by Chris Simms
She’s here, with me. It’s OK.’ Her voice was breathless, agitated.
His chin dropped and he saw how the slight ripples in his stomach were lit a faint blue by his phone’s screen. ‘Alice, what’s going on?’
‘There’s...we had a gas leak.’ She started talking away from the phone once more. ‘Thank you, that’s very kind. Holly? It’s hot chocolate. You’ll like it. Stay there a minute while I talk to Daddy.’ Her voice grew louder once more. ‘We’re outside with blankets wrapped round us.’
A voice called out in the background. ‘It’s safe! It’s safe! Relax everyone.’
Jon fought to keep his voice under control. ‘You said a gas leak?’
‘Yes. We were fast asleep. There’s a family in the neighbouring lodge, they have a teenage lad, he came back late: got the wrong lodge. Tried to open our front door. It woke me up. The whole place was thick with it.’
‘Slow down.’ Jon turned his bedside light on. ‘Your lodge was full of gas?’
‘I grabbed Holly and we got out. The place was…we were choking.’
Jon climbed out of bed. ‘Who’s there now? Who’s with you?’
‘Everyone in the cul-de-sac is up. Night staff from the office are here – one just came out and said it’s safe.’
Jon was walking around, scratching at the back of his neck. ‘I don’t get it – ’
‘Excuse me?’ Alice was speaking to someone else again. ‘Yes, it’s our lodge. Me and my daughter. What was it?’
More talking. Too many people close by, all of them speaking, everything just a jumble of syllables. Jon wanted to scream down the phone for them to shut the fuck up. He could make out Alice’s voice. She sounded indignant. ‘He’s taking me back in, Jon. They’ve opened all the doors and windows. Everything’s been opened.’
The background noise grew fainter and he guessed she had stepped through the door. A male voice started to speak.
‘It was the dial for the oven. This one here, right in the middle? It was turned to full.’
‘But that’s impossible.’ Her words were incredulous.
‘Well…’ The man sounded embarrassed. ‘I’ve checked the utility room with a reader. This was the leak, madam. Right here.’
A siren note of panic started up in Jon’s head. ‘Alice!’ He took his boxer shorts and jeans off the back of the chair and threw them on his bed. ‘Alice!’
‘Perhaps,’ the man continued, ‘you were planning to put a casserole on? Could you have forgotten?’
‘No. No, I couldn’t.’ Alice now sounded uneasy. ‘Has someone…was a door or window open?’
‘No, everything was firmly locked.’
Her voice came back down the line. ‘Jon, did you hear that? I don’t get it, the man is saying the oven – ’
‘I heard.’ Jon pulled a clean T-shirt off the wardrobe shelf. ‘I’m coming home.’
‘You’re what?’
‘I’m coming home.’
‘When?’
‘Now. First flight I can get. This isn’t right.’ He heard a beep. ‘What was that?’
‘The man’s walkie-talkie. Someone’s telling him the fire brigade are here.’
Jon used his free hand to try and get his boxer shorts on. ‘Alice, look around you. Can you see anything? Any sign someone was in there.’
‘I have done, there isn’t – oh my God.’
‘What?’
‘It’s Holly’s dog. That beanbag one she got from McDonald’s?’
‘What about it?’
‘The head’s been pulled off. Jon – it was on the sofa. I saw Holly put it there. Its head’s been pulled off.’
Jon gave up trying to get a foot through his underwear. ‘Alice. You and Holly: get out of there.’
‘What?’
Shit, he thought, sitting down in the armchair. They’re so bloody far away. He spoke slowly and clearly. ‘Get your handbag and walk out while there are still lots of people around. Is the fire engine there?’
‘Yes, it’s pulling up outside.’
‘While it’s busy, just take Holly and move. Get on the motorway and don’t stop driving, OK?’
Her voice went very calm. ‘It was them, wasn’t it? That’s what you’re saying.’
‘We can’t use our mobiles any more, Alice. Not for speaking to each other. Call me from any services. Pull up on the petrol-station forecourt, where it’s brightly lit. Let me know you’re fine, then get going again. I’m phoning Rick.’
‘OK.’
He listened to more sounds of movement, voices rising and falling, the rumble of a diesel engine. He heard Alice’s voice. ‘Holly? Come with Mummy a minute. No, don’t worry about your drink. That’s it. Good girl. Jon? I’ve got her. I’m hanging up.’ The line went dead.
Jon put his phone down and searched for something to punch. His reflection glared back at him from the full-length mirror in the wardrobe door. I’m naked, he thought. Naked and totally fucking powerless. A roar of frustration broke from his lips. He breathed in and out several times then called Rick’s number. With the handset on loudspeaker, he started to get dressed. Answerphone. He hung up and rang again.
His partner answered groggily. ‘Jon?’
‘Yeah mate, it’s me. Can you hear OK?’
‘What’s going on?’
Jon wondered where to start. A week ago, I had a normal life. Not now. ‘There’s been some kind of incident where Alice and Holly are staying in Center Parcs.’
‘Say that again. An incident?’
‘Just listen, mate.’
‘OK.’
‘Can you get hold of a car?’
‘Yeah, Andy’s. He’s here.’
Jon crossed the room and started removing the rest of his clothes from the wardrobe’s shelves. ‘Right. Alice and Holly are fine, but there was a gas leak in their lodge. One of Holly’s toys – a little dog – was on the sofa with its head ripped off.’
‘Where are they now?’
‘I told them to get the hell out. They’re heading for the motorway and staying on it. They’re going to call me from a service station. I’m on the first flight I can get.’
‘Is there one in the morning from Galway?’
‘I don’t know. There’d better be. Usually, there’re two each day.’ He started ramming garments into his holdall. ‘I need you to make sure they’re safe – until I get back. Can you drive up there?’
‘’Course I can.’
‘And I need your opinion about the lodge. Alice mentioned staff from Center Parcs had turned up, and a fire engine was attending. Treat it like a crime scene, mate. If it was them who did this, it changes everything. I am going to nail this family. Really fucking nail them.’
‘It doesn’t make sense. How could they have found her?’
He was on his knees, searching for his trainers under the bed. ‘For all I know, my phone calls are being intercepted.’
‘You really think so?’
‘I don’t know what to think anymore. Just call me when you’ve had a look around the lodge she was in, yeah?’
‘OK, will do. Jon? I’m texting you an address for a website.’
‘What is it?’
‘The de Avila family history; their ancestor was a Spanish soldier.’
Jon stopped in the act of unplugging his mobile phone charger from the socket near the TV. ‘And?’
‘You rang asking me to check on a possible link to the Armada. When the fleet was wrecked during that huge storm?’
‘Go on.’
‘I didn’t find much – not until I tried pairing the name de Avila with the breed of dog the RSPCA officer found out about. Alano. Then this particular document came up. If nothing else, it’ll give you a good insight to their mentality.’
Jon was scanning the room for any other important items. Car keys, on the coffee table by the window. ‘Why?’
‘This ancestor, the soldier, he was on board a ship called the Concepción.’
‘Concepción: t
hat was the name of the bloody ship! The one in the painting above Darragh’s desk.’
‘The guy’s account ended up in the University of Galway and it’s now been put online. There’ll be computers with internet access at the airport.’
‘OK, if there’s time before my flight, I’ll check it out.’
‘Jon – it’s worth it. You’ll see why.’
‘Got you. And Rick? Cheers for taking care of things.’
‘Call me when you know what time you’ll get in.’
‘Will do.’ He cut the connection and put the phone in his jacket. The other handset bumped against his fingers. Apart from that blood-chilling shriek, not a single call. Nothing from anyone – especially Siobhain. Nothing from her except a dodgy photo taken fuck-knows when.
He peeled back the curtain and looked down on the street. A couple were wandering out from Darragh’s and he could hear the faint thud of music before the club’s doors swung shut. This place, he thought. He lifted his gaze to the dark sky, conjuring his dead brother’s face. Sorry our kid, but I tried. Honestly, I did my best. He surveyed the town’s rooftops. Zoë, if you’re here somewhere, I’m sorry. But right now? I’ve got my own family to protect.
The glow from the many lights dotted round the airport merged to form one big shimmering pool. An oasis in the night, Jon thought as he sped along the deserted road. The barriers were up and he drove into the near-empty car park and left the vehicle in a slot near the main entrance.
The terminal building was quiet: one lady behind the information desk and another raising the shutters of a little shop at the far end, the word Bewley’s emblazoned across them. He turned to the Avis desk. No one there. A notice on the wall instructed him to drop any keys into the secure box directly below it. Jon slotted them in and wandered over to the departures board.
A 6.25 to Edinburgh. A 6.40 to London. A 7.10 to Birmingham. A 7.35 to Manchester. After that, nothing until the evening round of flights, including one at 7.50 to Manchester.
The clock at the bottom of the board read 4.45. Nearly three hours, he thought, checking his mobile yet again for any missed messages from Alice. Nothing. Surely she’d have passed a service station by now? Can I risk calling her? What if my calls really are being hacked? He put his mobile back down. She’ll be driving anyway.
He flicked a glance over the arrivals board. A Manchester flight was due in at 6.45: probably the same plane making the return journey at 7.35. He approached the information desk and placed his hold all and little rucksack on the floor. ‘Morning. What time does check-in open?’
‘They should be here by 5.30 or so.’
‘Any seats on the first flight to Manchester?’
‘Let me see.’ She tapped away at her keyboard. ‘There are.’
‘Great, I’ll take one.’
Once everything was sorted, he turned round. What the hell do I do now? He needed something to keep his mind from dwelling on where Alice and Holly were. The café shop had a newspaper stand. A single copy of the previous day’s Irish Independent was at the top. His gaze went to the nearby shelves. Souvenirs – tins of Irish fudge, knitwear and cuddly toys. He picked off a teddy bear and an oatmeal-coloured scarf. After buying the items along with the paper and a coffee, he sat down at a table. In the right-hand column of the front page was a report on the furore surrounding the murdered British soldier. He scanned the headline.
Investigation stalls, Stormont teeters
According to Sinn Féin, the lack of progress in finding the soldier’s killers was due to the fragmented and inchoate nature of what remained of the dissident movement.
Unionist politicians were becoming increasingly vocal in their criticism of Sinn Féin’s refusal to condemn the act outright. So far, a Sinn Féin spokesman had only expressed regret at the soldier’s death before asserting that the act of an outlaw group shouldn’t be allowed to derail the peace process.
A representative for the Democratic unionist Party said there was a fierce internal debate going on over whether they could still share power with an organisation that appeared unable to apologise for the atrocity.
Shaking his head, Jon flipped the paper over and tried to read the sport. He finished a page-worth’s of articles with no idea of what he’d just read. His eyes went to his phone as a text came in. From Rick.
www.ucg.ie/celt/de-avila. Check it out.
May as well, Jon thought, if I can get on the internet. He walked into the shop where the woman was kneeling before a fridge, stacking it with cans. ‘Can I use one of your computers, please? To go online.’
‘Sure,’ she replied without getting up. ‘They’re all ready to go.’
He moved his things to a corner table with a monitor. The homepage was crowded with all manner of advertisements. Tilting the screen of his phone, he typed in the address Rick had sent. A page with just a single result appeared. Jon clicked on it.
My time in Connacht by Francisco de Avila
Funded by the University of Galway and Higher Education Authority via the CELT project
Translation by Richard Hallam
On the left-hand side of the screen were a couple of tabs. He selected ‘Preamble’.
In the autumn of 1588, the remains of the Spanish Armada – having been chased from the Channel by the English fleet under Drake – attempted to return to Spain via the North Atlantic. A powerful series of storms drove the 130-strong fleet onto the west coast of Ireland.
Up to 24 Spanish ships, including several galleons, were wrecked on the unforgiving coastline. An estimated 5,000 Spaniards perished.
Twelve ships were wrecked on the coast of Connacht, the region that encompasses modern-day Connemara. Francisco de Avila was a soldier on board the Concepción of Biscay, an 18 gun vessel with 225 men. It was grounded at Carna, 30 km west of Galway Bay, having been lured to the shores by the bonfires of wreckers from the notorious O’Flaherty clan.
This account describes de Avila’s extraordinary tale. The fact de Avila survived to write it was, as the author himself asserts, due only to his war-dog.
Jon’s eyes froze. War-dog. Hutcher used that term for the Alanos that Spanish soldiers released during attacks on enemy forces. He went to the next tab, titled ‘Text – Part 1.’
Since we sailed from Lisbon to England, I have passed through a great many hardships and misfortunes, from which our Lord, in his infinite kindness, delivered me. What follows is the truth, by the holy baptism which I have received.
The galleon in which I sailed, the Concepción, had received great injury from many cannon balls. There were still holes through which water entered and no amount of pumping would dry her out. When we passed along the coast of Ireland, a ferocious storm sprang up on our beam with sea buckling to the heavens. Neither cables nor sails could save us. On the shore there was spotted fires and many of the gentlemen and scions of nobility on board demanded we sail for them.
Our Captain, Don Alonso, did yield to their wishes and so our fate was sealed for, to the sides of this shore, were rocks. Within a space of minutes, our ship was broken into pieces. Many I saw drowned, among them infantry, captains, ensigns, commanders and other war officials and noblemen. Those who reached the shore were first stripped then cut to pieces by the savages who waited there. One gallowglass warrior did walk into the shallows where he killed over twenty of my countrymen alone with his axe.
I regarded this solemn scene with my Alaunt, Pio, and I did not know what to do. Death was imminent by remaining on the battered ship, yet the shore was full of enemies who pranced and shrieked with delight at our misfortune.
It was then I saw the cover of a hatchway, the size of a table, that God saw fit to deliver to me. Supplicating Our Lady of Ontanar, I cast myself on to it and beckoned Pio to follow. There came wave after wave and soon we were carried to the shore. Chattering with cold and covered with blood, I emerged, hardly able to stand. A band of the savages approached. But, thanks to the Most Holy Virgin, His Mother, I had Pio. When I ord
ered him forth, my dog did create such fear among them, the savages fled back to where their fellows were breaking open chests and whatever they might find. Using this opportunity the Lord had granted, I made off along the shore to some rushes where I was able to hide for the night with Pio for my warmth.
In the morning I ventured back and saw a sight of such grief and pity. Over one hundred dead bodies were being devoured on the sands by sea birds, crows and foxes. Of the Concepción, nothing remained. The sea continued to cast up dead bodies and I began to walk, shoeless and suffering great pain and hunger.
Jon’s eyes went back to the mention of the dog. An Alaunt – the older name for what was now known as an Alano. He blinked. It seemed surreal to think the fearsome creatures were beginning to reappear. And the fact one had got so close to Holly…he shuddered. Devlan de Avila. The name burned in his mind’s eye. I owe you so much pain.
He became aware of a presence by his side. The girl from the café shop.
‘Did you want a refill? They’re free.’
‘Yes,’ he replied, realising she was holding a glass pot in her hand. ‘Thanks.’
As she walked away, he checked his mobile again then turned back to the screen.
I met a woman of many years, a rough savage. ‘Spain?’ she asked and I nodded my assent. She directed me to a monastery of monks some four leagues off who might offer me repair. With great toil I finally reached it but all that was inside were twelve of my countrymen hanging by their necks – an act by the Lutheran English who were, I soon learned, abroad on horses searching to make an end of any who had escaped.
I sallied forth into the trees. Later that day I encountered two young men going for plunder at the shore. Though I sought to circumvent them, they changed course towards me, one crying out, ‘Yield, Spanish poltroon.’ He drew his knife. For ever be His Most Holy Pity for I had Pio by my side. I bade him once more to attack and this time hold on to one of the savages so that I might take his clothes, shoes and knife for myself. I also extracted from him that, beyond the mountains ahead, were good lands of a savage chieftain called O’Rourke, an ally of the King of Spain.