What would the New Year bring? Conor wondered as he lay in bed.
Unable to drift back to sleep, he decided to get up. After having a shower, he packed a small bag that he found in the bottom of his wardrobe. He went downstairs and made himself tea and toast. His mother had his dinner ready for him early at 12:30. She knew he wouldn't be eating too well once he got to Galway.
Afterwards, Conor's dad drove him the twelve miles to Rathalgin to get the Sligo bus to Galway. As he got out of the car, Conor told his father that he would probably be back in a day or two.
He waited at the bus stop and pulled up his heavy black coat around his neck as the cold January wind bit hard. The early morning rain had washed away much of the snow that had fallen during the previous day and night, but some patches still clung to the fields around Rathalgin.
The half-one bus arrived at quarter to two. Conor paid seven pounds to a grumpy-looking bus driver and took a seat. The bus and driver chugged along half-asleep. The drone of the engine was only intermittently drowned out by a heavy grinding of the gear box.
The bus was almost empty. There were only six other passengers on board. An elderly couple sat in the seat in front of Conor. Down the back, three lads in their early twenties were slouched across the long backseat. They looked the worse for wear, probably suffering the after-effects of New Year's Eve. One of them sucked on a fag, and the smoke drifted around the seats at the rear of the bus.
At the front of the bus sat a girl with long black hair that stretched over the shoulders of a long, brown suede coat. She was reading a book. Maybe she was catching up on some study for her course work. She looked the student type, hippy and bohemian, like the many that gathered around Galway City. She reminded him of Sarah.
Sarah had been the cool, good-looking girl in first Arts in UCG back in 1981. She'd looked like a clone of Chrissie Hynde from the rock group The Pretenders back then. She'd had jet black hair and wore heavy, dark eyeliner. She'd copied Chrissie Hynde's look with a short black leather jacket, a tight black t-shirt and figure-hugging jeans. She'd truly been a Chrissie Hynde pretender, but younger and better-looking.
Before Conor and Darragh had gotten to know her, they'd watched her strutting into the English lectures. They would discuss her attributes as they sat at the back of the lecture hall. They'd even gotten up early to actually attend ten o'clock lectures so they might get a chance to chat to her.
It had been Conor who got chatting to her first. They got talking one night in a bar when Conor and Darragh were on one of their marathon piss-ups. Darragh had been out of his tree, so it had been left to Conor to make the introductions.
They'd hit it off straight away. They'd had a similar taste in music and she had a great dry sense of humour that complemented Conor's. They'd met for coffee in the students' union afterwards and had begun to hang out together at English and Philosophy lectures. Conor had been smitten by her the first time he met her, but somehow it stayed as a friendship between them for months.
One night at a party after a few too many beers, Sarah and Conor had gotten it together. They'd both felt awkward afterwards, yet it tended to happen every few weeks on a casual basis. It had been clear Conor was very interested in her, but he hadn't been sure if she'd felt the same way.
A few months later, events had taken a bit of a twist. It was at a disco at CJ's in November of 1981 that Darragh had begun to edge in on Sarah. Eventually, after a few nights on the beer around the city, Darragh had brought Sarah back to the apartment he shared with Conor. Darragh, who rarely slept alone during his student days, had confessed to Conor one night that he was at last in love and had found his soul mate.
Conor hadn't passed much remarks on this until Darragh informed him that his soul mate was Sarah. Conor had been shocked and annoyed, but never let Darragh become aware of this, and he'd sat back as he watched Sarah spend more and more time with Darragh. From there on, Darragh and Sarah had begun going out.
Conor had been jealous at first. But after a time he'd learned to accept it, or at least, he'd pretended to as the days, weeks, months and years passed by in college. He hadn't wanted to fall out with Darragh or Sarah.
The trio had become inseparable in Galway during their three years there. Conor had plenty of girlfriends there too, but no relationships that lasted more than a few weeks or months at the most.
Conor's thoughts drifted forward to recent events, the phone call he had received from Sarah the previous night and how she couldn't come down to Ballinastrad because of the snowy roads. Was it just an excuse to avoid an awkward situation meeting him? Did she regret what had happened the night before? Should he tell Darragh about what had happened? How would he react?
Conor tried not to think about it, choosing to instead look forward to a good night out in Galway. He wanted to visit the old haunts Darragh and himself used to frequent. He wanted to see what had changed.
The bus pulled to a stop at Ceannt Station beside Eyre Square in Galway City Centre at around four o'clock. It was a bright, cold and frosty evening.
Eyre Square looked quiet. There were very few people around. The day after the night before, New Year's Day was usually a day for relaxing at home and nursing a severe hangover.
Conor got off the bus and threw his small luggage bag across his shoulder. He headed down William Street and onto Shop Street towards the Quays Bar to meet Darragh.
Back in their student days, Conor and Darragh hadn't really drunk around the city centre that much. They'd mainly gone on the piss around Salthill, drinking in the Castle, the Warwick and CJ's.
Conor looked at his watch as he entered the front door of the Quays Bar. It was 4:15; he was meant to meet Darragh in the bar at five.
It was quiet and dark inside. There were plenty of vacant bar stools. He grabbed one and sat on it, placing his bag on another next to him. An older man in a grey jacket was sitting further down the bar, pulling at the end of a fag. A group of lads were standing around the pool table. After a few minutes a barman appeared, coming up from the steps of the cellar beneath the bar.
“Well, sorry to keep you. Had to change a barrel. What will you have?” he asked Conor.
“A pint of stout, please,” Conor replied.
After the pint had settled, the bearded barman passed Conor over his pint. Conor paid him and sat quietly as he sipped at what would be the first of many, he thought.
There was a battle going on in the bar between a musical on the telly—which looked like Yule Brynner's cue ball head in The King and I—and the jukebox that was blasting out Jailbreak by Thin Lizzy. The jukebox was winning the battle.
Conor remembered going along with Darragh and Sarah to see Thin Lizzy play at the Leisureland in Salthill in 1983. It had been a brilliant gig, Lizzy's farewell 'Thunder and Lightning' tour. He would have loved to have seen them during their peak in the late seventies with Brian Robertson or Gary Moore.
He drank two more pints and there was still no sign of Darragh. It was almost six o'clock. He knew Darragh was never a great timekeeper. What if he'd forgotten? What if he was pissed and asleep in some bar?
Maybe he had hooked up with a woman in some apartment. Maybe he had rung Sarah and she had told him all about what happened, that she and Conor had slept together. Where the fuck would he sleep tonight if Darragh didn't turn up? He thought about maybe arranging some accommodation before it got too late.
At about seven o'clock, Conor was just finishing off a fourth pint and had gotten directions from the barman for a bed and breakfast up the street. He walked out the front door and turned right.
Then he heard a familiar roar behind him. “Hey Doyle, you bastard, where da fuck are you goin'?” It was Darragh. “Where you goin', Conor? I thought we were meeting for a pint at five in the Quays.” He gave Conor a bear hug.
Conor smiled. “It's fucking after seven, you drunken asshole.”
“Is it?” Darragh looked at his watch. “Oh yea, you're right. Sorry about that. I got held up i
n a pub down the street. I got chatting to a nice blonde babe about Charles Bukowski and other shit. Unfortunately, her husband turned up and that ended that.” He laughed. “So, what's the plan, Conor?”
Conor looked at Darragh. He was well pissed. “Have you eaten anything, Darragh?”
“No, feck that. Eatin' is cheatin',” Darragh replied.
“Come on, we will grab some fish and chips across the road. I'm a bit hungry myself,” Conor said.
After the two mates finished their fine meal of cod and chips standing outside Luigi's chipper, they headed to an old haunt of theirs called the Harbour Bar and took a table in the corner. Conor thought it best to keep Darragh off the high stools in case he fell over.
Conor ordered two pints of stout and a Powers Whiskey for himself. He thought he would have to try to catch up with Darragh to get on the same wavelength.
“Well, any craic at home?” Darragh asked Conor.
“No, not really. I was just at Tom Kearns's funeral yesterday. It was huge. The church was packed. They still haven't found the bastard who killed poor Tom. The cops are searching all the houses in the area. They thought it was somebody from Sligo who was responsible. Now they think it was somebody local. They found a burnt-out car yesterday. They think that it could be the car involved in the hit and run,” Conor replied.
“I hope they get the guy responsible,” Darragh said, and he got up to go to the toilet.
Two hours passed quickly as the two old friends laughed and joked. Darragh had got a new lease on life and appeared to be more sober now than when Conor met him at seven. Or maybe that was Conor getting fairly merry himself.
The pretty barmaid had a good taste in music and was playing a cassette mix tape of some great rock songs. The intro to The Doors' song Riders on the Storm came on, and Darragh got up and did his best Jim Morrison impression in the middle of the flagstone floor.
The dance came to a sudden end when he swayed backwards and fell over a table and stools next to him. Conor staggered over to pick him up and the pair of them roared laughing. The bar was nearly empty and nobody seemed to even notice. The barmaid just said, “Take it easy, lads,” as she smiled over while polishing a whiskey glass.
The next track on was Brass in Pocket by The Pretenders. Conor and Darragh smiled and immediately thought of Sarah.
Darragh's face slowly turned from a smile to a look of depression. “I fucked up, Conor. I really fucked up this time.”
Conor tried to console Darragh even though deep down he didn't think Sarah would take him back this time. He had gone too far and had tried his luck too many times before. This made Conor think that perhaps himself and Sarah might have a future now, but how would he tell Darragh?
Uncertain at this point how to approach this predicament, Conor took the easy way out for now. “Look, give it time; it's only been a few days. She will get over it. She will give you another chance.”
“No, not this time. I think that's it. Maybe it's time to move on. I have been thinking about moving back here to Galway. I'm sick and tired of fuckin' Ballinastrad anyway. It's starting to bore the ass off me. There's a good scene here for painting. Maybe I'll move to Connemara or the Aran islands and become a fisherman.”
Darragh laughed as he burst into a line of Fisherman's Blues by The Waterboys. Conor noticed that Darragh was acting strangely; his emotions were erratic, up and down like a seesaw.
A few minutes later, Darragh's mood changed again, and he stared at the floor.
Conor felt sorry for him. He felt guilty about what had happened between himself and Sarah. He was on the verge of telling him about it. “Look, man, don't feel so bad. There is something I need to let you know.”
Darragh lifted his head and looked over at Conor. “What are you going to tell me Conor? Is it that you're … gay?”
“Fuck off, ya stupid prick,” Conor said and the two of them roared laughing as Darragh hit Conor a friendly jab to the shoulder that nearly knocked him off his stool.
“Come on,” Darragh said. “Let's go someplace else. This place is a bit dead.”
The drunken duo staggered out into the Galway night towards a nearby bar called Morgan's, where they could hear a live band playing. They drank away and listened to the rock band until closing time at 11:30.
“Well, where we are going to stay tonight? I'm feeling wrecked,” Conor said.
“I booked you a room in a hotel I have been staying in for the last few nights. It's a shithole, but it's cheap,” Darragh said.
“Grand, any place will do,” Conor replied. “Well, lead the way, my good man.”
Darragh ploughed the ten-minute walk towards the Waterfront Hotel followed by Conor as he staggered behind. They collected their keys at the front desk, noticed that the residents' bar was open and decided to go in for a few more beverages.
As Darragh drank more and more shots of Powers, Conor noticed he was saying less and less. Not the usual Darragh, who had a titanic capacity for drink and often went forty-eight hours on the tear with very little sleep.
“How long were you out drinking before I met you?” Conor asked, trying to resurrect a conversation. “Are you boozing all day?”
“No, I didn't start until one o'clock,” Darragh said quietly.
There was silence again.
“Are you okay, Darragh?” Conor asked. There was little response.
“Christ, I don't know what to do. I really fucked up,” Darragh said, placing his head in his hands.
Conor thought about telling his friend about his night with Sarah to make him feel less guilty. He thought that then perhaps Darragh would be angry with him, but he wouldn't feel so low if he discovered Sarah had technically two-timed him as well.
“Fuck, the poor bastard,” Darragh said.
“What are you talking about, Darragh? Who are you talking about?”
“Tom, dying like an animal on the cold, dark road, alone. He didn't deserve that. Nobody deserves that, nobody deserves to die like that.” Darragh was mumbling and incoherent.
“What you are muttering about?” Conor asked.
This time, Darragh raised his voice and roared, “Fuckin' Tom Kearns.”
The three men drinking at the bar turned their heads. The night porter who was pulling a pint gave Darragh a dirty look.
“Yea, Darragh, it's terrible. I hope they get the scum bag who killed him,” Conor said.
“Yea …” Darragh said. “Yea … oh Christ, Conor.” He placed his head in his hands again and began muttering to himself once more. Conor could hear his mutterings turn to sobs as tears ran down his face. “Conor, Conor. What will I do?”
“What do you mean?” Conor asked.
There was silence for a minute. Then, with his face still in his hands, facing away from Conor, Darragh said slowly and clearly, “It was me, Conor. I killed him. I killed Tom.”
Conor didn't know what to say. He was in a state of shock and confusion. Was this a sick joke, or was Darragh just raving with too much whiskey?
After what seemed like a long time but was only probably only a half a minute, Conor asked Darragh, “Are you serious or taking the piss, because it's a sick fuckin joke?”
Darragh turned towards Conor. “I am deadly serious, Conor. I can't keep it in anymore.” Tears still dripped down from his red eyes.
“I hit him. I wasn't sure if he was alive or dead. I just drove on. I left him there to die like a dog. I was drinking all day that day in Sheehan's. I drove out the Rossbeg road. I was steamed. I couldn't see out through the windscreen; it was covered in frost. I hit an icy patch on the road. The car slid in towards the ditch. I tried to steer away from it. The car rammed off a tree or something, then swerved out and I heard a wallop. I didn't know what it was. I stopped the car and got out.”
“It was so dark. At first I didn't know what I had hit. I thought it was a deer or something. Then I looked down and heard a man groaning. It was Tom. There was blood running down his face. His legs were all twiste
d. I just panicked. I got back into the car and drove off. I could have saved him; he was still alive. I just drove off home. I told nobody. I kept it hidden inside me all this time. But it's eating me up. I kept a big front up, a facade. Darragh, the loud joker, acted the fool, the clown, as usual, so I hoped no one would suspect anything. I kept drinking heavy, but then, I was always bloody drinking heavy. I'm a bloody sham, a fake, a waster. A fuckin' selfish fuckin' murderer.”
“What are you going to do, Darragh?” Conor asked. “Are you going to tell the cops?”
“I don't know, Conor. I suppose I should.”
“Is that your car they found burnt-out beside the quarry hole beside Glengarrif?” Conor asked.
“Yea, it is,” Darragh replied.
“Look, in a few days the cops will trace it to you. Maybe you should tell them. You might get off a bit lighter.”
“Yea, maybe,” Darragh said. He seemed to calm himself as if it was a relief to finally tell somebody. “Christ, this been eating me up for the last ten days.”
Conor was devastated by Darragh's confession. He felt sorry for him. He knew once he informed the Guards, his life would be on a different path. He would face ridicule, bitterness, anger and a long prison sentence. He would lose his close friends.
He also felt anger towards Darragh for what he had done, killing a harmless man on the road. He was disappointed that Darragh's life would be changed forever. He was also disappointed that his closest and oldest friend was such a coward for not stopping to try to see if he could have possibly saved Tom Kearns's life. If he could have driven to a nearby house to ring for an ambulance, maybe Tom might have survived.
“Will you come with me to the Garda station in the morning, Conor?”
“I will, Darragh,” Conor replied. He looked at the clock over the bar. “We better get some sleep. It's almost four o'clock.”
The Whole of the Moon Page 7