by Des Sheridan
As the waiter cleared their plates away, Tara bit the bullet and asked Shay directly if he knew how the Herald and Tríona had found out about the story. Initially he stonewalled, claiming that his friends had nothing to do with it, but his denials were too emphatic and she knew he saw her disbelief. She challenged him again and he blurted out.
‘Now just hold it there, Tara! You can’t go round making these accusations against the lads. I won’t stand for that! I bet I know what happened. It was your peacock bloody father leaking it deliberately to get media attention! Let’s face it; he spent his life shafting people!’
Shay’s mouth curved in a nasty sneer and Tara was taken aback. What had Shay got against her father? Thinking it was the drink talking, and just a badly worded joke, she ignored the comment and ploughed on. She started to explain how the family planned to manage the story by releasing information gradually.
‘That is just bloody typical of you Ruanes!’ exploded Shay. ‘You always think life centres on you and that you should call the shots. Well it bloody well doesn’t, and you can’t, and you and your high-falutin’ father need to start understanding that. This tomb and the gold hoard are a godsend for this area. A real goldmine and you need to share it with the neighbourhood. There will be big money at stake here, so quit being so goddamned precious about it all.’
Shay’s cheeks were crimson and his angry eyes bore into her. People at nearby tables, noting his raised voice, looked across the room at them.
Tara, feeling more tired than ever, could see she was being outmanoeuvred. She looked down at the table cloth, uncomprehending at first but then realising that the resentment coming from Shay wasn’t born yesterday. He and his mates must still see herself and her family as posh incomers. It was pathetic. The tomb and the treasure were bringing out the worst in him. She contrasted his mean-spirited words with the high-minded thoughts of Malachy. That awful feeling that she had lived with in Boston for those weeks returned in a wave. How could she misread the men around her so badly? What was wrong with her?
At that moment Shay stretched a big hand across the table.
‘Oh God, Tara, I’m sorry, that came out all wrong. Don’t go getting upset.’
Tara pulled her hand away and said, ‘Let’s just get out of here Shay. Pay the bill and I will see you at the car.’
Rising, she pulled her jacket off the chair and headed for the Ladies. Looking in the mirror she took stock. The face in front of her was familiar, except for the lines around the eyes. What she wanted to see, but couldn’t, was what was happening beneath the surface. She wondered who she was and who she wanted to be. Three months back she had ditched her former self, and there was no going back, but she had little idea where she was going to now or how to get there. She could do with a Celtic mirror, she thought, remembering Malachy’s words, one she could read her future in. With a sigh, she concluded that she was at least clear about one thing: getting away from Shay. She was about to walk and bugger any concerns about letting him down lightly.
Pausing on the doorstep of the restaurant she looked up. The dark sky was clear and crystalline; a canopy of cobalt blue in which the stars stood out sharply like pin pricks. The cold air hit Tara’s face, and she felt the night envelop her in a way that you never encountered in the city. Here the sky was proximate and intense, a reality that, like her dream, seemed to both beckon her and repel her. It must have looked just like this to the ancient people who had built the tombs, she thought. She walked purposefully over to where they had parked the car. Shay was leaning against it but intercepted her as she made for the driver’s door.
‘Look Tara, let’s not fall out, you know how I feel about you. You and me would be a great item so let’s stop pretending. Let me look after you.’
Tara stopped, hoping he would pause but he didn’t. He grabbed her and kissed her hard, enclosing her in his arms, his tongue forcing its way into her mouth. Outrage seized her and she wriggled, pulling herself away from him. But he was not minded to read messages.
‘Oh for fuck’s sake, can’t we pack in the coy madam crap!’ he exclaimed. ‘I’ve had enough of that. I’ve seen you look at me and I know you want me. Stop pretending, Tara.’
He was drunk but there was truth in what he said. Until a few days back she had found him physically attractive. He must have caught one of her admiring glances. But now her feelings towards him were entirely psychological, all she clocked was pure threat. Their eyes locked and she could see the lust there. He wanted her and he wasn’t going to take no for an answer.
He pulled her roughly into the shadows at the back of the car where it was overshadowed by trees and pinned her up against the rear of the hatchback with one strong arm. Her face was suffused by the alcohol on his breath and his free hand groped up her skirt and started pulling down her panties. Christ, she thought, the bastard is going to rape me! Shay’s arm forced her chin up and for the second time she saw the stars, cold and translucent, shimmering onlookers in the sky above her. She thought again of the strange tomb people and reached a resolution. Relaxing her upper frame to reassure him, she sensed him ease slightly and then, without hesitation, jerked her right knee up fast with all her strength into his crotch. His screech ripped through the air and he fell backwards, hitting the ground hard.
Flashing her fob, she stepped rapidly to the driver’s door, even as the headlights flickered, and threw herself into the driver’s seat. Thank God for automatic gears she thought, pushing in the key and slamming directly into reverse. Straightening the car up jerkily, she narrowly missed hitting Shay, who was struggling up onto one knee in front of the car’s forward lunge.
‘You fucking bitch!’ he bawled at her, like an angry beast. In the mirror she saw the door to the restaurant open and light and people spill out. Hitting the accelerator hard, she shot out of the car park into the darkness of the Sligo night. As the adrenalin high of escape diminished, Tara became aware of a noise. Looking at the steering wheel she realised that it was her bracelet hitting the wheel; because her hands were shaking so violently.
Chapter 56
Sligo, Ireland, 22 September 2014, 18:35 hours
‘Just fuck off, you little shite!’
Shay was angry with himself, which meant he was doubly impatient with everyone around him. Right now that meant his younger brother, who, evading a blow from Shay’s fist, scarpered from the shop. Watching his form disappear across the yard, Shay spotted a large four-by-four pull into the forecourt. His attention returned to his own preoccupations, the thoughts that had been torturing him all day. Yet again he reproached himself for his stupidity. Tara had class. It was central to her appeal, that and her good looks. He cursed himself for trying to push the pace so catastrophically last night. He knew he had blown it and it cut him like a knife. But another voice in his head spoke up. She was a stuck-up bitch and had played him for weeks. Who did she think she was? He was right to push it. She had never been serious about him. At least now he knew where he stood.
The more the second voice sounded in his ear, the angrier Shay got. It was over now anyhow. He dare not show his face at Rosnaree. He had been on the verge of ringing Tara umpteen times, his mobile in his hand, her number on the display screen. But he hadn’t hit the button. He couldn’t face her, he was too ashamed. Time to stop kidding himself. He and Tara were history. But, that being the situation, the second voice told him, a new possibility arose, of revenge. He would make her and her family pay for it. They would never take him for a pushover again. A further surge of anger washed over him, as he realised that he had lost any inside track on the excavation. He was out in the cold. Again fury, with himself and the world, clouded his mind to the exclusion of all reason.
He was brought back to the present by a voice.
‘Excuse me, can you help me, please?’
The voice had a definite foreign accent and Shay looked at its owner. Across the counter stood a well-built man with a closely-shaven crop, wearing an expensive black leat
her bomber jacket. Shay looked at the till, asking rudely, ‘What number are you?’
The man looked momentarily at a loss then said, ‘Oh, excuse me, number three please.’
‘That will be seventy-four euros, thirty-five.’
The man handed over a wad of notes and Shay, putting them into the till drawer, noticed they were mainly Belgian in origin.
‘Excuse me,’ the man said for a third time and Shay felt a sudden urge to hit him. Instead, lifting his gaze, he looked straight at him. Shay was well used to sizing-up strangers in the opposing teams at hurling matches. He knew the eyes could tell you a lot. This man’s eyes were tough and cold and Shay registered that you wouldn’t pick an argument with him without good reason.
Straightening up, he decided to be more helpful. ‘How can I help you?’
‘I am with Dutch TV,’ said the man, and Shay knew instantly that he was lying. ‘I need information on Rosnaree, background stuff. Who is who, that sort of thing. Perhaps you could take some time and help me, please?’
The voice was polite but the eyes bored into Shay, who stared back and said nothing. Looking over his shoulder to check that they were not being overheard, the man added.
‘I can pay good, you realise, make it worth your while.’
There had been several such inquiries over the last few days, and Shay’s father had given clear orders that no one was to say anything. They are vultures: you don’t feed vultures if you want to stay alive yourself. They always come back for more. Shay was about to send the man packing but something made him hesitate. Maybe he sensed that the stranger was, like himself, angry, and he felt an affinity with him. One loner recognising another, he thought. Shay knew he had to stop the endless mental rewinding of recent events and just do something, anything, to distract himself from this torment. And bitching about the Ruanes would do fine. His revenge had to start somewhere, why not here and now? Impulsively, he made a decision.
‘Look, it is difficult, I am on duty for another hour and I don’t want to be seen talking to the media. Meet me at the recycling point at nine-thirty and bring that money you mentioned. Lots of it.’
The man smiled, seeming to be pleased that he had got a response to his pitch. He checked on a map for the spot Shay had mentioned, making sure that Shay located it precisely for him. Then he smiled again and said, ‘OK, mon copain, see you later.’
The man left the shop and Shay watched him climb into the large Audi four-by-four and pull out of the petrol station. He wondered what copain meant and why the man had lapsed into what sounded like French.
Chapter 57
Sligo, Ireland, 23 September 2014, 10:45 hours
The more she thought about her close shave in escaping Shay’s assault the day before yesterday, the more vulnerable Tara felt. The initial bravado that followed her escape had soon faded and a vague dread had taken its place. She knew she couldn’t to go to the Police. If she did, someone would be bound to research her past and drag up Boston. There was no way she could go back over all that. Which meant that Shay was going to get away with sexual assault, but there was nothing else she could do, or at least think of doing, for the present. On the plus side at least Shay was out of her life. She didn’t need to deal with him or his acquaintances and she just hoped he would keep away.
Another bonus was that Shay’s attack had shaken her out of the passivity she had retreated into since Boston. She was determined now to pick up the reins of her life somehow; a thought which brought her focus back to the dream. She knew there was a similarity with Joe’s frenzied recollections and a part of her was afraid that she was becoming prey to the same mental decline. Neil had jokingly said yesterday that her dream must be pointing her to a hidden treasure. Yet within a few hours a hidden treasure had been found, although not in the way she had dreamt. Something felt amiss here and she needed to figure it out.
Skipping breakfast, she headed down to the tomb and was nearly knocked over by a passing jogger wearing a sweat band around his hair who collided with her. At first she thought it was one of the protestors, but then the runner stopped and she realised it was Robert Grainger. He was profusely apologetic and she had to reassure him twice that she was OK. The other night at the dinner party, he had struck her as a typically buttoned-up army type, all ex-military precision and no character. His face, she had thought then, would be good-looking if it wasn’t so inexpressive. But this morning genuine concern animated his countenance. As he resumed his run she noticed the tanned, muscular thighs emerging from his shorts. The man now disappearing fast from view was clearly an athlete. She made a mental note to resume her own jogging tomorrow. It would be part of her taking back control.
Entering the tomb for the third time, she was surprised to find that the contractors had already cleared the rock fall. A temporary roof comprising thick timber planks was secured in place with metal joists. Siobhan smiled when she saw Tara.
‘Do you want a quick look?’ she asked. Tara nodded enthusiastically.
‘Well then, you know the rule, put on a hard hat.’
As they inched along the passage Tara knew exactly what she was looking for. All the rest – the patterns, the zigzags, the circles – she ignored, although she had not seen this stretch of the tunnel before.
Her heart started thumping as they got to within about a metre of the end of the passage. It must all be an illusion, she thought, desperation rising within her. There is no triple spiral! Then down at floor level it caught her eye; a large roughly triangular shaped stone. At first she could discern no pattern on it, but as the beam from her torch fell upon it from a different angle, of a sudden there it was. Three interlocking spirals, a Triskell! Falling to her knees Tara began to scrape at the sides of the rock with her fingers and nails.
‘Tara, what are you doing! You can’t do that! Are you crazy?’ Siobhan cried.
Hearing her raised voice, Sean, the senior archaeologist on site, came thundering along the passage. Tara heard his resounding footfalls but ignored the sound and kept madly digging. Next thing she knew a pair of strong hands grasped her and pulled her roughly to her feet. She dropped the torch and cried out, realising there was blood on her hand. Sean and Siobhan were now both shouting, Sean screaming at her to get out of the tomb. He dragged her firmly away until finally she gave in and co-operated. He was furious with her.
‘This is a professional excavation. You are privileged to have access at all! What the hell do you think you are doing?’
Tara just stared at him, her hands cupping her mouth. She started to form the words I’ve had a dream but the look of anger on his face stopped her dead. He wouldn’t listen. They would all think she was unhinged.
‘Sean, something came over me. I don’t really know what...’
The two archaeologists gawped at her as though she was an alien. The situation was beyond retrieval so she just turned and walked fast out the tomb. Everything was going so badly. She needed to find another way to deal with this.
Chapter 58
Sligo, Ireland, 22 September 2014, 21:15 hours
The recycling facility was located on a layby just off the main Sligo to Dublin road, a few miles out of town. Shay had chosen it knowing that nobody would be there at that time of night. On the downside, it was an isolated spot, but Shay reckoned he could handle himself well enough if the need arose. As he pulled his car up, he saw that the Audi was already there. The lights were off but a subdued murmur in the night air told him that the engine was running. The front passenger door opened as Shay approached and he saw that the man from the garage had leaned across to open it.
‘Get in, my friend, if you don’t mind, I don’t want to freeze to death.’
Shay swung himself up into the seat and looked around the spacious interior of the Audi Q7. It was a five-door with tinted windows and Shay estimated it must be about five metres long. The man certainly had money thought Shay.
‘OK then, let’s talk. I am Erik,’ said the man, but he didn’t
offer his hand.
‘Call me Shay, everyone else does,’ said Shay, adding bluntly, ‘and let’s talk money first.’
As they spoke Shay decided to drop into the conversation that had first-hand inside information on Rosnaree. He couldn’t believe his luck when the stranger took the bait and immediately doubled his opening offer. They finally agreed that Shay would get €2,000 for a fifteen-minute briefing. Shay gave him the low-down on events, and who was who, but omitted any reference to the discovery of the hoard. It hadn’t been announced as yet and if they wanted details, they could come back and pay for more, he reasoned. He also made sure that their time ran out just as he was describing the tomb in greater detail. Erik offered him a further €2,000 to keep talking but Shay declined, offering something else instead.
‘For €6,000 I will take you up the hills tomorrow early and give you the low down on the place from up there – access routes, hiding places – you name it.’
Erik agreed readily provided he could bring a colleague.
‘No problem,’ Shay replied. ‘But we need to start early to avoid being visible up there too long after first light.’
Pulling out a map of the area, he pointed to a rendezvous and marked it with a pen, before passing it to Erik.
‘I will see you there at five a.m.’ he said, pointing at the spot. Then, swinging the car door open, he jumped out onto the ground and strode to his own vehicle. He was energised and elated at the prospect of getting back at Tara, although he felt an undertow of guilt at how swiftly he had moved from wanting her more than anything in the world to a determination to hurt her, and hurt her badly.