by Chris Simms
‘Time for you to go home,’ the bouncer said, taking two more small steps. Jon saw his knees bend slightly and suddenly his right fist started to come up.
Jon parried the blow without any problem. ‘Conor– ’ The room jarred and, a nanosecond later, Jon registered an impact on his temple. Bastard was feinting with his right. Vision now full of stars, Jon just had time to dip his head, guessing the man would follow with his right. A fist glanced harmlessly off his skull. He shot a hand out, clamping his fingers on the man’s throat to keep him at arm’s length. ‘Conor, for fuck’s sake, you– ’
He saw Conor’s left swinging in again and had to reach out with his free hand to catch the man’s wrist. Now eye-to-eye, he could see the bouncer wasn’t going to stop. Jon yanked him forward and slammed his forehead into the other man’s face. The guy dropped to his knees, eyes rolling up as a stream of blood started from each nostril.
Jon looked around. This is not good. ‘Zoë! Can you hear me, Zoë!’
Darragh was staring at the bouncer who was now reaching a hand down to the floor. ‘Don’t get up, Conor,’ Jon said. But the man had managed to raise one knee in readiness to stand. ‘You’re getting up,’ Jon murmured resignedly. Careful to avoid the man’s kidneys, Jon swung his shoe into the bouncer’s stomach, knocking the breath out of him. He collapsed onto his side, mouth gaping.
Jon went past the cowering girl towards the far door, the barman shying from his approach. ‘Zoë!’ He stepped through. Two more doors in front. He pushed the right one open. A small toilet. He shoved against the left one and found himself behind the bar.
The student barman was looking at him, shock on his face. His eyes flicked to Jon’s shoulder, widening slightly. Instinctively, Jon ducked as something heavy and hard thudded into the doorframe just above him. He span about to see Darragh raising a stubby little baseball bat. The nightclub owner jumped forward, swinging it again.
The confines of the bar hampered his movement and Jon stepped inside the arc of the impending blow, grabbed the man by his shirt and heaved him round. Darragh’s feet left the floor and Jon brought him down on top of the bar, bottles and glasses flying. Pinning him there with one hand, Jon used his other to twist the bat from Darragh’s grasp. He pressed the end of it against the man’s nose. ‘I should wrap this round your fucking head.’
‘Get off,’ Darragh snarled, veins in his neck bulging as he tried to struggle free.
Looking up, Jon saw the entire club staring at him. He shoved Darragh off the bar so he fell to the carpet at the edge of the dance floor. Turning round, he slipped back through the door through which he’d come.
The overweight barman was still rooted to the spot and the bouncer was now in a foetal position. I need to be out of here, Jon thought. I am seriously in the shit. How many people just witnessed that? Fuck!
‘What have you done to Darragh? Did you hurt him?’
This from the scrawny girl, still on her knees, but now backed up against the wall.
Jon rounded on her. ‘Zoë – is she here? Do you know her?’
She shook her head.
Jon’s gaze stayed on her a moment longer. No time, he thought, to pump her for information. He crossed to the tape machine on the corner of Darragh’s desk. Twin deck. ‘Get some ice for his nose,’ he ordered the girl, directing a nod at the bouncer. Then he slung the baseball bat into the corner, pressed the eject buttons, yanked the two cassettes out and jogged for the rear doors.
Chapter 6
Shoving his gear-stick across and down, Jon reversed out into the quiet street. Oh God, what the hell have I just done? He screwed his eyes shut for a second before putting his car in first and accelerating away.
The two security tapes were on the passenger seat beside him. Why, he asked himself, did you take them? Enough people saw what happened. You could be up for trespass, assault and theft. He thought about the twin streams of blood that had started to fall from the bouncer’s nose. GBH, too. Shit!
He got to the junction for the main road. A few hundred metres ahead was the police station. No, Jon thought. Not that way. He signalled right, cut round a small island and headed back along the first part of the high street. I need to be out of this town. The road kinked right, leading back towards Darragh’s. Jon braked. This was a nightmare. A narrower turn was to his left. He took it, vaguely registering a sign for Ballyconneely. Within minutes, he found himself negotiating a pot-holed route through dark countryside. Occasionally, he could sense yawning space off to his right. The sea, he realised. This road must be hugging the coast.
He drove for another half an hour and, as his adrenaline ebbed, fatigue kicked in. His head began to ache from where the bouncer had landed his blow. The road passed through a couple of small villages, traffic lights on green. A while further on, a small sign glowed briefly in his headlights. Parking. Let’s stop there, he thought. Take a breather. He slowed looking for the side road. Another sign emerged from the darkness. Gorteen Beach.
He turned right onto a bumpy little track that sloped round into a small car-park. As he rolled slowly across the smooth surface, his headlights picked out a white structure on which was mounted an orange ring. Behind was a pale expanse of sand and beyond that, only blackness.
Knowing he was now out of sight of the road, he parked, turned his lights off and rested his forehead against the steering wheel. What are you doing? What possessed you to just barge into the back of the club like that? The phone call, he realised, that’s what. Siobhain’s message, saying Zoë was right there. But she wasn’t. At least not by the time I turned up. Damn it, why did the bouncer have to launch himself at me like that? His temple was throbbing and he brushed his fingers across the skin. A nice lump was on its way up.
He leaned his head back and sighed. What a disaster. The sound of waves breaking gently on the nearby beach filled his car and the memory of Darragh pinned to the top of the bar materialised. Swinging at me like that. I didn’t expect that from him. He thought about the piles of cash the man had been counting on his desk. Jon felt his eyes narrow. You know what? This might not be as bad as you think.
All I was to Darragh was some English nutter barging in and asking for Zoë. That’s all he knows about me. Will he report the incident? If he does, it’ll open him up to some very awkward questions. It’s obvious the guy’s into something very dodgy. Plus, there’s the embarrassment of having some bloke stroll into his club, batter the bouncer, throw the owner across the bar and stroll back out again. Not something you’d want doing the rounds.
Jon sank down in his seat, feeling marginally better. There’s a very good chance, he decided, this whole thing will be hushed up. He considered any other ways he’d left himself vulnerable. The drinkers in Mannion’s bar. They’d clocked me parking. And the policeman at the station. Jon cursed. I gave him my name and where I worked. He shook his head. That was stupid, Spicer. Very stupid.
He reached for his mobile. What should I tell Alice? Your dickhead of a husband has just decked a couple of locals in Clifden. Oh yeah, and he stole the security tapes for the nightclub. But don’t worry, there were a good twenty witnesses and the only person he gave his real identity to was a policeman. How’s that for a night’s work?
He accessed his text messaging service and started pressing keys. No sign of Zoë. Have left Clifden, will get ferry in morning. Jon XXX
Hating himself for glossing over what had actually happened, he pressed send. I’ll tell her everything when I get back, he told himself. No point in worrying her with details now.
He glanced at his watch. Twenty past one in the morning. All he could hear was the rhythmic sound of the ocean. It’ll be light in another five hours, he thought, zipping his ski jacket up under his chin.
A seagull shrieked. Jon opened his eyes. Through a side window beaded with moisture on both sides, he could see the bird. It was perched on the life-ring stand, looking out to sea. Dawn was just breaking, everything cold and grey. A shiver went through him
as he returned his seat to the upright position. So bloody cold. He rubbed his numb hands together, eyes feeling like they were full of grit. The two security tapes were on the seat beside him. Bollocks, he thought, I was hoping it was all a dream. The dashboard clock read ten past six. Feels like I’ve been asleep for twenty minutes. Three times he’d resorted to turning the engine on during the remainder of the night, welcoming the warm wash of air while knowing it was only a temporary respite.
He remembered peering from the window at one point to gaze in wonder at the night sky. Had the view been for real? He was used to skies dotted with a few dozen stars. Last night there’d been thousands.
He opened the driver’s door and the seagull immediately took off. It banked away to the right, disappearing over a cluster of gravestones that clung to the slopes of a small hill. Silence. At the top of the grassy bank to his side, he could see a row of permanent caravans. All their curtains were open and none had lights on. Empty, Jon thought. Waiting for the holiday season. Inland, fields were lightly speckled with white cottages. Beyond, the terrain grew steeper, the rapidly-lightening sky dominated by a craggy brown peak.
He crossed to the waist-high wall on the other side of the car-park and surveyed the beach. A gentle curve of bleached sand, its inner side bordered by a sedge-covered dune. The strip of land stretched away to a grassy knoll about a kilometre out to sea. The ocean inching its way up the rocks at the bottom of the wall was as clear as spring water. A tiny crab emerged from beneath a shifting frond, edging its way cautiously along a barnacle-crusted ledge.
On a warm summer’s day, Jon realised, this place would be absolutely idyllic.
Back at the car, his eyes went to the tapes on the passenger seat. I need to get shot of those, He took them out and shoved them to the bottom of the bin by the steps leading down to the beach.
After making sure they were concealed by a layer of litter, he returned to the vehicle and took the roadmap out of the glove compartment. I’m parked somewhere called Gorteen Beach. There was the city of Galway. To its west was a bulge of land fringed by a shattered coastline. The entire area was stamped with a single word: Connemara. He found Clifden and traced his finger along the minor road he’d taken the night before. When he found Gorteen Beach, his hand came to a sudden stop. My God, I’m about a mile away from Roundstone.
My grandparents, Malachy and Orla. I could try and find them. The significance of the little cemetery nearby hit him. It must be where the villagers were buried. The sun had now cleared a majestic line of peaks way off to the east. The cloudless sky was the palest shade of blue and the air had a crystalline quality about it. He followed a narrow footpath to the cemetery gate. The right-hand post was marked with a small plaque that simply read, In memory of the Deceased Infants.
Jon recalled his mother talking about the dilemma; those who died unbaptised were not allowed to be buried on consecrated ground. So mothers of stillborn children were forced to place the bodies of their dead babies just beyond the cemetery wall, the infants’ souls sentenced to an eternity of exclusion. Jon looked sadly at the unmarked tussocks of grass. If there was ever a religious institution governed by unfeeling men, it was surely the Catholic church.
The iron gate creaked as he stepped into the windswept graveyard. Headstones had been erected wherever space allowed a grave to be dug: there were no rows or aisles. In fact, there seemed to be no order to the graves at all.
He meandered through the haphazard arrangement, noticing the same surnames again and again. Connelly. Folan. McDonagh. At the top of the hill he found the first headstone marked with O’Coinne, his mum’s maiden name. The stone was old, inscription worn smooth by years of exposure to sun, wind and rain.
Kitty O’Coinne. Born 4th August, 1883. Died 15th June, 1949. R.I.P.
Jon frowned, wondering who she was. So much of my family I know nothing about. He searched the neighbouring headstones. Another old one; this time for Phelim O’Coinne. Died 1922. Another to the left was a lot newer. He saw the inscription and felt his shoulders droop.
O Lord have mercy on the soul of Orla O’Coinne. Born 18th September 1926. Died 11th January 2010. Aged 84 years.
My grandma’s dead, Jon thought, crouching down. She died years ago. Did mum know? Surely she did. At the least, she’d have received a letter from one of her sisters or her brother. He pressed the tip of his thumb between his closed eyes. If she had been told her mother was dead, it had created no visible effect on her. What happened all those years ago? Something terrible.
He searched around for a headstone marked with Malachy O’Coinne but didn’t find one. Could the old man still be alive? He turned to the horizon and took in the view. What a beautiful place to be buried.
A circular tablet of stone at the roadside let him know he was entering Roundstone itself. Parking in a marked area overlooking a sea wall, he got out of the car and glanced about. The village seemed to be little more than a short high street of pastel-coloured properties. A deserted-looking hotel was opposite him, followed by a small shop. Further down, he could see two hanging signs. One for a pub called King’s, one for an art gallery. The first building on his side of the road seemed to be some kind of café. Jon realised he was starving. He approached the door, but the place was shut. The next building appeared to be a convenience store. Jon examined the single petrol pump set into the pavement before the open front door. The thing actually appears to be working. This place really is from another era.
Aware of the lump on the side of his head, he stepped into the shop a little self-consciously and nodded hello to the elderly woman behind the counter. A refrigerated section was off to his right. He plucked a pint of milk from the shelf along with a couple of pasties and a small block of cheese. Every item, he noticed, was priced with an individual sticky label. How long since I’ve seen them? He added a cellophane-wrapped sausage roll.
‘Nice morning,’ he smiled to the lady, adding a packet of mints to his pile.
She nodded pleasantly. ‘It is, so.’
‘Perhaps the last of winter is finally behind us.’
‘Perhaps.’ She didn’t look convinced. ‘That’s nine euro sixty-five.’
He gave her a ten euro note. ‘I see you’ve been having the same frosts we’ve had in England – you’ve got the pot-holes to prove it.’
‘Oh, I don’t know.’ Her eyes twinkled. ‘We have the pleasure of those whatever the weather.’
‘Oh.’ Jon grinned.
‘So you are here on holiday?’
He hesitated. ‘Kind of – looking about for a holiday home. Somewhere with a beach.’
She smoothed her apron with both hands. ‘We get a few stragglers passing through this time of year.’
Stragglers, Jon smiled to himself. Like I’m trying to follow the summer herds, just a full six months behind. He wondered how to frame his next question and opted for simplicity. ‘Do you know Malachy O’Coinne?’
‘The O’Coinnes? I do.’
She said O’Coinnes, Jon thought. More than one.
‘Turn your face to O’Dowd’s. Go up the side street and you’ll find Malachy’s place at the top.’ She pointed down the street to the pale blue pub sign on the other side. ‘That way.’
Jon felt a tingle down his spine. ‘Thanks. Is there a name or house number?’
She thought for a moment. ‘I don’t think so. It’s the one with shells and things at the front.’
‘OK.’ He hurried back to his car, dumped everything but a pasty on the passenger seat and walked back past the shop. A tiny harbour opened up on his right, a palm tree growing at the top of the flagstone path leading up from the quay. Chewing his way through the stodgy pastry, he regarded the little jetty with its stacks of lobster pots and piles of nets. Two fishing boats were moored at the end, one blue, one red. The little roofs of the cabins were speckled with gull droppings. The bay beyond was like a millpond, orange buoys motionless on the calm surface.
He stuffed the last of the past
y into his mouth. That’s my calories for the day, he thought, turning to O’Dowd’s. The sign outside announced it was a seafood restaurant and bar. Black blinds bearing the Guinness logo had been lowered in each window. What a perfect place for a lock-in, he thought. The nearest police station must be Clifden – and that’s miles away.
As he crossed the street, a mixture of apprehension and excitement was beginning to fill him. What am I going to do? Knock on his front door? Walk by? What do I say if he’s actually there?
The side-road was a steep incline that soon made his thighs ache. The road ahead eventually merged into a lane which led directly for the craggy-topped hill he’d seen from Gorteen Beach. There were a couple of old-looking bungalows to the left of the road. Directly on the other side was what appeared to be the footings for a very large house. Piles of breeze blocks and bricks stood on pallets, alongside stacked sacks of cement mix. The driveway was yet to be laid and the area surrounding the foundations had been churned up by the thick tyres of a dumper truck parked alongside the pallets. What an eyesore, Jon thought.
He walked on, gaze shifting to the overgrown garden of the first bungalow. Shutters were closed over the windows and a For Sale sign had been bolted to the corner of the low building.
The next garden was tidier. Little stone rabbits dotted the lawn and seashells lined the pathway leading up to a large front porch. Jon stopped in his tracks. An elderly man was sitting in an armchair to the right of the open doors. Almost bald on top, he had a great bushy beard, in which patches of ginger still clung. He was wearing an old mustard-coloured cable-knit jumper, the cuffs of which were frayed. Impassively, he stared at Jon, looking for all the world like he had been sitting there through the night. Maybe longer.