Blood Tide (Paula Maguire 5)

by Claire McGowan

  When she got to the shore, her mother was crying. Mammy, what’s wrong? A sudden stab of fear. All the way through this holiday, there’d been something hovering on the edge of things. Something wrong. Something Paula could not make OK, no matter how hard she tried to be good and behave. She had her own troubles, at almost-thirteen. I thought you were gone, her mother had said. I thought I’d never see you again.

  And the water, the cold green of it, over her head. Something stirred – a memory. Something she could almost grasp at. Where did you go? Why did you go? Where are you? Just three words of a question, but enough to drive you crazy. How could you not know where your own mother was? How could a body not have surfaced, after all these years of waiting? Paula was afraid her father would die without ever knowing, was afraid she would too. Didn’t know how she would ever tell Maggie that Pat was not her granny. That she had a granny, who was long gone. And Guy. Christ, did he have a mother? What was she like? Where was he?

  ‘Paula. Get up, for God’s sake.’ She was being shaken awake from where she’d sunk down on her knees, and she coughed herself out of the bad dreams. They were still on the coral beach, and the bones of dead things were gritty under her cheek. Then she was hauled up, and they were trudging over it again. Her legs had no strength. The sky just beginning to get light, streaks of red like blood across it. The storm was calm now, and that meant they would come, the police and the helicopters and boats, but it would be too late to make it all OK.

  ‘Jesus, what’s this?’ muttered Rory. Ahead of them were white ovals in the lightening dark. Gleams here and there. Faces. The whole of the island, it seemed, out on the beach in the dark. Brendan and Bridget, Colm the barman and Oona from the Spar, and Seamas’s wife Grainne, her boy Sammy pressed to her. The bones on her face showed sharp, as if she was terribly afraid.

  ‘What are you at?’ Seamas was asking, impatient. ‘Why are you all out here? Go on home now.’

  Oona was staring past him, looking with horror at their feet. ‘You went through it.’ A murmur went up, and people stifled moans, held their hands to their mouths in horror. Paula found herself looking at her own feet, but she couldn’t see anything in the half-dark.

  ‘What is it?’ Seamas said again. Fear colouring the anger in his voice.

  It was the child who spoke. Sammy, with his milk-bottle glasses, and small for his age. ‘The sea is full of blood, Daddy,’ he said. ‘The sea is full of blood.’

  Seamas turned his torch to the ground, to his feet and Paula’s feet, and sure enough she saw that her jeans were soaked in dark red, right up to the knees.

  Bob

  1993

  The men all gave Bob’s car the same look – low, flat, suspicious. They knew an RUC car when they saw one, and for this mostly Catholic factory workforce, that was never a welcome sight. Bob saw Conlon before he saw Bob – thickset, powerful underneath his stained grey tracksuit, laughing with two other men. He gave one of them such a slap on the back the other man nearly fell over. Then he saw the car and his face hardened.

  Bob waited. Saw Conlon make a great pantomime of forgetting something, going back for it, catch you later, lads, until no one was left at the factory gates. ‘The fuck you doing here? I’ll be kilt so I will if they think—’

  ‘Time for that wee favour you owe me, Sean.’

  ‘Fuck off.’

  ‘Listen. I just need some intel. Just a yes or no.’

  ‘Just that?’

  ‘I’ll ask you a question and you just give me a nod.’

  ‘What’s it to you?’

  ‘Just a nod, Sean.’

  ‘And we’re quits?’

  ‘Aye.’ The man looked suspicious, as well he might. Everything he owed Bob, wiped out just for a nod? A lie. A necessary one. Bob held up the picture. It was one he’d had in his desk drawer for years. Taken at the Christmas party, the night John O’Hara died. He’d bought it on the sly when the photographer sent the snaps round the station, and he’d cut out the rest of them, Linda and PJ and himself, leaving only her, with her red hair and her sparkly black dress and her white skin. The man’s eyes narrowed – Bob hated showing her face to him.

  Conlon said, ‘You know who this is? You know what she’s been up to?’

  He put the picture away, into his jacket pocket. ‘Never mind what I know. Question is, do your lot know?’

  ‘That’s your question?’

  ‘Aye. Answer it.’

  He seemed to think about it for a moment, and then he gave the nod, a short, sharp jerk. Bob could have pleaded for her – said she was a good woman, a mother, a wife – but it would do no good. This was a war, and she was on the wrong side, and that was that. ‘She’s a fecking tout,’ said Conlon. ‘And once they get the name . . .’

  Bob understood. She had been marked out, and now it was only a matter of time before they came for her. Not very much time. ‘I need your help, Sean,’ he said, trying to make it both a warning and a threat and a plea, all at once.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Algae bloom. She was repeating that to herself. Mary had even mentioned it, an algal bloom, feeding off the chemical by-products, turning the water red. She’d heard about such things. Every summer in Ballyterrin the canal turned thick lime-green with the stuff. But all the same she wanted to peel off her wet jeans, be naked even, just to avoid the touch of that red stain. It didn’t smell like blood. It smelled of the sea, and rotting things, dark and dank, but not blood. There was a faint blue sheen to it in the lightening dark. Still the jitter of fear ran up and down her spine. Where the hell was Guy? He couldn’t have gone under. He was a good swimmer, surely, he was the type, and he knew boats, and the sea had been calm, and . . .

  ‘Where are you taking me?’ She found her voice, as she was being marched along the shore, Seamas at her shoulder, Rory and Rainbow crunching behind. On the coral, not bones. What was the matter with her? Seeing death and blood and doom everywhere. Maybe the water she’d drunk since she’d been here, the food she’d eaten. That was all. Stay calm. Don’t panic. Think what Guy would do, but what if he’s . . . Oh God.

  Seamas caught at her arm. His breath was harsh in her ear. ‘People need to see we’ve got you, that it’s over. They’re afraid. You saw how afraid they are. This is your doing, you know.’

  She struggled. ‘Me! How is it my fault?’ And what did he mean, it was over?

  ‘Poking your nose into it. It could all have been dealt with. No one needed to know.’

  ‘They’re still drinking the water, eating the food! How can you let this happen?’

  ‘The company knows there’s a problem now. They’ll stop it, we’ll make it all stop. Quietly. No one needs to panic. There was no need to bring the police round here. I told him—’ jerking his head to Rory. ‘But he rang you anyway. Eejit.’

  She twisted her head to face him. ‘You’re mad. These people are sick. They’re sick, and they’re terrified.’

  He grabbed her harder. ‘Right. So I need to show them I’m in control.’

  Paula wanted to ask what he meant by that, but she was afraid she might already know the answer. He’d pushed her up off the beach now, and onto the uneven streets of the village. People stood everywhere, in doorways, spilling out of the community centre. All two hundred and something of them. Was it fewer now? Matt was dead, and Mary. Fiona was maybe dead too. And Guy – she couldn’t think about that.

  Seamas stopped in front of the harbour memorial, the one to lost ships, islanders who had gone out on rough seas over the years and never made it back. He climbed up on the lower steps of it, so everyone could see him. His hand rested on Paula’s shoulder, no longer gripping but still strong. ‘A chairdre,’ he called in Irish. Friends. His voice was low and authoritative, and the worried murmur of the villagers died away. Everyone was listening. ‘We’ve had a hard night,’ Se
amas said. ‘Our houses are damaged. Our weans are afraid. We’re afraid. But it’s over now. Look, it’s nearly light. It’ll be over soon. We’re safe.’

  ‘But the sea, Seamas!’ Oona from the Spar was shouting. ‘The sea is full of blood! What does it mean? What’s going on?’

  The murmur went up again, loud and scared. Down at the shore, a sudden wave splashed, and the people nearest to it began to stumble and run from it, howling in a sort of primal terror. As Paula watched from the steps, she saw a small child go under, knocked by the swell and the crowd, and it seemed no one was going to pick him up, and his mother was running in terror, her baby forgotten, and she almost cried out, but then the child was up, crying. What was going on here? Who were these people?

  Seamas was being drowned out. ‘Now everyone, just calm down, please . . .’

  Someone was pushing their way through to him, thin and nervy as a bird, with the pink dressing gown still showing under the heavy winter coat. Grainne Fairlin. She raised her reedy voice. ‘I know. I know what’s causing it.’ She turned to the islanders, the wind lifting her hair. Her face was lined, making her look much older than she was. She said, ‘It’s the outsiders. We never should have let them come here. That’s what’s causing all this.’ More moaning from the crowd, murmurs of agreement. Grainne raised her voice, high and cracked. ‘It only brings trouble! That doctor . . . we were fine before they came!’

  Shouts. Someone shouted, ‘I hope she’s dead, the English bitch!’ Paula looked and recognised Andrea Sharkey’s husband, Peadar. He was carrying the baby in his arms, the child with her face marked forever. Paula could hear her wailing across the crowd. Grainne saw him too and called out. ‘Andrea was never sick before that doctor came! She loved her children. Loved them. Didn’t she, Peadar?’

  Peadar hung his head, emotions fighting in his face. ‘It wasn’t her fault. It was that bitch. That doctor.’

  More people taking up the shout. ‘Bitch. Bitch!’

  Was Niamh here? Paula searched the crowd, looking for the little girl. There were children dotted throughout the crowd, as many as thirty. Dear God, so many kids. And nothing was safe here, nothing and nowhere.

  Grainne Fairlinn seemed transformed by the attention, a high priestess in the morning light that burned more with every minute. People’s faces stood out in the harsh dawn, every line of tiredness, every crease of fear. Paula saw Niamh suddenly, standing alone in the middle of the crowd, her blonde hair loose about her face. Her eyes were wide with terror.

  ‘It’s our fault,’ Grainne went on. ‘My daughter was killed off the island. She’d be safe and well here if she hadn’t left. My son was ruined by the sickness. If no outsiders had come, Peadar, your wean would be fine too. She’d not be scarred for life. Neither would my boy.’ Peadar Sharkey was openly weeping, not bothering to wipe it away. ‘Andrea could be home with her family right now if we hadn’t let them come. So it’s time – let’s get rid of them. All of them.’ Grainne spun, seeking people out in the crowd, where the green plant logo could be seen on jackets and hats and fleeces. ‘The company. Taking our land, using it . . . Let’s get rid of them. Let’s take back our island.’ Her gaze had settled on Rainbow, who had a shocked look on her face. Grainne pointed. ‘Her. All her people. Bringing shame to this place, using it for money. It’s sacred. We have to care for it. And we didn’t, and now look what’s happening! Blood in the sea!’ People were howling now, with fear and rage, turning towards Rainbow, where she stood on the edge of the water.

  Rainbow shouted: ‘Seamas!’

  Seamas’s eyes were darting. Looking at his wife, and then the rest of the islanders, the panic rising up among them palpable as squeezing hands. ‘A chairdre,’ he tried. ‘We’ve no fight with the company. They’ve brought jobs here and . . .’

  ‘Get out!’ someone shouted, from deep in the crowd. Rainbow began to back away. Down the beach towards the bloody water.

  More people were shouting. ‘Get out!’

  ‘Get off our island!’

  ‘Bitch! Get out of here, bitch!’

  Rainbow was still backing away, her feet stumbling in the blood-red water. ‘But . . . I never . . . you know me! I live here! All of you know me.’

  Seamas was watching, his jaw set. Paula saw him swallow, hard, then clench his teeth and shout to her across the crowd: ‘Run, for God’s sake. Get out of here. I can’t protect you any more.’

  And she was running, an expression of disbelief on her face, sloshing and stumbling in the sea.

  Seamas’s voice sounded above the crowd, and people turned to him, letting the woman go. ‘A chairdre! I know you’re afraid. But we’ll sort this. We’ll get the outsiders out. Matt Andrews, God rest him, he’s dead.’ More cries went up. ‘He’s dead, I swear it, and likely the doctor is too. We’ll find her body. I promise it. This woman here . . .’ He turned, indicating Paula. She felt two hundred pairs of eyes on her. ‘She came here to find Matt and Fiona. But in a few hours, when it’s light, the rest of the police will be here and she’ll tell them lies about us. She’ll say we killed Matthew – lies! You know it’s lies, friends. We don’t do that here. We’re good people. They’ll put us off the island, take our children away—’ Someone roared. Paula thought it was maybe Peadar. ‘No one else knows, no one else has any idea what’s happened here. Only this woman.’ He stepped back, as if washing his hands of her. She felt the wind lift her hair, sodden and stiff from the water. Her skin ached all over, chafed and icy. And Guy. Where was Guy?

  ‘Tell me now,’ said Seamas. ‘Should we wait for them to come, and take us away, and put their lies on us? Or will we deal with this now?’

  No one said anything. Paula caught Niamh’s eyes again, and the girl slowly shook her head.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  ‘What are you going to do with me? What did you mean? You can’t just – the police know we’re here! They’ll know we didn’t just vanish!’ But would they know she hadn’t slipped into the sea and drowned? Would they ever find her body – or would Maggie never know what happened to her mother either? No. Paula would not let that happen. She’d given Maggie no father, through her own selfishness and cowardice, so she would not let this happen.

  She looked round at the crowd in disbelief, the faces turned up to her cold and blank as stone. She wasn’t welcome here. They wanted her gone, and with her the story she had to tell. And where was Guy?

  Someone was catching at her arm, pulling her away. Rory. He muttered to Seamas. ‘I’ll do it. You stay and sort things here. It’s nearly light.’

  Seamas gave a nod. He didn’t look at Paula, and then Rory was marching her away from the square, towards the harbour. Nobody stopped him, and the last thing she saw as the light brightened, into a bleached-out winter dawn, was the people – the islanders – silently standing and letting her be taken away.

  Her feet moved as if automated, and she couldn’t think. This wouldn’t happen. It couldn’t. ‘Rory,’ she tried. ‘You can’t do this – you’re a Guard! You can’t—’ She couldn’t say the end of that sentence. That would make it too real. Rory didn’t answer. ‘The press,’ she tried. ‘People will ask questions . . .’ But would they? Wasn’t there a nice story ready and waiting – Paula and Guy on the boat, tipped over into the sea, drowned as well?

  They were at the marina now. The sea lapped gently at the harbour walls, and Paula could see that half of it had crumbled in the storm. Maybe the morning ferry wouldn’t even be able to dock. Rory was getting out a key. ‘You’re taking me on a boat?’ she asked, dazed. It seemed so bizarre.

  He didn’t answer, just unlocked a small cabin door in a little white boat. Of course. Rory had a boat too. Why hadn’t she thought of that? A good place to keep her. Her mind was turning slowly. How would she get out? If he left her there a while she might be able to escape somehow.

  Rory propelled her in,
not roughly, and she obeyed. The cabin was tiny and dark, panelled in some heavy imitation wood. It smelled strongly of musty food, and human bodies. As Rory pushed her head down, she heard him whisper: ‘Help her. Make sure she’s OK.’

  She almost said, what? But he shut the small door behind her and turned the key, and she found herself in a blackness more complete than any she’d ever known. Paula stumbled, putting her hand up to the walls of the cabin. She could hear the sound of water slapping on the sides of the boat. There was something soft too – a bed? Covers? Suddenly she knew it, the way you can feel things in the base of your spine, that instinct that kept us alive in the days of caves and monsters. She wasn’t alone in here. ‘Hello?’ her voice wavered.

  A blue light came in the corner, as a phone was held up. A woman with dark hair, wrapped in a blanket and curled up on the tiny sleeping area of the cabin. ‘Who are you?’ she said. ‘You’re not from here.’

  Paula was going to ask the same, but she knew the answer. She’d seen the picture a dozen times since yesterday. She was locked in the cabin of the boat with Dr Fiona Watts.

  Bob

  1993

  He pulled up outside the house, car parked halfway up the kerb. Too long. It had taken too long to get away from work, trying to do it quietly so PJ wouldn’t be suspicious. A terrible day at work. Up before dawn on a hell of a case, the kind that lodged in the back of your throat and made you want to be sick for months after. A woman, a dead child. And then, this afternoon, a report coming in he’d only just managed to whisk away from the despatcher. A Mrs Flynn, reporting suspicious men at her neighbour’s house. Possible IRA terrorists.