The Hollow Heart (The Heartfelt Series)

by Adrienne Vaughan

  Marianne worked alongside Oonagh to feed them; Sinead and Phileas served drinks. They were all dead on their feet but quietly pleased with their efforts, as the storm lashed mercilessly around the building.

  “Time to batten down the hatches,” Padar announced, as he strode over to let Monty in, before he threw the bolt on the door. Opening it a half inch, a wet nose poked in. “Come in little fella, will ya? That’s no night to be out in.”

  Monty straggled over the sandbags, trotting around ankles, sniffing for his mistress. Ryan spotted him and swept him up; the dog’s bright black eyes searching the bar until he found Marianne, piling plates with stew. He yapped at her.

  “Hello monster!” she called. Monty’s tail started to wag.

  “Me or him?” asked Ryan.

  “If the cap fits.” She handed Ryan a dish of food. The colour was returning to his cheeks.

  “You’re turning into a very bad omen, Marianne. Every time we meet it’s near-disaster, natural, or otherwise. I bet you’re sorry you followed me from Dublin,” he said, half-jokingly.

  “Come again?”

  “In Dublin, I saw you in the pub pretending to read the paper. I didn’t think you’d bother tracking me down all the way out here. I mean, what kind of story were you after?”

  She laid down the ladle, fearing if she understood what he was intimating, she would club him with it.

  “You saw me, in Dublin?”

  “Indeed.”

  “And you think I followed you all the way here for a story?”

  “Can’t be my charismatic charm can it?”

  “No, it bloody well can’t. It can be a simple coincidence though. For your information I’ve been drinking in that pub since I was legally old enough and I always call in when I’m in my home town. You vain, up-your-own-arse, gobshite.”

  She did not change her tone, or even raise her voice a fraction, but she meant every word, amazed how the vocabulary returned, when riled. He held the plate of food aloft, eyes widening at her in shock.

  “I was waiting for my uncle Michael to take me to lunch, which has been his habit every time I return since I left many years ago. So, no, I didn’t notice you. The fact that we are both here is, I assure you, pure coincidence and that, ‘Mr World Revolves Around Me’, is the truth. I came here for a break, not a compound fracture.”

  She pushed out from behind the bar, flustered and furious, only to stand on Monty, who yelped, making her jump. She accidently elbowed Ryan, upending his plate of stew, which landed on the stone flags, with a clatter.

  “Serves you right!” she snapped, turning on her heel to follow a slightly wobbly Oonagh who was heading for the stairs.

  Miss MacReady looked from one to the other.

  “That told you,” she said, good-naturedly.

  “Well, I only thought,” Ryan offered, “as a journalist, and me being a bit of a celebrity, only…”

  Miss MacReady interrupted, “Is that right? You’re a celebrity? What did you do, win the Lotto or something?”

  Ryan gazed into her shrewd blue eyes, checking if she was teasing. He turned for her to view his stunning profile, then gave her his biggest Hollywood smile.

  “I’m an actor.”

  “Really? I’ve done quite a bit of drama myself.”

  “I seem to have upset her.” He watched Marianne disappear.

  “Yes, I’d say that’s a definite. Marianne’s a serious journalist, a campaigner, rights wrongs, names the bad guys. Celebrity tittle-tattle’s not her style and you did more or less accuse her of stalking you.” Miss MacReady ferreted in a packet of crisps. “And of causing any amount of disaster every time you meet,” she emptied the dregs of the bag into her mouth, “I didn’t hear you say thank you for the food she’s been slaving over either. No, I’d say you’re well in there, alright.”

  Ryan glared at the gooey splodge on the floor. He felt how it looked.

  Marianne’s anger dissipated immediately, when she found Oonagh leaning against the banister, beads of perspiration on her forehead, top lip drawn tight over her teeth.

  “Oonagh, what is it?”

  Oonagh groaned, clutching her abdomen, as she crumbled slowly downwards to the step, a dark stain spreading from her groin through her jeans.

  “Fetch Sinead,” she hissed.

  In no time, they were in the bathroom. Marianne had pulled off Oonagh’s sodden clothes. Sinead had given her smelling salts.

  “I’m not sure what we are dealing with here,” she told Marianne, under her breath.

  Oonagh was crouched on the lavatory, groaning. She doubled up in a spasm of pain.

  “Oh no.” She reached for Marianne’s hand. “I’m losing the baby.”

  Sinead dampened a facecloth to wipe her forehead.

  “Take deep breaths, there’s a good girl. Take it steady now.”

  Oonagh groaned again, then whimpered piteously. Marianne looked across at Sinead over Oonagh’s bent head. The midwife frowned.

  “Let’s clean you up love, and get you into your bed. It’s a good night’s rest you’re needing.”

  Oonagh lifted her chin, her whole face fallen and hollow.

  “Don’t tell Padar,” she pleaded, looking from one to the other as they helped her up.

  “Don’t tell Padar what?” asked Padar, in a tight voice from the doorway.

  The whir of the bar pumps coming alive was the first sign that electricity had been restored to Innishmahon. A flicker of lights and Maguire’s was back in business, saving the fact it was only six thirty on Sunday morning – but that would not be a first either, Padar considered, remembering his father’s heyday. The gathered souls began to murmur and stir.

  Father Gregory was up first.

  “I think it’s best we split, go with a household at a time and see what damage has been done and what emergency repairs are needed.”

  Ryan and the other self-appointed members of the rescue team agreed. Sergeant Brady arrived with a couple of young Gardaí. The Coastguard had brought them, managing to land a dingy and put them ashore. Garda O’Riordan was stationed at the entrance to the now-derelict bridge, but the only vehicle he had turned back, had been Pat MacReady’s taxi, with an American in it, dressed like an Englishman in an old film. Kathleen MacReady had the radio back on though, so he had a fair idea of what was happening across on the island.

  Pat told his sister Kathleen, the flooding had been even worse in Newtownard. A couple of vehicles had been swept away with people in them. The new roof was ripped off the school only minutes after the children had been evacuated, and the rescue services were stretched to breaking point. A fire officer had been seriously injured when a hotel balcony had given way, and his colleague below had suffered a broken arm. It had been a terrible night.

  Garda O’Riordan was sucking a mint, listening intently to Miss MacReady’s account of Mrs Molloy’s airlift to safety, when the television crew hoved into view.

  “Ah, here we go,” he informed his listener. “Fecking Kate Adie’s arrived.”

  The news editor was only marginally happy. The report from the edge of the derelict bridge was okay, but it was not what he really wanted. Not edgy enough – he smiled wryly at his own pun – no real drama, and Garda O’Riordan was a lousy interview. He made everything sound like a routine traffic report, not a word of it remotely life-threatening.

  The reporter hurried back to the officer, who was opening a fresh pack of mints.

  “Any way we can get in among it?” she asked. “The boss wants it a bit more out there.” She pushed a blonde curl behind her ear, gazing at him intently through designer spectacles.

  Miss MacReady overheard.

  “There’s a journalist on the island and a webcam up at the marine research unit,” she said. “Will that do him?”

  Garda O’Riordan looked from the radio to the reporter; he had no idea what they were talking about.

  “I’ll check if we can hook-up through the OB unit. Can you line it up?” It
was the first time the girl had sounded enthusiastic, but it was all still double Dutch to the Garda.

  “I’m the postmistress for God’s sake. Isn’t communication my job?”

  In less than half an hour, Marianne was interviewing Padar about the whole episode, with Ryan on webcam, panning in and out to get the full effect of the dereliction.

  “And were there any fatalities, Mr Quinn?”

  “No. Thank God. We got Mrs Molloy away, and I believe she’s in a stable condition in Newtownard Hospital.”

  “So, no loss of life then?” Marianne bit her lip.

  “We’ve all been very lucky.” Padar looked steely-eyed, straight into camera.

  “This is Marianne Coltrane live from Innishmahon.”

  “And cut!” Ryan could not help himself. He smiled at Marianne who ignored him, now her professional persona was no longer required. They turned to witness a clatter of heels coming down the main street. Miss MacReady was running towards them, stylishly turned out in a tartan kilt, with a large diamante brooch in place of the traditional pin. She wore a matching tam o’shanter, tilted over the left eye, her trench coat flapping wildly, as she raced towards them.

  “Excellent, excellent, the producer said that was perfect; it will go out on the lunchtime news and bulletins throughout the day,” Miss MacReady said. The producer had relayed his approval via Garda O’Riordan’s radio.

  Back on the mainland, Paul Osborne and Larry Leeson watched the report with more than cursory interest.

  “Well, that’s my long lost friend found!” Paul sipped his tea and turned to Larry. “What about yours?”

  “Intriguing,” said the New Yorker. “If he’s not in front of the camera, he’s usually behind it.”

  Paul passed Larry a huge slice of Joyce MacReady’s porter cake. They made a pact to leave together for the island as soon as the emergency services would allow. The next day dawned altogether calmer.

  Chapter Thirteen –

  Truth Juice

  Innishmahon was battered and bruised from the worst storm it had seen in living memory, yet the next day belied the turmoil, as the sun rose, spreading a golden glow over the eastern cliffs. The Atlantic swirled easily below the headland; the air moist and gentle on the skin. The breeze ruffled Monty’s fringe as he snuffled seaweed strewn in the corners of the cottage garden. Marianne stood at the half door, sipping coffee, staring blankly ahead. She could hardly believe she had only been here a week, with the dramatic events of the past few days, she felt as if she had been on the island for months.

  He marched through the gap where the gate had stood before the storm swept it away. Monty looked up, swishing his tail in delight. Marianne groaned, pushing her hand through cockatiel bed hair. A confrontation with ‘Superman’ was the very last thing her strained nerves could stand this morning. He stood before her, smiling crookedly and, taking his hand from behind his back with a flourish, presented her with a seriously ‘past its sell by date’ cauliflower.

  “The only flower I could find.” He gave her his very best beam. “Improvisation. A handy skill for an actor.”

  She unlatched the bottom half of the door, busily avoiding the smile.

  “Come in, boy,” she called to Monty. Ryan also accepted the invitation. He seemed to fill the small kitchen. Marianne was irritated and annoyed with herself for still being angry with him. He was an actor after all, an ego the size of an elephant was his stock in trade, the fact that he made stupid assumptions about people was infuriating but he was only an actor, hardly the sharpest knife in the drawer.

  The other thing that really irritated her, was whenever she was in close proximity with this man, she experienced a strange mixture of anxiety and excitement and, without even trying, he seemed to entice and exasperate her at the same time. She had come to dread meeting him, yet lit up when he smiled at her. Did she like him or loathe him? She really could not decide which.

  She flicked on the kettle. Then changed her mind and took the remaining half litre of whiskey off the dresser, placing it before him. She put the glasses down with a thud. He raised an eyebrow. It was nine thirty, Monday morning.

  “Truth juice,” she said, placing her jogging-bottomed bum in the chair opposite. “We’ll finish this, or it’ll finish us, as my Auntie Peggy used to say.” She poured two hefty measures, took a swig and sat back, arms folded. “Let’s talk.”

  And so they talked, starting with the night of the ‘Power 2 The People Awards’, the night they had met and the world had been blown apart. Marianne told Ryan how she had nursed Paul back to health and very nearly made two major life-changing decisions she now knew would have been disastrous; the first, accepting promotion at the Chronicle and the second, taking Paul as her lover. Thank goodness, she had taken a step back on both counts. Even as she spoke, hearing her own words, she was amazed at how frank she was.

  Equally honest, Ryan explained that the ‘Power 2 The People’ bombing had made him reconsider his life too. He had been moderately successful as an actor, was well connected, had a good lifestyle, but something was missing. He had been horrified when his girlfriend, Angelique, had been seriously injured in the attack, and was pleased to help nurse her back to full recovery, but the whole thing had made him question their relationship. Angelique had always been considered a ‘wild one’ yet after the bomb blast she had wanted more from the relationship, and Ryan had felt the opposite. He had felt less ready to commit, less sure of his feelings.

  “Although I think the world of Angelique, she’s a lot younger than me, and what she wants is not necessarily what I want,” he said.

  “Does she want marriage? A family?” Marianne asked tentatively.

  “She says she does, but I’m not so sure she could hack it. Anyway, I have a son, and although Mike was the result of an affair when I was very young, and I wasn’t around, we’ve grown close over the years. We’re good friends. I’m getting a bit long in the tooth for babies.”

  They laughed. Marianne reckoned Ryan was about the same age as George, old enough to know better, young enough to give it a go anyway.

  “It was a bit like that with me and Paul. I felt as if I’d be choosing him at the right time but for the wrong reasons.”

  “Exactly,” Ryan agreed. “And being honest, my career is in the doldrums. I’ve been doing these TV mini-series for over ten years now. Don’t get me wrong, the money’s good and the work is regular. But you know, sometimes I catch sight of myself on a late night channel, dressed in a ridiculous outfit, usually a surgeon or a barrister - the roles are interchangeable - spouting some rubbishy script and I think, do you know what Ryan, you look a fucking eejit, sound like one too. I don’t want to feel like that about my work anymore, do you get that?” His voice caught in his throat.

  “I so do.” She squeezed his hand on the table.

  He coughed. “Then after the bombing, people kept asking me to write the ‘inside story’ on the attack that night. Not interested, I said, much to the chagrin of my agent. I mean, there was enough to deal with, without trying to make a fast buck out of all that misery. Did you think that?”

  She nodded again.

  “They’ve no idea.” He shrugged and drained his glass. “You ever been married, or always the career girl?” he asked, as she refilled their glasses.

  Marianne took a deep breath.

  “Thought I was going to marry someone once, I was very young. It would have been a big mistake.” She bit her lip. “I had my career, so it wasn’t as if I was hanging around, desperate for a relationship, and then George appeared, out of the blue, just like that and I thought, why not? He was the nicest person ever to come into my life, and he loved me so much, it was just easy to love him right back.”

  “You’re so right, why do all the good ones go first?”

  When she looked up from gazing into her glass, she was taken aback to see his face wet with tears.

  “So we’re here for the same reason?” She drained the last of the bottle i
nto the glasses.

  “Yes and no. You see I’m here to write a screenplay, time for a change of direction, time to try and save my arse, I’ve been living beyond my means for years.”

  She laughed out loud. She liked this under-achieving, never-quite-made-it, ‘don’t believe the press release’ side of him.

  “Tell me more.” She smiled.

  He flung his jacket to the floor and, as he started to tell her the storyline of the script he was writing, he looked, just briefly, less like the world-weary, jaded TV actor she had first met, despite the tan, bright blue-grey eyes and white movie-star teeth.

  “It’s my take on the movie business. Our hero is an actor, a good actor but he’s trapped in a going-nowhere career – he sold out in the early days, always going for the big bucks and regrets never taking roles that would show him for the actor he is. It’s a comedy but it has pathos. The story is where he hits crisis point, he is starring in the most dreadful dross known to man and he can’t see a way out. His agent, an ageing alcoholic, has totally lost the plot, so he’s getting no help there, when a cranky female photographer – she thinks she should be working for an international fashion magazine, he thinks she’s a lesbian – comes on the scene to do a piece. Despite them hating each other at first sight, they eventually fall in love, and realise that that’s what’s been missing from their lives all along.”

  “I love it. So what’s wrong?”

  “The scenes of the film he’s starring in, it’s a swash-buckling pirate adventure, and although it is a bit tongue-in-cheek, my dialogue sounds dreadful, too trite to be believable. It needs to be a bit naff, but I can’t seem to make it real.”

  “Tricky,” she said, taking a pencil from behind her ear. “Printed it out?”

  “Yes, as a matter of fact.”

  “Lead me to it – I’m the best editor on the planet – well the island, anyway.”

  “Honestly? I love you, adore you, I worship the ground you walk on.”