The Whole of the Moon

by Kevin McManus

  The more Darragh had thought about it, the more he'd convinced himself that it was the best option. It was a moment of vivid clarity; he knew what he would do now. He had a clear plan. He would go and see his sister and his mother first and then he would go home to Sarah and begin to pack his things and organise the flights to Boston. A day or two would sort it out. The two of them could be in Boston by the weekend. A new year and a new start: a new life.

  He finished off his drink and headed for the bus station. He only had to wait twenty minutes for the next bus to Sligo Town. He arrived in Sligo at two o'clock in the afternoon and got a taxi to his sister's house on the Strandhill Road out of Sligo Town.

  His sister Anne was surprised to see him. She lived in the opulent end of town in a large house overlooking the bay. She was married to a doctor who worked in the hospital. She had two young children who were delighted to see Darragh, as he always acted the big kid with them.

  Darragh's mother lived only a mile down along the bay and Anne had rung her to come over to her house, as Darragh was there. The three of them shared a meal together and Darragh told his mother and sister about his plans.

  “I have decided to immigrate to America. To Boston.”

  Anne and her mother smiled over at one another; they didn't take the plan too seriously, as they knew that Darragh wouldn't be able to hold down a job over in America because he would be too lazy to get up in the morning.

  “Oh, really? When did you come up with this idea, Darragh?” Anne asked as she took a mouthful of red wine.

  “I have been thinking about it for a few months. Sarah and I are planning to go.”

  “Will Sarah give up her job in the bank?” Mrs Lonigan asked.

  “Yea, she said she is tired of it. Sarah's brother in Boston is going to set us up for a while,” Darragh replied.

  “What are you going to work at in Boston? You don't really have any practical skills. You won't make a living as an artist,” Mrs Lonigan said.

  “I might do. Anyway, I'll work at anything for a year or so. Maybe I'll work at construction. I'm not fussy. I could turn my hand to lots of things.”

  Darragh's mother and sister assumed he would be in Boston for a month or so, then run out of money and be back home with his tail between his legs. However, they wouldn't stand in his way. Maybe it might make him realise what the real world was all about and help him to mature.

  “Look, if you want to go, you should go. I spent some time in America when I was a younger woman. I worked there during the summers when I was in university many years ago. America is an inspiring place. Have you money for airfare?” Mrs Lonigan asked as she reached for her handbag.

  “Well, sort of,” Darragh stuttered.

  “I take it that means no. Here's something to cover the airfare and also a bit extra to tide you over for a few months,” Mrs Lonigan said as she wrote out a cheque and handed it to Darragh.

  “Thanks, Mum. I promise I will send back the money in a few weeks once I get working.”

  His mother nodded, smiled and said, “Sure, Darragh, no problem,” as she winked over at her daughter.

  “By the way, Anne, I was wondering: could I ask you a favour? Could I borrow your car for a day or two so I can drive back to the cottage in Rossbeg to start packing my things?” Darragh asked.

  “What happened to your own car?”

  “A long story. It's giving me a bit of trouble. It's in the garage getting fixed.”

  “I suppose you can take the Golf. But look after it. The last time I gave you a car, you reversed it into a wall. I'll get you the keys.”

  “You're a life-saver, sis. I will drop it back to you safe and sound with a full tank of petrol in two days' time.”

  “It's a diesel, by the way.” Anne laughed.

  Darragh spent the rest of the day at his sister's house, and in the evening he said good luck to his mother, sister, and two nephews and drove off.

  On the way towards Ballinastrad, he stopped off in Castlederry for a few stiff drinks again to boost his spirits before he got home to Sarah to try to charm her into his plans for moving to Boston.

  As he sat in Greegan's Bar, he watched the nine o'clock news. One of the news stories mentioned that Gardai in Sligo had discovered fresh information in relation to the death of Tom Kearns in a recent hit and run incident near the village of Ballinastrad. A Garda spokesperson said they had now narrowed down their investigation after discovering key evidence that would help to find the individual responsible in the coming days. They also issued a plea for anybody with information that could help the investigation further to contact the Garda station in Sligo Town. A phone number was read out.

  Darragh wondered what had they discovered. He had torched his Toyota and made sure to remove the number plates first. He had thrown the number plates into the flooded quarry hole nearby. Had the Gardai found a chassis number or something else that might lead them to him?

  Anyway, it was just another burnt-out car. It didn't mean it was involved in the hit and run.

  Sweat was now beading on Darragh's forehead. He was beginning to doubt his plan to go to Boston with Sarah. Maybe it was too late. Maybe the Garda noose was already tightening around him. Perhaps Conor was right; perhaps he should give himself up.

  No, he thought, he had to see Sarah. He had to make things right. He would tell her the truth about what had happened and she would advise him on what to do.

  He had a couple more drinks and headed for Ballinastrad. He stayed off the main roads to avoid Garda checkpoints. The long detour meant that he didn't arrive in Ballinastrad until after twelve o'clock.

  He drove slowly up and down Main Street and Bridge Street to see if Sarah's car was parked anywhere. He drove past Sheehan's, O'Brien's and Dolan's to no avail. He would have to drive out to their house in Rossbeg.

  Darragh hoped the Gardai were not at his house already. It was probably a foolish idea to go back there but if he was going to leave the country, he would need his passport and that was in the house someplace.

  Darragh crept slowly out the side roads from Bridge Street towards Rossbeg. Fortunately, he came across no Garda checkpoints or random patrols.

  It was raining very heavy as Darragh got closer to the cottage he shared with Sarah. The house was part of a large one-hundred-acre farm of land that had belonged to his father, James Lonigan. The farm was leased out now to different local farmers and the rent Darragh had collected from it just before Christmas helped to keep him in beer money for a few months. After that, he had to survive on whatever he could make from selling paintings, and also, of course, handouts from his wealthy mother, who was still a practicing solicitor.

  The Lonigans had always been the big shouts in the area. James Lonigan had owned several large farms of land. He had also been the local undertaker, a publican and of course, a long-serving county councillor. James Lonigan had been a good man to have on your side, the kind of man who'd had the power to pull strings, as the saying goes. He could get you planning permission for a roller disco in a bird sanctuary, if the bribe was right.

  He'd been about to get a shot at the big time just before he died. He was on the verge of getting the Fianna Fáil County Cumman's nomination to run as a TD in the next general election. However, he'd suffered a massive heart attack and dropped dead behind the bar of his pub at the relatively young age of forty-nine.

  Darragh had only been twenty-three at the time and his mother felt he should have followed his late father into politics. His county council seat would have been secured for him in the general fashion of nepotism that is characteristic of Irish politics.

  However, Darragh had other plans. He was going to set the world alight as an artist and had no time for vulgar politics. Darragh saw himself as an intellectual, an artist, a lover, a boozer and a brawler, the classic drunken Irish artist. Darragh believed his own bullshit and expected everybody else to do likewise.

  The rain was beating so hard on the windscreen that Darragh was
forced to stop because the window wipers on his sister's Volkswagen Golf couldn't clear the deluge. He lit a cigarette and waited for the rain to ease before he drove on. He was only about a quarter of a mile away from the house.

  He thought about what he would say to Sarah when he went inside. He decided to write a note for her just in case she wouldn't listen to him. Maybe if she read the note afterwards, she might change her mind. He thought about where he would go if she wouldn't let him stay. She couldn't be heartless enough to put him out on a night like this, could she?

  He found a notebook and a pen in the glove compartment of the car and wrote to Sarah.

  Sarah,

  You probably hate me right now, and I don't blame you at all. You have been nothing but loving and kind to me over the last eight years that we have been together. You put up with my ignorance, my rudeness, my drunkenness, and my unfaithfulness. You have been so patient and forgiving to me over the years. I just want to say to you that I love you deeply. I can't live without you. I would rather be dead than to lose you, Sarah. You are my life. Without you, life is pointless.

  Darragh knew it sounded a bit corny, but it might just work. He folded up the note and put it in his inside coat pocket.

  After about twenty minutes, the heavy rain began to lessen and he drove on towards the house. Sarah's car was parked outside and all the lights inside the house were turned out.

  He decided not to knock on the front door. Instead, he got the spare key that was hidden under a cavity block at the back of the hayshed in the farmyard at the side of the house. After getting soaking wet in the process of finding the key in the dark, he walked towards the front door of the house and quietly opened it. He didn't turn on the kitchen light, instead taking off his wet coat and putting it on the back of a chair next to the fire to dry.

  He opened the hall door and walked down towards the main bedroom, where he hoped to find Sarah sleeping. The bedroom door was ajar and he crept in quietly. It was pitch dark in the bedroom; all he could see was the digital alarm clock. It was 1:17 in the morning.

  Darragh sat on the bed. He began whispering quietly to Sarah saying how sorry he was about what had happened and that he hoped she would have the heart to forgive him one last time. He kept talking, but there was no reply.

  He leaned over on the bed; he could feel the outline of her ankle under the sheets. He shook her ankle gently, trying to wake her. After a minute, she gave a slight groan and babbled, half-asleep, “What's wrong? What's wrong?”

  “Sarah, Sarah. It's me, Darragh.”

  “What? Who?” Sarah asked. “Darragh? Darragh, Christ.” Sarah pulled her legs up under the sheets and reached over to turn on the bedside lamp. “Darragh? Is that you, Darragh?”

  As the lamp illuminated the bedroom, there was silence for a moment and then Darragh roared, “Fuck you, Sarah, you haven't been wasting any time, have you? Who is the bastard in the bed next to you?”

  “Just get out, Darragh. You had no right to come in here. Get out.”

  In a rage, Darragh flung the blankets and sheets off the bed, revealing Conor on the other side of the double bed. His mouth dropped.

  “Conor.” He could barely speak after the shock. Then his rage returned. “Conor, you treacherous fuckin' scumbag. How could you, Conor? You bloody bastard.”

  Conor jumped out of bed and pulled on his t-shirt and jeans. Darragh was in a frenzy; throwing boots, chairs and his own paintings around the room as he roared and sobbed. Tears ran down his cheeks and his face was molten red with rage. The veins were pumping in his neck and his eyes were bulging as if they were going to explode.

  “You pair of treacherous fuckers,” he roared. “Sarah, you bitch. Conor, I'll rip your fucking head off, you dirty bastard.”

  Conor tried to reason with him, but Darragh levelled him with a blow to the side of the jaw that propelled him against the wardrobe. Darragh pulled Conor up again off the floor and pounded him viciously several more times.

  Sarah was screaming. “Darragh, stop it! Stop it! Just get out.”

  He turned around to face her, his face still raging. He stared at her with a look not just of hatred, but also of despair and disappointment. He pushed her to one side and stormed out of the bedroom and out the front door.

  Sarah could hear his car revving and brakes screeching as he tore off down the road. She went over to where Conor was lying next to the wardrobe. His nose was pumping blood. She ran to the bathroom and brought back a towel to clean up some of the blood.

  “Are you okay, Conor?” she asked.

  “Yea, I'm okay. I'm okay.”

  She helped him onto the bed. She placed his head on the pillow as she tried to clean his wounds.

  “I think I should bring you to a hospital, Conor.”

  “No, seriously, Sarah, don't be fussing. I'm really not that bad. Nothing's broken; I don't think so, anyway. It probably looks much worse than it really is.”

  After the bleeding had stopped and Sarah had cleaned up his face, she got dressed and went back to the kitchen and locked and bolted the front door.

  “I probably should go after him to see if he is okay,” Conor said.

  “You will not. The state he is in, if you catch up with him, he will probably kill you,” Sarah said sternly. “Get some rest, Conor. We will try to catch up with him tomorrow when he calms down. No doubt he will be drowning his sorrows in Sheehan's.”

  Chapter XII

  Running to Standstill

  Tuesday, 3rd January 1989

  Conor lay back on the pillow. His head was pounding and his nose was throbbing. After an hour or so, he drifted off to sleep.

  He woke up early in the afternoon; the clock beside his bed read 12:55. Sarah wasn't next to him; he presumed she had gotten up earlier. He got up and dressed and went into the bathroom to survey how bad he looked in the mirror.

  The cuts on his face from the thumping he got from Darragh were still stinging. His nose was red and swollen, and his top lip was busted. He threw cold water up onto his face in an effort to sooth the pain. It gave him a temporary relief.

  Then he went into the kitchen. Sarah was sitting at the table smoking a fag and drinking a mug of coffee.

  “Are you up long?” he asked.

  “What … I never went to bed. I stayed up. I couldn't sleep.” She was in a trance-like daze staring at the floor.

  She lifted her eyes up and asked Conor if he was okay. He told her that he felt fine. He got a glass of water and sat down beside her at the table.

  “That bastard Darragh was in some rage. He's a fuckin' lunatic. I've never seen him like that before,” Sarah said.

  “Yea, he was bloody crazy, but I suppose he was angry to catch us in bed together. His best friend and his girlfriend. I suppose in one way you can't blame him,” Conor responded as he tried to drink the glass of water from the side of his mouth that didn't hurt.

  Sarah gave a piercing glance at Conor. “Jesus Christ, you can't be serious. You are not going to defend that psycho, are you? He could have bloody killed you,” she snapped.

  “He has a lot on his mind. He's fucked up,” Conor shouted back.

  “What the hell has he got to worry about with his rich mammy looking after him? All he has to worry about is the next drink and the next piece of skirt he's going to pick up. I should have dropped him years ago, the amount of times that rat was with other women! He probably had them here, for fuck sake, when I went home some weekends to Donegal, or even when I was at work. Who knows? Nothing would surprise me with Darragh Lonigan.”

  Conor decided not to respond. He let Sarah blow off some steam. He knew it was pointless arguing with her and trying to defend Darragh. He went over towards her and held her close. Her rage turned to tears and she sobbed relentlessly on his shoulder.

  They ate breakfast and began to talk calmly about what needed to be said. They talked about where Darragh might have gone. Sarah said that he had friends about five miles away in Shemore; he could have stay
ed with them last night.

  “This morning he was either drinking someplace, maybe in Ballinastrad or in some other nearby town, or he might have gone to stay with his sister in Strandhill. He often went over there. He enjoyed spending time with her two boys.”

  Conor assumed that Darragh had not given himself up to the Gardai. He needed to tell somebody about Darragh's confession to him. The burden of this knowledge was weighing heavy on Conor's mind. He felt he needed to tell Sarah, but she was already so traumatised by what had happened that he didn't want to upset her any more. As Conor and Sarah sat on the couch they heard a car driving over the gravel entrance outside the house. “Maybe it's Darragh,” said Sarah as she quickly stood up and walked over to the kitchen window.

  Conor got up and joined her by the window. As he looked out through the dusty pane, he realised that it was a Garda car. A plainclothes detective got out of the passenger seat and walked towards the front door and knocked hard.

  Sarah wrapped her long grey cardigan around her and answered the door. The middle-aged detective held up his identification and introduced himself as Detective Mulcahy.

  “Hi miss, I think we were speaking the other morning. You're Sarah? Sarah Gallagher?” the detective asked.

  “Oh yes, that's right. Come in, detective. How can I help you?” Sarah responded nervously.

  The detective came in and immediately looked over at Conor sitting at the table. He noticed the cuts and bruises on his face.

  “Can I ask who you are, sir?” Detective Mulcahy asked.

  “I'm Conor Doyle. I live in Ballinastrad. I'm just an old college friend of Sarah's.”

  “Okay, Conor. You don't look too good. What happened to your face, if you don't mind me asking?”

  Conor paused for a moment. “I fell off my bicycle yesterday. I went out for a cycle. I wasn't used to the bike, came down a hill too fast and bam, hit a pothole. It threw me right off the bike and I cut my face as I grazed it against the road.”