House of the Dead

by Des Sheridan

  Robert wasn’t quite sure if he had heard correctly and his face must have shown it, for he found Malachy addressing him directly.

  ‘I know, Mr Grainger, it is hard to believe, but let me give you a very simple example. The countryside around here is full of place names that refer to Celtic legend. Just look at where we are now. Rosnaree means “the wood of the kings“.’

  He paused a moment, then quietly observed,

  ‘You see it was telling us something all along but we didn’t have the ears to listen.’

  ‘That is so true!’ One of the guests interjected loudly, knocking his wine glass over in his enthusiasm.

  ‘That’s Patrick Deargal, the man from Sligo Museum,’ Niamh whispered into Robert’s ear, as the interloper continued.

  ‘And it is also tragic, because we are at a time some call a great forgetting, a cultural closure point. Let me explain,’ Patrick continued rapidly, seeing bafflement on faces about him. ‘Previous generations learnt the stories at their mothers’ knees and carried them on, but today’s youngsters no longer do that. Sure, they have no idea who Diarmuid and Gráinne were and, in their brainless way, identify more with Facebook and whatever the feck is happening with Paris Hilton. You talk of continuity, Malachy, but I tell you it has been destroyed in the last thirty years. Wiped out! Obliterated! And the rupture dates from when Ireland joined the EU and the great modernisation started. The Great Satan more likes!’

  Patrick drunkenly thumped the table in emphasis, causing several glasses to shake. His voice had risen sharply up the register, almost to a yelp, and he stopped abruptly, his face puce with indignation. Robert could see the point the man was making and sympathised with the sincerity behind his views. But the intolerance of his sweeping dismissal of young people jarred. At this moment Patrick stopped abruptly, like a windbag suddenly deflated.

  Andrew’s measured tones diplomatically filled the awkward silence.

  ‘It is a point well made, Patrick,’ Andrew said tactfully. ‘What’s more, modernisation has come hand in hand with an acceleration of rural development which is taking place within a hopelessly weak spatial and regulatory planning system. Individuals and public bodies are building left, right and centre and failing to take account of built heritage features, sometimes even bulldozing them away to build bungalows and locate pipes and pylons and the like. And it is fair to say that it is starting to wipe the archaeological face of the landscape clean.’

  A sense of déjà vu echoed around Robert’s skull and for a moment he couldn’t think why. Then he was back in Iraq looking down from the helicopter at the despoiled tell at Umma. But what he knew in Iraq to be a consequence of war was being attributed in Ireland to peaceful rural development. He couldn’t quite get his head around that, although he could see that both were aspects of technologically-driven advancement. Where despoliation resulted from conflict, then stopping the conflict would help solve the problem. But Andrew was implying something even more insidious. Damage to the heritage was to be expected as an outcome of modernisation and development. It was not a comforting insight, and made Robert think hard. He recalled walking the Dorset Way a few years back and noticing how the farmed landscape, away from the Neolithic ridge routes, was almost entirely devoid of historical features. That clearance had happened he supposed over many centuries. Ireland, from the sound of it, could avoid such an outcome, if only it woke up to the threat.

  Brian’s voice interrupted his reverie and brought Robert back to the present. ‘And that, my friends, is precisely why the Rosnaree Tomb is so important. It is our opportunity to showcase the issue and force a change in direction.’

  ‘Well said mein host,’ said Andrew. ‘And don’t forget the fight for Georgian Dublin forty years ago. Developers tried to destroy it in the seventies but eventually we stopped them. We can do it again.’

  A chorus of assent rumbled round the table to this rallying cry, and Brian, ever the attentive host, circulated, pouring more wine into the glasses of his guests.

  Chapter 49

  Sligo, Ireland, 20 September 2014

  Tara felt herself being hurled through an intense black void, her limbs outstretched as she spun around crazily at increasing speed. She could see everything about her, indeed everything of her, being strung out into lines which split momentarily into beads of vivid colour before being swallowed up by the darkness. A maelstrom of sound ringing in her ears told her that she was also hearing the brilliant colours, each one having a distinct tonality. Then her voyage ended abruptly in an eruption of blackness and silence.

  Opening her eyes and blinking, she found herself lying immobile on the ground, watching a scene unfold through the dark. A light flickered somewhere, illuminating the scene as though by candlelight. Like in a chiaroscuro painting, she thought, although the images before her were jerky, like footage captured by an unsteady, hand-held camera. She knew immediately where she was - in the tomb. Claustrophobia welled up. She gulped for breath.

  Glancing downwards, she saw a slab of rock, one of a number of stones in a wall, but distinctive in having a Triskell carved upon it. It was not the large Triskell in the central chamber, for it was much smaller and she realised it must be somewhere in the passage. She felt the interlocking spirals pull her gaze inwards, progressively sucking her physically into the stone. She felt her flesh, and the very marrow of her bones, being ripped asunder. The sensation was an intense tingling as the individual molecules unravelled in slow motion, like beads propelled from a broken prayer chain. She knew instinctively that the stone was summoning them into the matrix of microscopic spaces between its crystals, absorbing them as effortlessly as a sponge. She heard each molecule screech in protest as it shattered, emitting a high-pitched inflection, adding to the dissonant roar which threatened to burst her ear drums. She tried desperately to clamp her hands over her ears but her arms maddeningly refused to obey the command.

  Terror gripped her as she faced imminent annihilation. Frantically her brain computed what to do - she had to fight this! Straining backwards with every sinew, and desperately averting her gaze, she slipped next moment into a glorious release, the oblivion of unconsciousness.

  When she came to, she was again in the passage and her gaze was drawn inexorably back to the stone. She saw a pair of hands, emerging from the sleeves of a coarse woollen garment, pulling and plucking at the slab. They were the slim hands and forearm of a woman and succeeded in shifting the stone at last, but flexed a moment later as a thin trickle of blood flowed across the tawny flesh on one wrist. The woman moving the stone had cut herself. At the same instant, a great outrush of air filled Tara’s ears, the reverberations pounding on her tympani. A loud hissing sound seemed to herald the escape of some long-trapped essence, evacuating under tremendous pressure, from the void behind the stone. The hands moved again, this time placing a large circular object, wrapped roughly in pale-coloured cloths, into the cavity. Whooping sounds, like a woman’s laugh but greatly distorted, ricocheted around Tara’s skull. Then she heard a woman’s voice call out, uttering repeatedly a single word which sounded like the name Áine, before the images melted into nothing.

  Tara shot bolt upright in the bed, the sheets in disarray about her drenched with sweat. The room was dark and glancing at her alarm clock she saw it was four-fifty in the morning. Her heart was still beating like crazy and she couldn’t just lie in the soaking sheets. Already she was starting to shiver. She resolved to wash away the memory of the nightmare with a shower. When she turned on the apparatus, jets of hot water created a vapour cloud that warmed her skin and invited her to step in. As she stepped forward a warm refreshing cascade greeted her when suddenly something quite unexpected happened. To her consternation a succession of intense flashbacks to the nightmare riveted her to the spot as though struck by lightning. It didn’t matter if she opened or closed her eyes, the images were everywhere. Startled, she slipped on the wet tiles, her breath stolen away by the hot steam, and clutching the plastic shower cu
rtain for support, she fell awkwardly to the floor, bruising one of her legs and cutting her hand.

  Stumbling out of the ensuite bathroom in blind panic Tara collapsed, naked and wet, onto the jumbled bedclothes, gasping for air as a catastrophic loss of breath assailed her. She tried to cry out but no sound emerged. Lying there, her heart pumping at full blast, her brain crashed into emergency mode and screamed at her to force down the rising sense of panic. Just breath more slowly, she told herself repeatedly until, very gradually, she managed to reassert control over her breathing and the attack began to ebb away.

  Exhausted, Tara fell into a deep slumber. When she awoke, uncomfortable against the damp bed linen, sunshine was seeping into the room through the edges of the curtains and she could hear birds outside singing. All was well with the world, she thought. Then the memory of her night-time experience leaped into her mind and a sense of dread – like when you wake up and remember that someone close to you has recently died – brought her abruptly back to the unpleasant reality. Pulling her left arm from under the clothes, she looked at her hand. It was badly scratched and stained with unwashed congealed blood. There was no avoiding the truth. The fall in the bathroom had been real. And as for the rest she was left wondering, not knowing what to think.

  Chapter 50

  Sligo, Ireland, 21 September 2014

  The look of astonishment on Robert’s face, as he scanned the carvings on the walls, helped Andrew reach a decision: the excavation needed to carry on twenty-four-seven. They had brought in a generator to power the lighting, and his intuition was telling him to push the pace hard. From the start events at Rosnaree seemed to trump them. They needed to get ahead of the game. And Tríona, on breakfast news thirty minutes ago, was threatening a mass occupation of the site. Shay, who had been on the night patrol, had reported increased numbers of people overnight around Rosnaree. It was time to assert control.

  Robert was examining the area of the roof fall.

  ‘We need professionals in to deal with this, Andrew. It will need full timbering and joists’ he said, over his shoulder.

  ‘Me and the lads can look after that, no problem,’ interjected Shay.

  ‘Thanks, Shay, I appreciate the offer but this situation calls for professionals. People will be crawling all over Andrew about the way he handles the dig. Health and Safety, the International Archaeological Association, you name it,’ Robert responded in an equable tone.

  ‘Now hold your horses, you can’t just blow in here and start giving orders. Who the hell do you...’ started Shay, his voice rising.

  ‘Hold on Shay,’ Andrew interjected firmly. ‘Robert is right. He does this sort of thing for a living. You and the lads can help in other ways.’

  Shay looked as though he was going to argue the point, but instead glared at them both and, turning abruptly on his heels, stalked away.

  ‘Sorry. Andrew,’ said Robert after a moment or two. ‘I didn’t mean to upset the crew.’

  ‘Bollocks! You haven’t. What you said was absolutely right. Bugger Shay’s feelings, we have more important things to worry about,’ Andrew retorted. ‘We need to get on with the business in hand. This is too big to rely on amateurs. The Museum has a national engineering company on a call-off contract. I know they have a team based in Roscommon. I will call them later. In the meantime work in the safe areas can carry on.’

  His glance met Robert’s who nodded decisively in agreement. Andrew liked Robert’s straightforward and authoritative approach, and sensed that they would work well with together.

  As they emerged from the tomb, they caught sight of a figure striding towards them. Robert grasped the man’s outstretched hand warmly and introduced him to Andrew. The newcomer was Mac Schultz, ARAD’s security and logistics expert, with two assistants and Patrick Deargal in tow. Within minutes Mac and his men were surveying the ground around the wood, planning where the fencing would go. Patrick knew a local Sligo firm, whom he had used previously, and gave Mac the number to call.

  Mac said it was essential that the wood be felled to permit a full study of the mound and enable the roof repairs to be undertaken, but that would necessitate an ecological impact assessment first. In the meantime an interim fence, for basic site security, would have to suffice. Andrew was impressed by how quickly Mac could identify a need and address it fast. Looking at the yellow hats of the men around him, he had a sense of a team starting to assemble. It reassured him. Getting the right people task on the right track was what was needed to get the situation under control. As he and Robert headed back to the house it felt good to be making progress.

  Chapter 51

  Tara was at the kitchen table, when Shay entered the kitchen.

  ‘What is it? You look thoroughly cheesed off.’

  ‘It’s that bloody Brit. Acts like he owns the place. I offered to fix the fallen roof in the tomb but Captain Flash had other ideas.’

  ‘It’s Andrew’s call I suppose.’

  ‘Don’t tell me. The two of them are thick as thieves.’

  Finally he noticed her demeanour.

  ‘What about you. Are you OK? You look white as a sheet.’

  ‘I’ve had a bad dream, well a nightmare or something. I didn’t sleep well.’

  Shay, simmering down a bit, pulled out a chair beside her and sat down.

  ‘Go on then. Let’s hear it.’

  It was a somewhat abrupt invitation but Tara launched straight into her story, needing to get it off her chest. But as she explained her dream, she could see initial sympathy drain from his face and irritability return. He soon interrupted her.

  ‘For fuck’s sake, Tara, you are letting your imagination carry you away. It’s probably those bloody pills you are taking. You could have hurt yourself! You did hurt yourself! You’ve got to stop brooding on everything - your mother years ago, that creep in Boston, now the tomb. It’s all in your mind. You are stuck on the negative. Don’t you realise what is going on here? This is going to be huge. And we need to concentrate on this.’

  He stopped, his tirade expelled.

  Tara felt scolded and humiliated, like a naughty child. But however vulnerable she might feel this was too much. The Old Tara resurfaced.

  ‘Come off it, Shay,’ Tara hit back. ‘Everyone knows that dreams have a deeper meaning and believe me, this one felt bloody real. I can’t just ignore it. I need to talk to someone about it. And you did ask!’

  Shay retorted brutally.

  ‘Look, I have been up all night, and I am bloody tired. Try doing a night shift on patrol! That would sort out your self-indulgent dreams!’

  He got up and glowered down at her. For a moment she actually thought he was going to grab hold of her or hit her but instead he just stormed out of the room.

  She couldn’t believe her ears; and this from a man who claimed to care about her! She tried to figure him out. He evidently found the current situation threatening, although she couldn’t figure out why exactly. It was tempting to go after him and tell him to grow up, but she bit her tongue. She really couldn’t handle an argument right now. Instead she prepared herself a cup of coffee, took it out into the rose garden and sat down on the old swing.

  In her teens this was where she would come when she had some thinking to do. The warmth of the late September sun on her face felt good and she closed her eyes and let her brain get to work. Fact: she was drifting into a relationship with a man who really wouldn’t be good for her. Fact: the last thing she needed after Newton was another disaster on the rebound. In recent days she had sensed Shay becoming increasingly possessive, as though he had a right to assert control over her, to box her in somehow. Now he was telling her what to feel and think. Fact: it was partly her own fault, she had been too passive and he was filling the space with his own ego. She needed to stop it before things got out of hand.

  And there was something else. She waited for the rocking motion of the swing to find the answer and it didn’t let her down. The niggling thought finally assumed a f
orm she could put her finger on. There had been too many coincidences over the last few days: the press, then the Fianna and the TV people. It was too quick, too pat. Someone was leaking information and if it wasn’t Shay, it was one of his mates.

  The sound of shouting, a woman’s voice, shook Tara out of her thoughts. Slipping off the swing, she headed anxiously for the house: what now? If only things would slow down, she wished. She didn’t think she could cope with much more.

  Chapter 52

  Siobhan, a short overweight archaeologist in her late thirties, was half running, half striding, towards the house, in her field outfit of khaki trousers and jacket. Andrew, Robert, Tara and a few others rushed out to meet her.

  ‘Andrew! Come quickly! We have found something. You need to see it now!’

  Her flushed cheeks, excited eyes spoke volumes and, without a further word, she turned to rush away again. They followed her back to the tomb, at a trot, covering the ground in record time.

  Descending a metal ladder that had been erected at their original entry point, Robert found the tomb was now illuminated by electric lighting. It was low intensity so as to minimise the impact on the wall paintings, and gave the chamber a faint yellowish glow, which served to heighten the spooky atmosphere. He suddenly had a strong feeling that the place had its own atmosphere or, more correctly, its own presence as though it had a personality. He felt a bead of sweat on his neck as the hairs started to rise. Better watch this, boy, you are slipping, he told himself.