Stone Heart

by Des Ekin

  ‘So the fact that you’re going to prison won’t bother you at all?’ he countered in the same even tone, as though Geaney’s outburst had never happened.

  ‘Been there, done that, tried to hang myself with the T-shirt.’

  ‘It won’t bother you, even if you know you’re going down for a long time?’

  Geaney grinned with genuine pleasure at the cop’s naïveté. ‘Long time, me arse,’ he said disdainfully. ‘You know the justice system as well as I do, bogman. The jails are too full. By this time next year, I’ll be turning up at the Joy every Monday morning and they’ll write down me name and send me straight home again. You know how it is.’

  O’Rourke didn’t smile back. Geaney was exaggerating – drug importers didn’t get temporary release – but what he was saying had a core of truth, and it was a source of immense frustration to every working cop in the land. He let the silence build up and hang heavily before speaking again.

  ‘But when you are in jail, there’s a sort of hierarchy, isn’t there, Christy?’ he said, lighting another cigarette and tossing another one over to the drug dealer. ‘You’ve got this sort of pyramid of respect. At the top, you’ve got the organised criminals – the serious drug barons, the cash depot gangs, the big-time blaggers and so on. Then you have the murderers and the sadists, particularly if they’re unpredictable bastards. Nobody likes to mess with them, just in case. A bit lower down you’ve got the drug smugglers, like yourself, and at the bottom of the pyramid there’s the poor pathetic junkies who are in and out of jail all the time because they’re too stoned or strung-out to plan their crimes properly.’

  Geaney stretched again and yawned rudely. ‘I’ve got a sick note,’ he said to his lawyer. ‘Can I be excused the criminology lecture?’

  The solicitor opened his mouth to speak, but O’Rourke raised a hand for patience. ‘Mind you, there are some jailbirds who don’t even figure on the scale of respect at all, aren’t there, Christy?’ he asked. ‘They’re so low that they don’t get to be on the pyramid – they live beneath the foundations, scuttling around underneath like rats. They’re hated so much by the other prisoners that they have to be kept segregated for their own protection. Otherwise they’d be used as human punchbags every night of their lives.’

  Geaney was no longer bored. His eyes followed O’Rourke warily.

  ‘Oh, come on, Christy, you know this as well as I do, and you know who I’m talking about, too. The sex offenders. The rapists, the child abusers, the sickos who get their kicks from torturing prostitutes. Everyone detests them. They’re the lowest of the low. The nearest they’re going to get to respect is listening to a song by Aretha Franklin.’

  ‘This is utterly irrelevant,’ sighed the solicitor weakly, but Geaney silenced him with a glare.

  ‘Just what the hell are you driving at, bogman?’ he asked.

  ‘And it doesn’t stop,’ O’Rourke pressed on. ‘It doesn’t stop when they leave prison, does it, Christy? We all know what happens to convicted rapists. They can’t drink in their local pubs, they get filth shoved through their letter-boxes. And they’d better lock their doors and windows soundly on a Saturday night, because there are lots of people out there who’d call round after closing time to rough them up, just for fun.’

  ‘Jesus. What is this?’

  ‘Funny, you don’t look so bored any more, Christy.’

  O’Rourke reached into his briefcase and made great show of opening a thick file of typescript. He asked the garda on duty to organise tea for three people and began to flick through it.

  The file actually contained a series of statements from a west-of-Ireland farmer convicted of using illegal animal growth hormones, but nobody else in the room knew that. He frowned and pursed his lips as he scanned page after page.

  Then, with the brass neck of a seasoned poker-bluffer, he began reading extracts from a non-existent statement.

  ‘Just looking over this, Christy, I’d say we have you for attempted rape and indecent assault, not to mention the ordinary-decent-crimes of GBH and false imprisonment,’ he mused.

  ‘I demand to examine that file,’ snapped the solicitor.

  ‘All in good time. Milk? Sugar?’ O’Rourke closed the file as he took the three cups and proceeded to pour with infinite slowness. ‘Christy knows what I’m talking about, don’t you, Christy? Small matter of an attack on a young woman who visited your flat while you and Carl were cutting heroin and sorting it into deals?’

  Geaney said nothing. For the first time his face had turned pale and the ugly indigo tattoo on his neck throbbed like a neon sign. The insolent grin had faded from his lips.

  ‘Oh, come on, Christy,’ cried O’Rourke, like a teacher encouraging a talented child. ‘You’re not concentrating. She was a good-looking girl from the west of Ireland, long black hair, name of Tara Ross. She came to your flat asking about Mano Kennedy. You grabbed her, hauled her inside, locked the door and attempted to rape her in front of witnesses. Bad case.’

  ‘You’re bluffing, bogman.’

  O’Rourke was bluffing higher and wilder than the Maverick Brothers on speed, but he wasn’t going to let on. The truth was that Tara had flatly refused to press charges over the Ballymahon flats incident. Since the attacker was going to jail for a long time anyway, she just wanted to put the whole episode behind her and forget about it. That had essentially closed the police file on an already-shaky case.

  ‘Bluffing?’ O’Rourke shook his head and smiled mirthlessly. ‘You wish.’

  He flicked over a few more pages which in fact contained a list of cattle hormones. ‘Ah, here we are. Your friend Carl, the Star Trek fanatic, the one who was with you in the flat, has been very helpful to us ever since we told him that he’s likely to spend the next five years in the company of serial sodomites. He’s been begging Scotty to beam him up. He’s been singing like a Romulin soprano. Ever since I explained the consequences to him, he has accepted the wisdom of co-operating with the State in this case.’

  The solicitor tut-tutted loudly and raised his eyes to the ceiling. ‘Oldest trick in the book, Mr Geaney. Don’t fall for it.’

  ‘Oh, that’s not all, Christy. We’re not so stupid as to rely on tainted testimony from a fellow-accused. We’ve got the evidence of Ms Ross, an upstanding pillar of the community in her native County Clare – that’s part of Bogland, by the way – and the corroborating evidence of Mr Andres Talimann, a respected international war correspondent, the one who found you grappling Ms Ross on the floor. We’ve also got your young lady friend, the girl who answered the door when Ms Ross called round.’

  Geaney grinned cruelly. ‘Now I know you’re talking through your arse. The Madra wouldn’t say nothin’. Bitch knows better. She knows I’d make her face even uglier than it is already.’

  O’Rourke shrugged. ‘I hope you keep on spouting like that during the trial, Christy. Your smooth-talking charm will help our case no end, particularly if you indulge in that attractive habit of describing women as dogs. But it doesn’t matter whether your pathetic junkie friend gives evidence or not. We’ve more than enough to make an attempted-rape charge stick. I’d say the judge would take a very serious view of it. What do you think?’ He turned to face the solicitor. ‘Four years? Five years? It would probably run concurrently with your cocaine sentence, but the good news is that you’d serve it in a segregated jail for sex offenders, where they don’t operate a revolving door policy.’

  There was a long silence. Elsewhere in the draughty old building, phones were ringing and doors were slamming. Outside in the street, in the shelter of the main bus station, a drunk began singing incoherently.

  ‘Unless,’ said Geaney, heavily.

  O’Rourke looked innocent. ‘Unless what, Christy?’

  ‘Unless I give you the information you need about Manus Kennedy.’

  The detective was shocked. ‘As a mere country bogman, I would never be so devious as to suggest that, Christy. Did I suggest that?’ He turned to the so
licitor for corroboration. The lawyer looked down at his legal pad and didn’t reply.

  ‘However,’ said O’Rourke, ‘since you have raised the subject, I would certainly welcome any information you might volunteer that might help us in a major murder investigation. It is, after all, your duty as a good citizen. As your solicitor will no doubt agree.’

  The lawyer sighed. ‘I need to be alone with my client,’ he said. ‘I shall require some time.’

  O’Rourke sprang to his feet with surprising agility. ‘You’ve got it,’ he said. ‘In fact, you’ve got all night. This bogman is going to see if he can find a haystack to sleep in.’ He gathered up his files and turned to Geaney.

  ‘Sleep on it, Christy,’ he urged. ‘And make sure you have a good night’s sleep. When you’re in among those nice friendly fellas in the segregation unit for sex offenders, you won’t get too many of them.’

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  ‘YOU’RE BACK at sea, Dad,’ she whispered into his ear. ‘Back at the wheel of the Róisín Dubh.’

  Tara was overcome by a deep, indefinable sadness as she watched her father return to the battered old fishing boat he had skippered, suffered, controlled and cajoled for the past twenty years. First they’d pushed his wheelchair to the pier, and then Fergal had lifted the old man out of it as delicately and as gently as a first-time parent might lift a new-born child. He’d stepped carefully on deck and waited patiently while Tara had folded the wheelchair, brought it on board, and reassembled it near the controls in the open wheelhouse. They’d positioned him in the chair and made sure he was comfortable before strapping him firmly in and securing the chair to the structure of the boat. At last they were satisfied that it would not move, even in the heaviest of seas.

  Dr Maguire had already given his blessing to the strange expedition. ‘I’ll be honest with you, Tara,’ the GP had told her, ‘we’ve no way of treating what’s wrong with your father. It’s not a coma in the strict sense of the word – our tests have eliminated that possibility. Hospitalisation won’t help. It could be some form of dementia, possibly Alzheimer’s, or it could be related to depression. Whatever the reason, he’s retreated into his own world, and he could stay there for days or weeks or even months. We’ll carry on with the tests, but, in the meantime, your idea of leading him back out by means of external stimulus is as valid as any other approach. If a sea trip seems the most likely to succeed, then by all means go ahead. If it doesn’t work, at least you’ve tried. Good luck.’

  Now, Tara watched her father’s face carefully, hoping for some flicker of response to the sight of his beloved Róisín Dubh, to the smell of the salt air and diesel, to the slight rocking of the boat in the harbour swell. But there was no sign of life in the sightless eyes that stared, unfocused, into the middle distance and recognised nothing.

  Fergal joined her. He double-checked that the old man was seated comfortably, looking directly into his eyes and patting his arm encouragingly. When he talked to him in a calm, reassuring voice, as though John Ross could hear and understand every word, Tara felt another emotion swell up inside her. It could have been gratitude or it could have been pride, or it could have been something more. She didn’t know. All she knew was that Fergal was giving her the strength and support she so badly needed at this time. What would it be like to be able to rely on that sort of strength for the rest of her life? She knew she was confused and unable to think straight. But she couldn’t help wondering if she would have the willpower, or even the inclination, to refuse if he were to offer her something like that.

  She was tired, in more ways than one. Tired of being the strong one, the coper, the carer. Why not marry Fergal, a dependable partner who would help share her burdens and make life more tolerable? Well, why not? She could do a hell of a lot worse.

  ‘Penny for them.’

  ‘Oh…nothing.’ She smiled and kissed him lightly on the cheek.

  Fergal spent a long time sorting everything out and making sure the craft was seaworthy. He prepared the ropes, made sure the anchor was functional, checked the fuel and safety equipment and ran the old diesel engine for fifteen minutes to ensure there was no problem that could blight their trip.

  ‘Okay,’ he said at last, ‘let’s go.’

  He pointed to the nets that lay at the stern of the boat, ready for ‘shooting’ or letting out into the sea. ‘Do you want to do some serious fishing? We could just about manage those tangle-nets by ourselves.’

  She shook her head. ‘No. We’ll just make this a pleasure trip.’

  ‘Fine by me.’ Fergal walked over to the helm. ‘We’ll head out to the fishing mark on the other side of Chicken Point and use a couple of boat-rods. With a bit of luck we’ll get enough pollack, cod and mackerel to stock up your freezer for a few weeks.’

  ‘Hello there!’

  Tara looked up at the pier.

  ‘Morning, Steve,’ she called back. ‘We’re just going out for a spot of fishing. Want to join us?’

  ‘I heard what you’re doing. And I’ll keep my fingers crossed that it works. No, I can’t come along’ – he gestured at his uniform – ‘because I’m due on duty in half an hour. I just came to see if I could help.’

  ‘You could cast off if you like.’

  The sergeant cast off the mooring ropes that secured the boat to the pier and, with easy skill, Fergal manoeuvred the Róisín Dubh from her berth and into the centre of the tiny port. The slow, deep bass note of the diesel engine changed to a faster rhythm as he pushed open the throttle and headed through the harbour entrance, past some tricky rocks and out to the open sea.

  Tara had always loved the experience of leaving behind the safe womb of the port and entering the vast and unpredictable Atlantic Ocean. It was a feeling that was timeless and universal – the same emotion that the mediaeval Irish sailors had experienced when they set out to sea in their frail, flexing currachs in search of fresh fishing grounds and ultimately to uncover new worlds that lay beyond the setting sun.

  Today the ocean was as still as a mountain lake. But Tara knew that this could be deceptive. In these conditions, huge swells born out of Atlantic storms could build up a momentum that they could never achieve in rougher, choppier weather. These inshore groundswells, as they were called, could hit you suddenly and unexpectedly, even though the ocean surface retained its flat, imperturbable calm.

  But that didn’t concern her at all. Tara knew that the Róisín Dubh was well able to handle anything the Atlantic could throw at her. The boat would simply roll on her round belly, absorbing the energy of the surge before returning to her centre of gravity as surely and inevitably as a child’s roly-poly toy.

  Seagulls, sensing the potential of an easy breakfast, wheeled and soared above the boat’s wake as she chugged steadily out to sea. The houses along the coast became smaller and even the hills became dwarfed with distance. Scudding clouds turned the hills from solid geological objects into moving displays of light and shade. The bright sunlight, beaming through the gaps in the sky like a precise spotlight, highlighted first this purple peak, then that green slope, like a natural son-et-lumière show.

  The spray flew over the bow, but the Róisín Dubh protected its crew well. Fergal sat on the skipper’s perch, sheltered by a wheelhouse constructed of wood and glass. Just below it lay the enclosed cabin, which held four berths, the tiny galley, and several storage lockers. By Fergal’s side, John Ross sat comatose in his wheelchair, facing astern towards the open deck, where Tara was working to prepare two sturdy boat-rods with feather-traces and weights.

  They rounded the scraggy headland of Chicken Point, keeping a respectful distance from the jagged rocks that lurked unseen just a few inches below the treacherously calm surface. The colonies of seabirds that nested there, safe from predators, shrieked and scolded at the unwelcome intruders who’d invaded their stormy and chaotic home.

  The entire village of Claremoon Harbour had now disappeared behind a solid wall of stone. They were alone in this st
range world of rock and water, where the sky itself had almost vanished in a maelstrom of feathers.

  Finally Fergal pulled the throttle and verified that the markers on the shore were lined up. This was ‘the mark’ – the best sea-angling spot anywhere along this coastline. As the engine died, the Róisín Dubh slowed. Robbed of her forward momentum, she began rolling with the swell of the water, rising and falling with an uncontrolled motion that would have sent weaker stomachs into spasms of nausea. Under her sturdy hull, the water slapped and dragged and slopped with an almost metronomic regularity.

  Then, suddenly, there was a different kind of noise.

  Tara halted on her way to the cabin. ‘What was that?’

  ‘What was what?’ Fergal was checking his feather trace. He didn’t even look up.

  ‘I thought I heard a strange sound. From inside the cabin. It sounded like somebody moving around.’

  ‘My God, Tara, you’re easily spooked these days.’ He shook his head. ‘Can’t say I blame you after yesterday. It’s probably just something rolling around in the bilges.’

  ‘Probably.’ She rubbed her eyes with her hands. She really would have to curb her imagination.

  It was hot – too hot for comfort. Tara went down into the cabin and stowed her jumper in the rickety locker that hung on the wall. It was even more wobbly – ‘bockety’, her father would have called it – than usual. The whole structure moved as she opened the door, and she made a mental note to have it repaired as soon as possible.

  Back on deck, Fergal had already put his fishing line over the side. Tara followed suit. The big wooden reel rattled noisily as the weight sank rapidly towards the seabed. But not all the way down. Below, on the jagged rocks, the wreck of a ship had lain for as long as anyone could remember. Local legend said that it was the remains of a vessel from the mighty Armada. Gold lay down there, said the old men, and cases of silver coins. Whatever the truth, the carcass of the wreck held silver treasure of a different kind. It was a feeding ground for thousands of fish.