Irish End Games, Books 4-5-6

by Kiernan-Lewis, Susan

  Sarah turned to the gypsy as he eased the man onto her couch.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I can’t remember your name.”

  “Benjy,” the gypsy said as he backed toward the front door.

  “Benjy, why are these people here? What’s going on? We’re in lockdown.”

  “I dunno, Miss,” Benjy said, slipping out of the cottage. “Reckon Declan’ll be around directly to see you.” He jogged down the steps and disappeared. Sarah turned back to where Siobhan stood with the baby on her hip peering down at the old man.

  “What is going on?” Siobhan asked.

  The man shook his head and pointed to his chest as if to indicate he was having trouble breathing. Sarah felt his pulse. It was racing. She pulled his shirt open wider.

  “Siobhan, bring me a glass of water, will you?”

  “And whisky,” the man wheezed. “If you please, mum.”

  Sarah narrowed her eyes at him. “Why are you here?”

  He shook his head as if the energy to answer was too much. Siobhan handed him a glass and he drank it down.

  “Whatever has happened?” Siobhan asked as she walked to the window.

  “I don’t know,” Sarah said. “But something must have.” She gave the old man two aspirin and more water.

  “Do you have family?” she asked. “Where did you come from? Ballinagh?”

  But he only shook his head and asked, “Are the gates closed yet? Please God?”

  *****

  Declan came by to collect the old man just before dinner. He and Fiona were creating a temporary tent camp between the last row of cottages and the gypsy settlement. So far, a dozen people had come from Ballinagh. Fiona was helping to organize food and bedding for the visitors.

  “Why did they come?” Sarah asked as he sank into one of the kitchen chairs, clearly exhausted. Siobhan dozed sitting up, the baby on her lap.

  “Why did you let them in? We’re in lockdown,” she asked.

  “They needed help,” Declan said testily, “and the Mike Donovan I used to know wouldn’t have turned them away.” He leaned over and grabbed Sarah’s wrist. “Come to that, the Sarah Donovan I used to know wouldn’t have either.”

  Sarah flushed and pulled her hand away as if she’d been burned.

  Was Declan right? Had four years of fear and distrust hardened her to the point she couldn’t reach out to her fellow man? She had seen so much to make her suspicious.

  “What made them come?” she asked. “What’s happened?”

  “Rumors,” Declan said. “Rumors turned into fears turned into imaginings. Somebody heard about poor Mickey. Then someone else found the Wicker Man coated in blood. It was still there in the woods, mind, where Mike found the poor auld sod.”

  “But why are they believing this nonsense? These are rational twenty-first century people!”

  “Nay, Sarah, these are terrified people who do not have the luxury of thick walls around them and motion-sensor lights to protect them,” Declan said gruffly. “These are people who go to bed in the dark with no flashlights to take their fear from them, who eat cold potatoes or whatever we deign to give them. They have no control over tomorrow.”

  Sarah didn’t speak for a moment. As usual, Ciara filled the void with childish gurgling.

  “Have you seen John?” Sarah asked.

  “No,” Declan said tiredly. “But there’s a lot of people running about trying to get things sorted out. Just the evening meal was a major headache. Thank God for Fi. She’s done most of it.”

  “Why didn’t you come for me?” Sarah asked.

  “No offense meant, Sarah. It’s been a long day. A couple of the families said they saw your man on horseback. So it sounds like he’s searching closer to home.”

  “You think he’ll be back tonight?”

  “It’s wet and its dark out. But if it were me, it’d be hard to turn back.”

  “I know.”

  Declan stood and touched Ciara’s hair where she sat in Siobhan’s arms.

  “Fiona will be by anon for the little one,” he said.

  “Tell her I’ll keep her for the night,” Sarah said. “You too, Siobhan, if you want to stay.”

  Siobhan shook her head and yawned. “Sure, no, Sarah. I’ll go check on Margaret although I imagine she’s in the thick of it, no?” she said to Declan.

  “More hindrance than help,” he said. “I’d be grateful if you could come get her.”

  Siobhan cackled. “I’ll help you deliver this one to his people,” she said, taking one arm of the old man on Sarah’s couch, “then relieve you of the other one on the other end.”

  Sarah stood on the porch with Ciara in her arms and watched Declan and Siobhan disappear with the old man into the night. There were several path lanterns fixed on poles to light their way. Ciara put her head on Sarah’s shoulder and closed her eyes.

  “Come on, petal,” Sarah said softly. “Let’s get you to bed.”

  It wasn’t unusual for John not to be home yet. He had chores and often found dinner with another family. Plus, she knew he was working something out in his mind over the loss of Gavin and needed his space. A stitch of anxiety stabbed Sarah in the stomach and she tensed up until the moment subsided. But the worry was still there.

  Maybe it was the feeling just two days earlier of looking into Gavin’s bedroom and realizing he hadn’t slept in his bed. Maybe it was thinking of Mike riding hopelessly around in the dark and the rain. Sarah would never know exactly what it was that made her go—still with the baby in her arms—to John’s bedroom.

  But when she did, the first thing she saw was the note, gleaming white and stark from his dresser.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  I have to go, Mom. Gavin’s my only brother.

  I lost Dad and I can’t lose anyone else.

  I promise I’ll be back. Don’t worry about me.

  Love, John.

  Sarah folded the note and slipped it into her jacket pocket. She took the sleeping child, wrapped snugly in a thick woollen blanket, and walked swiftly in the cold and the dark to Siobhan’s cottage. It was late. After a long day of the funeral and then resettlement of the Ballinagh refugees, everyone in the compound had retired early to the warmth of their cottages or tents. The center cookfire was cold and deserted and for that Sarah was grateful.

  A light was on in Siobhan’s cottage which didn’t surprise Sarah. She tapped on the door and let herself in.

  “Why, Sarah,” Siobhan said from where she sat at her kitchen table with her knitting in her lap and her glasses perched on her long nose. “Whatever are you doing still up?”

  “I’ve got to leave Ciara with you,” Sarah said, putting the baby down on the couch in Siobhan’s living room. “I didn’t want to wake Fi.”

  “Tch! Of course, you should bring the bairn to me,” Siobhan said, a smile growing across her face as she watched Ciara curl up and fall back asleep. “We’ll be just fine, so we will.”

  “I’m making soap tomorrow and I need to get an early start.”

  “You look shagged, darlin,’” Siobhan said, “can I tempt you with a cuppa?”

  But Sarah was out the door and running. She’d waited too long as it was.

  Why hadn’t she known John would do this? Hadn’t she seen his eyes when Mike wouldn’t take him to search for Gavin? Hadn’t she recognized his frustration and hurt as the hours rolled by and still Gavin didn’t come back?

  She’d done everything she could to teach her son that they always go after the ones they lose. No matter what. No matter how desperate. No matter how mad.

  Sarah pulled open the heavy barn door and slipped inside. She hadn’t ridden in months. Somehow the idea of taking a peaceful hack across the pasture just wouldn’t gel. There was always too much to do. She saddled her horse, Dan, and buckled on the saddlebag after filling it with dried fruit, a first aid kit and her handgun. She’d counted out ten cartridges and stuffed these in her pockets, then led the big dun gelding outside, latche
d the door and mounted him.

  She trotted to the gate and was surprised to see it ajar. Was it possible there were no sentries tonight? No patrols? Had Declan been so preoccupied with the villagers, he’d forgotten security? Once through the gate, Sarah dismounted, pulled the gate shut and prayed someone would notice and latch it before too long. Probably that wouldn’t be until morning. She should go back and tell someone.

  But she just couldn’t.

  She remounted and instantly tightened her legs around the big horse. He remembered, and then so did she. His powerful muscles bunched in his hindquarters like a coiled spring and he shot into a gallop. Sarah rode low, his mane whipping her face as she urged him to go faster.

  *****

  Fiona adjusted the tray on the high chair and handed Ciara a plastic lidded cup of apple juice and a scattering of Cheerios. She turned to pour tea for the two women and their three children seated at her kitchen table. Their eyes were round with astonishment as they watched her.

  Declan had ushered the women and children into the house early that morning before running off to deal with an argument between two men from the village over a tent site. The children were young. Not so young they hadn’t had the benefit of juice and Cheerios when they were babies but too young to have remembered the pleasure of it. Fiona had given the children bowls of choco-puffs as a treat. But they stared at her, open-mouthed, as if she were a sorcerer.

  Probably should’ve just scrambled up eggs and be done with it.

  “I don’t mean to be rude, Missus,” one of the women said, her eyes watching Ciara and her sippy cup as if she were watching a ninth wonder of the world come to life. “In the village, we forget how you lot live.”

  And there it was. In the end, Fiona had always known it wasn’t the promise of fantasy and fairies to help erase the horror of everyday life for these people. It wasn’t the fact that Sarah was foreign, or worse, American. It was envy. Plain and simple.

  It was the idea of choco-puffs for a two year-old here in the compound and moldy potatoes for everyone else in the village.

  Fiona finished pouring the tea and pushed the sugar bowl toward them. Should she mention how they fought for everything they had? Should she remind them they buried just as many lived ones in the last four years? Would any of that begin to answer the fact that Fiona had a refrigerator in her kitchen and each of the women sitting here had a root cellar?

  And wasn’t Fiona just playing Lady of the Manor, dispensing choco-puffs and tea that didn’t taste like it had been sitting in a warehouse for a decade? She felt a flush creep across her cheeks and redirected her attention back to the women seated at her breakfast table this morning. Abby and Nuala were sisters and had been on the receiving end of baskets of food from the compound on more than one occasion. And not once had Fi thought of how humiliating that must have been for them.

  It took the two of them dressed in rags and sitting in her own kitchen, with all Fiona’s luxuries surrounding her, for Fiona to finally see it.

  “You’re welcome to stay in New Dublin as long as you like,” Fiona said, squarely meeting their eyes. They stared back, not speaking, but their eyes were bright with surprise. Live in New Dublin? With electric lights, security walls and enough food to go around?

  Fiona felt a sick feeling of guilt at their astonished reaction. She and Mike and Sarah should have brought the villagers into the compound months ago. Certainly before now. And what would Mike say when he heard Fiona had done just that with an offhand breakfast table invitation?

  It didn’t matter. He wasn’t king. And it was the right thing to do. It had always been the right thing to do.

  Fiona brought out a plate of cookies and set it on the table.

  “It occurs to me,” she said. “That you might want to discuss the future location of your cottages within the compound. I understand there was a dispute about last night’s accommodations?”

  Nuala glanced at Abby as if unsure of whether or not to speak.

  “One of the men from the village thought his tent was struck too near the Pikeys,” Nuala said. “No offense, Missus. You being married to one of ‘em and all.”

  “Not at-tall,” Fiona said briskly. “Being offended over another person’s ignorance is a luxury few of us have these days.”

  Nuala blushed and looked down at her hands.

  “If living too close to another family is uncomfortable for any of you,” Fiona said, “there’s no one forcing you to live here. That is your choice in a world where there are fewer and fewer.”

  “I’m sorry, Missus.”

  “Call me, Fi,” Fiona said. “I’m not royalty nor a member of the ruling party. But we have rules here in New Dublin. If you break them, you’ll be back outside the walls again.” She shrugged. “Or worse.”

  Nuala lifted her head and this time without looking at Abby said firmly, “We’ll be staying and thank you. And mind, you’ll have no trouble with us. Not on any account.”

  “Well, that’s grand then,” Fiona said, smiling. “I’ll be telling you what’s expected of you in the way of compound work, which we all share.”

  “Meantime,” Abby said shyly, “is it possible I could have a bowl of the chocolate cereal puffs like you gave the bairns?”

  Fiona grinned. “You know what? Why don’t we all have a bowl?”

  *****

  Mike could see without dismounting that the front gate was unlocked. Cursing, he slid out of his saddle and pushed the gate wide open.

  Had Dec lost his senses? What was the point of twenty-four seven security and surveillance videos if we leave the damn front door open?

  He walked his horse inside then turned and secured the gate behind him. He could no longer tell which part of his bone-weary exhaustion had to do with a body pushed to its limit and which part had to do with the emotional devastation to come home once more empty-handed.

  He’d been mad to spend the whole night out in the rain. He had known long before midnight that he wasn’t going to find Gavin. Yet he just couldn’t bring himself to turn back. To do what? Find his nice warm, dry bed with knowing, Where is Gavin sleeping tonight? And then what? Wake up to a world of total awareness that he now lived a life in which Gavin didn’t exist?

  At least walking in the rain and the dark in the opposite direction had kept that despair from totally owning him.

  And now he was back. He stood in the center of the compound, holding his horse’s reins in one fist and glanced at the darkened cottage fronts that lined the interior of the compound. He watched as one by one, lights flickered on. Some were gas lanterns and some were battery-powered. They all reflected warmth and a security that he’d tried to create here. Here in New Dublin.

  Daft name. Why Dublin? Why not Paris? Or New York. He smiled thinly. New York made more sense. Sarah insisted on flying the American flag next to the Irish one off the far east rampart. At least it was less prominent back there. She knew it was a risk. Americans weren’t loved in Ireland these days. Not since the Crisis. But that’s who Sarah was. In your face and proud of it. That’s what he loved about her.

  A heavy mantle of sadness settled onto his shoulders.

  Dear God, am I ever going to see my lad again?

  A figure morphed out of the gloom and walked toward him.

  “Oy, Mike. You’re back. So, no joy, then?” Declan said, looking behind Mike as if Gavin might materialize at any moment.

  “No,” Mike said. “The gate was unlocked.”

  “Was it? Fecking lads arsing around…I’ll have a word with ‘em.”

  “What’s going on, Dec?” How Mike knew, he didn’t know. He just knew something was coming and it was starting with this man in front of him, this man whom he used to believe was his friend and brother.

  “Some of the villagers have come to us for asylum,” Declan said, flatly. “I’ve settled them in the back behind my lot.”

  “Do I even need to ask why? Were they chased here by flying monkeys?”

  D
eclan turned on his heel. “I’ll have one of the lads attend to your horse.”

  “Declan!”

  Declan stopped but didn’t turn around.

  “Have you taken over running the compound, then? While I’m out looking for me son?”

  Declan turned all the way around. “You think Gavin’s disappearance has nothing to do with the rest of us,” he said.

  “And you do?” Was Gavin supposed to have been stolen away by fairies? Mike bit his tongue.

  Declan took the reins from Mike’s hand. “If you need to sleep, do it,” Declan said. “Otherwise, you’re needed. The mill’s been destroyed.”

  “What?” Mike grabbed Declan’s arm. “Are you just now telling me that?”

  Declan shrugged. “Nobody was hurt.”

  “Nobody except Mickey Quinn,” Mike said bitterly.

  Declan turned and led the horse toward the barn without another word.

  *****

  The wind always seemed worse on horseback.

  Because she was riding fast, she hugged her horse’s neck in an attempt to provide less of a windscreen. She watched the road before her through the gun sights of the gelding’s ears, not worried about the bad road, the cold drizzling rain or the exhaustion that was already filling her shoulders.

  Just John. He was out here somewhere. Probably gone three hours by now but possibly longer. Sarah knew he wouldn’t go by way of the road but she needed to make up the time she’d lost and the road was the fastest way to do it.

  Mike had already been to Ballinagh looking for Gavin so John wouldn’t bother going there. The village church was a better bet. Not that she thought John would be there—that was too much to pray for—but Father Ryan was refuge to any and all. If Gavin were running from something, he’d go there.

  At least he’d try to. John would know that. John knew Gavin and how he thought.

  It wasn’t much but it was a direction. With any luck, Father Ryan would try to convince John to spend the night—to get a good start in the morning. She didn’t have a lot of hope for that. As kind as he was, the good father didn’t strike her as someone with much of a force of personality. Not one to match John’s. But he might slow him down.