On the Edge of the Loch: A Psychological Novel set in Ireland (43 page)

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At number 9 Connemara Court the door opened before he reached it.

‘Tony! Why? I thought – ’

‘You called Lenny?’

‘Come in. Look at you! What happened to you?’

‘You made the – ’

‘I did! Yes! The minute you rang me. I told her you banged your leg climbing but you’re alright, like you said. But, Tony, what – ’

‘How is she? What did she say?’

‘She’s happy. Really happy.’ A sad pleasantness afflicted Cilla. ‘Don’t be worrying, will you not; she’ll be at the station. Probably there now. Problem is you won’t be on the train. I don’t get it; you said – ’

‘I will. Catch it up at Killadoon. Lots of time.’

‘No, you won’t. It won’t stop at Killadoon. Westport, then Aranroe.’

He shook his head.

‘Westport, ten past nine, skips Killadoon, Aranroe twenty-five past. I’m telling you.’

Alarm shot into Tony’s bruised face.

‘Quarter past eight now,’ Cilla said.

He remained solemn, ruminating.

‘If it’s that important to you I’ll drive you up to Westport. Catch it there; there’s time.’

‘The late train stops at Killadoon. I’ve taken it.’

‘Listen, will you! After summer nothing stays the same. Not around here. Everything changes.’

‘Fuck it!’ He leaned over the kitchen counter. ‘Fuck it! Fuck it!’

‘Tony – ’

‘Life and death, and I fuck up – again.’

‘How?’ Cilla demanded. ‘Why do y’have to come in on a train? Walk down to her at the station! Ten minutes. Tell her you took the bus. For God’s sake.’

‘Can’t do that. You don’t understand. Have to get on that train.’

‘Why? What’s the big mystery? Not a bit of difference to her how you arrive.’

He did not respond.

‘Look, I told you, I’ll drive you up to Westport. Okay? Let’s go.’

His tired eyes stared past her, then refocused on her, then drifted away again. Neither spoke. Until Cilla’s face turned tragic.

‘You’re hurt!’ she cried out, as though noticing a gravity that had eluded her.

‘You’re positive about the train?’

‘You’re hurt. Tony! For God’s – ’

He began unbuttoning his jacket.

‘Nooo! Nooo!’ she cried. ‘This is madness.’

The black cotton of his shirt glistened purple; blotches smeared his neck.

‘Why, Tony? Why this? The second I saw you I had a feeling something terrible happened. This is mad; it’s stupid. Christ almighty.’

He let his jacket fall to the floor, his eyes avoiding her anguish. Then he eased off his ski hat, revealing a crimson-stained bandana.

‘What’ve you done?!’ She caught his arm, tried to get him to look at her. He shrugged aside. ‘You’ve got yourself into trouble, haven’t you? What happened? Tell me.’

‘Can I clean up or not?’

‘Look at your leg! All down you jeans. You’re bleeding. You could die.’

‘Old blood. It’s stopped.’ He stared at her, his face frail yet still with determination. ‘Fix it for me. Like before.’

‘I’m not a doctor. I told you. I can’t; I can’t do that. You need to get to a hospital. This minute.’

He stood wordless before her, face stoic.

‘Who did this to you? Who? You got into a fight. Is somebody else hurt?’

‘I need you.’ His voice carried all his trust of her. ‘You’re my friend, you said. Do this for me.’

With a disturbed intensity she gazed into his eyes, then touched lightly his bruised cheek. For moments, all that moved or sounded was their heaving chests. ‘You’re going to kill yourself,’ she said. ‘You know that? Y’hear me?’

He pulled out of her reach. But her sadness stayed in his face, and it halted him. ‘What do you want from me, Cilla?’ he said, grabbing his jacket. ‘I have to go. Can I count on you or not?’

‘Wait! Sit down,’ she said. She hurried away and returned quickly with folded towels. ‘I’m a woman, Tony MacNeill. That’s all I am, whatever else you think. I only hope they don’t put you in, put you – ’

‘In prison?’ He shook his head. ‘Not a chance.’

‘Keep you in, in hospital, I mean . . . when you go.’

Without further comment he limped off to the herbal-scented bathroom, where on a brass hook the blue terry-cloth robe still hung. As he watched the blood swirl away, a memory flooded back, the night he and Cilla got drenched in the summer rain; and then here, how they had gazed out at the stars, and her nearly-forgotten, as she had put it, goodnight kiss.

Three bangs on the door jolted him. ‘The da’s robe’s on the door; put it on till I bandage your leg, then you can get dressed. And throw away them jeans.’

Armed with ointment and a cut-up pillow case, she set about sterilizing and wrapping his deeply ruptured thigh, offering no conversation as she worked.

‘Your father stays over?’ he asked after a while.

‘When he’s too drunk to walk home to my mam. The lads in Concannon’s ring me.’ She cut long strips of medical tape from a spool, winding them around the first layer of bandaging. ‘Next morning he always thinks he walked up the hill to me. I don’t tell him.’ She pressed the final strips into place. ‘That’s the best I can do; it was still bleeding and it’s got far worse. I should bring you to Castlebar Hospital, not Westport train station, get it stitched up again.’

Minutes later, smelling of antiseptic, and in fresh denims and a tan leather jacket, he posed in front of the hall mirror, shaping his still-damp hair.

‘Thanks,’ he said without looking at her. ‘Feel better. It’ll be okay.’

With an air of forbearance, she handed him a comb, then attempted unsuccessfully to dab cream on his forehead. ‘It’s only concealer,’ she said, ‘to hide the black and blue, make you look like you’re civilised.’

He fussed with his collar and with the fit of the leather jacket on his shoulders, then he turned to her.

‘You look nice,’ she said without enthusiasm. ‘The big day.’

His hands re-shaped a floppy tweed cap. He put it on, pulled it down, then took it off and tried it on again.

‘Hurry, will you. Look at the time.’ She rattled her car keys. ‘I’m busy. I have a life too, things to do; I don’t have all night to spend.’

He turned to her once more. This time she said nothing. He returned to contemplating her quicksilver image in the corner of the glass.

‘Cap’s fine!’ she said. ‘You going or not?’

He continued peering into the mirror. ‘Got it in Dublin. In a market. Donegal wool.’

‘Adam Clayton’s got one. That real handsome U2 fella. Looks better on him.’

‘Seven quid they wanted,’ he said to her reflection. ‘Got it for two. Goes with the tan jacket.’

‘Dark red hair’s nicer with no hat.’ She made her words sound entirely without compliment. ‘And tweed doesn’t go with leather. Not in Ireland it doesn’t.’

He considered her again, directly this time, with an honesty that had been absent previously. ‘Hides my forehead, that’s all. Only reason I bought it.’

‘What are y’doing? I need you to tell me. It’s nearly a quarter to nine. Takes a half hour to get there, driving fast. You’ve missed it now, that’s it!’ She sighed loudly, thrust both hands into her pockets, turned aside. But his brooding stare continued, and recaptured her. She indulged it, then broke it off.

He lifted his pack. ‘I’m ready,’ he said, almost inaudibly, and pulled open the door. ‘The big day.’

‘Tony – ’ She stopped half-way to him, her green eyes serious and engaging. ‘Look. Look, I know the minute could be better. And I know, I know you know what you’re doing. But, you’re sure, are you, about things?’

A brief silence followed, through which her stare held firm.

Yes, he nodded. Yes, his lowered gaze said, he was sure.

The light in her retreated like a string of pearls sinking into a dark pool. ‘It was just, you know, just thought I’d ask. So that’s good, good.’ She bustled past him, raincoat in hand. ‘Pull the door after you.’

Over hillocks and farm roads the Escort raced. She rammed the gear stick up and down, left and right, navigating one blind bend after another. Past Killadoon, through Louisburg, past Croagh Patrick, past Liscanvey, then outside Murrisk, with four miles to go, her blaring horn scattered a bunch of black-faced sheep that dared to steal her road. By then, what time they had in hand, little as it was, had been lost. The car raced faster and faster along the narrow winding ways. Then entering Westport she veered onto a traffic-free side road that at the end brought them back onto Altamont Street, to a screeching halt outside the station. At that moment the shrill of a whistle sliced the air. It was 9:12pm.

Cilla leapt from the car, sprinted up the ramp and onto the platform. The black-and-orange train was moving out.

‘Matt! Stop it! Stop it!’ she yelled through cupped hands.

The young uniformed porter returned a cheerful wave from thirty yards.

‘Stop it! Stop it!’ She stabbed at the train.

His hands shot into the air, waving wildly. The train continued. She stuck her fingers into her mouth and blared out a long whistle, then a second, and a third. The train squealed and clacked until it stopped with just the tail of the last carriage adjacent to the platform.

Tony limped toward her, grimacing.

‘Sure you’re feeling alright, your leg?’ she called out.

‘My backpack, it’s heavy, it’s at the car.’

‘Leave it. I’ll get it. C’mon.’ Cilla urged him forward. And as he passed her she blushed triumphant and tragic.

Then he stopped. Turned to her. His extended hand was instantly enfolded by both of hers.

‘Thank you; I mean that,’ he said. ‘More than you could know.’ She started into a lean toward him. He pulled back, then moved away over the grey flagstones and vanished through the last door of the end carriage.

The porter’s flag rose. A hard blast echoed across the lonely countryside.

‘You’d do the same for me,’ she said as the train departed. ‘You said so.’

26

Aranroe Train Station, County Mayo

From the west, beyond the station, the late-setting sun painted orange light over heather and hill and sky. At the call of the train a foursome of blue-black crows came cawing from the trees to perch under the canopy. Then out of the dark hole it emerged, headlight burning, and slowly rumbled to a stop. It was 9:25pm.

In blue jeans and an oversize Aran sweater, she stood alone, alert, by the gate.

The first carriage door cried open. Then another. And another. A small group of passengers streamed toward her. In ones and twos they passed, until the last had gone and the station fell quiet again. But, resplendent still, and with her crimped blond hair tossing gently, she recomposed her svelte frame and stood erect.

And waited.

Then, hands intertwined in front of her, she eased forward, glaring along the length of the train. Nothing moved, nor sounded. She retreated to where she’d been waiting by the exit. And moments passed. And then more.

‘Princess,’ the voice called out.

She jumped.

‘Princess, we’ll go home now.’ Leo’s warm face loved her from the doorway. His hands beckoned her to his care.

She shook her head.

‘I’ll be in the car so, whenever you’re right.’ He retreated, out through the stationhouse, and sat into the yellow taxi beside the doleful figure of Paddy McCann.

And suddenly the night made a noise. From behind her. The clack of a carriage door. It lured her eyes through a slow arc and brought the day-end sun into her face. The last door of the end carriage stuck out. Nothing else moved. Then slowly down he climbed, and he began moving toward her, limping, silhouetted against the western sky.

She twitched, fumbled, her face on fire.

Then he was closer, ten paces closer, floppy cap distinct, and tan leather jacket, moving brisker now.

Spellbound, she watched, staring into the light, her hands as though self-restraining, eyes full.

‘Tony!’ His name rode out on her breath. And again on new oxygen: ‘Oh Tony, you’re safe.’

Rimmed in light, he shuffled toward her with growing urgency. Now just one carriage length away. Now thirty feet. Now twenty. Still she did not move. And then he stopped. Stood motionless. Almost reachable. Fixated on her sunlit form. His hand reached up to his floppy tweed cap.

A silver ponytail sprang out.

Her scream, piercing and out of control, filled all the dark and empty places, an incantation that scattered the band of blue-black crows. And when it lessened, when it transformed into soundlessness, her face reflected the heaven that hides inside impossible dreams.

As he started again toward her, her body pitched forward, shaking, then pulled back as though not to submit to what could not be true.

But Aidan’s arms burst wide as the sky behind him, wide as his teary smile, and his embrace reclaimed her, lifted her up into the trainy air, and he kept her to him, his sobbing buried in hers, and they clung as one.

Eventually they disengaged, just enough for their lips to touch in brief stabs. And when their breaths came back they just held, faces touching, belonging to each other again.

So joined, like the halves of an Intinn Island oyster shell, they swayed in the light of the late-summer night, on Ireland’s western shore.

27

From the shadows, Leo and Paddy watched, openly tearful. And at the far side of the station Cilla deBurca turned away from the railings through which she too had been watching.

And she froze.

Before her stood Tony MacNeill, pale and still, in a baggy green jacket. Her features contorted; she gestured toward the train.

‘Aidan,’ Tony said. ‘I got out the other side, crossed the tracks – ’

‘Aidan?! Aidan Harper?! Can’t be.’

‘Some come back from the grave.’

‘It can’t be. You mean . . . It can’t be. You’re saying – ’

‘I am. A long story.’

All that had been, and all the unknowns, and all that now might be, seemed to reflect in each of them. They moved off together, unhurried, along the lane.

‘I would not have believed it, not for a second’ Cilla said. ‘That you’d do that, what you did. I just, I just can’t – ’

They stopped, stood within each other’s reach.

Tony’s eyes climbed a fading Mweelrea, to its top. ‘No way I could be sure he’d get on that train. Half expected he wouldn’t.’