by Des Ekin
‘I’ll get the phone,’ said Fergal. He was determined to protect Tara from the sickos, freaks and hopeful journalists who were still jamming the line every day.
‘It’s okay. I’ve got it.’ Tara lifted the cordless phone and pressed the talk button before anyone could stop her.
‘Allo?’ A woman’s voice, far away and crackling.
‘Hello. Who is this?’
‘Ees thees Mees Tara Ross?’ The line was getting worse. Oh, no, thought Tara. Not another continental journalist.
‘Speaking.’
The French woman hadn’t heard her reply. ‘I would like to speak, please, to Mees Tara Ross. Eet is very important.’
‘This is Tara Ross.’
‘Allo?’
Tara sighed. ‘Okay, which publication are you from? Le Monde? Figaro? Paris Match?’
‘Allo? Ees Mees Ross there, please?’
Tara lost patience. This was, after all, about the dozenth call from foreign-language news outlets, French, German, Belgian and Dutch, all seeking to do the same ‘murder in paradise’ feature which would serve to shock their thousands of continental readers who flocked to the west of Ireland every summer in search of peace and serenity. What was the matter with these European newspapers? Didn’t they have any crime on their own doorsteps?
‘Listen,’ Tara said, loudly but not unkindly, ‘I don’t know who you are, but please don’t phone again. My father is ill and I just want to be left in peace.’
The line crackled and hissed like a winter bonfire. ‘Allo?’ said the voice again. ‘I need to speak with Mees Tara Ross. Eet is important.’
Tara raised her eyes to the ceiling and hung up.
Now it was mid-afternoon and the sun, beaming through the window of Tara’s bedroom, was beginning to bounce annoyingly off the glass of her computer monitor. She made a mental note to buy a non-reflecting screen shield.
She checked her event guide and the local tourism links, then double-checked that the vital adverts and sponsorship notices were in place. After all, they paid the bills.
Finally she pressed a combination of keys, and her cheap modem trilled like an electronic budgie as it connected her PC to the big server-computer in Ennis and propelled her publication into the vast realm of cyberspace.
She yawned and stretched, and switched off the machine. Throwing open the bedroom window for more fresh air, she could see the narrow mud track that led invitingly up to the pine forest that covered the side of the hill behind her house. It had been planted in the sixties and seventies, over what had previously been scrubland not even fit for grazing sheep. Its rambling acres provided home for dozens of sika deer, and the state forestry agency provided a network of pathways for hikers and joggers.
Tara looked at the distant trees longingly, smelling the sharp tang of the sappy wood and imagining the crunch of the pine needles underfoot. Over the past few days, she had barely left the cottage and was beginning to suffer from cabin fever. More than anything else in the world, she longed to be running through the forest, free as a young deer, feeling the fresh mountain wind in her hair.
She looked back into her bedroom. By sheer coincidence, her Adidas running shoes had spilled out of her wardrobe and were lying on the floor, tongues hanging out like twin puppies demanding walkies.
Tara made up her mind in an instant. Her father was being cared for by a visiting nurse; Fergal and Melanie were busy elsewhere; she could risk a quick run up to the edge of the wood and back. She could hardly ask for police protection – judging from the way Sean Gurrane puffed and wheezed after the mildest of exertion, he wouldn’t make it even a tenth of the way up the steep slope before collapsing of a heart attack.
Quickly, she threw off her clothes and put on black cycle shorts and a Puma sweatshirt. Her well-worn running shoes fitted her like a familiar pair of jeans, soft, supple and yet supportive.
After taking a few minutes to limber up, she tied her long black hair into a ponytail, put on a pair of light in-ear headphones, and firmly clipped a Walkman to her sweatshirt. Now she was ready.
Feeling a bit like a teenager sneaking off to an illicit disco, she crept downstairs and glanced in to the kitchen. Sean Gurrane was busy doing the Star crossword. He didn’t notice her as she softly opened the door and slipped outside. Things were simpler that way.
The air was warm and heavy as she began the steep ascent up the mud pathway that climbed through the bracken and gorse to the main entrance of the forest. Within a couple of minutes her muscles were protesting and her lungs were bursting. Her body was demanding that she give up and go home, but she was familiar with the feeling – it was a physical barrier she had to pass. Enjoying the tension on her thigh and calf muscles as she mounted each fresh metre of hillside, she persevered and before long was rewarded with her second-wind. Soon she was in her stride, her breath deep and regular and under control, feeling that she would be able to run for miles and miles.
At the car park at the entrance to the forest, Tara paused to stretch her muscles and enjoy the view of the Clare coastline. In one direction lay Ballyvaughan and Kinvara; in the other, Liscannor, Quilty, Kilkee and Kilrush. But through today’s heat haze, she could only just distinguish the towering Cliffs of Moher – each black headland plunging into the churning waters of the Atlantic in a dizzy ninety-degree drop.
The sun was almost unbearably hot on her perspiring forehead. Behind her, the forest road looked cool and inviting as it vanished into the dark shade of the woods.
Straight up to the edge of the forest and then home, she had promised herself. But a few hundred yards into the woods, say maybe a half-mile, wouldn’t do any harm. Who did she think she was, Little Red Riding Hood?
She snapped a cassette of Revenge, the classic Eurythmics album, into her Walkman. Then she took another deep breath and got back into her stride, clearing the low bar-gate with a clean jump and plunging into the forest shade like a diver slicing into cold water. After the searing heat of the sun, the combination of cool breeze and shade was pure bliss. Her muscles responded like those of a racehorse on the final straight. She increased her stride and her speed, loving the invigorating smell of pine in her nostrils as she drew the clean forest air deep into her lungs.
In her best foxy, throaty, rock’n’roll voice, Annie Lennox was wailing about her love for a missionary man. The guitars, bass and drums pounded precisely to the beat of Tara’s stride. Within fifteen minutes, she was more than a mile into the forest and feeling as though she was never going to stop.
At this rate, she could easily do a 10K by the time she doubled back and reached home. Maybe this would be the year she would do some serious training for a full-scale marathon. They did say that the first thirteen miles were the worst. After that, it was just a question of endurance, pacing yourself, thinking of nothing but putting one foot in front of the other, in front of the other, in front of the other…
Rounding a blind bend, she almost careered into a figure standing in the centre of the path, blocking her route. His clothes were torn and dirty. His face was covered in crude camouflage daubings of brown and green. And he was carrying a high-powered rifle.
Tara skidded and almost fell. She wanted to turn and run away. But she knew she’d be wasting her time. She knew a long-range hunting rifle when she saw one. Nobody could outrun a bullet from a .270 Winchester.
She just stood rooted to the spot and stared at the gunman in front of her.
He was not tall, but he was powerfully built and his features looked intimidating behind the warpaint mask of camouflage.
As if on cue, the tape ended and the Walkman clicked itself off. For a few seconds – it seemed like hours – there was silence. Even the birds seemed to have stopped singing. The only sound was the harsh rasping of Tara’s breath and the pounding of her heart.
Then the man spoke.
‘Good Lord,’ he said. ‘You frightened the life out of me.’
A West Brit accent. Diffident and polite.
He nodded and smiled, his perfect white teeth flashing from behind the camouflage paint on his face. ‘I mean, coming that fast. I was prepared for someone coming along the path, but I wasn’t expecting bloody Sonia O’Sullivan.’ He thrust out a hand that looked surprisingly clean and well-groomed. ‘I’m Dr Charles Lifford. Please call me Charlie.’
He shook her hand and pointed to a clipped-on ID card that identified him as the chairman of a local rifle club.
‘Doctor?’ Tara suddenly burst into a fit of giggles. ‘I feel like Stanley in the jungle. Doctor Lifford, I presume.’
After the sheer terror of the initial encounter, the surrealism of the situation seemed hilarious. Tara sank back on a nearby tree trunk and tried to recapture her breath.
‘I say,’ said Dr Lifford, ‘are you okay?’
‘I’m fine, Charlie. Just fine.’ She introduced herself. ‘Now tell me. What the hell are you doing standing in the middle of a public road with a .270 Win, scaring the living bejasus out of innocent joggers?’ Even asking the question, she couldn’t keep from laughing.
‘Well, you see, that’s my job. To stop people coming along the path.’
‘But we’re allowed to come along the path. It’s a public forest.’
‘Yes, but not today. If you’ll just let me explain.’
‘Fire ahead. Oh, don’t take that literally.’ She stood up and bent forwards, hands on her knees, regaining her breath. Her heart was only just starting to regain its natural rhythm.
‘You see, our gun club is authorised to co-operate with the Office of Public Works, which is responsible for the deer herd.’ He took off his military cap to reveal a pale bald head. Contrasting with his heavily-painted face and neck, his white, shiny pate looked like an egg sitting in a patterned eggcup. ‘We help out with culling, to stop the population getting out of control. But today we’ve been called in specially because there’s been a report of a deer that has injured itself pretty badly. It’s bleeding heavily and it’s in a lot of pain. It could pose a danger to the public.’
‘So you’re going to shoot it?’
‘Put it out of its misery, yes. It’s too badly injured to be helped, so it’s the only decent thing to do. We’ve tracked it down to a certain area of the forest, and our best marksman is going to wait until he gets a clean shot at its head. It’ll be all over in a second. The deer won’t know a thing.’
‘Just like Bambi’s mum.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Don’t tell me you never saw Bambi. I got very upset when Bambi’s mother was shot dead.’ Tara walked around to stretch her muscles. ‘It’s a funny thing. For years I was convinced that her shooting was shown on screen. I could actually remember seeing it as a child. Then, many years later, I went to see the movie again. And you know what? They don’t actually show Bambi’s mother being killed at all. You hear the shot, but everything else is left to your imagination.’
She glanced at Dr Lifford, expecting a stare of bewilderment or condescension. Instead, he was smiling and nodding.
‘I know exactly what you mean,’ he said, emphasising the adverb in a very English manner. ‘It’s like the shower scene in Psycho. People imagine they see the knife plunging into the woman’s body over and over again, but in fact you don’t see any contact between killer and victim at all. It’s all done by shadows and clever editing. Quite a tribute to Hitchcock’s skill as a director, I always think, when you compare it to the gory rubbish you see nowadays…oh, dear. Have I said something to upset you?’
Tara shook her head. ‘No, it’s not your fault. Everyone in this village is a bit sensitive about the subject of stabbings these days.’
He looked at her blankly, then the penny dropped. ‘Oh, yes, of course. How insensitive of me. I’m sorry. Cigarette?’
‘No, thanks. I’d better be getting back home. Good luck with the hunt.’
‘Thanks. It’s more or less over, anyway. If you hear a shot, you’ll know we’ve got it.’ He pointed to a fork in the track leading into a side-path. ‘If you go down that path, you’ll be well away from the action. It circles around and brings you right back to the main forest entrance just above Claremoon Harbour.’
She nodded and began running on-the-spot in a bid to get back into form. ‘Yes, I know the route. See you around.’
‘Cheerio for now. Oh, and Miss Ross,’ he called after her, ‘if you ever need a colonic irrigation, be sure and give me a call.’
One pace at a time. One foot in front of the other.
Tara was starting to regret she’d come so far. The road through the forest was still climbing inexorably upwards, and she was finding the effort increasingly exhausting.
She knew the forest well, and realised that the pathway she had taken looped upwards for a good two miles before reaching its peak and beginning the slow, winding descent back down towards Claremoon Harbour. But the descending part of the road was actually very close to the point she was at now. If her memory was true and her sense of direction accurate, she had only to leave the path, cut in through the trees and run in a straight line for a quarter-mile or so to join up with the downward portion of the same road.
Keeping up her steady pace, she wheeled off the path, jumped the narrow ditch and plunged into the semi-darkness underneath the closely-knit canopy of the pine trees. It was a different world in here. There was virtually no sunlight. Underfoot was a dense carpet of pine needles which had withered to a light brown colour. They tinted the weak light and turned everything into a strange tea-coloured monochrome, like a Victorian photograph. Adding to the sense of isolation and unreality was the intense silence – the pine needle carpet absorbed all sound and deadened it. Her running feet made no noise. Tara felt as though she had been transported into one of those old-fashioned sepia-coloured drawings that used to illustrate fairy tales by the Brothers Grimm – with hidden eyes everywhere, silently watching and waiting.
Hearing no sound but her own rasping breath, she plunged on through the densely-planted trees, changing direction and slowing down to negotiate drainage ditches and avoid fallen tree trunks.
At one point she found herself heading into a thicket of brambles and had to do a U-turn to get back on to her route. Or what she thought was her original route…she wasn’t sure any more.
She paused, semi-stooped with hands on her knees, to regain her breath. A pigeon clattered noisily out of the undergrowth. The sudden clamour made her jump. She smiled at herself as the bird, scolding loudly, rose up towards the vaulted ceiling of the forest and escaped through a hole towards a patch of blue sky.
Which way was she going?
Come to that, which way had she just been?
She looked around and admitted to herself that she hadn’t a clue. Every direction seemed exactly the same. There wasn’t even a glimpse of sun to give an inkling to the compass points.
Tara began running again, but she was tired and not taking enough care. Her foot hit a hidden tree root and she plunged headlong on to the ground. It wasn’t a bad fall and the pine needles were soft and yielding, but the impact knocked the wind out of her lungs.
It took a few moments to regain her breath. By now she was thoroughly exhausted and fed up. She had to fight to control the wave of irrational panic that was welling up from deep inside her as she looked all around and saw no clue to direction. For a few seconds, she felt she was incapable of breathing.
Get a grip. Calm down.
Breathe.
Now, walk, Tara. Don’t run – walk.
You’ll get there sooner or later, she reassured herself. This forest isn’t that big. In fact, it’s not even a forest at all. It’s only a little wood. Fall over twi
ce in any direction and you’re practically on the other side.
She hardly noticed the second man from the gun club until she had almost stumbled over him. He was crouched in the brambles, just behind two large trees, obviously on the lookout for the wounded deer. His clothes, like Dr Lifford’s, were dirty and torn and his face was smeared with earth-coloured camouflage.
But this one looked lupine, predatory, like some sort of wild creature of the forest. Just like the wolf in the fairy tale, she thought to herself. That’s what you get for straying off the path, Little Red Riding Hood.
The man rose slowly as she approached. Behind the earthy camouflage his face seemed dark with displeasure, even anger. She suddenly realised that she must have strayed far from the original route and ended up in the middle of the shooting zone – the very area she’d been warned to avoid. No wonder he seemed so hostile.
‘Hello, there!’ called Tara, trying to sound cheerful. ‘Dr Lifford’s warned me about the hunt for the injured deer, and I’m trying to stay clear. If you can just point me in the right direction, I’ll get out of your way.’
The man continued to stare at her, eyes burning through the muddy stains on his haggard face.
Muddy stains. Streaky stains of mud. Not facial camouflage, carefully painted like the doctor’s. Just mud.
The hair, matted and filthy.
And no identity card on his ripped, mouldy, slept-in street clothes.
Tara felt the back of her neck prickle with a dreadful sense of impending danger.
Her smile slowly faded as she recognised his face…and realised the dreadful truth about the man who had stalked her all the way across Ireland to this godforsaken clearing deep in the forest.
She was looking into the eyes of a murder suspect who was being hunted by police in five counties – Manus Kennedy.
‘I told you I would find you,’ he said.
Chapter Twenty-One
ANDRES THRUST a folded banknote at the taxicab driver. ‘Can’t you go any faster?’ he pleaded. ‘I really have to get to the airport as soon as possible. It is vitally important.’