Son of Blood

by Craig Jones

  ‘No, not yet. I doubt it will be necessary, but, just in case, keep your eyes open.’

  ‘You should know by now that I always do.’ He turned his attention to Hawke. ‘You may want to check the beach. You wouldn’t want any of the children out on a night like this if a traveler is up to mischief.’

  Martin nodded to the assembled group and signaled to Christian that they were leaving.

  Christian was silent until they reached the southernmost tip of the beach. From here he could see the fire still burning up near the headland, and he wondered what Sinead was doing there. As Martin started taking off his long leather coat, Christian finally opened his mouth.

  ‘I don’t need the books. I could actually go to school.’

  ‘And finally you say what is on your mind.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Son, I have abilities different than yours. I have felt your feelings since we left the meeting. I am sorry, but you will never be able to go to the school. I need you during the day. And I need those people,’ he nodded towards the town, ‘to think we are the same.’

  Christian turned his back on his father, staring back up the beach. The blue and red roof lights from a police car flashed from the road near the fire, which was soon quickly extinguished. He could hear vague voices but nothing detailed.

  ‘You like her, don’t you?’

  ‘Reading my thoughts again?’

  ‘No. Sometimes I only have to see.’ It was now Martin’s turn to turn his back on Christian as he removed the rest of his clothes and folded them into a neat pile. He handed them to his son with the boots on top. Christian could not help but stare at the ragged scar that ran along his father’s neck.

  ‘You need to get some sleep. I am going to find our interloper. Are you ready?’

  ‘Yes, father,’ he replied, closing his eyes and furrowing his brow. Slowly his feet, heels first, lifted up off the sand and, with perfect balance, he hung in the air about a meter from the surface, his toes pointing down towards the beach. When he opened his eyes he wobbled slightly, but soon regained his composure.

  ‘Go now. I shall wake you upon my return.’ And with a faint smile, Martin’s body faded into a silvery mist which, as if caught on the breeze, whisked away back towards the town.

  Christian hovered in the air for a few more moments until the mist was fully out of sight.

  That is so cool, he thought, before he turned his shoulders through the air and pushed towards the island, the sea whipping inches below his boots as he headed for home.

  5

  The door gave off a tiny musical chime as Connor Mooney pushed it open and stepped out of the drizzling rain and into the estate agent’s office. He unbuttoned his tan overcoat and ran his fingers back through his halo of hair, pushing the water away from his eyes and forehead. The business was obviously doing well; dozens of properties from the surrounding towns were displayed inside, from two-bedroom apartments in Dublin City to gloriously positioned seafront houses in Malahide, some twenty minutes south of Skerries. What would have been disappointing to the average visitor who had become attached to the beauty of the town was the lack of properties in Skerries itself. That is not to say that there were never any available; there was simply a very stringent process to follow before a home was put on the open market.

  Welsh’s Estates itself sat on a prime location, right on the roundabout at the end of the main street. With windows on two sides, it gave Susan Welsh, the owner, the chance to show off her properties to the widest audience. That also meant that the room itself, a large rectangle with two tables positioned at either side of a door that led to the restricted area at the rear of the building, was bright with natural light on even a dull day. Both tables, laptop and telephone on each, had a single chair on the far side with two for the clients positioned on the side closer to the entrance. The carpet was plain and functional and the walls were painted in a neutral magnolia. Carousel-type display cases with further information about a variety of desirable houses broke up the rest of the room.

  ‘Susan? Susan?’ Mooney called, spinning one of the carousels casually before stepping between the two tables, his large stomach burbling; his liquid lunch had not settled too well on top of his midmorning steak pie.

  ‘Just a second, Connor.’

  Mooney stepped even closer to the private door, turning his head to the side and leaning his ear towards the conversation he could tell Susan Welsh was having on her phone. He backtracked quickly into the centre of the room when he heard her say goodbye and walk towards her showroom.

  ‘I told you I would be just a second, didn’t I? That doesn’t give you an excuse to eavesdrop on me.’ Susan Welsh stepped through the door, slipping her silver phone into a pocket inside her jacket. She was no taller than five foot three inches, but she had a presence about her that made a mockery of her limited stature. She wore a clearly designer blue suit and an elegant white blouse. Her long, straight hair was dyed blonde but managed to maintain a natural look. She wore flat shoes; she was short, yes, but she felt she did not have to make herself tall just to demonstrate that she was a success.

  ‘Sorry, sorry, but I had been waiting some time.’ Mooney fingered the buttons of his own suit jacket, suddenly feeling underdressed. His poorly ironed shirt felt crunchy against his skin, the stain on his tie seemed to have been circled with a highlighter, and had he been able to actually do his jacket up, he would have done so.

  ‘No, you haven’t. Look, I know why you are here and I am not happy about this. I told you I would keep you informed, but you calling in here every single day is just one step short of badgering.’

  ‘So you have no news from old Pearce then?’

  Susan turned her back on Mooney and crossed to one of the carousels, removing two of the information sheets and placing them onto the nearest table.

  ‘I asked—’

  ‘Yes, I know what you asked. And no, Mr. Pearce has not confirmed whether he is selling the land or not. As I have told you before, it looks likely that he will, and as we all know, he’s had the planning permission approved, but, strangely enough, business has not been so good for him since then and he’s just not got the spare cash to develop it himself.’

  Mooney grinned, inwardly proud of himself.

  ‘So he is thinking of selling the land to bolster his retirement fund?’

  ‘Connor, you are simply repellent.’

  ‘Just make sure I’m the first one to know if that is what he decides to do. As always.’

  ‘As always. But just be aware that you’re not the only person who knows about Mr. Pearce’s land. And from what I’ve read into things, they’ll actually be prepared to pay what the land is really worth.’

  Mooney stepped towards her. ‘Now listen to me. This little arrangement we have benefits you as much as it does me. And we both know that it benefits the town above all else.’

  ‘Yes, the town,’ Susan said quietly, turning to one of the windows, watching the rain filter the real world outside. ‘Why is it that you’ve ended up being the only person who makes decisions about what is best for this town? About whom I can sell houses to? You’d best not forget that this is my business, Connor.’

  ‘And you had better remember why it is that I make the decisions. Bear in mind that I control him, Susan, and that adds a lot of weight to my opinion. You wouldn’t want to cross him now, would you?’

  If he could have seen her face, he would have known that his point had hit home. She bit her lip and turned to look at him again, trying to hide her fear behind an angry expression.

  ‘Are you threatening me?’

  ‘No, no, not at all.’ He smiled, spreading his palms out before him. ‘I’m just reminding you of how things work around here.’

  ‘It didn’t work so well with Kevin Buckley, though. Did it?’

  ‘No. Maybe it didn’t. But the commission you are going to get for the quick sale should make you feel a little bit better about the poor man.’

>   ‘If only people knew…’

  ‘Knew? Knew?’ he sneered at her. ‘Knew how much you have benefited from our little arrangement? Ms. Welsh, you may want to have the ethics of Mother Theresa, but the reality of it is that you’ve built a nice little empire off working closely with me. You start throwing around accusations and the mud is going to fly right back in your face. Let’s be honest, how else would you make two, three commissions on the same property in the space of six months?’

  Susan dropped her gaze.

  ‘I thought so.’ He began to close the buttons on his overcoat. ‘Now you make sure to let me know if and when Pearce caves in. Half a million Euros. Cash. Drop that into your next conversation with him.’

  ‘Yes, of course.’ She looked defeated. Even through her perfect makeup, Mooney was able to see her cheeks flushing.

  ‘Oh, and seeing as you mentioned it, I’m meeting with Buckley’s family tomorrow. Representing our town in passing on our condolences. I’ll be bringing them here when I’ve persuaded them to put the house on the market for twenty-five per cent less than what he paid me for it in the first place. That’s the current market value since the old Celtic Tiger took the big hit. Do I make myself clear?’

  ‘You always do,’ she said. ‘Watch your back, Connor. Someone is going to come gunning for you one day.’

  ‘Someone like you? I don’t think so.’ The door chimed as he prepared to leave. ‘And it is worth remembering that I will never have to watch my back. Martin’s got it covered for me.’

  6

  ‘Christian! Christian! Come, son, it is time to go.’

  Martin stood on the rock outcropping that seemed to reach across the water towards Skerries. Connor and Peter Hawke were already waiting for them on the Head. He had watched them arrive in Hawke’s police car, the lawman quickly ushering the last of the dog walkers of the late evening away from their prearranged meeting place. Martin turned to his right, looking out across the sea at St. Patrick’s Island, where the patron saint of Ireland had apparently lived before the townsfolk had drawn him across by stealing his goat. If the myth was to be believed, then St Patrick had been a Welshman, just as Martin was, but that, the huge man had to accept, was where their similarities faded to dust.

  ‘Christian!’ he demanded once more.

  ‘I am here,’ the boy said softly right into Martin’s ear, causing his father to flinch.

  ‘I’m getting better at that, aren’t I?’ Christian asked with a broad smile. Martin placed a hand on his son’s shoulder.

  ‘That you are, young one. That you are.’

  ‘The tower is locked and secure. I’m ready to go.’

  ‘Let me see you, then,’ Martin teased, his own feet rising off the floor. He extended his arms out from his sides, creating a wingspan like an albatross as he leant forward, his legs lifting until he floated in the air parallel to the ground. Gravity pulled his leather coat around him and the ring around his neck hung down, the lace rubbing against the stubble of his chin. He turned his head to the side and, with a smile, winked at the boy.

  ‘Show me what you can do.’

  Christian bent his knees and extended his elbows out, keeping the flats of his hands facing forwards. If he had ever seen a surfer he could have been accused of mimicking their poise. He closed his eyes and Martin nodded at the intensity of the concentration his son was putting into his task. Slowly Christian’s feet and the rock below them separated. With more fluidity than Martin had ever seen before, the boy elevated himself an inch, and then a foot, off the floor. He paused, opened his eyes, focused on a point in the far distance, and pushed his palms down the side of his body, the action taking him even further up into the air.

  A breeze buffeted him for a moment and Martin held his breath, fearing that the wind would tear away Christian’s balance. Instead, the boy brought his hands out to his side and pushed his chest down towards the ground. It was a shaky motion, lacking confidence, but in a few seconds he hung in the air next to his father, only his still-bent knees any different from Martin’s form.

  ‘What…what do you think?’

  ‘I think your skills improve every day. You have been working hard. Now, slowly and steadily, we shall…’

  Christian took a deep breath, expelling it as he fully extended his legs. He shot forward out over the water, tucking his hands in beside his hips. He maintained his height at about two meters above the highest wave, and the only sound he could hear was the air rushing past his ears. The sky in front of him became a grey and black mottled bruise; the only thing that remained in focus was the one street light over in the town that he had zeroed in on. His cheeks filled with air as his smile grew wider and wider. As his confidence grew, he cast a glance over his shoulder to see his father, smile equally as wide, rushing up behind him, his leather coat now flapping like a cape over his legs.

  Martin kept one arm tight to the side of his body like his son, but the other led his way with a clenched fist. As he rolled left and right he nonchalantly switched his lead hand, pulling each time in the direction he wanted to go. Within seconds they were level and the chain of craggy rocks that was Head was rushing towards them. Martin signaled to move left and Christian dropped his shoulder as they sped along the water, just a few feet short of the sand of South Beach. Sinead, who was walking her golden Labrador Alfie, spotted them and her immediate thought was Supermen.

  Martin and Christian looped back around their home and split the water between Shenick Island and St. Patrick’s Island, creating a wave that worked against the current and moved sideways towards the little pockets of land. As they approached the Head, Martin took his son’s right hand and slowed him, taking them up another couple of meters and guiding them into a jagged landing on the swimming platform. Christian almost stumbled but felt the strength of his father support him until he regained his equilibrium. As they reduced their pace from a jog to a walk, Martin increased his grip for a second before releasing.

  ‘Very good, my boy,’ he said with laughter in his voice. ‘Very good indeed.’

  ‘Thank you, Father. I have been working hard.’

  ‘You make me proud. Now let us see what my old friend Connor wants.’

  They began striding up towards the parking lot where Mooney and Hawke had perched themselves on the hood of the police car. Both stood as they saw their associates had arrived.

  ‘Is he really your friend, Father?’

  ‘He is a man I can trust. Therefore, he is my friend.’

  ‘I understand.’

  Martin stopped and turned to his son.

  ‘But it is you I trust above all others.’

  Christian’s eyes fell to his boots, embarrassed.

  ‘Come, boy. Let’s do our duty.’

  7

  ‘So it would be easier all round if he were to simply…disappear?’

  Martin’s question hung in the air like a bad smell. Everyone knew it was there, but no one wanted to acknowledge its existence. Mooney and Hawke had put across their views on the subject in a very broad manner, never actually saying that the traveler should be taken care of in Martin’s very specific way, but the intonation of their words left little to the imagination.

  ‘If you think that is the best course of action, then so be it.’

  Mooney’s words made Hawke cringe. No wonder the man is town mayor, he thought, when he can say so much without actually saying anything at all. Minimalist manipulation.

  But at the end of the day, having a vagrant setting up camp in Skerries was simply not going to happen. The fact there had been minor vandalism and petty thefts that may or may not have been the fault of the man would have been enough, but then there was the scuffle with Owen Flannery, and the young rugby player had not come off too well. Hawke believed it was more than likely that it was the teacher’s son who had started the fight, but it had certainly been the town’s unwelcome visitor who had ended it. Flannery claimed his son was sporting a black eye, and that had made Hawke smil
e; the kid was a bully who had inflicted a few of those of his own, often on the younger kids, so maybe now he would rein himself in.

  ‘Do you know where to find him?’ asked Hawke.

  ‘Of course,’ Martin replied, amiably but with a touch of sarcasm in his voice. ‘I carry out my detective work almost as well as you do, Officer Hawke. He sleeps at the rugby club, at the back of the covered seating area.’

  ‘Oh, in the stands,’ exclaimed Mooney.

  ‘No. The seating area.’

  Christian smiled to himself. He would remember to explain to his father that definition later.

  ‘I take it he will be seen leaving town? By a number of people?’

  ‘Yes, of course, Martin,’ responded Hawke. ‘In fact, I think one of our friends will have picked him up as he hitchhiked out of town. Maybe a few others would have ignored him as he waited down by the old railway bridge? What do you think?’

  ‘Yes…he will have vanished into thin air.’

  ‘I like the way you think, Martin,’ interjected Mooney. ‘Peter, I need a brief word with our friend here. Do you mind waiting in the car?’

  ‘Well, I…’

  ‘Would you mind?’ he repeated, a stern look creeping across his face. ‘Thank you.’

  Hawke crossed the parking lot with a stiff back and got in the driver’s seat, closing the door against the cold of the night. Christian watched as Mooney approached his father and placed an arm around his shoulders, turning their backs on him. Christian looked back over at the island, wishing he were there, then he glanced towards the town.

  At the top of the path that led from the parking lot down to South Beach he saw someone waving to him from the shadows, a dog, its coat grey in the harsh street lights, leaping up at the fingers, tongue out and tail wagging. He squinted, took a step forward, when the waving hand froze and became a clear signal. Stop.

  He couldn’t help himself and took another step, sharp and alert. And then she moved out of the shadows and into the light, the dog still dancing around her. Sinead smiled and the tension dropped from his cheeks as he returned the gesture. She glanced across at Martin and Mooney and pointed towards South Beach, then at her wrist and finally, by extending the fingers of her hand three times, indicated that she would be there in fifteen minutes. He nodded and she retreated, pulling the bouncy canine with her, disappearing from sight.