You know the boat times?’ she asked quickly, covering his embarrassment. She smiled as she read his expression. ‘Of course you do. Well then. Take care. See you later in the week?’
‘You will. Goodnight, and thanks again.’
As he made his way along the lane towards Donal’s farmhouse he asked himself a thousand questions. Was it her gun? Why would she have a gun in her cottage? Maybe it belonged to someone else. If so, who? He passed the local bar and thought of Jerry. Had Jerry lent it to Geileis? Was he that scared?
The churchyard was a field of irregular shapes to his left, the lights of Donal’s farmhouse just visible in the near distance. Down the slight incline of the lane to the unmade road and he was home and dry. He felt slightly lightheaded and regretted the last glass of wine. No matter; tomorrow he would begin to get to grips with Aine’s disappearance – with O’Shea’s cooperation. Moran was confident in his ability to obtain information; it was just a matter of approach. And what did O’Shea have to lose anyway? The guy had not only opted out of whatever para involvement he might have had in the past, he’d also apparently opted out of society altogether. It would be no skin off O’Shea’s nose to share a little information. Moran just had to get alongside him, get him talking. He made a mental note to bring a bottle – a little lubrication might help loosen O’Shea’s tongue if it came to that.
He was so engrossed in working through his strategy that he failed to notice a shadow detach itself from the hedgerow a few metres ahead. The first blow came out of nowhere and Moran reeled to his right, for an instant imagining that he had collided with some unseen object in the dark. Then someone caught his arms from behind, yanked them back and held them. Reflexively he tried to tear himself away, but whoever had pinioned his arms was strong and very determined. He could feel breath on his neck, a sour smell of garlic, or something stronger. Moran tensed, guessing what was coming next, but instead of a fist a masked face appeared an inch from his nose.
‘You’re not welcome here, see? So you get in that wee car of yours and head back to the ferry, understand? First thing tomorrow, if you’ve any sense.’
Moran tried to place the accent but it was obvious he was deliberately masking it, speaking in a low and clipped tone. The guy behind pulled Moran’s arms further back than they were anatomically intended to go and Moran winced. ‘Get this.’ The first spoke again. ‘If you’re still here in twenty-four hours you won’t be driving anywhere again. Ever. Understood?’
Moran was checking the eyes out, the only visible part of the face in front of him. They were deep socketed, maybe brown or dark grey. Hard to tell.
‘I said, understood?’
The punch came fast and hard, doubling him up as the breath was driven from his lungs. He managed a croaked response and the pressure on his arms eased. He heard their retreat, a pattering of rubber soles on the road’s unmade surface. After a few minutes he felt able to straighten up and walk the three hundred metres to the farmhouse.
He fumbled for the key Donal had given him and let himself in. The house was in darkness, Donal no doubt fast asleep in preparation for his customary early rise. Moran took the stairs slowly and found his bedroom door ajar. He edged it open cautiously.
The bedside light was on and a note was sitting on his pillow. He closed the door behind him and checked the ensuite. Empty. He went to the bed and picked up the note.
Blasket ferry might be cancelled tomorrow – incident at Dunquin Pier. Jerry mentioned you had a mind to go over to Blasket. I thought you’d like to know. D.
The grapevine had lost none of its efficiency, then. Perhaps Jerry had called in on his way home, or perhaps Donal had been out and about, had helped Jerry on his way. In any case, the news about the ferry was a potential spanner in the works of his planned trip.
Moran cursed silently and returned to the bathroom. The mirror revealed an impressively swollen area just under his left eye, the skin unbroken but already turning an interesting shade of blue which was only going to get worse before it got better. He soaked a face flannel in cold water and applied it gingerly to his damaged flesh. His head was pounding, a combination of the whiskey and the blow he had received.
After a few minutes he removed the cold compress, went back into the bedroom and sat heavily on the bed. His stomach ached where he’d been punched and he felt a hundred years old. His watch told him it was a quarter to midnight.
Sure, you’ve made a fine start, Brendan.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Dunquin jetty was clearly not designed for motor vehicles. It was accessed via a high-sided, narrow walkway which twisted down to the small harbour. No one in their right mind would attempt it in a car, let alone a four-by-four.
Moran stood by the road and looked down at the Land Rover wedged securely between the two walls. There were always exceptions, of course. While human beings walked the earth there would always be exceptions. Moran shook his head ruefully and wondered how long it would take to unwedge the vehicle so that he, and a handful of other hiking hopefuls could make their intended journey across to Great Blasket.
Two gardai vehicles and a small fire engine were attending to the task in hand but it looked to be touch and go as to whether the walkway could be cleared for the scheduled morning crossing. It then occurred to Moran that there might be more to the four-by-four driver’s ineptitude than first met the eye: what if news of his intentions had reached the wrong ears? What if this was a deliberate attempt to delay his crossing? Moran elected to loiter for a while and observe.
He felt the wind on his face and grimaced. Pretty much all of him hurt, his cheek and the area around his eye-socket being the worst. He’d skipped breakfast, despite Donal’s comprehensive and hospitable preparations; his stomach just wasn’t up to it. H
e’d also drawn a few curious glances on his way through the village. And no wonder – he looked as though he’d been the loser in some dodgy bare-knuckle sweepstake. Maybe O’Shea would be impressed. Maybe he wouldn’t care. Maybe he’d think Moran was just plain stupid to get involved.
He wrapped his coat more tightly around him. It was getting colder, the sea choppier. He watched the firemen hooking up the four-by-four’s chassis. A guy in a duffle coat and cap was gesticulating urgently at the firemen. The driver, no doubt. He looked pukka; hard to imagine he was anything to do with last night’s reception committee. Raised voices drifted over, floating on the sea breeze. Duffle Man was clearly concerned about damage to his vehicle. Should have thought of that before, pal.
Moran jammed his hands deeper in his pockets and sat on a nearby wall. He glanced at his watch. At this rate it was going to be a wasted day. No boat, no Blasket, no O’Shea. Even when he reached the island he still had to find the guy, and that could take a while. Four square kilometres didn’t sound too bad, but on foot it was a lot of island to cover.
Still, he was well prepared; Moran had found a bag on the farmhouse doorstep earlier containing some basic provisions: water, a bottle of whiskey, an apple, a flask of coffee and three rounds of chicken sandwiches. There’d been a note – ‘Thought you might need these today. Keep warm. Gx’. He glanced at the other hikers, stereotypically bearded, bespectacled, earnest-looking bog-trampers, all waiting patiently, like himself, for news. They all sported rucksacks of gargantuan proportions, as if they were expecting to spend the rest of their lives on Blasket Island.
It was hard to imagine, Moran mused, that as recently as the Fifties an entire community had done just that – eked out a basic, ascetic existence, cut off by the sea and solely dependent on each other for survival. The ruined village, with its decaying shells and grass-covered pathways, was the only reminder of that long-vanished community. Perhaps O’Shea had commandeered one of the old buildings and made a rudimentary home for himself. Or maybe he’d elected to move further into the island and built a shelter of his own in a more remote location. A few houses at the top of the old village had apparently been restored, and Moran reckoned that the hikers had probably reserved rooms in these. He hadn’t had time to organise a room himself, but felt confident that he could beg a little floor space from whoever might be officially renting; if there was any strong objection he could always produce his warrant card. Not that it carried any weight in Ireland, but the sight of it might swing things in his favour if it came to that. His preference, however, would be to spend as little time on the island as possible – find O’Shea, see if he had anything useful to impart, and board the evening boat back to the mainland.