by Maggie Finn
But not in rural Ireland. Eliza reached across and poked a finger at the phone cradled on the rental car’s dashboard. It blinked once, then let out a polite ‘beep’. No service: of course. There hadn’t been any service since she’d left the airport parking lot. Sighing, she pulled the big Range Rover into a lay-by and picked up the road atlas, helpfully supplied by the lady at Emerald Rent-a-Car.
‘You’d best take it along,’ the lady had said casually, like it was optional. Eliza peered down at the map, frowning. What am I doing here? She thought. The irony was that sticking a pin in a map – a digital pin on a digital map – had brought Eliza here. She had wanted to get away, get out of LA, go somewhere as far from the closing-in walls of work and home as possible, somewhere where The Holidays made sense, instead of deep in The Valley where Christmas Day might be ninety degrees before lunch. She turned back to the atlas, the tangle of yellow lines over green, tracing a finger along the route she thought she’d followed. ‘Well, if I’m right,’ she said to herself. ‘The next village should be Tullyvan. And if it is, I’m only five miles away.’
She looked out and noticed a pole in the ground to the left of the road. Following it up with her eyes, Eliza frowned. It was a sign, almost completely covered by an overhanging bush. Hissing through her teeth, she clambered out of the car and strode over, pushing the branches back. ‘Tullyvan’, read the sign. Which was good – annoying, but good. At least she was on the right track.
As she straightened, Eliza’s breath caught in her throat as she saw the view in front of her. Ahead was a long valley, the silver-wet road rolling through the middle, high hedges of vivid green either side and fields so pale they seemed to slope down from the opal grey sky. The sheen of frost was on the tips of everything: grass, fenceposts and the bare branches of huddled trees, and just glimpsed in a dip between hills, the sea. This was why she had come. This is why her virtual pin had struck this place; it was where Eliza needed to be.
Never mind the maps and the signs and the fact everyone was on the wrong side of the road. The air here felt clean and sharp, the land seemed alive and vital and yes, Eliza felt better just being here. Like she had spent the last few years struggling under water and now had broken through the surface, gulping in air.
Just then, it began to rain.
Eliza turned her face up towards it and laughed. That’s what I get for getting too pally with Tullyvan, she thought, running back to the car.
She gunned the engine and flipped on the windshield wipers as she moved off – gosh, but it was coming down hard. She clicked the wipers up to full, but even then it was hard to see. Eliza sat forward, trying to see past the waterfall blocking her vision. How could the weather change so quickly?
‘Whoa!’ Eliza stomped on the brakes, skidding to a halt just inches away from a red tractor, looming up out of the rain, filling the whole narrow lane in front of her. She slapped a palm onto the horn and rolled the window down an inch.
‘Hey buddy, why d’you need the whole road?’ she yelled. There was a pause, then Eliza jumped at a rat-a-tat knock on the passenger-side window. A man’s ghostly face was peering in. Nervously, Eliza buzzed the window down.
‘Sure and that was close,’ smiled the man, no longer ghostly, but red-faced and friendly. He was young, with strong cheekbones and dark brown eyes which smiled as he said, ‘No harm done though. Will you be heading for the Cove now?’
‘Uh, yes, Clover Cove. I’m staying there.’
‘That’s grand,’ said the man, ‘But you’ll not get in that way. Young Ned – that’s my cousin – he’s bringing his cars along to pasture. You’re about to meet head on.’
‘I’m sorry? He’s bringing his cars?’
‘Cows,’ said the man, enunciating the word carefully, a smirk on his lips.
‘Cows. Yes, of course,’ said Eliza, thoroughly embarrassed.
‘American is it?’
‘Yes. From California.’
‘Grand to meet you. I’m Aaron Garvey, this is my land. Or rather, I farm it. No one really owns the land, do they?’
The man squeezed a hand through the opening, showering the seats and her road atlas with droplets of rain. Eliza gingerly shook, wishing she’d read the small print on the rental agreement about whether the insurance covered water damage on the upholstery.
‘So how do I get to Clover Cove, Mr. Garvey? Do I have to reverse?’
‘No, no,’ said the farmer, straightening up and pointing to the right. ‘See that lane over there? Follow that all the way to the end, it’s too small to be on your map, but it’ll bring you out right in the village square.’
Eliza peered through the rain dubiously.
‘It looks narrow.’
‘Ah, that it is, but no one will be coming the other way save for the badgers and they’ll be asleep right now. I’ve been down there in the tractor; you’ll be grand.’
Garvey banged on the roof of the car, making Eliza flinch, but clearly it was his way to indicate that the conversation was over. She quickly buzzed the window closed and watched the farmer climb back into his tractor. There was a bellow of diesel as he backed up, leaving Eliza just enough to swing the Range Rover around to the right and into the little lane. The surface was tarmac and smooth enough, but it plunged and dipped like a mini rollercoaster, the Rover bounced up and down on its suspension, the grass on the embankments either side brushed against her wing mirrors. Eliza only hoped Farmer Garvey was right about the badgers still being in bed: there was little hope of seeing anything through the downpour.
Eliza crept along, following the twists of the tiny road, the hedges only broken by the occasional opening for a gate, the rain on the roof of the car hissing like pebbles turned by the sea.
‘At least there’s no chance of getting lost,’ she said to herself, glad to hear someone’s voice, even if it was her own. Finally the hedges fell away, replaced by stone walls on both sides: ahead, grey shadows of buildings. This had to be the village, but the rain was coming down harder now, the lane in front nothing but a shimmering white blur. She was moving at a crawl now, the walls either side of the car so close she could see individual bricks. But then the Farmer had been down here, hadn’t he? And a tractor had to be wider than a Range Rover, right?
CRRRRUNNCH!
Eliza squealed and slammed on the brakes. Too late, she realized she had been sitting too far forward for an emergency stop and her head cracked against the window frame. Eliza sat back, clutching her forehead, eyes screwed, heart bounding.
‘Oh no, oh no,’ she breathed, opening one eye and craning her neck to see where – or what – she had hit. Forward, she could see nothing but cascading water. To the sides, just dark shadows. Eliza wasn’t even sure where she was in relation to the walls: had she hit the left or the right? She was completely disorientated and with her blinkered view combined with the hammering rain on the metal roof and the echoing effect of the walls on either side, it was impossible to tell whether she needed to go left or right.
‘Straight back, then,’ she whispered. She clunked the car into reverse and gingerly revved the engine.
SKKREEEKK!
If anything, this noise was even worse, a combination of grinding metal and rasping brick. The car bucked and stalled. And as if on cue, the rain stopped. Eliza unbuckled her seatbelt and sat forward. Now Eliza could see what had happened. Evidently the lane tapered to a narrow opening just wide enough for a normal car. The 4X4, however, wasn’t a normal car. It was much too wide. She tried to move forward again.
SCRRRAARGGHH!
Eliza yanked on the handbrake. She was stuck fast. And it hadn’t gone unnoticed. Ahead of her, Eliza could see people in the square pointing and gesticulating. One, an older lady in a long black dress, seemed angry. She was shouting something, but Eliza couldn’t make out what it was. ‘Move your car’, probably. Eliza gestured with open palms that she couldn’t.
Not only was she unable to move forward or back, but neither could she get out:
the doors and windows were jammed fast against the walls on both sides. So Eliza sat there and did the only thing she could think of in the circumstances. She burst into tears.
Chapter Three
Noah picked up the radio handset.
‘Say again?’
The speaker hissed and gurgled. ‘Kzzzk… riot… Grrrag… people in the square… hssss… Cove.’
‘There’s a riot?’ repeated Noah, frowning. ‘In Clover Cove?’
‘Ssskrrgh… affirmative.’
Noah looked at his handset. A riot in Clover Cove? That was about as likely as getting a report that a leprechaun was running up the Coast Road. Although that had happened a few days ago: it had turned out to be a ginger tom cat who’d got tangled in some green Christmas tinsel. Clover Cove, meanwhile, was the quietest village in Kiln County – there hadn’t been a disturbance there since Father Ray had picketed the pub and provoked old Cormac James into breaking his own windows.
‘A riot?’ he repeated.
There was a hiss of static, then the unmistakable voice of Colleen the dispatcher came over the air. Colleen was efficient and conscientious, but she was also grumpy and completely incapable of maintaining her professional deference to Noah.
‘Isn’t that what I just said?’ sighed Colleen. ‘There’s a riot going on in the square. That’s what Freya’s saying anyway.’
‘Freya Doyle? The hairdresser?’
‘Ah, just because the girl deals in gossip doesn’t mean she hasn’t got eyes in her head,’ said Colleen testily. ‘She says Diana Brennan’s going crazy.’
Now that seemed more likely. Noah flicked on his siren and swung the car back onto the coast road. Diana Brennan was what used to be termed a ‘busy-body’, but would probably be termed a ‘concerned citizen’ in modern policing parlance. Diana had lived in Clover Cove all her life and had raised two decent kids – Danny was a reporter on the local newspaper – but was apt to get upset about small changes in her world. The placing of a new bus stop was likely to cause a protest, possibly a petition. It didn’t help that she was a God-fearing woman who did good works for the church and was very close to Bishop Ray, Kiln County’s answer to Che Guevara, if only the revolutionary had been against strong drink and swimwear adverts. If Diana Brennan was involved with whatever disturbance was going on in the Square, it had the potential to escalate. There was more static as Colleen came back on the radio.
‘And while you’re up there, you’d best have a chat with Danny Brennan too. He’s been on saying he’s had a laptop computer stolen.’
That got Noah’s attention. Break-ins were surprisingly rare in the area, given that it was hard to come to Quinn or the Cove without someone seeing you and asking your business – mostly out of friendliness and curiosity, but a burglar in a mask would definitely have been spotted long before they got their crow-bar out.
‘A burglary?’
‘Broken window at the back of the house.’
‘Anything else taken?’
‘What am I? Miss Marple now?’
Noah clicked off. He was coming into the village square now. A riot it was not, but there were certainly a large number of people, most of whom Noah recognized as regular patrons of Connor’s bar, standing around outside the Post Office. This wasn’t a big surprise. Not a great deal happened in Clover Cove, so people would come out and gather to see a bus pulling in.
Noah was relieved to see Connor James himself at the head of the crowd. Connor was the nearest thing Clover Cove had to a village elder. He was respected and, for the most part, level-headed.
Noah clicked off the patrol car’s lights and walked over.
‘So what’s to do, Connor?’ he asked.
Connor James was a big man, dark and good-looking; Noah had always thought of him as a brooding Bronte hero born out of time. He nodded to Noah, then lifted a finger towards the lane opposite. A silver 4X4 car was wedged in the gap between the hairdressers and the Post Office. There was a woman Noah didn’t recognize inside the car, obviously as trapped as her vehicle.
‘I’ll tell you “what’s to do”, Guard,’ said Diana Brennan striding over. ‘This woman has practically destroyed the Post Office.’
‘And the hairdressers,’ added Freya Doyle from the back.
‘Alright now,’ said Noah, patting the air in a placating gesture, ‘I don’t think either building is in danger of falling down in the next half-hour, so let’s see what we can do about getting the car unstuck, shall we?’
‘Unstuck’s not the problem,’ snapped Mrs. Brennan. ‘The problem is blatant vandalism. We can’t have tourists coming over here in their big American cars…’
‘Land Rover’s British technically,’ said Connor. ‘Although it’s owned by Indians and I think they’re made in China, so…’
Ma Brennan glared at him.
‘The point is this is a blatant disregard for Clover Cove.’
‘I doubt the poor girl got her car jammed in there in order to ruin the peace of the square, Mrs. B,’ said Noah. He turned to Connor. ‘Any ideas, Con?’
Connor held up his mobile phone. ‘I’ve called Aaron Garvey; apparently, it was his idea she come this way.’
Noah pulled a face. ‘Ah, that makes sense. His tractor can squeeze through there because those big tires just squish between the walls. Yon Rover’s much lower to the ground and made of metal.’
Connor nodded.
‘Aaron’s going to try to tow it back the way it came, then bring it around through his top field. Apparently, the ground’s hard enough at the moment.’
Noah smiled. He’d guessed Connor would already be on top of the problem. In Ireland – in Kiln County, at any rate – people didn’t wait for the authorities to come to fix things. It was practical of course: when there was one guard for the two villages and Lord knew how many square miles of farmland, you couldn’t wait around for the cavalry to turn up, but it was a fragile arrangement. Practicality was one thing, but Noah didn’t want people taking the law into their own hands.
‘How long did Farmer Garvey say?’
Connor shrugged. ‘Could be a while. Queenie and the Hares are back at Ham Farm, he’s got his hands full.’
Noah nodded. Queenie was the matriarch of a family of travelers who often camped on Aaron’s farm at this time of year; the Clover Cove Christmas festivities were part of their tradition.
‘Thanks Con, if you could keep everyone back, I’d appreciate it,’ said Noah and walked over to the car. ‘Hello Miss, I’m Guard Moyes from the Port Quinn station. Are you hurt?’ he called, leaning over the bonnet. The woman touched her forehead, then shrugged.
‘Is this a hire car? A rental?’
She nodded. ‘Okay, so just stay where you are. I’m coming over.’
He saw her frown and mouth the word ‘over?’, but Noah was already taking a run up. Springing up over the car’s outsized grill, he planted one boot on the bonnet, then in two strides, thunked over the roof and dropped back down behind the car. He tried the rear door; just as he’d thought, it was locked.
‘Stay in your seat, Miss,’ he called, flipping out his extendable baton and whipping it into the rear window. With a ‘crack!’ it shattered, bringing an excited murmur from the crowd in the square. Reaching inside, he pulled the lever twice and the door swung up.
‘Sorry about that Miss,’ he said, ‘Can you tell me your name?’
‘Eliza, Eliza Carlisle.’
‘You’re doing fine, Miss Carlisle. Do you think you can get out this way?’
She nodded warily.
‘I… I did try, but the door wouldn’t open.’
‘That’s fine. On these models you have to pull it twice quickly. Stops children and dogs falling out by mistake.’
After sweeping the pebbles of glass to one side, Noah reached forward and flipped the back seat down, helping the woman out. She sat down on the tailgate, her hands shaking.
‘Here,’ said Noah, slipping off his jacket and draping it around her
shoulders. As he stood, Eliza moved forward and their heads suddenly came together with a bang.
‘Ow!’ cried Noah, clutching at his face while Eliza fell back into the car. Noah shook his head to clear the stars and scrabbled to unsteady feet. ‘Wow, we had quite a bash there,’ he said, leaning over Eliza. ‘Are you okay?’
‘I am, not so sure about you,’ she said, pointing at Noah. He looked down as a drop of blood slid from the tip of his nose, splotting onto the road. ‘I think you’ve cut it on the bridge,’ she said, handing him a handkerchief from her purse. ‘Keep pressure on it. I did a first aid course once.’
The woman – Eliza – smiled and Noah felt something take flight in his chest. A flock of seabirds lifting from the beach on a warm morning, wheeling and swirling, then flying into the sun-gilded clouds.
‘You okay there?’ said Eliza. ‘You’re looking a little odd. Why don’t you sit down here?’ She shifted to the side and Noah flinched as she put a smooth hand on his brow.
‘It’s okay,’ she said softly. ‘You just rest for a moment. I’ve got you.’
That you have, thought Noah, sneaking another sideways peek at her. But by all the saints, she was pretty. Long chestnut hair all bouncy like those shampoo ads and a cute button nose. But it was the smile and the kind eyes and… heavens, maybe she’s right. Maybe I’m concussed.
‘Thanks,’ he said.
That smile again: ‘You’re welcome.’
‘I’m supposed to be the one who does the looking after around here,’ said Noah.
‘Ah, well everyone gets a day off now and then.’
‘Talking of days off…’ Noah began, but was cut off by the parp of a horn and the growling throb of a diesel engine. Garvey the farmer was maneuvering his tractor up the lane.