The Dark Beloved

by Helen Falconer

  Earthbound, she headed at a ridiculously happy speed downhill, towards the distant sea. The sun was getting lower, long streaks of gold and crimson in the sky. How wonderful it would be to fly into a sunset. She and Shay could do it, together. They could do anything together . . .

  He and his brother must be back from the bog by now, and John Joe would have headed out to the pub, leaving Shay by himself on the small, remote farm. She could tap on the window. She pictured him sitting at the kitchen table – and then looking up and seeing her looking in. She would know, from the way his face changed, what was in his heart. He would be so glad to see her . . . And then, when she explained—

  ‘Crap!’ She had reached the edge of the land already – and she was travelling far too fast. She swung dangerously left onto the coast road, leaning almost horizontally. The tyres, already worn paper-thin over the last few days, exploded into shreds, and with a terrible screeching of metal, the bike lost its grip on the tarmac and skidded sideways towards the edge of the cliff, where the low metal barrier had rusted and broken away. ‘Crap! Crap!’ She threw herself recklessly to the ground, sliding with the bike across the gravel, still in the same direction . . .

  She closed her eyes, bracing herself for the feeling of the ground disappearing from beneath her.

  She slowed. Stopped.

  Still sweating, she opened her eyes. She was so close to the edge that by simply lifting her head she could see down to the waves crashing against the base of the cliff, foaming pink in the sunset light, a hundred metres below. She might have managed to glide down on the wind, but at the bottom she would have been broken against the rocks by the massive waves.

  Moments later, the rush of adrenalin subsided, and pain flooded her body. Gasping, she sat up to check her injuries. The sleeve had been nearly ripped off her hoodie and her right shoulder was an agonizing mess of torn flesh and silvery blood. Black spots drifted in across her vision; she turned her eyes away, feeling slightly sick.

  The bike itself lay in the middle of the narrow road, snapped spokes sticking out at every angle. After the black spots had disappeared, she got shakily to her feet and limped over to pick it up. She could have wept, looking at it. She’d had it since her eleventh birthday. Now its wheels were buckled, handlebars twisted. She wouldn’t even be able to push it home. She dragged it to the bog side of the road and laid it in the ditch – tenderly, as if burying a childhood pet.

  She would have to walk the rest of the way to Shay’s. Although she couldn’t see him, not looking like this: bloodied and in bits. Maybe she could wash herself down in a stream. Or maybe she could use the ladies’ in the grubby, deserted little café where she had met him two days ago. She could see the building in the distance.

  Halfway to the café, her left hip began to feel like it was on fire. She pulled out the elastic waistband of her trackies and peered at the damage. It was horribly grazed, the top layer of skin gone. Suddenly she felt so dizzy she had to sit down on a stone by the side of the road, and put her head between her knees, to breathe. Her phone buzzed while she was slumped there; without lifting her head, she slid it out of her pocket (relieved to see that the screen hadn’t been cracked in the accident). Carla had messaged:

  good for you but you crazy biking it! where are you now? text him to meet you!

  Aoife texted back:

  thank you so much for everything!

  TEXT HIM TO MEET YOU!!

  OK OK ☺

  And although she’d only been trying to mollify Carla, texting Shay didn’t seem so bad an idea. She tapped out: I’ve had an accident please can I have a lift . . . Then erased the text – she didn’t want him panicking and speeding like a lunatic on the public road. My bike is fecked, I need a lift . . . That was more like it.

  Hi sorry to bother but I need help. I’m down near the café on the coast road and my tyre is punctured and I need a lift

  However much he thought it would hurt him to be near her and not touch her, he’d hardly refuse to help. And then, once he was there, she could convince him . . . This time she wouldn’t be taking No for an answer.

  She sat staring at the screen, smiling. Waiting.

  No reply.

  He couldn’t be ignoring a cry for help. He must be out of range. She slipped the phone back into her pocket and got to her feet and walked on up the coast road in the direction of the farm.

  A thin, misty rain was falling, wetting her hair and clothes, slowly cleaning away the silvery blood from her exposed shoulder, but leaving the ripped flesh still studded with crumbs of dirt and gravel. She would be passing the café shortly – she might as well get cleaned up anyway. The toilets were round the back and she could get to them without going through the front and scaring that poor lonely woman with the state of her.

  Although, as she neared the small one-storey building, she found herself wondering if she had come to the right place. The front of the shop was gleaming. Not only had its dirty windows been washed, but the peeling yellow window frames, door and fascia board had been re-painted a charming pastel blue. Hanging baskets of Michaelmas daisies dangled, swinging in the chill sea breeze. A new blackboard outside the door announced: RITA’S CAFÉ! LOBSTER SOUP! FRESH CRAB SALAD! HOMEMADE BREAD AND CAKES! REAL LEMONADE! Amazingly, there was a tour bus with a foreign registration drawn up in the little car park.

  Aoife was so absorbed in the change, she forgot about going round the back to the yard and instead walked straight into the café. The inside had been cleaned and painted as well, and there were oil cloths and little vases of fresh flowers on all the tables. Instead of burned toast, the air was filled with gentle cooking smells and the scent of turf from the small iron stove. And crowding every table were tourists – one of whom, a woman with a grey bun, glanced towards the door with a smile . . . then let out a thin scream. The next moment thirty pairs of eyes were staring at Aoife in horror. And an instant after that, a beautiful waitress with a long white-blonde ponytail and shining eyes came bustling across the café and hurried Aoife gently but firmly between the tables towards the back door, away from the startled customers.

  ‘You poor thing, what happened to you? Did something attack you? I didn’t think there were monsters out on the bog!’

  ‘No – what? Oh, you’re joking . . . It’s grand – I’m sorry I freaked everyone out, I just fell off my bike.’

  ‘Is there someone you’d like me to call to take you away?’

  ‘No, really, I’m grand! If I could just get cleaned up in the bathroom.’

  ‘Of course you can, before you go again.’ She hurried Aoife across the rain-swept yard to the toilets. ‘There’s plenty of towels in there, use as many as you like. I’ll just run and let everyone know you’re not dying yet . . .’ And the waitress was gone again.

  Aoife was left standing alone in a sparkling white space. The toilets were as scrubbed and clean as the rest of the place, with a pile of white towels sitting on a small blue cupboard and a soap dispenser by the sink. She ran the water, and it was hot. She washed the dirt from her face, combed her fingers through her matted hair, then soaped a clean towel and dabbed cautiously at her shoulder, easing the tiny pebbles out of the damaged flesh. Then washed her hip.

  ‘Rita, she’s the owner, she sent you a cup of tea with sugar in it – great for the shock, says she!’ The girl was back already, not just with a big mug of tea but with a plate of chocolate biscuits, which she balanced on the edge of the sink. ‘How are you feeling now?’

  ‘Grand, thanks a million. Oh, it’s you!’ Now Aoife had a chance to look at the girl properly, she recognized her – it was the girl who had jumped off the bus just as she and Shay were leaving the café before. Beautiful – mesmerizingly beautiful. Hair like fresh cream and eyes the silver grey of sunlit rain. ‘Are you working here now?’

  ‘I am! And you are . . . ?’

  ‘Aoife.’

  ‘Aoife!’ The girl seemed oddly amused by this. ‘How strange, I had it in my head you were calle
d something different altogether.’

  ‘You must be mixing me up with someone else. Although I did see you before.’

  ‘When you were younger?’

  ‘No, just the day before yesterday, when I was coming out of this café and you got off the bus.’ Aoife was astonished all over again. ‘I can’t believe that was only two days ago! The place looks so different now!’

  The girl beamed. ‘It’s nice, isn’t it? It was hard work, but I’m super-efficient, and I had a lot of help from my friends.’

  ‘It’s extraordinary!’

  ‘Thank you! Rita says I’m a gift from heaven! She said she’d been praying to the universe for help, and suddenly there I was, like magic!’ The girl was smiling at Aoife as she chatted on – even her voice was beautiful: soft and sweet and winning. ‘You’re right, by the way – I did see you when I got off the bus! But I wasn’t able to pay you much attention, because I was so distracted by that boy! I’ve never seen one so handsome in all my years. Such strong cheekbones, and such black, black hair, and his eyes so green and somehow golden-brown at the same time, and he has such a very, very kissable mouth— Oh!’ The girl clapped her hand to her own mouth as if mortified, although she was still smiling widely behind her fingers. ‘I’m such a fool, I shouldn’t have said anything! You’re not in love with him, are you?’

  ‘You’re grand . . .’ The happiness bubbled up in Aoife’s heart as she took a sip of the tea. That gorgeous boy – how true! She was tempted to confide: I do love him, and he loves me. Instead she grinned back at the waitress. ‘I’m just on my way to see him now, actually, though he doesn’t know I’m coming.’

  ‘Oh, poor you.’ The girl put her head on one side, so that her blonde ponytail fell over her shoulder, and clicked her tongue sympathetically. ‘I thought you were over him, but I suppose that’s not very likely.’

  Aoife put down the tea. ‘You thought . . . What?’ A cool chill fluttered through her; the happiness bubbles subsiding.

  ‘Oops!’ The waitress caught the precariously balanced mug before it tipped sideways into the sink, then turned her attention back to Aoife, saying cheerfully, ‘I mean, I don’t blame you for chasing – he is amazingly gorgeous! And such a nice name . . . Shay Foley.’ She breathed it out like music. ‘And he has such a lovely way of speaking too – so soft, like rain on heather—’

  ‘You’ve been talking to him?’

  ‘Of course! You rushed off and left him standing there like a fool, so I brought him in for a piece of cake to cheer him up, but actually he didn’t need cheering up – though he ate the cake all right! No, he said it was all for the best, and he was ready to move on.’

  She was going blind . . . She gripped the edge of the sink, leaning heavily on it. A sheet of painful black sliding down like a guillotine over her vision . . .

  The waitress’s lovely voice was babbling on in her ears: ‘Anyway, we got talking about life and ourselves, and we agreed that we’re definitely kindred spirits. Isn’t it so handy – he only lives back the road from here? We’re meeting up again tomorrow . . .’ In the distance, beyond the yard, the café chimes tinkled. ‘Yikes, better go! Are you going to be all right? Hello? Are you all right?’

  With great difficulty, Aoife opened her eyes. The electric light appeared utterly blinding. Her eyes hurt. Everything hurt.

  The waitress had moved away and was standing in the doorway, holding Aoife’s un-drunk tea and uneaten chocolate biscuits. ‘Are you feeling better now?’

  Aoife cleared her throat and answered hoarsely, ‘Yes.’

  ‘You still look very pale. Are you sure you don’t want me to call someone to bring you home?’

  ‘No. I’ll be grand.’

  ‘Are you sure? Oh, that bell!’ And the mesmerizing girl was gone, sprinting across the yard towards the back door of the café.

  Aoife remained where she was, holding onto the sink, staring at her white face in the mirror, waiting for the tears to come. But the tears stayed lodged painfully in her lungs, like stones; like gravel in the flesh. I’m so sad, I can’t even cry . . . I have to go home . . . But the thought of walking back alone through the dark, through the cold wind and lonely rain . . .

  She had been so happy on the way here. But now . . .

  She needed help. She needed comfort. She needed . . .

  She took out her phone, and called Maeve. ‘Mam? I’ve had a bit of an accident and I’ve written off my bike . . .’

  ‘Oh my God, darling, where are you?’

  When her mother’s Volvo screeched up twenty minutes later, Aoife was sitting by the side of the road in the rain with her broken bike in the ditch beside her. Maeve leaped out of the car and rushed to help. ‘Oh, darling! Oh, your poor bike . . . Don’t worry, we can buy you another one. Ah, darling, don’t cry, don’t cry . . . I know you really loved that old thing, but it’s had a good innings. I’ve brought you a change of clothes, you can take off your wet ones in the car. Oh, your poor arm! Oh, your hip!’

  In the car, Eva was snoring in a new child’s seat in the back, her mouth slackly open and her nose turned up.

  Maeve settled Aoife into the front, patting at her wounds with antiseptic wipes, helping her on with dry trackies and socks, wrapping a big fluffy blanket around the rest of her, unscrewing a Thermos of hot homemade soup. Kissing her cheek.

  Mother’s love.

  In the early evening, while Aoife was sitting in bed with a pile of pillows behind her and drinking yet more of Maeve’s chicken soup, her phone pinged. She reached for it painfully – then forgot her pain.

  Shay had texted:

  Are you hurt?

  But before she could work out how to answer, he texted again:

  Heard you had a tip on the bike!

  And all the joy went out of her. He must have been with that girl again, or at least talking to her on the phone. And the waitress had told him about the accident, and now he knew Aoife had been on her way to see him, and he must know she knew about the girl, and yet no explanation, no excuses, nothing but this: Are you hurt?

  Of course she was hurt. She texted back:

  No, not hurt.

  A long pause.

  Night night, Aoife.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Carla said, ‘But you must go, you can’t just languish. You have to go – it will cheer you up. Ah, come on, who else am I going to get ready with?’

  Aoife was lying flat on her back on her bed – still aching: skin, bones and heart. ‘Why don’t you get ready with Jessica and Aisling?’

  ‘Because they’re each other’s best friends and you’re mine! Listen to me – Shay Foley’s not going to be there. Discos aren’t his thing, you know how quiet he is. And dancing will cheer you up, I swear. There’ll be other boys—’

  ‘I don’t want other boys.’

  ‘Sure you do. And don’t bother about Sinead going around calling you a slut – nobody cares.’

  ‘Nor do I. It’s not that . . . Look, please don’t make me.’

  Carla must have heard her despair, because she abandoned the pep talk and said much more gently, ‘OK, I know I sound like I don’t understand, but seriously, I don’t believe this thing about Shay taking off after some other girl.’

  Aoife breathed in through her nose. It was an effort to speak normally, because of the unshed tears still embedded in her lungs. On an outward breath she said, ‘If you saw how beautiful she was, you’d believe it.’

  ‘Bullshit. You’re the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen – counting films.’

  Aoife closed her eyes. ‘Trust me, this girl gives a whole different meaning to the word “beautiful”.’

  Carla’s voice went up a key – something between sympathy and renewed frustration. ‘Look, try to remember I can’t trust your world view at the moment, and nor should you. We have to trust mine instead. So listen: this isn’t Shay Foley’s style. No offence to Killian – I love him to bits – but I’m certain that Shay is a zillion times as loyal. If he did get
talking to some other girl, he was probably just being polite and she was just being all pathetically excited because he wasn’t as awful to her as most teenage boys usually are.’

  For a moment part of her believed – or maybe just wanted to believe – what Carla was telling her. Could the Shay she knew – so courageously loyal to her in the otherworld – fall for another girl, and over night? It seemed impossible. Yet nor was he the quiet, reserved famer’s boy that Carla assumed him to be – he was a lenanshee, driven by deeper and more dangerous desires than any human lad. Maybe he couldn’t live without love. Maybe in order to protect Aoife, he had to give his heart to someone else. And that girl was so beautiful, and so sure of him—

  ‘Aoife! Hello? Disco!’

  Aoife reached for another excuse. ‘I fell off my bike, I’m in bits.’

  Carla lost patience and played her trump card. ‘Aoife, don’t be a buzz-kill. I missed every single disco last summer because of you – even the one Killian insisted on going to, and in the end he went by himself and I was terrified he’d shift Sinead. So you owe me enough to stagger along to this one. Even if you’ve broken both legs.’

  ‘Aaargh . . . Sorry about the summer. Grand, I’ll come.’

  Carla said cheerfully, ‘Good! I’ll come to yours after school tomorrow to get ready. Can your parents drop us in and can I stay over? Mam’s going to Nan’s with Zoe and she won’t be back until tomorrow, and Dad’s off in England again working, the poor man. What will we go as? Aisling’s lost her head and is going full-on as a Frankenstein nurse, the mad fool. Jessica’s dressing up as a witch – she has this tiny little witch’s-hat fascinator she got in McCarthy’s shop, quite sweet. I’m thinking black cat. What about you?’