by Chris Simms
‘Mum, we don’t know that. My guess is she’ll go her own way the moment the ferry reaches Holyhead.’
She snorted, and before she could say what an unlikely prospect that was, he added, ‘Besides, we all agreed that she’d reappear one day, didn’t we?’
She nodded begrudgingly.
‘And don’t forget, no court will just release him into her care. They act in Jake’s interests, not hers. Jake doesn’t even know her.’
‘I still don’t see why you have to get involved. She doesn’t deserve your help.’
‘Mum, do you think I want to go over there?’
‘Well, why are you, then?’
‘You want to know why?’ He stepped back to the doorway so he could see the little boy. ‘What happens if, years down the line, Zoë gets in touch? Tells Jake about the time when she really needed help and I did nothing? What do I say to him when he asks me why that was? Why I didn’t help his mum?’ He turned to Mary. ‘I couldn’t look him in the face. It’s hard enough as it is – knowing I wasn’t there when his dad needed me.’
‘Don’t bring David into this,’ Mary hissed.
Jon tried to swallow back his emotions. ‘How can I not, Mum? He was struggling. I wasn’t there and he ended up dead.’
Mary’s eyes had closed and, when she spoke, her lips hardly moved. ‘We all share the blame for David.’
He took a breath in, heart still racing. ‘Anyway, Roundstone. Where the O’Coinnes are from, isn’t it?’
As usual, reference to her side of the family was met with silence. Jon recalled the photographs he’d seen of the tiny fishing village on the wild and rugged Connemara coast. In the years following the Second World War, many members of the wider family had starting drifting back to the village – including Orla and Malachy, his grandparents. His own mother had been born in Roundstone but, at nineteen, was sent to live with a cousin whose family had remained in Manchester. It was there she studied for her nurse’s qualifications.
Manchester, with its thriving Irish community, had appealed to her. After qualifying, she’d stayed and married Jon’s father, Alan Spicer. But at some point around then, a rift had opened up between his mother and the rest of her family back in Roundstone. The few times Jon had tried to broach the subject, his mum had become tight-lipped and unwilling to elaborate. Over the years, he’d often wondered if it had anything to do with the fact his dad was a non-Catholic. Whatever the issue, discussing it was taboo.
He proceeded cautiously. ‘Grandma and Grandad. It’s where they live, isn’t it?’ He was beginning to wonder whether she’d heard him when her eyes opened and she spoke again.
‘You know it is.’
‘Well, it’s been years. I was thinking, maybe I could use the opportunity to look them up. What do you think?’
She didn’t respond. Once again, Jon wondered what had caused her to cut contact so decisively. ‘Mum? I know it’s awkward for you. But they’re my grandparents. It’s never really mattered before, but now I’m getting older and I’ve got a kid of my own, it’s become important. They’ve got a great-granddaughter, Mum. I’d love them to see Holly.’
‘No. It wouldn’t be a good idea.’
‘Are they still alive?’
‘Did you hear me, Jon? It’s not a good idea.’ Her voice quivered.
‘Why?’
‘It’s just isn’t.’
‘Why? I want you to tell me.’
‘It’s all too long ago to be dredged up,’ she moved past him into the other room. ‘Best left alone.’
He knew she wasn’t going to budge. ‘I’ve got some cash,’ he announced quietly, trailing after her. ‘Once we’re off the ferry, I’ll give it to Zoë. She’ll be gone in a flash.’
The iron vented steam as Mary picked it up. ‘Let’s hope so, Jon. Because I don’t want you bringing her to our door.’
The voice was distorted by the Tannoy. ‘Will all owners of vehicles please return to their cars.’ This ferry will be docking in ten minutes’ time.’
Jon straightened up and turned round. Apart from a few smokers at the doors, he was the only person who’d been braving the icy wind out on deck.
After flashing his passport at an uninterested customs official, he joined a road that ran alongside a wide river. The Liffey, he thought, slightly disappointed at its dirty brown colour. This being the Emerald Isle, I expected it to be crystal clear.
Once they were past the city’s outskirts, the feeling of being in a different country immediately grew. The petrol stations were strange. Not Texaco, Shell or BP, like back in England. Maxoil or Petrogas, with little mini-marts attached with names like Fareplay or Supervalu.
After driving for a couple of hours, he pulled into one and headed into the adjoining shop looking for a hot-drinks machine. Packets of unfamiliar crisps caught his eye. Tayto. A laughing man with a potato-shaped head on the front. His gaze wandered over packs of biscuits he’d never seen before. Kimberley – a window in the wrapper revealing two spongy-looking cakes with a marshmallow centre. Slimming, Jon thought.
A menu behind the counter listed coffee, but there was no sign of any type of self-service machine. He approached the man sitting behind the till. ‘Can I have a black coffee, please?’
‘Sugar in that?’ The soft accent seemed strange coming from such a large person.
‘No thanks.’
The man flicked on a kettle and reached for a catering-sized tin of Mellow Bird’s. Shit, Jon thought. That’s not coffee. ‘Could you make it strong, please?’
The man nodded, not turning round. ‘Travelling much further then, are you?’
‘Clifden.’
‘Clifden?’ The back of his head tilted as he regarded the ceiling. Seconds ticked by, and just as Jon thought he wasn’t going to say anything else, the man announced, ‘A few hours more, then.’
He reached the edge of Galway two hours later. A series of roundabouts skirted past retail parks and over a bridge to the N59. Beyond the small city, the landscape became more rugged. The road started to undulate, rising up past outcrops of rock topped by lonely pines. To his right was a river – its slow-moving water looking like it would be teeming with trout or salmon. This was more like the Ireland I imagined, he thought.
The road twisted and snaked as the hills on each side reared higher. He passed a green sign that read ‘Welcome to Connemara’. Steep slopes were lined with pale grey scree, peaks straining at the sombre sky, the highermost ones encircled by wreaths of cloud. Now there were stretches of water to his left and right, the road wending its way between them. The hills seemed to be closing in and Jon had the sense he was approaching some kind of threshold. Radio reception kept fading in and out.
Then the hills were behind him and the terrain abruptly grew flat. Heathland sectioned by dry-stone walls. Jon examined their construction. Unlike the orderly arrangements of stone in the Peak District near Manchester, these walls comprised huge chunks of rough grey rock that seemed to have been piled randomly on top of each other. Whatever radio station he’d picked up in Galway was now completely lost. He pressed the scan button and eventually the static cleared to reveal a voice speaking a foreign language. He remembered something about Connemara being one of the last places where Irish was still spoken.
Dusk had fallen when he reached the outskirts of a small town. By the side of the road he spotted a large mound of dark lumps; dry mud or something similar. The houses lining the road became more dense and then the sign he was looking for appeared: ‘Welcome to Clifden’. Here at last, he thought. Thank God. And all because of a phone call from someone I’ve never met. And I only have her word that getting Zoë out of here will be simple.
Chapter 4
The road straightened up and he followed it past a sign that read ‘Garda’. The local nick, Jon thought, looking at the old-fashioned Victorian-style lamp in front of the police station. It contrasted sharply with the new building. A large radio mast was mounted at the far end of the roof.
What had Siobhain said? Darragh’s was Clifden’s one-and-only nightclub. Surely it would be nearby. He climbed out of his Mondeo. To his left was a small shop. Derval Joyce’s Books and Gifts. Shame it’s not open, Jon thought. I could have got Holly a present. A little leprechaun or something. Maybe a woollen scarf for Alice. Next door was an estate agent’s. Eamonn McDonal, Connemara Properties. He peered through the glass at the illuminated board. Little white cottages overlooking craggy bays and deserted beaches. Four hundred and fifty thousand euros. Jon whistled to himself. And that’s after the economy crashed.
An A-board outside a pub caught his eye. Homemade soup and a bread roll for three euros fifty. Not bad, he thought, crossing the road to examine various sheets of paper pinned to a noticeboard.
Vote Emma & Jon. All-Ireland Talent Show, RTE1.
Trad session for beginners. Dusty Banjo’s, Thursday 8p.m.
Texas Hold’em Tournament, Mannion’s Bar, Fri 9.30p.m.
Clifden Comhaltas, February Music Session.
Alongside the brightly-coloured pieces of paper was a newspaper snippet about an appeal for funds to replace the roof of Clifden’s Gaelic football team clubhouse.
Looking around, he realised he still had to see another person. This was getting a little weird. He spotted the town’s post office at the corner of the square, telephone mounted on the wall outside. He did a double-take. That’s where Siobhain called me from. His eyes travelled to the left. A featureless building with grey stone cladding and double red doors. The silver lettering above them spelled a single word: Darragh’s.
He approached the entrance. A little window was set into each door, the glass laced with wire in a spider’s-web design. There was nothing to indicate when the place actually opened.
He looked away to the side. A large building with a pale green front was next door. Joyce’s Hostel. Lot of Joyces in this town, he thought, debating what to do. Back to my car for a little sleep? I’m not tired, he decided. Hungry, maybe. But not tired. If I need some sleep, I’ll get it on the ferry home.
He retraced his steps to the sign announcing soup and a roll. Mannion’s Bar. The place looked snug and warm, the flicker of a real fire inside. Pushing open the door, he found himself in a low-ceilinged room, walls adorned with black-and-white photos. A pungent aroma filled the air. The two middle-aged men at the bar and the lady behind it were all looking at him. He nodded. ‘Evening.’
‘Hello,’ the barmaid smiled, accent just like Siobhain’s.
‘Are you still serving soup and rolls?’
The two men turned back to each other and resumed their conversation, words a jumble of strange sounds. Irish, Jon realised.
‘We are,’ she said. ‘It’s mushroom today.’
‘One of those then, please.’
‘Anything to drink?’
He regarded the taps. There was the Guinness. Ah, bollocks. I drive right across Ireland, it would be rude not to have one. ‘Pint of Guinness.’
She produced a glass, placed it below the tap and flicked it down. ‘British number plates.’ She nodded toward the window. ‘What brings you to Clifden?’
The two men’s conversation paused. One turned his ear slightly. Something inside Jon suddenly urged caution. ‘Just scouting for a holiday property – something on the coast.’
The barmaid raised her eyebrows. ‘You’ll find plenty of bargains, now times have taken a turn for the worse.’
From the corner of his eye, Jon saw the men exchange a glance. He made sure he didn’t sound smug. ‘Good news for me, I suppose.’ The table by the wood-burning stove had a paper on it.
The barmaid tilted his glass as the pitch-dark ale filled to the top. ‘There you are.’
‘Cheers,’ Jon answered, pointing a thumb at the wood-burner. ‘I’ll be over there.’
He sat down by the fire, noticing the basket next to it was full of the same dark blocks he’d seen piled at the side of the road as he’d entered Clifden. He realised they were dried-out chunks of peat, their ends bristling with the stems of plants that had died thousands of years before. Must be what the smell was. He took a sip of Guinness – as cool and silky as he’d hoped for. The flavour complemented the pub’s smoky fragrance.
He slid the newspaper closer. The Galway Advertiser. The headline read ‘Bishop Not For Turning’. Jon scanned the text. Something about the Bishop of Galway failing to apologise for the Church covering up years of abuse of minors. A spokesperson at Ireland’s Rape Crisis Network had stated that the Church needed to stop presenting itself as a victim of circumstance.
Jon pushed the paper away in disgust, memories of what had happened to his own younger brother surfacing. It had been an assistant at Sunday school who’d abused Dave. Rather than share the secret, his younger brother had bottled it all up, his mood-swings becoming more severe, his behaviour wilder and wilder.
The Sunday-School lessons had finished when Dave reached eleven, but, by then, the damage had been done. Arrests for shoplifting and stealing cars had followed. Eventually, Jon’s father had kicked Dave out of the family home. Jon stared down at his pint. Once his younger brother had started living on the streets, he’d never stood a chance. Contact became more erratic and, as he’d slid deeper into petty crime and drug use, he pushed all attempts at help away. Unless it was twenty-pound notes, Jon thought sadly. He’d always been happy to accept those.
Then, only a few years before, his body had been found. Hacked to pieces and dumped on a hilltop in the Peak District. Jon rotated his pint glass slowly round. His search for those responsible had eventually led him back to Manchester’s city centre. The squalid flat Zoë was trapped in, Jake at death’s door with a chest infection, the rickety cot and its single piss-stained sheet…
‘Mushroom soup.’
Jon looked up, momentarily disoriented. ‘Oh – cheers.’
She placed the bowl and side plate down and started making her way back to the bar.
‘Excuse me. Do you know when that nightclub, Darragh’s, opens?’
She turned. ‘Well, usually around eleven.’
Ireland, Jon thought fondly. That’s the most exact time I’m going to get. He looked at his meal. A spoon, but no knife or butter. Fair enough. He picked up the dense roll, tore it apart and started dropping pieces into the thick soup.
After reading the paper from cover to cover, he glanced at his watch. A quarter to nine. His glass was empty and he contemplated another. Better not, he concluded. A drink-driving charge in a foreign country would be a nightmare. He pictured the police station on the road leading out of town. May as well pop in, he decided. There’s not much else to do.
Once he’d paid at the bar, he headed out onto the street. The police station’s foyer was modern and spacious, with five-feet-high plants in the corners. Skirting round the empty seating area, he approached the front desk from where a young officer in uniform watched.
‘Hello,’ Jon said. ‘Nice new station you have here.’
He regarded his surroundings. ‘That it is. It was built for us last year.’
Jon waited for him to ask what his visit was about, but the man seemed content to say nothing, benign expression unbroken.
‘I’m over from Manchester,’ Jon said, extending a hand. ‘Detective Inspector Spicer.’
‘Oh,’ the man nodded calmly as they shook. ‘With the English police, are you?’
‘That’s right.’
He looked to his side where a door led into the back part of the station. �
��Are you here to see someone?’
‘No, no,’ Jon held up a hand. ‘I’m…’ He wondered what to say. Best play it straight, he decided. If anything does go wrong later, it won’t help if I was lying in here. ‘I’ve come over to collect a relative. She’s been working in Darragh’s.’ He looked at the other man, searching for anything in his eyes. Nothing. ‘But she’s needs to head back to Britain now.’
‘Only so many nights you can work before you miss seeing the day.’
‘True,’ Jon replied.
‘Well, it’s grand to have you here, Detective– ’
‘Jon.’
The man nodded. ‘Patrick. Can I get you a tea or coffee, Jon?’
‘I’d love one, if it’s not any trouble.’
‘Ah, sure it’s not. What’ll you have?’
‘Black coffee, no sugar. Thanks.’
The man punched a code into the side door and stepped through. Jon glanced around the reception area. Rows of recessed halogen bulbs shone their beams down onto a pristine grey carpet. The blue seats looked like they were fresh out of their cellophane wrapping. Jon wondered if the place had been built with EU money. Ireland, he’d heard, had been awash with the stuff.
The door opened and the young officer stepped back through. ‘Here you go, Jon.’ He placed a mug down. ‘It’s a terrible business with this soldier, don’t you think?’
Jon slid the cup across the counter. ‘What’s that?’
‘The one who’s been taken up in Belfast?’
He gave a brief shake of his head. ‘I hadn’t heard.’
‘Oh.’ The officer looked embarrassed at having raised the subject. ‘He was returning to his barracks in the early hours. A taxi-driver saw him being bundled into the back of a van.’
Jon sighed. Every time the peace seemed to be properly establishing itself, something else happened. ‘Anyone claimed responsibility?’
‘Not yet. It’ll be some offshoot of the IRA, keen to show the world not everyone agrees with what’s going on in Stormont.’ He sat back. ‘So, what’s Manchester like, then? I have a niece studying there. She says it’s a great craic.’