The Dark Beloved

by Helen Falconer

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘Didn’t you show her some of your powers?’

  ‘Nothing worked. Anyway, Mam thinks Carla thinking I’m mad is not such a bad idea, as a cover story. She doesn’t want anyone to come checking on Eva. What about your brother – what did you tell him?’

  At once he dropped his eyes again, uncomfortable. ‘John Joe thinks we ran off to Dublin together. I told him you’re not like that, but . . . no dice. I’m really sorry about this, but you might get to hear it around the town.’

  Aoife was filled with relief. Was this the thing Shay had been finding so hard to say to her? ‘Don’t worry about that.’

  ‘I don’t care what people say about me, but you . . .’

  ‘Seriously, don’t worry about it. I only care what Carla thinks, and I can live with her believing I’m mad. Although it is a bit annoying.’ She glanced towards the kitchen – there was a faint, unfortunate smell of burning in the air, and her stomach rumbled. ‘Like, she keeps texting me names of famous people who were insane. Van Gogh, Spike Milligan—’

  ‘Aoife?’

  ‘Hey, I’m not mad!’ She looked back at him, grinning.

  He said, without smiling, ‘I need to tell you something.’

  She felt her face fall. The trickle of anxiety running through her heart again. So this wasn’t just about John Joe saying she was a slut. There was something else. ‘What?’

  ‘Aoife . . .’ He reached for her hand – then flinched and pulled back before touching her.

  It was exasperating. ‘What? What? You have to stop this thing about not even touching me. You’re not that dangerous. Didn’t we—?’

  ‘Here we are!’ The woman had finally appeared with the food, and set it down with a flustered smile. Surprisingly perfect toasted cheese and ham sandwiches; piles of fresh salad, coleslaw, crisps. And a glass with a flower in it – a rosebud, still tightly furled. ‘Sorry it took so long but I completely ruined the first toastie because the cat came in through the window and was after the cooked ham! The rose is by way of sorry . . . At least you’re still here! I had such a big crowd last week, a minibus of ten tourists, but they all left before I could serve more than two of them.’ Sighing, she scurried off.

  As soon as the woman was out of earshot, Aoife finished more calmly: ‘Didn’t we swim together, and get buried by rocks together, and fly together? And look – not a bother on me. You’ve got to stop thinking I’m going to keel over if you so much as breathe on me.’

  Shay gazed at her for a long moment. Then dropped his eyes and touched his finger to the rosebud, stroking it, concentrating. The rose opened, burgeoned, dropped its petals, withered on the stalk, died. Nothing left but dust in the glass. For a long moment – longer than it had taken the rose to die – Aoife sat and stared, heart pounding. Shay raised his eyes to her again – dark, haunted green.

  ‘I was able to do it before, but never that fast. I think this is to do with turning sixteen . . . Please don’t look at me like that.’

  Aoife recovered herself. ‘I’m not trying to look at you like anything. I don’t care if you’re a lenanshee. I love you. This is my decision. Here, take my hand.’

  But he looked away, strong farm-boy fists clenching and unclenching on the table. ‘I can’t risk it. I can’t—’

  She cried in frustration – at him, at the situation, ‘How could just holding my hand hurt me?’

  ‘I’m not saying it would.’

  ‘Then do it!’

  But he said in a low, agonized voice, ‘Look, it’s not just about touching you.’

  She was bewildered. ‘I don’t understand.’

  Still without looking at her, his voice grew near to anger. So unlike him. ‘Do you know how hard this is for me, just being here with you, with you looking at me like that? If I took your hand, do you know how much it would take, just to stop myself kissing you? Do you?’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Don’t look at me like that!’ He got up from his chair abruptly, slapping a ten-euro note on the table. ‘Look, I’m sorry—’

  ‘Shay, wait!’

  As the wind chime tinkled over the door, the woman flew out of the kitchen with a massive welcoming smile – until she realized these were not new customers but her old ones leaving. Staring at the untouched food, the woman burst into tears. ‘Was there something wrong? Was it what I said about the cat coming in after the ham? Oh God . . .’

  Aoife was in the middle of trying not to cry herself. ‘I’m sure it’s lovely – I just lost my appetite.’

  The woman sobbed, ‘Because I took so long!’

  ‘No, honestly, I wasn’t that hungry in the first place.’

  ‘You just can’t get anyone this far back, to help. I’ve prayed in church!’ Wiping her face on her apron, the woman began stacking their plates onto a tray. ‘I’ve even put cakes and milk out for the fairies, in case they might take pity on me!’

  ‘I’m really, really sorry.’

  But the woman was already disappearing miserably back into the kitchen. Finally left free to step outside into the wind, Aoife stood shivering, staring in horror at the sight of her bike – no longer in the car, but leaning against the corner of the building. Was that it then – had he gone? No, he was still here – standing opposite the little car park on the far side of the road, looking down over the ocean. She crossed the tarmac to stand beside him. Far below their feet, the cliffs were battered by a high, grey sea.

  Before she could even speak, he said rapidly, without even looking at her, ‘I’m sorry I can’t drive you home right now. Maybe it will get easier, but . . . This really hurts.’

  ‘Shay, surely we can—’

  ‘Be careful, Aoife. On the road, I mean. Don’t ride too fast.’

  Taken aback by the speed with which he had dismissed her, she cried, ‘I won’t even ask you to hold my hand again, I promise!’

  ‘Aoife. Please.’

  The finality in his voice was agonizing. She wanted to scream, This hurts me too! Instead, she ran gasping back across the road to her bike. The saddle had twisted to one side. As she was furiously adjusting it, a small white tourist bus pulled up beside her, and the door sighed back, and someone jumped down. The driver was saying, ‘Toilets round the back, but I warn you, they’re not very clean.’

  ‘No, I’m going in the café.’ The speaker was a girl – remarkably beautiful, in her late teens – tall and slender with long white-blonde hair. She was wearing a long white silk dress, very close-fitting.

  The tour driver shook his head. ‘Sorry, miss – this isn’t on the schedule any more, because it can’t cater for a bus-load.’

  ‘But I’m staying here.’ She had a very pretty, musical voice. ‘You go on without me.’

  As the bus pulled slowly away, like a curtain drawn aside, Shay was still standing at the cliff side – but this time he had his back to the sea and his eyes met Aoife’s and held them. The girl in white didn’t turn to go into the café but stayed where she was, staring at him, her hands lightly on her narrow hips, her silk skirt flapping around her slim bare legs. Waiting for him to notice her. Yet Shay didn’t take his eyes off Aoife and, after about half a minute, the girl – with the briefest of flushed, rather resentful glances at Aoife – pushed open the door to the café and stepped into its shadowy interior, to the faint wind-brushed tinkle of the chimes.

  Instantly Shay came walking across the road, his hand held out.

  Aoife’s heart leaped, but all he did was offer her a piece of paper, at the full stretch of his arm. ‘My new number. John Joe gave me his other phone.’

  She looked at it, unable to speak, gripping the cold handlebars of her bike. She wanted to ask, What for, if you’re planning never to come near me again?

  He shook the paper at her. ‘In case that muppet does come after you, Aoife. Though you don’t need to be afraid of him. He can’t touch you. My feelings . . . the grá . . . Nothing’s changed . . .’

  She wanted to say so much. Sh
e wanted to say, I don’t want you because you can save me from Dorocha. I want you for yourself.

  ‘Aoife, take it . . .’

  Her voice stuck in her throat: a burning lump. She grabbed the paper, crumpling and stuffing it into the pocket of her hoodie, jumped up on the pedals and sped away into the rainy wind.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Even after the long ride back to Kilduff, her eyes were still hazy with tears – and as she turned into the square, she totally upended old Mrs Munnelly, who was just stepping out off the pavement with all her shopping.

  ‘Sorry, sorry!’ Aoife screeched to a halt in a big U-turn, dropped the bike, and rushed to help Lois’s grandmother to her feet. She sat the old woman on the low wall beside the shop, brushed the leaves off her tweed coat, then ran around picking up her shopping – a burst bag of potatoes, a cabbage which had rolled under a car, and finally a box of eggs, smashed. ‘I’m so sorry – I’ve money, I’ll run in and get you some more eggs.’

  Mrs Munnelly said breathlessly, hand on her chest, ‘It’s not your fault, dear. I can’t see a thing, these new bifocals, I wish I still had the old ones.’

  Aoife felt a fuzzy dizziness for a second, perhaps from standing up too fast. The hair pricked on her arms, like someone had walked across her grave; a slight sinking feeling, like a decrease in pressure. ‘I won’t be a minute. I’ll go and get those eggs.’ She ran into the shop and down to the back. Confusingly, where the eggs had been only two days ago were boxes of plastic spiders and witch-hat fascinators. She located the eggs in the next aisle, and ran back to the till.

  Two very blonde girls in green uniforms were coming away from the counter, heads down, comparing sweets. She pushed past without looking at them – then felt her arm seized. The next second, Jessica was shrieking into her face: ‘It’s you!’

  Aoife was startled by the warmth of the greeting – and by how much the dark-haired Jessica had changed overnight. ‘Oh, hi, I love your hair! I nearly didn’t recognize you—’

  ‘It’s really you!’ Now Jessica was clinging to her, weeping.

  What was the matter with Jessica, who had last seen her only two days ago? ‘Are you OK, Jess? I’m in a bit of a hurry –I just have to get these eggs—’

  ‘But you have to stop and talk to us! You have to tell us what happened! Some people are saying you and Shay . . . But Carla says you’ve been ill in hospital and maybe had amnesia!’

  ‘Aargh . . . Sorry.’ She’d done it again. In the fright of knocking over Mrs Munnelly and the rush of getting the eggs, she had completely forgotten how much time had passed. Five months. Setting the eggs down on the counter, she embraced Jessica in a proper hug. ‘It’s so great to see you!’

  ‘You too! I couldn’t believe it when I heard you were alive! We all thought you were dead!’

  ‘I’m so sorry . . .’

  ‘Sorry?’ The second girl had turned to face her now, hands on hips, stormy-faced, cat-green eyes narrow. It was Sinead, grown a lot taller and thinner, and also gone blonde – with layers – instead of the strawberry ponytail she’d had since junior infants. ‘Sorry? Do you think it’s funny to go around having a tribute page up on Facebook when you’re not even dead?’

  Aoife smiled at Sinead brightly over Jessica’s shoulder. ‘Hi there – thanks for the nice comments anyway!’

  ‘You needn’t think I meant them!’

  ‘Really, I didn’t.’

  Sinead spat, ‘I bet half the nice stuff up there you put up yourself anyway while you were wherever you were laughing at us! And don’t you go being all sympathetic to her, Jess – she wasn’t one small bit bothered about the rest of us when she ran off with Shay Foley, was she?’

  Stepping back from Aoife’s embrace, Jessica said soothingly, ‘Ah now, I’m sure there’s a good explanation, like Carla said . . . Aoife, did you really have a nervous breakdown?’

  But Sinead wasn’t about to be soothed. ‘Don’t fall for that one. That’s just Carla trying to make out her so-called best friend didn’t really dump her cold to go jaunting off with some thick one from back the bog. And us having to find stupid photos to put up on Facebook and being dragged along to endless bloody Masses to pray for her soul – some chance of saving that.’

  ‘Ah now, Sinead . . .’

  Sinead was already pulling Jessica away by the arm. ‘Come on, we’ve got to get back for the last period.’

  ‘I’m coming . . . Aoife, I’m really glad you’re alive, and I hope you’re feeling better! I’ll talk to you later!’

  Aoife cried, ‘Thanks, Jess – I’ll see you in school!’ Then, cheerfully, with a massive wave at Sinead, ‘See ya, Sinead!’

  Just like the last time she was in the shop, it was John McCarthy at the till, and again, just like the last time, he looked at the coins in her hand with deep distrust, his faded eyes like pale blue marbles. He said in his quavering old man’s voice, ‘Fairy gold, I’m thinking?’

  She smiled and paid with the couple of euros she had in her pocket. ‘No – real money this time.’ She had done a big shop here once before, with a hundred-euro note that had materialized in her pocket. Back then, she hadn’t known that in human hands, fairy gold turned into dead leaves.

  He grunted, trapping the coins beneath his palm then sweeping them into the till. ‘But you’re going to have to come back and pay for them eggs properly if these turn into oak leaves.’

  ‘They won’t, I promise.’

  He put the box of eggs into a brown paper bag. ‘I did tell them, you know.’

  She held out her hand for the bag. ‘Told them what?’

  ‘That you were away with the fairies! But you were back very quick, weren’t you, Miss O’Connor? You must have barely set foot in the other place.’

  She stared at him, then glanced hastily around her. No one else was in the shop now, apart from a small plump man in his thirties, round-faced, balding with a bright red hair comb-over, and wearing a very old-fashioned suit. He had a trolley piled up with plastic-wrapped trays of Coca-Cola, to which he was now adding six packs of cheese and onion Taytos, and a huge tub of chocolate-chip ice cream out of the upright freezer.

  She looked back at John McCarthy. ‘I’m not sure what you mean.’

  The old man went on as if she hadn’t said anything: ‘And I told everyone as how time went by a hundred times slower in the otherworld, and I said how you might forget to come home for a long, long time, but one day, maybe in fifty years’ time, they’d see someone passing in the street who reminded them of you, still looking just as you looked when you were fifteen – and then, however old they’d got to be themselves, even if they were as old as I am now, they might remember old John McCarthy was after telling them you’d be back.’ And finally he handed over the brown paper bag.

  She seized it. ‘Thanks – bye!’

  ‘Goodbye, Aoife O’Connor. If that is your real name.’

  She hurried towards the door of the shop. It was hard to tell how much the old man really knew, or whether his ramblings were more about the way he was slowly losing his mind. After all, he was convinced his nephew’s wife was a lenanshee, and her love destroying his nephew. (He had accosted Aoife in the graveyard, elbows sharp in his worn black jacket: Beware of the leannán sídhe, Aoife O’Connor. Stay away from the lover from the otherworld.) But just because John McCarthy knew the old stories didn’t mean he had any special insight into who Aoife was herself.

  Behind her, as she left the shop, he was saying to the man with the comb-over: ‘That better not be fairy gold, young man. I remember you from the last time, so I do.’

  Mrs Munnelly was still sitting on the low stone wall where Aoife had left her, the pink back in her cheeks and now looking quite pleased with herself. ‘Well, the optician woman said I’d get used to these glasses soon enough and I’ve never seen the world look clearer! Look at the yellow of that tree – the leaves are lovely! Oh, it’s you . . .’ And suddenly Lois’s grandmother was no longer a sweet and pink old lady, but a
wrinkled version of her sour grandchild, gathering her skirts as if Aoife’s presence could contaminate her. ‘Well, I pray you have seen the error of your ways, Aoife O’Connor, but I’m very surprised you weren’t praying for your own soul at this morning’s Mass. And Father Leahy so good to the two of ye, you and that boy, and holding all those special Masses for your souls over the summer, when he thought ye were both dead!’

  Aoife headed grimly away, cycling with her head down. The small balding man was hurrying across the square in front of her, disappearing through the church gates, carrying his load. An odd place to be going, loaded down with crisps and ice cream – hardly the place for a picnic.

  The priest himself was standing outside his house at the corner of the church lane, pointing out directions to a young woman in a small pink Fiat. As she bicycled past the car, Aoife caught sight of a fluffy white dog sitting in the back – then realized it was an outsize teddy bear, propped up in an empty child seat. The priest straightened up and stared after her, one hand raised as if wondering about calling on her to stop. But Aoife was already turning with a hiss of wet tyres on to the Clonbarra road. She didn’t feel ready for Father Leahy yet. Not if he was another one who thought she and Shay had been living together all summer. And after all those Masses for the dead.

  Once she was sure she was out of sight, she speeded up, past the unfinished estate, past the garage with the second-hand cars. Flying along now, left into her lane, up the long boreen. She thought suddenly – was Shay safe home? It wasn’t likely he had run into a guard, but still, she should call him, to check.

  No. Don’t even think of calling him. You only want to hear his voice, and it’s not fair on him to keep tugging at him if it hurts him so much.

  Despair swept through her. It wasn’t fair on her, either.

  He’s only trying to protect you.

  Poor consolation.

  He loves you.

  Blinded again by tears, she powered at breakneck speed over the potholes towards home.