* * *
Downstairs the bar was empty, sunlight pouring in the windows, the jukebox blaring Neko Case. Through the kitchen I could see the back door open and Fred in the alley, sifting through his manure pile with a rake. He was shirtless, a pair of baggy shorts, barefoot, and the hair spread off the top of his chest like flames. He carefully lifted a bucket and poured urine over the mound, singing along.
Does your soul cast about like an old paper bag?
Out in the street Kieran’s builders were jackhammering the sidewalk, the street full of lorries and dust. It was an impossibly sunny day. The builders followed me with their ferret eyes, a small knot of Corrigans on the quay, shopkeepers, tourists, it seemed everyone was watching, waiting to see what I was going to do. I ran down to the ferry pier to the pay phone and called my mother. I entered my card number and the call connected, but there was no ringing, just a strange dull buzz. After a few moments I heard a voice on the other end, distant and faint. Hello! I said. Is it you? The phone booth was vibrating with sound, and I gripped the receiver, and pounded on the glass. I couldn’t hear what they were saying. It was a voice that sounded like my mother, but it could have been anyone.
Chapter Twenty
Fred was determined to stay open, and he didn’t hide his injuries from anyone. I wasn’t sure he was going to be able to bear it. He threw open the doors to the Nightjar and stood out on the sidewalk, his face a swollen, scabbed mass of purple. One eye was nearly shut, the whites of his eyes streaked with blood, his nose cracked, and the nostrils stuffed with bloody wads of gauze.
Only a few weeks left till summer, he said. If that is the best they can do, then we’ll make it.
Bill came over as soon as he heard, and the two of them commiserated together at the end of the bar. Bill was clearly upset, and they had a whiskey together. I drank hot tea and rubbed Fred’s sore neck. He had a hunk of black walnut behind the bar that he was whittling into a stock.
Look, Bill said, I live out there, with them. I can’t get into this.
No problem, Fred said. I’m making my own gun anyway.
Bill forced a barking laugh, and Fred scowled at him. He didn’t understand that Fred was serious.
Keep the chin up, Bill said. All will be well.
He finished his drink in an uncomfortable silence, muttering excuses, had to get back to the island, Nell, et cetera, and as he left he gave me a look of consolation.
I’ll be back, Bill said. Count on it.
* * *
After he left Fred set his whittling down and searched the bruises on his face with his fingers.
Why is it, he said, that the only friend I have is that old hack?
Don’t do that. Bill is a good person.
And then there’s Dinny, Fred said. Good old Dinny. Barely said a fucking word to me. Probably best friend I got.
When I looked at his face a kind of resentment took root deep inside me. I wanted to let it go and merely be in love. It seemed like so many miles and years had passed since I wept in front of open, raging fires, shaking with desperation and desire for his presence. Where did that go? How does a love that strong and demanding abandon you? I watched him grimacing as he touched the blackened and swollen parts around his mouth, and what I felt then burrowed into my heart like some groping mechanical parasite, spinning in the scoop of flesh, building a hard shell around it, putting in anchors.
There’s me, I said. I’m your best friend.
He dropped his hands and his face softened into a close-eyed smile.
C’mere.
I went behind the bar and stepped into his arms. I kissed his face lightly.
We’re gonna make it, he said.
Can we sell? Can’t we sell the place and get out of here?
I’m not leaving, Fred said. Not yet.
He turned away from me.
But we can just leave, I said. That’s what they want.
Do you want to go?
I didn’t know what to say. The truth is I didn’t. Despite everything I still felt there was something left to do.
I’m gonna take care of it, Fred said. I promise. Please. I need this.
I wasn’t sure if I trusted him. His inner chamber of secrets was deeper and larger than I had imagined, and I felt shut out and deceived.
Okay, I said.
* * *
In the late afternoon Fred closed up the bar and we went for a walk up to the Baltimore Beacon. On the streets everything seemed to proceed as normal, the usual blank faces and empty stares. Nobody said a word to us.
The old Baltimore Beacon was a nesting place for nightjars, and at dusk the air was thick with their silent winging, a vortex of them circling the pointed peak. They began to roost there more than a hundred years ago, when the beacon was lit by an oil burner refracted through glass, drawing insects from all points as well as ships, and the nightjars still began their evening feeding there, a fruitless hour of trolling the windblasted bluff before they turned en masse and headed for the lights of the harbor, marking their passage with their mechanical trill, a call more like an electric vibration than a living song. During the day they clustered about the base of the lighthouse, small lumps of mottled gray blending with the lichen-covered rock. When you stepped near them they emitted a short croak and then unsteadily took to the air. If the insects are plentiful and available, the nightjars will feed until they are gone, gorging themselves to the point of exhaustion, and they drop out of the sky like furred stones. The nightjar will literally eat itself to death.
We sat on a thick tuft of grass overlooking Roaringwater Bay and passed the flask back and forth, Fred grimacing as he sipped through his scabbed lips. Off in the west the low horizon was lined with black clouds a hundred miles across.
Looks like a gale, Fred said. Just what we need.
Beyond Sherkin the hazy image of Clear glowered in the fading light. I thought of Highgate walking the cliffs, sniffing his way. Was he looking for Miranda? Did he know what I had done?
These storms, Fred said. Every day is like a new world out here.
He squinted into the sun and tipped the flask.
When I was out there swimming, I said, near Fastnet, it changed so quickly. The water, the sky, everything. Like the closer I was to the lighthouse, the worse it got.
Remember that sailing trip, Fred said, with Bill? That was crazy.
Yeah, just like that.
Do you think Highgate has something to do with this?
With what? Conchur and those guys?
I don’t know, Fred said. Do you think we just got caught between them? Highgate and Kieran?
I knew exactly what he meant but didn’t say anything.
The woofers are always at the Nightjar, Fred said. I helped Patrick with supplies. He just wouldn’t back down from Kieran. And then I basically told the guard that we think Kieran had him killed. It wasn’t just about the farm, Patrick was protecting Highgate. You know his wife and kids left him? He found out on Christmas Eve?
Below us on the rocks the gulls were screaming, beating their wings, preparing to take flight. Fred offered me the flask but I waved it off. He shrugged and took another pull, wiping his mouth on his sleeve before continuing.
Patrick said something terrible happened that day, that Highgate felt responsible.
My heart spun in my chest and I ripped up handfuls of grass.
The ferry, I said.
What?
That’s when the ferry went down. A huge storm came up, real quick, while the Corrigans were taking the island children to a Christmas party on the mainland. The ferry hit the rocks by Douglass’s Cove. They all drowned. Kieran’s brother, his daughter. O’Boyle and Ariel hadn’t gone—they were the only kids on Clear.
My god, Fred said.
I know.
He took another drink and again I waved it off. The narrow jut of land that we sat on seemed to thin and the sea dropped away to a great distance, like we were perched on the edge. Was it getting dar
ker? Some kind of rising horror was placing its cold palm on the back of my head and I shivered, my skin flexing and tightening. The drowning children, this tragedy following Highgate’s heartbreak. As if his sorrow made the seas rise up in consolation. In the Five Bells Patrick had said that Kieran was afraid of Highgate, afraid of what he can do.
I leaned into Fred and held on. How could that be true? How could Highgate have done it? As soon as this thought flickered across my brain I had an unsettling feeling that someone was watching over my shoulder, just out of sight, like when Miranda watched me swimming in the Ineer. I knew that if I turned I would see someone, but not Miranda. I didn’t know who it was. I was afraid to look.
Fred was silent and we sat for a moment watching the setting sun over the water. He turned to me but I couldn’t look at him.
I want to tell Ham we want the money.
Oh, Fred. I don’t know.
Look, if we have the money we can do whatever we want. We can start over, or go somewhere else. We can do it right this time.
But, a baby? I said. We . . . can’t do that, not now.
Why?
The sun was melting into the horizon, falling next to the rounded hump of Cape Clear. The trail of light traced its way past Clear, Sherkin, through Roaringwater Bay and to the cliffs of Baltimore. For a moment the water had that familiar, comforting look, like if I could hurl myself into its depths I would find solace. I thought about Miranda, swaying on the hillside, her hoofs buried in the soft grass, the wind tossing her mane and tickling her beard. Watching my small shape, thrashing about in the Ineer, swimming to Fastnet.
I can’t, I said. Oh, Jesus, Fred. I can’t do it.
Fred drained the flask and coughed. He had tears streaming down his face.
It doesn’t matter, he said. Fuck it. What does it really matter?
* * *
The next morning Fred was working on the flint ignition mechanism for his handmade gun. The metal tube that he had forged in the cave was lying on a piece of cloth. He’d managed to get a smooth bore and had a rough stock and handle carved and bound with metal staples ready to attach. His shaggy hair was over his collar and he had cryptic layers of words scribbled on the backs of his hands with a black marker. It was going too far. I was going to say something, but when I came in Fred tossed an envelope on the bar.
Slipped under the door earlier, he said.
I felt my body contract for a moment, then the swelling hum of blood to my face. The envelope was slightly damp and unopened. On the front it said: “for the big ginger lass” in a rough hand. Clearly it was not from Sebastian.
Inside was a Polaroid photo. It was taken from Douglass’s Cove, facing east toward Baltimore across the Gascanane Sound. The Polaroid man with the little dog: Padraig Cadogan. The light was weak and gray, like it was taken in the early morning, and the distance made the image vague, but I could make out the blocky black stern of Conchur’s salvage boat. It was close to the black rock of Carrigmore and a small boat was pulled up and three men in storm suits were huddled around something, a white form on the rocks.
Fred was standing behind me, looking over my shoulder.
What’s that?
I started walking toward the stairs. Why did Padraig Cadogan send the photo to me? Why a photo of the same rock where his daughters and nearly all the island children drowned? On the bottom of the photo was the date. It was taken that morning. On the back: “Christmas Eve 1972.” The day Highgate was abandoned on the island by his wife and family, the same day the ferry was lost.
I heard O’Boyle’s voice in the dim light of his caravan, reciting the words his mother had scratched into the walls of the ruined castle:
Night swimmer, who watches the drowned and the yet unborn,
All will lament as the great eye is swallowed by wind and water.
I don’t know what would happen if I lost her, Highgate said. I don’t know what I would do.
* * *
Oh, dear God.
I checked my watch. It was ten till noon. The next ferry left in five minutes.
Hey, Fred said, what’s going on?
I’m sorry, I said, but I have to get out to Clear.
I ran upstairs to get my parka. I opened my duffel bag on the bed and ransacked the bedroom looking for something but I didn’t know what it was.
Fred was standing in the doorway, his arms outstretched.
What the hell? Elly? What are you doing? Bill is bringing the boat in. I thought we might hang out.
I’ll be back this evening, I’ll take the six o’clock back.
What the fuck is with that picture? Who sent you that?
A man named Padraig Cadogan. You don’t know him, it doesn’t matter. I have to see Highgate. I have to show him this picture.
Why?
I’ll explain when I get back.
Fred followed me down the stairs, a bar rag in his hand, his forehead knotted in confusion. It was a look of distrust. His face was bruised and swollen like that of an aging boxer after a bad fight. He didn’t understand that I felt I only had a small chance to make it right. He didn’t know that it was me who brought this on us.
I’ll come with you, he said.
No. They won’t let you.
Through the window I could see the ferry was tossing off the lines to depart. I dropped my bag by the door and stepped into his arms and hugged him tight.
But you can’t go alone, he said.
I’ll be back.
I released him and went out the door and across the street. When I reached the quay I turned back and Fred was standing in the doorway, his T-shirt rippling in the breeze. He held up his hand. When I left he must have still thought it was his fault, the pub, the Corrigans, everything.
That was the last time I saw my husband and I carry that heavy stone in my heart every day of this life.
* * *
The ferry was empty other than two Corrigans in the pilothouse. I stepped on the boat and they immediately motored out, as if they were waiting for me. As we came around by Gascanane Rock, I barely had the guts to look. It was difficult to make out at first, but there was something white lying on a flat piece of black rock, and as we passed I had a clear view.
It was Miranda, splayed out on her back, her limbs bent out to her sides and nailed to the rock with long ship bolts. Her fur was shocking white, almost clear, and the lines of her body in that position made her seem like something not of this world. Her rib cage was split wide open, the ribs visible and purple organs glistening. A raven perched on her head, feeding on the flesh of her snout, her eyes empty black hollows. A couple more ravens on the rocks nearby, preening their shining feathers.
One of the Corrigans stepped out of the pilothouse with his hood up. He cupped his hands around a cigarette and leaned back against the bow, facing me. When he lifted his head I could see the squared glasses and wide mouth, cigarette dangling. Kieran. He gazed at me, the smoke streaming out of his nose as we swung along the north side of the island. I looked away, my hands in the pockets of my parka, clenched tight. I had a deep, cramping sensation in my stomach, and I stared hard at the cliffs of Cape Clear. I was searching for a figure on the cliff top, but no one was there.
The black line of clouds that Fred and I had seen yesterday advanced on the island like a swelling curtain, moving with visible speed. The ferry fought through the high swells and charged into the North Harbor. Even in the sheltered harbor the water was white and tossed and the wind whipped foam into the air and carried it off into the hills like giant clusters of soap bubbles. A small group of people queued on the quay, bundled up and carrying bags and packages. As I came off they streamed onto the boat. Sebastian was at the end of the line, his leather satchel and binocular case strapped on his back. When he saw me coming off he stepped out of the line.
You are going the wrong way, he said.
His smile was tight. He was trying to be calm.
I can’t, I said. I have to do something.
Listen, this gale is going to do some serious damage.
This island has been through it before, I said. It’s not going anywhere. I just have to run one errand.
Okay, he said. I’ll go with you.
Sebastian gripped my arm and pulled me away from the small crowd. He quickly scanned the pier.
There’s something I have to tell you, he said.
He fixed his eyes on mine, his irises flexing and widening, his mouth going soft.
No, I said. I can’t do this, not now.
Wait, he said, it’s not—
Please just help me, I said, my voice cracking, please.
There’ll be another ferry, he said. Where do you need to go?
Up across Ballyieragh, by Lough Errul. I need to go see someone.
Let’s cut through by the bird observatory, Sebastian said.
We headed up the hill behind the old ruined church and west along the cliffs of the north side of the island. The sea was deep black and the coming clouds from the west were shutting over the sky like a lid. The waves boiled around the rocks at the bottom of the cliffs, the swells already more than ten feet, thundering against the island.
In another couple hours, Sebastian said, we’ll want to be off the island. Or dug in somewhere, high up.
We came along to the finger of land that held the crumbled ruins of Dún an óir, the Castle of Gold. Sebastian stopped and used his binoculars to scan the ruins.
I thought I saw something moving in there, he said.
I thought of O’Boyle’s mother locking herself in the castle, scribbling on the walls her portents of doom. The land bridge was washed away, and to get up there you’d have to do a serious bit of climbing over boulders and sea.
That’s a bit odd, Sebastian said, lowering his glasses. A group of birds, taking refuge. Can’t tell what kind.
Let’s keep going, I said, his caravan is just up over the next hill.
O’Boyle’s new house had been dramatically improved, all the walls, door, and windows in place, a new sloping metal roof, the concrete chimney already belching smoke. The old caravan was squashed flat like a cockroach and had been dragged off a ways toward the cliffs. A steely, slanting rain, smelling of seawater, began to fall. We cinched our parka hoods around our faces.
The Night Swimmer Page 25