The Hollow Heart (The Heartfelt Series) (14 page)

Marianne was determined to
put her unpleasant encounter with someone she had previously admired out of her
mind. Yes, the island was small but she was sure she could manage to avoid him,
and if she did happen to see him, she would be civil and nothing else. If Ryan
O’Gorman was arrogant and ignorant enough to imagine she had contrived to be on
one of Western Europe’s most remote islands, for weeks on end, to report on the
behaviour of a barely
C-list
celebrity, well that was his problem. His
was not the only soul in need of solace. After the heartbreak of losing George,
the injuries and anguish following the bombing, and the stress of trying to
maintain a career while nursing Paul, she had more than enough reason to take
refuge in this remote and beautiful place. Who the hell did he think he was,
suggesting she would go to such lengths to snoop on him? Honestly, the vanity
of the man!

If Ryan thought she, a mature professional woman of some
standing, had nothing better to do than traipse around the wilds of Ireland in
the hope of catching him kissing a colleen, picking his nose or scratching his
arse, well the whole idea was so baldly bizarre, it was depressing. Even more
depressing that, should such nonsense be published, some poor sad soul
somewhere might be remotely bothered to read it.  She shuddered with contempt
and, letting Monty out into the garden, unwittingly let Oonagh in.

“Hope I’m not disturbing you? Isn’t a grand day altogether.
Have you settled?” Oonagh filled the kitchen with her turquoise tracksuit,
spotted sweatbands and matching trainers. She had the same manner of speaking
as her husband Padar; statements and questions mixed and aired, no need for the
listener to comment or respond. She leaned against the work surface,
exaggerating breathlessness.

“A cup of tea?” Marianne offered, taking the hint.

“I’ve a terrible thirst on me, right enough,” Oonagh’s grey
eyes swept the room.

“Something longer, fruit juice?”

“Something stronger!” Oonagh rooted around in the bizarre
pink backpack she had slung to the floor following her entrance. With a
flourish, she produced two bottles, one of very good gin, the other a slimline
tonic, and a small parcel of tin foil, which she peeled back to reveal half a
lemon, sliced. Marianne, impressed with her new friend’s resourcefulness, took
a couple of tumblers from the cabinet in the conservatory.

“That’s what you fitness fanatics keep in those backpacks.”
She smiled as Oonagh dug ice out of the freezer compartment of the fridge with
a bread knife.

“I always enjoy a gin after me power-walking,” Oonagh caught
Marianne’s appraising look; she would have been described as comely, in another
era.

“Ach, you should have seen me before I started on the
fitness programme. I was huge, the size of a house. I’ve lost three stone and
two to go.”

They took their drinks out to the little terrace. The sun
was streaked with iridescent afternoon clouds and the sliver of sea glinted
lazily; it was pleasantly warm in the shelter of the cottage wall. The women
sat side by side in ancient cane chairs, and chinked glasses.

“Have you heard the news?” Oonagh downed half her drink in
one. “The famous film star staying in May cottage, here, incognito, secretly
working on a project, you know, in secret. What do you think about that then?”
She finished her drink and grinned rosy-cheeked at her companion.

“We’ve met.”

Oonagh took a double take.

“No... Ah, I’m raging, I wanted to introduce you. You know,
see if you could catch him off-guard, find out a bit of goss. You know, reveal
the real story. Where did you see him? In the pub?”

“We’ve met before.”

Oonagh plonked her now empty tumbler on the wall.

“You’re joking me? Are you serious?” Pause. “Is this a
clandestine rendezvous, I’m not supposed to be party to?”

Marianne held her hands up.

“God, no... No way.”

Oonagh’s eyes narrowed.

“Pure coincidence, we met once through work, then here, by
accident on the beach. We had a pint together, that’s all. Can’t say I even
like him much.”

Oonagh moved back into the kitchen to make more drinks,
returning with replenished glasses, she sat conspiratorially close to Marianne.

“You’re not really interested in his story then?”

“No, I’m not.”

 “But you’re a journalist.”

“Ex-journalist at the moment, I’m on sabbatical.”

Oonagh shrugged.

“So you’re not interested.”

 “Not remotely.”

 “Ah, well so,” Oonagh eased her comeliness back into her
chair. They chinked again. “He’s fierce good-looking though.”

“He seems to think he is, anyway.”

“I wouldn’t mind him giving my peat briquettes a bang of the
poker of a cold winter’s evening, let me tell you.”

“Oonagh Quinn, you brazen hussy, it must be the drink,”
howled Marianne.

“Ha, Padar says I’m worse without it.” And they giggled like
schoolgirls, the sun slipping away behind the clouds, with the gin.

After her third gin and tonic and a hastily prepared white
pudding sandwich to soak up the alcohol and absorb the slurring, Oonagh made Marianne
promise she would come to ‘the session’ planned for Maguire’s the following
evening.

“Of course, I’d love to,” Marianne guided her along the
path. Oonagh swayed a bit. “Are you on duty this evening?”

“I’ll be grand, I’ll have a little lie down first, sure
Padar won’t even notice I’ve been gone.” She smiled crookedly, slinging the
luminous rucksack over her shoulder.

Friday morning arrived
grey and mizzly. Marianne made porridge in the microwave, sprinkled it with
brown sugar and, dividing it equally, poured half over Monty’s dog food. He was
particularly fond of the glutinous topping, on his savoury meat breakfast. She
pulled on a padded gilet, then a waterproof, counting five layers in all.

“Should be enough,” she assured Monty’s quizzical look. He stuck
his nose out of the half door and sniffed, bad weather was coming in, it would
be down for the day. His glistening eyes glanced back at her. She had pulled
the serious boots on.

“Let’s go.” She tugged the door behind them. She had one
hell of a hangover to dispel and could not blame Oonagh. Marianne and gin had
never been a good mix. A punishing walk, fresh air, wind, sea spray, whatever
the elements could throw at her would be the perfect antidote, de-fuzzing the
brain, cleansing the lungs and purging the body. Marianne grabbed a bottle of
mineral water as they left.

They turned right at the gate, passed the pub, crossed the
road, taking the pathway worn by holidaymakers, towards the beach, then slipped
through the crevice between the cliffs. Making their way downwards, they
followed the track, towards the crescent beach, swirling beneath them, a grey
and white mass of spray and froth. The wind and rain intensified. Monty charged
towards the shoreline, wagging his tail, yapping at the waves, the biggest they
had seen since they arrived. Marianne stood for a minute, taking a couple of
deep breaths. Then, shaking her head to dislodge the cotton wool, strode off
along the sand, calling Monty to follow, who seemed glad of the command, the
surf being too violent for even his dogged valour.

They walked beyond the beach, heading upwards over rocky
shale, following a path which faded the further they climbed. The wind was
coming straight off the sea and the rain hit them in sharp bursts. Marianne was
finding it hard going, her calves ached. The trail turned to craggy rock and as
the mist thickened, she could just make out a ridge line, probably twenty or
thirty feet above. She hoped it led to the coast road. Looking down, she was
surprised to see how far they had climbed, the swirl of sand below had all but
disappeared from view.

 Out to sea, the greyness that was sky and ocean was broken
only by the white surf, crashing angrily against itself. The force of the wind
flattened her against the rock. She began feeling her way along the cliff face.
Trying to wipe her eyes, her fingers were numb; the small of her back felt like
a slab of ice - five layers were nothing against this chilling damp. She
stopped, clamping her arms against herself for warmth, then taking a huge gulp
of air, turned to make the trek upwards to the ridge in one attempt, fearing if
she stopped again, she would be blown clean off the rocks. She stumbled, losing
her grip, then righted herself against the force of the wind. Monty followed,
skilfully picking his own route, stopping every few steps to sniff upwards and
move steadily on.

Then, above the howling wind, they heard an ear-piercing
screech, flapping and a dull thud. An injured gull landed on a ledge, about ten
feet away, it squawked and tried to move its wings. Monty, his ears pricked,
started sideways to investigate.

Marianne called out.

“No, Monty, leave.”

He could not to hear her and carried on.

“Monty,
no
, here.”

Her words were carried away on a squall. Monty jumped down
to where the dying bird lay. He sniffed it. It flapped. He jumped back
startled, the impact forcing a crack in the ledge, the spot where the bird had
lain, fell away. Monty froze. He turned to climb back but more of the ledge
crumbled, falling into the sea. He inched away trembling, perched on a tiny
shelf of sandy shale jutting out from the cliff. Marianne stared down,
terrified. Monty looked up at her. She heard him whimper above the gale. She
held onto the rock, stretching down her fingers towards him but he was too far
away. He stepped gingerly towards her hand. More of the ledge fell away. They
both looked down into the grey swirl of rocks below.

“Don’t!” She screamed. “Monty stay! Stay Monty!”

She felt the panic rise in her throat. She looked
desperately up towards the ridge.

“Help! Help!” she roared, at what, she did not know. She
shouted again, moving upwards, something in the back of her mind, hoping
against hope that the ridge led to the coast road and there just might be
someone up there, someone mad or stupid enough to be out on a day like this.

“Monty, stay!” she repeated firmly, to the sodden little
mass of fur, petrified on the ledge. Fearful trusting eyes looked back at her.
Her heart plummeted. She scrabbled feverishly, tearing her fingers as she hauled
herself towards the ridge. She dragged herself upwards, the wind beating her
back until she finally reached the top of the escarpment and cried out with
joy. It was a road, a beautiful new but very empty road. She looked one way,
then the other.

“Oh God,” she prayed, “please, God.” The greyness stretched
across the tarmac like a cloak. And then a glimmer, a light, headlights.

“Oh thank you, God, thank you.” An elderly 4x4 rumbled into
view, one of Padar Quinn’s. She jumped up and down, waving her arms. “Stop!
Stop!”

The vehicle screeched to a halt, the window wound down.

“Oh thank you, thank you.” She clung to the door.

“I’m hardly going to drive by and ignore anyone on the road
on a day like this, am I?” The man grunted. Marianne’s face was snow white; oh
no, not him, she thought.

“Please help me. My dog, he’s stuck on the cliff, on a
ledge…”

He was out of the door in an instant.

“Where? Show me,” he shouted over the wind, following her as
she ran towards the ridge and cliff face. He looked down.

“Shit!” He started to climb towards the trembling animal,
far below. “Okay, I’m coming little fella. It’s okay.”

Marianne followed him.

“Stay up there, on solid ground,” he commanded. “Have you
rope, string, anything?” She fumbled in her pockets; she found one of Monty’s
retractable leads.

“Wrap it round your wrist and pass the end to me.” He
wrapped the other end around his own wrist and continued downwards. He had
reached the same level as Monty, when a squall hit. He slipped and crashed
against the cliff. Rocks fell away below. The slip and tug on the leash pulled
Marianne over, smashing her back on the ground. She stifled a scream and,
grabbing a branch, scrabbled to her feet. Holding her breath, she sat down next
to a jut of rock. She wrapped her arms around it; the lead was taut off her
wrist, all the anchorage she could offer. She started repeating Hail Marys, as
she watched him inch towards the terrified canine.

“Good boy, good boy. Steady now.” His voice was calm. He
reached towards the dog.

A blast of wind and rain hit them sideways on. The animal
was lifted off its paws into the air. In the same instant the man reached out
and grabbed the dog by the scruff, as the ledge he had been clinging to,
disintegrated. With one almighty surge, he hurled the dog upwards, throwing him
like a cricket ball back towards her. She heard the crack and crumble of the
ledge as a mass of fur flew by her head. The lead went slack. She gasped. There
was a thud, a yelp and then a scuffle as Monty trotted over to her, tail wagging
furiously, nuzzling her, in joyful recognition. The lead loosened off her right
wrist. She pulled herself up and staggered to the cliff edge. A hand appeared.
She lunged at it and with one almighty yank, hauled him up. He lay still and
flat on the ground for a couple of minutes. Monty sniffed him and wriggled his
whole body as he wagged his tail in relief. Marianne dropped down beside them
and promptly burst into tears.

“Thank you, thank you. How can I ever thank you?” she asked,
pulling Monty into her arms.

He lifted his head, his hair matted with rain and sweat. He
stood up and, grabbing the collar of her jacket, hoicked her to her feet in one
swift movement. He held her off the ground, her nose touching his, his slate
blue eyes glittering, boring into her for all their coolness. He smelt of sea
and musk, she felt a sudden urge to kiss him. She could almost taste the salt
on his lips. He scanned her face, the sweep of his eyelashes branded her skin
as his gaze rested on her mouth. Beneath the dampness, she felt a burning in
her chest. She closed her eyes. Kiss me, please kiss me, she begged silently,
leaning towards him.