The Godforsaken Daughter

by Christina McKenna

  His mind was made up. It was surely worth the risk.

  Chapter thirty-six

  The white Mercedes had covered the thirty-five miles from Killoran in well under an hour. If Henry Shevlin had been asked to describe the journey he’d have murmured vague words about “a more or less straight run to the border.” He would perhaps recall encountering very little traffic upon entering Donegal, one of the most sparsely populated counties in the Republic of Ireland. When he reached the outskirts of the village of Burtonport, his mind was concentrated on the matter in hand. All else was immaterial.

  Could this place hold the key? Could Connie—or Holly as she was calling herself—actually have visited this outpost? It was an exhilarating thought. A part of him found it hard to believe. Another part of him felt almost as though some mysterious force had drawn him here, had guided his path.

  Nonsense of course. He was here because a patient who no longer thought of himself as a dead Beatle had discussed his encounter with an artist calling herself Holly Blue. The name had rung a bell, and had sent Henry to the public library in Killoran. Sure enough, there in The Observer’s Book of Butterflies was a handsome illustration of the Holly Blue or celastrina argiolus. He recognized it right away. Only then, as he studied the illustration under a strong reading lamp, did he realize its significance. It bore a striking resemblance to the small tattoo on Connie’s wrist.

  “Holly . . . Holly Blue . . . The beetle meets the butterfly!” he’d exclaimed into the liturgical silence, a little too loudly, thereby earning himself a chilly look from the librarian and fellow readers.

  There was a bar called The Islander a little way along the street. It didn’t look too inviting but seemed a good place to start. He pulled over and parked the car.

  There was nobody about, no sign of life. A sinister air prevailed. Gulls squawked high above. In the distance, the sound of a horn; a freightliner standing out to sea. From the road, the harbor was visible, and the ocean beyond. The day was overcast but he could make out the vague contours of an island not far from shore. Innisfree. It had to be. He looked at his watch. Two thirty. He straightened his tie, took a deep breath, and pushed open the door to the pub.

  “Afternoon!” the bartender called out. He was doing what all bartenders seemed to do between serving customers: wiping the bar counter slowly with an insouciance born of boredom.

  “Good afternoon,” Henry said, giving his friendliest smile.

  A good start, he thought. He scanned the room as he shut the door behind him. It resembled practically every other Irish pub he’d ever set foot in: gloomy, the daylight being repelled by several tiny windows of semitransparent glass. The ten or more tables dotted throughout were unoccupied, except for two men who sat in solitude, one reading a newspaper. They were barely discernible in the dim light. The air was shrouded in cigarette smoke, which seemed to emanate solely from an elderly man seated on a barstool at the end of the counter. He was staring sullenly at the newcomer, the stranger.

  “A half pint of Guinness, please,” Henry said. He remained standing; he liked to stretch his legs after a car journey.

  He waited until the bartender had completed the order and was ringing up the cash register.

  “I was wondering . . . What do you know about the people over beyond . . . over on Innisfree?”

  A noteworthy silence. The elderly customer on the barstool grunted, and blew some more smoke in Henry’s direction.

  “Which people might that be, sir?” The barman passed along some coins. “Your change.”

  “Thank you. The Atlantis Foundation. But I believe you call them the Screamers in these parts.”

  The man eyed him with suspicion. “You wouldn’t be another one o’ them journalists, would you? ’Cos to be honest about it, we’ve had our fill of you lot.”

  “No, no, I’m not a journalist. I’m a doctor. I’m trying to trace one of my patients who went missing some months ago.” He scanned the room, speaking loudly enough so they all could hear. “I believe she came here. A Belfast woman. Fair hair . . . in her early thirties. Attractive. Called herself Holly, but her real name is Constance.”

  More silence. The tribal instinct massing. Henry, the outsider—a threat.

  Finally: “No, no one of that name, sir,” the bartender said. “Can’t help you, I’m afraid.” He looked to the smoker for support. The smoker continued to smolder. “Not surprised she’s a patient of yours. Cracked as paving stones, the lot of them.”

  “Are they still . . .” Henry began. “Are they still over there on the island?”

  “Aye, they are. And that’s the way we like it. Best place for them.”

  “They didn’t make many friends in Burtonport, then?” He tasted the Guinness. Bitter. But refreshing.

  “Friends? We couldn’t wait to see the back of them. Bloody lunatics. Mad, as I say.”

  “Really? That bad?”

  The man at the end of the bar counter began to cough loudly, while stubbing out his cigarette end. He was plainly in poor health. His eyes watered up and he mopped them with a soiled handkerchief. He’d got Henry’s attention.

  “Ah, they were worse than bad!” he announced in a hoarse, cracked voice. “They were possessed by evil, if you ask me. I used to live across the way from them when they moved in. Didn’t mind at first, ’cos it was nice to see some fine-lookin’ lassies comin’ into town. Brightened the place up, so they did.”

  “That didn’t last long, Mick, did it?” the bartender said. “The honeymoon, as I called it.”

  A long, painful cough. “Naw, that didn’t last long. A week later and I see a couple of fellas out with cans o’ paint. And aren’t they paintin’ them black magic signs on the front.”

  “Er, black . . . ?”

  “Signs of the sody-ack,” the bartender supplied helpfully.

  “Zodiac, as in star signs?”

  “Aye, them things. Painted them each side o’ the door and a big ‘Atlantis’ on the lintel. Ruined the look of the place entirely, so it did. Then the screaming started.”

  “Aye, the screaming,” said the old man. “They woke me up at four in the morning. Thought I was hearin’ a whole flock o’ banshees. Never heard the like of it. But that was just the start of it. Day and night from then on. Not a moment’s peace with all that bawlin’ an’ screechin’. Didn’t know what was goin’ on in that place. Me, I swear it was that black magic, but nobody listens to me.”

  “Then we had the TV people and the journalists,” the barman added. “They came from all parts: Dublin, London, you name it. Mind you, it was good for business. John McShay down the road got a holiday on the Costa Brava for himself and the wife outta them. But it messed the place up. We’re quiet people, Doctor. We keep ourselves to ourselves, so we do. We couldn’t be havin’ that lot turnin’ things upside down.”

  “I see . . .”

  “We tried to have them shut down. I mean, we couldn’t have all that dirty stuff goin’ on, corruptin’ our children, givin’ the place a bad name.”

  “Dirty stuff?”

  “Aye.” The bartender leaned closer. “Orgies and the like. Women . . . with other women. Disgusting! Oh, maybe it was a good thing we didn’t know half the stuff they were gettin’ up to.” He paused, seeming to remember something. “This patient o’ yours, Doctor . . . the one who went missing. Was she . . . was she involved with that sort of thing? I’m just wundering.”

  Henry shook his head. “Shouldn’t think so. All I know is that she was last seen on the island. But I thought somebody in Burtonport might have seen her, too. Spoken to her.”

  “And you say her name is Holly.”

  “Yes, Holly. Holly Blue, but her real name is Constance Shevlin.”

  The bartender shrugged. He turned to the elderly smoker, who was busy lighting up another one. The smoker shook his head.

  “Wh
at’s the best way of getting over there? To Innisfree?”

  The bartender consulted the clock behind him.

  “You’re in luck, Doctor. There’s a boat leaving at four. Does a daily run. Bags of time.”

  Henry hesitated. He wasn’t a good sailor, being one of those unfortunates who’d get seasick on a calm day on a duck pond. He was almost minded to forget the island. The thought of getting on a boat and heading out onto the ocean was unsettling. But he vowed to persevere. For Connie’s sake. There was no going back now.

  “Much obliged,” he told the barman.

  Outside, he took in a welcome lungful of sea air. He reached for his car keys.

  “Doctor!”

  He turned. An unkempt man had followed him out of the pub. Clearly he was one of the lone drinkers. Thirties, goatee beard, hair long and gathered in a ponytail, a Hawkwind T-shirt.

  “You were asking about the Screamers.” He was looking up and down the street. A solitary car was wending its way up from the harbor but otherwise Burtonport looked as deserted as it had been on Henry’s arrival.

  “I was,” Henry said. “You wouldn’t be one of them, would you?”

  “Nah. I’m Max, by the way.”

  Max! Mad Max. It had to be. Henry recalled Finbar’s last session. Yes, Max fitted the description. What had Finbar said? Something about Max hanging around in all the bars of Burtonport. He wondered how many there were.

  “Right, Max,” he said pleasantly. “So what can you tell me about them?”

  The bearded man hesitated. He glanced back at the island. “I wouldn’t go over there if I were you.”

  “You’re not me.”

  “Aye, but they don’t like men. Fruitcakes, maybe, but you’re not one of them.”

  “You’re a local?”

  “I get around.”

  Henry wondered about the cryptic answer. “I know someone who knows you,” he said.

  “From Belfast?”

  “I didn’t say anything about Belfast.”

  “You did. Just now in the bar . . . said your patient’s from there. Besides, you sound like a Belfast man to me.”

  He’d really been paying attention in the pub.

  “But posh Belfast,” he continued. “Not like a wee hard Prod from the Shankill. Who’s this that knows me anyway?”

  “Finbar Flannagan. A patient of mine.”

  “Finbar Flannagan? Mad Finbar?”

  “That’s what he calls you, Max. Mad Max.”

  A chuckle. “I don’t mind. They all do. They’re probably right, too. I am a bit of a loony. But I ask you: What would you prefer: a crazy guy who does no one any harm, or a stick-in-the-mud sane guy who never stops interfering in other people’s business?”

  “Point taken. How well do you know Finbar?”

  “I might ask you the same thing.”

  “He’s a patient of mine. I’m a psychiatrist.”

  “Fuck me. Then I’d stay well clear of the Screamers if I was you. They hate psychiatrists. Did you know that?”

  “Well, I knew they didn’t have a good opinion of us.” He smiled. “But they’re not alone in that, eh?” He looked at his watch. It was just after 3:15. “The barman said there’s a boat leaving at four.”

  “Yep. You’re determined to go, then?”

  “It’s my reason for coming here.”

  “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” Max pointed in the direction of the harbor. “You can park down there. Aurora’s your woman. On Innisfree. A bit more approachable than the rest.”

  “Aurora. Nice name. Not her real name I suppose?”

  “Not many of them use their real names, Doctor. I think they like it that way. All running away from something.”

  The clouds had lifted and the island was bathed in sunshine when the small boat put in alongside the little jetty on Innisfree. Henry waited for the two other passengers to disembark before stepping onto the rough stones.

  The crossing had proved to be less challenging than he’d feared. The Atlantic was calm—at least when seen from this vantage point, in the lee of the island. He hadn’t engaged anyone in conversation during the crossing, wishing to be alone with his thoughts. Again, he felt close to discovering something about Connie. Even closer now. As he stood on the quayside and looked up at the gentle slopes of the island falling away from him, he tried to imagine her here.

  “What time can I expect you back?” he called out to the boatman.

  The old-timer looked at the sky. The sun was still high. “About seven, mister,” he said.

  Henry had dropped the “doctor” bit as soon as he’d boarded the boat. He’d taken Max’s advice and decided to say nothing about his profession. He’d no wish to antagonize people who might be able to help him find Connie. He’d also “dressed down” to a certain extent, shedding the jacket and necktie in an effort to blend in.

  He watched idly as a cart drawn by a donkey made its way slowly down to the jetty. He heard the boat engine start up behind him. The cart stopped at the spot where the two passengers had placed their baggage, and an elderly man wearing a cloth cap alighted. He glanced in Henry’s direction before helping stow the baggage in the cart. The chore completed, the two climbed in the back.

  “Can I give you a lift?” the driver asked.

  “No, thanks. I’ll walk. Want to explore a bit.”

  “Fair enough.”

  “Where can I find the Screamers?”

  All went quiet. Three pairs of eyes regarded him with hostility. He swore that even the donkey was glaring at him.

  “What would you be wantin’ them for?” asked one of the passengers. He was a man in his late twenties, slovenly dressed.

  “Just curious,” Henry answered, mustering his broadest smile.

  “Up at the big house,” the driver said. “Top of this road.” He jerked the reins and the cart set off, back the way it had come.

  Henry took his time as he watched it depart. He was trying to imagine how Connie must have felt, all those months before, when she was also seeing the island for the first time. Had she come alone? Or had she been accompanied by one of them? He thought of a poker-faced man in a hat, a man with colorless eyes and a predatory manner. How different their perspectives on the world were! The spy dealt in concealment and mystery; the psychiatrist’s job was to coax secrets out into the open.

  The little island seemed, at first, to be as deserted as Burtonport. The gulls were his sole companions, as they wheeled above the rocks and rough grass that overlooked the water.

  Some distance away, close by a group of cottages, several figures were busy doing something in a field. Female—if their long clothing was anything to go by. They were engaged in work that involved a lot of stooping and collecting. Millet’s The Gleaners came to mind. Another throwback to another time.

  He made his way toward them.

  At his approach, one of the women straightened and appeared to nudge a companion. They stared at the visitor.

  In the background: a group of single-level dwellings whitewashed and plain, relics of pre-Famine Ireland. Beyond them: a larger house with smaller buildings attached.

  He saw now that the women were young. None seemed older than thirty. All had stopped their work and were regarding him with curiosity.

  “Hello!” one of them called out, a tall lady with dark hair tied back.

  There was a rough basket at her feet. It was half-filled with clay-soiled stones of many sizes.

  “Hello, yourselves,” he said. “I don’t want to interrupt you or anything . . .”

  “No bother. Have you just arrived?”

  “Yes. Just over for an hour or two.”

  He glanced about him, taking in the beauty of the little island: the gentle slopes glowing with the purple heather that had given the place its name. He’d looke
d up the name in the original Irish. He was thorough that way; it paid a psychiatrist to be thorough. Inis Fraoigh: Heather Isle.

  “I’m looking for Aurora.”

  “You’ll find her over in the orchard,” the tall lady said. She pointed.

  “Much obliged.” He hesitated. “Mind your backs with that work, won’t you?”

  The woman didn’t return the smile. She looked sullen.

  “Are you being condescending? I hope you’re not being condescending. We don’t like that here.”

  “Certainly not. I can see you ladies are well up to the job.”

  “Thank you. And we’re not ‘ladies,’ by the way. We’re women, sir.”

  “My mistake. In the orchard, you say?”

  “Aye.” And she bent once more to her task. The others followed suit.

  Henry recalled something his father had said. “Connie . . . well, to be honest, she was quite harsh on the subject of marriage. Ideal setup for the male, in her opinion. Women as chattels. You know: the usual feminist guff. Men cause wars and . . .”

  Was that why she’d come here? To be with her like-minded sisters? Ideal place from what he’d seen so far.

  The orchard lay to the rear of the big house with the courtyard. There was a woman in a check shirt and jeans pushing a wheelbarrow filled with grass clippings.

  She stopped on seeing him. Attractive, even without makeup. Blonde hair, not unlike . . .

  “Aurora?”

  “That’s me.”

  “Max told me I’d find you here.”

  She tossed her head, making a swatting motion with her hand. “Damn flies. Max! Oh, him?”

  “He sends his good wishes.”

  “Yes, he would. Do you have any cigarettes?”

  “Sorry, don’t smoke,” Henry said, slightly abashed by her directness.

  “Your accent is funny. Where are you from?”

  “Belfast.”

  She was studying him. “We had somebody from Belfast stay with us last year. But you wouldn’t know her.”