by Joe Lane
Overall I found little of significance. It had been a long day. I was tired and hungry and I was developing the first signs of a crunching headache. I decided to give up for the day. There was no point in pushing myself beyond exhaustion. Dejectedly, I drove back to Baltimore to locate the hotel where I’d booked a reservation over the telephone before I’d left London.
The Baltimore Harbour Hotel was busy and perfect to blend in without attracting too much attention to myself. After dinner in the hotel I went out to familiarize myself with the area. If this was going to be my base camp for the duration then I would need to know every nook and cranny of the area. It would also give me the opportunity to double check if I had been followed across to Ireland. I didn’t expect to be followed, and I soon discovered I hadn’t. Though to be absolutely sure I ventured into a pub called Bushe’s Bar. I ordered a cold Guinness and sat at a suitable table with my back against a wall and to keep watch on the entrance while I listened to the lively tunes and Irish songs from a local folk band.
During a short intermission from the music I took the opportunity to pester Inspector Hamer. I needed to ask him something. I rang the mobile number he’d given me and kept it blunt. “Got anything on Deveron?”
Naturally, Hamer was pleased to hear from me. “Oh it’s you Speed! So nice of you to surface from your hiding place! I’ve been searching London for you.”
“Why?”
“I have your required document stating immunity from prosecution over the matter of Ministry property at Berkshire, signed, sealed, as you asked for. Remember?”
“So?”
“So how the fuck do you expect me to deliver it when you elect to disappear?”
“Well don’t bother breaking into my home. Post it!”
I sensed I’d rattled him.
“You have the gratitude of a male spider being killed after mating! Where exactly are you?”
“I’m in a safe place. Did you locate Deveron?”
“Not exactly, he retired from the Ministry years ago.”
“I already know that! Where did he go?”
“He never left a forwarding address, so I guess he didn’t want to be traced.”
“I thought you chaps were good?”
“Shut it you facetious swine. Anyway, the old bastard is probably dead. What’s so special about Deveron?”
“He’s a war hero. I want his autograph.”
“Well I hope you have better luck than I did trying to find him. Now are you going to tell me where you are, Speed?”
“I’m on holiday.”
“Oh! A pleasant place is it?”
“Are you asking or probing?”
“I haven’t decided.”
“Well then, when you’ve decided I’ll ring you back.”
Hamer began to mutter some obscenities but I cut him off and switched my mobile to silence and straight to the answer phone.
While I was replacing the mobile back into my pocket I became aware of a rugged looking fellow of medium height standing at the bar, probably in his middle fifties, wearing a flat cap and knee length coat opened to reveal a checked shirt. I’d no doubt whatsoever that he was staring directly at me. He actually made me nervous. I sipped some Guinness to steady myself, watching his distorted shape through the rim of the glass. If it was me that the fellow was interested in then I was about to find out what he wanted because he moved away from the bar and headed in my direction.
I continued my observation of him through the beer glass while I pretended to take a long drink. When he got within spitting distance I placed the glass down onto the table in anticipation of trouble. He had a determined look in his eyes but I soon realized he presented no danger to me. Anyone preparing for a fight wouldn’t have had a clay pipe clamped between their front teeth and carrying a glass of beer ever so careful so as not to spill a drop. I continued to be minding my own business but remained wary of him.
On closer observation the man had red veined cheeks associated with someone who had spent a good deal of life in the open air. I could tell even before he spoke he was touting for some relevant business and as he hovered over me I got a distinct smell of fish which narrowed down the options of what he did for a living quite conclusively.
He removed the pipe from between his teeth and smiled at me. I could clearly see the arch shape chipped away in his tobacco stained upper two front teeth where the pipe stem had fitted perfectly, the indentation probably achieved after a lifetime of clamping the pipe stem.
“Hullo there, sir!” He said with a cheerful southern Irish voice.
I acknowledged half heartedly with a false smile, nodded and looked away to discourage his approach. In truth, I wasn’t in the best of moods for small talk, as my mind had yet to clear from the disappointments of the day. But the Irish fellow was persistent.
“Would it be work or pleasure that brings yer to these shores, sir?”
“A bit of both,” I said, dryly.
“Yer’re wouldn’t be one of those poets looking for a bit of inspiration, would yer be, sir?”
“Not really-Mister-ah?” I thought I might as well know who I’m talking to.
“It is I, sir, Shamus O’Malley, at yer service, and owner of a pleasure fishing boat. Do yer perhaps want to fish these waters?”
“I detest sea fishing.” And I did.
He expressed his disappointment. “O that’s a shame yer don’t like fishing, sir.”
But he had me contemplating an idea. “How big is this boat of yours?” I asked, thoughtfully.
“It’s very big, sir. And the finest in Baltimore harbour. She’s in readiness for a fine customer as yerself. Yer be thinking of a cruise then, sir?”
“Yes, cruising, Shamus; amongst other things.”
I could sense his suspicion creeping into the conversation. “And what would this other thing be, sir? I’m not a smuggler or anything of that nature. My hearts as pure as the water I drink.”
“You’re drinking Guinness,” I reminded him.
“That I am, sir.”
I smiled. “Relax, Shamus. I’m actually a journalist researching for material on the possibility of an attempted Japanese invasion on these very shores in 1944.”
“You’d be kidding me, sir? A Japanese invasion indeed! Here in Ireland?”
“It’s perfectly true. I thought an excursion around the bay might reveal some relevant details.”
I was half expecting him to assume I was crackers. That I’d maybe lost a few screws that held my brain in place. I was wrong. He didn’t rate me as an escapee from a mental institution because he began to rub the grey bristles on his chin while delving into the depths of his mind in search for a speck of information to extend our conversation. He raised a forefinger. I assumed he’d suddenly remembered some important detail he needed to tell me.
“An invasion you say, sir? I might just be able to help yer on that one,” he said, proudly.
For a moment I found myself staring at him vacantly before my mouth clicked into gear. “You’ve knowledge of such an incident?”
“It’s more second-hand knowledge, sir.”
He put his glass down on the table, removed his hat, revealing short cropped dark ginger hair, pulled in a chair and sat down opposite me. I didn’t protest that he’d invited himself, but I did notice his clay pipe wasn’t even lit. I suppose listening to a rambling old Irishman wouldn’t do me any harm, though I was perhaps being a little harsh on calling him old. He looked older than he probably was due to his weathered face and stubbly chin; neither did him any favours in the beauty department. He had deep set, grey blue eyes and bushy eyebrows. By the time he’d told me everything about his tale, we had drank a few beers.
“It’s an incredible story, Shamus. Can you verify any of this?”
The Irishman’s eyes narrowed. “Yer wouldn’t be thinking, Shamus O’Malley was to be telling yer lies, would yer, sir?”
“I’m sure you’re not, Shamus, because nobody could create a st
ory quite like yours. And I’m sure you can prove it?”
“Indeed, sir,” he announced solidly. “Take yer to the graveyard where the body’s buried.”
“It’s a start. Now tell me the story again but leave out the intricate details.”
Shamus slurped down a mouthful of beer. Ran the back of his hand over his mouth and began, “As I said, sir. Me uncle told me that during the war this wee lad was strolling along the beach at Gollen, a place where I’ve lived all me life; a beautiful place, sir. So this wee lad had been collecting drift wood from the beach when he stumbled on the ghoulish thing washed up on the rocks. A real mess it was, sir; a badly sea battered body with squinty eyes, smashing against the rocks. That I’m as sure as being sat here holding me empty glass.”
I got the hint and reordered. I was going to suffer with a frigging bad head the following morning there was no doubt about that, but I thought this conversation was worth the pain. Go on!” I pushed. “You can clearly remember all what you were told?”
“Clear as a twinkle in me Mother’s glass eye. Isn’t the sort of memory yer can forget, sir, as a lad. I were scared stiff for weeks just thinking about it.”
“Did anyone know how the body became washed up on the rocks?”
“I’d heard a rumour much later that the body may have had something to do with the Americans sinking some Japanese submarine out in the Atlantic at the time, and the body had probably drifted towards Ireland on the currents.”
“I suppose the body could have carried that far. What happened to the body after it was retrieved from the water?”
“It was buried, sir.”
“What, straight away? No autopsy, no coroner’s inquest?”
“I wouldn’t know about the medical details, sir. But as the tale goes the body was buried within days, sir. It was beginning to rot a bit. There was no such thing as fridges around here at the time to be storing bodies.”
“Buried here in Ireland?”
“So my uncle assured me, sir.”
“Can you remember where the burial took place?”
Shamus raised his finger in the air. “Indeed I do, sir.”
“Will you take me there tomorrow?”
“Ah-well, sir...” He began slowly. “…I’m a very busy man, indeed.”
“I would be paying for your time handsomely, naturally.”
I had read him well because there was an immediate sparkle in the Irishman’s eyes, and he said, “Now the mere mention of those immortal words is enough to send a leprechaun running for his golden pot to be filled. Is there any particular time in the morning, sir?”
“Don’t make it too early, I’ve a feeling I’ll need some aspirins.”
“Yer disappoint me, sir. A few pots of the black magic and yer’ve a hangover before getting one. What yer need, sir, is to drink a glass of Irish water before yer go to bed, and yer’ll be as fresh as dew on the morning meadow.”
I rose and told him where I was staying, and to be early: eight AM, no later.
I left the bar and staggered back to my hotel. I ordered a pot of tea to be brought to my room on the way through reception. When I eventually turned off the light and lay down on the bed, the room began to spin and so did the thoughts in my head. I nodded off, sinking into a quagmire of nightmares from which I thought I would never return.
Chapter Fourteen
The spear of sunlight pieced the crack in the curtain and hit me directly between the eyes. I climbed out of bed laboriously, drowned my body under a cool shower to wake me up and went down to breakfast. I ate a full traditional Irish breakfast consisting of rashers, grilled tomatoes, sausage, black and white pudding slices and potato cake, all washed down with a refreshing pot of tea. I had just finished when Shamus O’Malley arrived.
“Top of the morning, sir!” he said cheerily. “It’s a fine day to wander the beautiful lands of Ireland, it is.”
“I hardly regard stomping about in a graveyard as a charming excursion.” I reminded him.
“O’ no, sir, I meant the views on the way. Yer did mention sightseeing to me last night. That I remember, sir?”
“I’m sure I did, Shamus. Shall we get going?”
Outside Shamus proudly showed me the battered remnants of his Land-Rover, that and the need for a trip through the car wash.
I said casually, “Is it roadworthy?”
Shamus was astonished with my mistrust of his vehicle. “O don’t be fooled by the looks, sir. She’s a fine, fine runner, indeed.”
“I’ll have to take your word for it. What about insurance?”
“She’s very safe, sir.”
“No-not assurance…a driver’s insurance?”
“What might that be, sir?”
I looked at him vacantly. I’d two options: go or stay. I said, “I’ve a little complaint before we set off.”
His eyes bulged in anticipation. “Yer’ve a complaint already, sir? And what might that be?”
“For goodness sake, please stop calling me ‘sir’ every five minutes. You can call me, Shacks, okay?”
“It’s a fine name, Shacks sir, a fine name indeed.”
This was one Irishman whose vocabulary I’d struggle to change in a million years.
Shamus O’Malley drove with the same perception as a learner driver with pace, as he took full advantage of the entire road width available when he decided to take his eyes off the road to point out relevant landmarks of interest. I shouldn’t moan, as it’s not often I have the privilege of being chauffeur driven even if it made me feel uncomfortable. But I overcame my fears the longer the journey went.
We made decent progress along the country roads and despite the country air flowing through the open window I still couldn’t relax because of two annoying factors: Shamus’s constant crunching of the gears combined equally with his crunching on pieces of dried pork morsels he rustled up from a bag beside him. I’ve seen a pregnant sow scoffing slops from a bucket eat more quietly.
From Baltimore we took the same scenic route I’d taken the day before until we reach Ballydehob, then onto to the R592, passing a mushroomed topped mountain as we headed for the village of Schull. Keeping right, as we went through Schull, Shamus veered the vehicle off the road and we headed down a narrow country lane until we approached a derelict church minus its roof. At first I thought Shamus was taking me on a sight-seeing trip after all to liven the day, but he hadn’t. This was the place.
“We’re here, Shacks sir.” He announced as if introducing me to something fantastically special.
I stepped from the vehicle unimpressed and stretched my legs. I followed Shamus through a broken oak gate hanging by one rusty hinge and along an overgrown grassy stone pathway to the rear of the ruins.
“So what’s the story of this sorrowful place?” I asked as we went along.
“O it is a shame, Shacks sir,” he said over his shoulder. “A violent storm in the twenties ripped the roof clean off, so I was told.”
Shamus stopped and swept his hand in an arc to show the area where I assumed the body was buried, but he refused to go any closer. I saw nothing but overgrown vegetation and total neglect. It was obvious nobody had been here for years.
Bewilderment on my face, I said: “This is the graveyard?”
Shamus nodded.
“Where are all the headstones?”
“O well, Shacks sir, this church was never actually used for Irish burials.”
“Then what are we doing here?”
“The authorities at the time, Shacks sir, made an exception and had the body from the shore buried here. It’s over there, Shacks sir, under the overgrown hedgerow.”
I followed his outstretched arm to the spot he was pointing to and said, disappointedly, “Hardly distinctive as a grave.”
“O believes me it is, Shacks sir. I swear on me Mother’s grave it is. If you flatten the long grass down you’ll find it. I’d do it meself, only I’m a rather superstitious kind of man, and the thought of leaning over
another mans grave only heightens me fear of being taken before me time.”
“You’re scared, Shamus?”
Shamus blushed because it certainly wasn’t exertion. “Scared? Me?”
“You’re afraid of a ghoulish hand suddenly shooting from the ground to drag you down into Hell?”
Shamus owned up to his phobia. “That’s precisely what I’d be thinking, Shacks sir.” And he immediately made the sign of the cross over his chest.
Even I hesitated before crouching down in front of the supposed grave. I parted the grass and found the evidence that proved Shamus was right.
“There’s no headstone of any type,” I bellowed over my shoulder. “But there’s a wooden plaque. It’s a bit twisted and faded, but I can still read part of the inscription.”
“What does it say, Shacks sir?”
“Let your God-something-something-soul: rest-something-something; probably rest in peace.”
It was hardly an impressive piece of writing and proved nothing to confirm this was the last resting place of a Japanese sailor. I rose to my feet, contemplating the possibility of hiring a couple of gravediggers to exhume the body for verification, but there’s a law against doing that without the proper authorization and paperwork and to be accused of grave-robbing didn’t really appeal to me.
“Are you sure this is the grave?”
“As sure as me name is Shamus O’Malley,” he said seriously.
“Why did they decide to bury the body here at the ruins, some Irish custom?”
“O well, yer see, Shacks sir, the priest at the time, Father Brady, O he was a fine man indeed and a devout Roman Catholic, well he wouldn’t allow a non Catholic to be buried on sacred ground. I’m afraid Father Brady wasn’t quite prepared for the religions associated with the Far East, so it was decided that this forgotten church would be sufficient until the body was claimed.”
“Very thoughtful, only it seems nobody bothered to pass the information on.”