Shadows in Heaven

by Nadine Dorries

  The despair on Angela’s face was replaced by confusion. Her legs buckled, the light faded from her eyes and she slumped over, grasping at Michael’s clothes as she slid to the ground.

  Bewildered, Michael turned in the direction of the shot to see Kevin McGuffey, just yards away from them, cool and composed, unhurriedly lowering his gun. The faintest trace of annoyance flashed across his face as he wiped the rain from his cheeks. His eyes locked on to Michael’s.

  For seconds neither man flinched. Then Michael shouted, ‘It’s Angela! What have you done to her? What have you done?’ Dropping to his knees, he lifted Angela by her shoulders and pulled her onto his lap, shouting her name. Her eyes, unseeing, still held a look of surprise as he bent his head and hugged her to him. ‘She’s dead – you’ve killed her,’ he sobbed as he looked back to McGuffey. Then an even more dreadful thought crossed his mind. ‘Where is Sarah? Do you have her? Where is she?’

  McGuffey smiled, then threw his head back and laughed. Over the whistling of the wind and the crash of the waves below them on this foulest of nights, Michael could hear McGuffey quite plainly. It was a sound he would never forget as long as he lived. The warm blood from Angela’s back ran through his fingers and onto his legs and the rain-soaked earth beneath them. With a sob in his throat and sorrow running through his veins, he scooped her up closer into his arms and rocked her backwards and forwards. He had seen enough people die from gunshots to know that there was nothing he could do to save her. Sarah’s mother, murdered in his arms. And Sarah herself, God knew where.

  He turned sharply at the unmistakeable sound of McGuffey reloading his gun. The man’s hand wasn’t even wavering as he lifted his gun to his shoulder, stared Michael in the face and grinned.

  ‘Michael! Michael!’

  Through the lull in the wind, someone was shouting his name. Swivelling on his heels, he heard the sound of a horse’s hooves and to his astonishment saw Father Jerry riding his cart towards him, with his father, Pete Shevlin, Paddy and Tig in the back. Pete didn’t wait for the wheels to stop before he leapt from the cart and was at Michael’s side.

  Every one of them saw McGuffey drop the gun to his side, the smile wiped from his face, Then he turned and disappeared back down the cliff path as they all rushed to Michael’s side.

  *

  Captain Bob had kept as close to the shore as was possible, drawing on his many years of navigation expertise to make out the lie of the land, his eyes trained on the cliff face to help him avoid the treacherous rocks beneath. The shoreline was littered with ripped and broken curraghs, some returned by the ocean without their owners on board, left discarded on the beach as testaments to the dangers. In the dark night they loomed, sinister, like a row of nautical coffins against the white shale and sand, a warning to those who thought they had mastered this perilous stretch of the coast.

  While Captain Bob steered skilfully around a rocky outcrop, having need to move further out to avoid a cluster of shallow boulders he knew lurked just below the surface, Sarah clung tight to the side of the boat. She could sense the danger. As they passed over the unseen wrecks of Spanish galleons and the graves of her ancestors deep below them, including her own Uncle Rory, the boat rolled, tossing them about with far more force than when they’d set off. She stared at the outboard motor, a novelty on the west coast, as it churned the water.

  She had helped clean her father’s boat many times, had removed barnacles and done any number of dirty jobs he’d assigned to her, but she’d never sailed in it. On the odd occasion he’d mentioned the possibility, her mother had found a reason why she could not go, and it now dawned on Sarah, with a slow, sickening realisation, that her mother didn’t trust her father to keep her safe. But she had trusted her with a stranger tonight.

  The rain had become heavy almost as soon as they’d cast off, but at first Captain Bob had seemed unconcerned. ‘Ballycroy is only a half hour from here,’ he’d said. ‘We’ll be around the headland before you know it. You’ll be dry and safe soon enough, and on that big ship to America in no time at all.’

  That was before the gale blew in and the rain began to beat against them as if driving them back. ‘’Tis worse than I thought,’ he confided in Sarah, who since she had got into the boat had kept her eyes on the cottage, oblivious to everything but the shoreline she was leaving.

  The rain whipped across her face like a slap as she turned to face Captain Bob, and it took a second to recover her breath. ‘I can still see the cottage,’ she said in reply. She pulled her shawl around her, though it was now offering her almost no protection as the rain soaked through the open weave of the wool.

  ‘Aye, you can see it all the way until we get round to the other side of the head. ’Tis the landmark for many of us coming in. It helps better for me when the candles are lit, mind ye.’

  She sensed rather than saw his smile. She could not manage one in return. She thought she would never smile again.

  ‘Do you keep in touch yerself with any of the people who have left Tarabeg to sail to America?’ he asked, trying to distract her with small talk in an attempt to calm her.

  Sarah shook her head. Most of the people she’d gone to school with in the village had already left for New York, and she’d heard that some had headed out as far as Chicago and other cities and states. But they were just romantic-sounding names to her. It was the same with everyone: they left, they wrote and then, often, they forgot.

  ‘’Tis a shame,’ Captain Bob said, ‘because there will be plenty of them.’

  ‘Have you been?’ she asked.

  ‘I have. I sailed there once – not on this, of course. I have visited my sister and she’s a good woman. The girls love it there, so they do. Some of them go over and stay with her for a few weeks, before they take the veil. They choose to do it in America, though God alone knows why. A vow of chastity means the same whatever convent or country you live in, I would imagine.’

  Sarah blushed and was thankful the sky was too dark for him to see. Taking the veil was not an option for her, having already given herself to Michael. Michael! Just the invocation of his name made her heart fold in pain. All her memories, the last five years spent waiting… She turned back to take a last look at the fading view of the cottage. She was sure she could sense Michael nearby. Even though Bee thought she was mad and assumed Michael had deserted her, Sarah knew he was somewhere, thinking of her, just as she was thinking of him. She opened her mouth to speak, to tell Captain Bob they’d made a mistake, but she couldn’t form the words.

  As if reading her thoughts, Captain Bob shouted across, ‘Did you not ever consider living with Bee? There’d have been good reason once Rory had died, I’d have thought.’

  A huge wave smacked up against the side of the boat and broke over the deck with a slap that made Sarah jump in alarm. The wind was wailing now and lightning split the sky. Her heart was in her throat. Conversation suddenly forgotten, Captain Bob lost his reassuring air of calm as water slopped into the boat. His brow furrowed as he looked about him and frowned. For the first time she detected in his eyes something of her own fear.

  He picked up a handle from the belly of the boat and began to pump it up and down. ‘We need to bail the water,’ he shouted. ‘Here, you do this, I cannot take my hand from the tiller, the wind is so strong.’

  Sarah grabbed the handle and began to copy his actions. The ocean seemed to be lapping higher up the sides of the boat, or they were sinking lower, and the rain fell harder by the moment.

  ‘Don’t be worrying now,’ he shouted, ‘’tis just a nasty squall. She’s just passing over us, on her way inland.’

  Glancing back, he saw the disbelieving look on Sarah’s face. He didn’t believe it himself, how could he expect her to? It had blown in so fast, faster than anything he’d experienced in all his years at sea. The stillness in the air just before had been eerie – he should have known, and now he cursed himself. But he had made a call, and even after all these years, he now noted t
o himself wryly, he could still call it wrong.

  ‘So, why wouldn’t you live with Bee then?’ he asked again, his voice now falsely cheerful, as if trying to sound normal and unconcerned.

  ‘I used to, when Ciaran was tiny, but my da wouldn’t let me after a while, and anyway I wouldn’t leave Mammy. At least when I am there, someone’s watching him. But now there’s only Bee. Bee is the only person I know who isn’t scared of him. Brave, she is.’

  ‘So are you, Sarah. What you’re doing now, agreeing to travel to a new place, a new world, that’s brave too.’

  If Sarah hadn’t been so terrified, she might have responded, but just as he finished speaking, the wind picked up and seemed to propel the boat in the opposite direction, thrusting it back towards the shore and away from the headland and Ballycroy. She grabbed on to a rope as Captain Bob fought hard to steer against the swell. As she bailed out yet another deluge of water with her free hand, she heard a scream and realised it was her own – she was petrified. She could barely see as she bent her head low, the rain lashing her face and stinging her eyes. She felt the boat lurch to port as he pulled hard on the tiller to steer away from the rocks. They were far too close for comfort.

  ‘Are we well enough out here?’ she shouted, but the wind was so loud, she couldn’t tell if he had heard her or not.

  ‘We just need to get round this outcrop – a few more minutes,’ he shouted back.

  Despite herself, Sarah began to sob with fear.

  They were now sailing into what appeared to be a full-on storm, with the wind pushing against them. Captain Bob feared what conditions would be like once they rounded the headland; he doubted he’d even be able to land. If it didn’t pass soon, they’d be in real trouble. He edged the boat in closer to the cliffs, away from the worst of the wind. They would have to sit it out ashore, bide their time. There was no choice. He turned the boat round and headed straight for the nearest beach. There was a cave in this little inlet that the smugglers used; they could shelter there.

  ‘We need to wait on land awhile,’ he shouted to a terrified-looking Sarah, trying his best to sound as if this were quite normal. ‘Until the conditions are right.’

  He jumped down into the water, heaved the boat on the crest of a wave, and ran with it up onto the beach. Moments later, he was relieved to lift Sarah over the edge and have them both place their feet on dry land.

  ‘Don’t you worry, the ship to America is a big one, it will slice through a storm like this with no bother at all, you won’t even feel it.’ He steered her gently up the beach. ‘Look, you’re soaked to the skin, let’s head to the cave – see here, it’s straight ahead.’

  Sarah was trembling with the cold and the wet. The nightmare voyage was over and she was certain of one thing: she never wanted to be afloat again, as long as she lived. Now safely ashore, she felt newly defiant; bold, even. ‘I don’t want to go to America,’ she said calmly.

  Captain Bob took her arm, but she pulled away. The distance from her father was making her feel courageous; that and the relief at not having drowned. With Captain Bob there, she felt that McGuffey could not touch her. She almost wanted to demand that she be taken back home.

  But Captain Bob wasn’t listening to her. Sweat was pouring down his face from the effort of beaching the boat and his beard was sodden with the rain. As the boat creaked and shifted in the wind, he lifted his cap, which he’d somehow managed to hold on to through the gale, and looked up towards the cliff. Once again, they had a view of the cottage. ‘Now, now, what’s that about?’ he muttered in surprise, almost to himself.

  Sarah turned around sharply and followed his gaze. To her amazement there were lights on the cliff. Burning torches.

  ‘What will that be?’ he asked.

  ‘Something’s wrong,’ said Sarah, her face drawn, her thoughts focused on her mammy. ‘And it can’t be for a fishing boat, because there is none out, only us.’

  *

  It had taken Seamus and Paddy only minutes to appraise the situation and take control.

  ‘Tig, light the flares,’ Paddy shouted. ‘They will be seen from the village.’

  Father Jerry was on the ground, next to Michael. He gently prised Angela from his arms.

  ‘Pete, go back down the path after McGuffey,’ Paddy continued. ‘Don’t give chase, just see if you can tell which way he’s gone. Remember, he’s a man with a gun and a temper, so don’t approach him. We’ll call the Garda as soon as we can get back to Mrs Doyle’s.’

  Pete wanted to ask Paddy, was he mad? He had no intention of apprehending McGuffey.

  Paddy was in full flow. ‘When the flares go up, Brendan and Bridget McAndrew will see them and come running. Mrs Doyle will see them too and call for the doctor in Belmullet. And bring rope, Tig, for the cart, any rope that there is in the turf shed – we will have to take the poor woman back to her home.’

  He had no need to ask, for Tig was already halfway to the shed and knew himself what needed to be done. The beacons were kept there, in the turf shed next to the McGuffeys’ cottage, because theirs was the highest house, nearest to the ocean and the cliff edge. If a boat was in trouble, the beacons could be lit in minutes.

  Michael was bent double, relieved to hand over responsibility for Angela to Father Jerry. He wiped his hands furiously on his knees and across his soaked trousers in an attempt to remove the blood. From somewhere beneath his robes, Father Jerry extricated his Bible and opened it, but within seconds he quickly banged it shut it again, pulling his cloak out to protect the precious book from the rain. He began to pray, but Michael could not make out the words of his chant against the thunder of the waves on the beach below.

  Pete came running back into view, his trousers ripped from numerous slips on the shale, blood running down his legs, the wind whipping the hair around his face. Panting, he fell to his knees beside Michael and Father Jerry. ‘McGuffey’s gone – he ran. We saw him, though, Michael. Just in time, we were. We saw the gun – no one will be blaming you.’ He nodded sorrowfully at Angela.

  ‘There’s one hell of a swell in the bay,’ said Seamus, grabbing on to Paddy’s arm as the wind buffeted him.

  ‘Is she dead?’ asked Paddy. ‘She’s looking mighty queer.’

  Seamus hadn’t wanted to look. If he didn’t, it might not be so bad, or so he thought. One glance and he turned to Paddy, the colour leaving his face. ‘I’ve never seen Father Jerry giving the last rites to anyone who was going to make it, have you?’

  Paddy shook his head and blessed himself.

  As the flare fired up from the cliff edge, they both turned to look at Angela. Father Jerry used his thumbs to close her eyelids, but they refused to remain shut and slowly opened again. The lightning, the flares and the full moon lit up the clifftop and the entire sorry scene as though it were daylight.

  ‘’Tis a good job there’s no one out fishing or smuggling in that,’ said Seamus as he tipped his head towards the ocean. ‘They’d never make it back alive.’

  Father Jerry stood and, removing his cape, laid it over Angela. His eyes met those of Michael, who was sobbing, his shoulders heaving. There was no hope, no mistake. Angela really was dead. ‘Come on, Michael, let’s carry her back to the cottage. She is with the angels now. Can you manage that?’

  Michael rose to his feet, staggered, and then stood straight, with Angela laid across his open arms. The rain was falling more gently now, in soft vertical columns as the wind dropped. There was a stunned silence as the men removed their dripping wet caps and clasped them to their chests. They blessed themselves and began to mutter holy prayers of deliverance.

  Michael gasped for his breath as Pete shouted, ‘There’s someone on the cliff – he’s coming back!’

  ‘God, no!’ said Seamus.

  ‘I need no gun to deal with McGuffey,’ said Father Jerry.

  An air of desolation, of something too awful for words settled upon them as they all stared at the dead woman.

  Michael shook his h
ead in disbelief. This woman, this good woman who the entire village knew kept the cleanest home, was the most loving mother and took the hardest beatings, a woman who spent her life in prayer, obedience to her husband and duty to her family, was dead.

  A noise pierced the gloom and the noise became a name and that name was Michael’s, as, mere yards away, Sarah stood, halfway up the cliff path, her hand over her eyes, shielding them from the rain.

  Heads turned in dread. Michael looked towards the path and their eyes locked.

  Sobbing, Sarah dropped her basket and ran towards him, calling his name, barely coherent.

  ‘No, Sarah! No!’ Michael tried to shield her from the bundle in his arms.

  But it was too late, she was only feet away from him, running towards him for the reunion she’d dreamt of for so long. As she reached him, her eyes were drawn to the figure draped over his arms and wrapped in a cape. The wind lifted a corner of the fabric and revealed the bloodless face of her mother.

  *

  Bee had fallen asleep with the mug of porter in her hand. It had slopped onto her skirt, leaving a crimson stain, barely identifiable against the dark grey serge of her skirt, and now the mug lay empty and on its side. Her head lolled against the wooden back of the chair, having lost the cushion to the floor, when suddenly she woke with a start and saw Angela standing before her, dripping wet.

  ‘God in heaven, I was just sleeping. You came then? Why didn’t you put a coat on, you’ll catch your death. I can’t tell you what a relief that is, that I won’t have to run up to fetch you in the morning. My bones are aching so bad, so they are.’

  She squinted, but the dark and the porter and the fact that she was used to her sister’s quietness meant she had no cause for alarm.

  ‘Get into my bed, would you. Here, I’ll make some warmth to dry your clothes by. Put them on the chair.’

  Bee leant forward and reaching down into the basket at her side picked up two blocks of peat and threw them onto the fire. The fire going out and the famine returning were the biggest fears in every cottage in Mayo. She looked back to Angela, but she was no longer in front of her. The candle in the hearth spluttered and a curl of trailing grey smoke rose against the smouldering red peat.