The Night Swimmer (33 page)

Below us on the rocks the gulls were screaming, beating their wings, preparing to take flight. Fred offered me the flask but I waved it off. He shrugged and took another pull, wiping his mouth on his sleeve before continuing.

Patrick said something terrible happened that day, that Highgate felt responsible.

My heart spun in my chest and I ripped up handfuls of grass.

The ferry, I said.

What?

That's when the ferry went down. A huge storm came up, real quick, while the Corrigans were taking the island children to a Christmas party on the mainland. The ferry hit the rocks by Douglass's Cove. They all drowned. Kieran's brother, his daughter. O'Boyle and Ariel hadn't gone—they were the only kids on Clear.

My god, Fred said.

I know.

He took another drink and again I waved it off. The narrow jut of land that we sat on seemed to thin and the sea dropped away to a great distance, like we were perched on the edge. Was it getting darker? Some kind of rising horror was placing its cold palm on the back of my head and I shivered, my skin flexing and tightening. The drowning children, this tragedy following Highgate's heartbreak. As if his sorrow made the seas rise up in consolation. In the Five Bells Patrick had said that Kieran was afraid of Highgate,
afraid of what he can do
.

I leaned into Fred and held on. How could that be true? How
could Highgate have done it? As soon as this thought flickered across my brain I had an unsettling feeling that someone was watching over my shoulder, just out of sight, like when Miranda watched me swimming in the Ineer. I knew that if I turned I would see someone, but not Miranda. I didn't know who it was. I was afraid to look.

Fred was silent and we sat for a moment watching the setting sun over the water. He turned to me but I couldn't look at him.

I want to tell Ham we want the money.

Oh, Fred. I don't know.

Look, if we have the money we can do whatever we want. We can start over, or go somewhere else. We can do it right this time.

But, a baby? I said. We . . . can't do that, not now.

Why?

The sun was melting into the horizon, falling next to the rounded hump of Cape Clear. The trail of light traced its way past Clear, Sherkin, through Roaringwater Bay and to the cliffs of Baltimore. For a moment the water had that familiar, comforting look, like if I could hurl myself into its depths I would find solace. I thought about Miranda, swaying on the hillside, her hoofs buried in the soft grass, the wind tossing her mane and tickling her beard. Watching my small shape, thrashing about in the Ineer, swimming to Fastnet.

I can't, I said. Oh, Jesus, Fred. I can't do it.

Fred drained the flask and coughed. He had tears streaming down his face.

It doesn't matter, he said. Fuck it. What does it really matter?

*  *  *

The next morning Fred was working on the flint ignition mechanism for his handmade gun. The metal tube that he had forged in the cave was lying on a piece of cloth. He'd managed to get a smooth bore and had a rough stock and handle carved and bound with metal staples ready to attach. His shaggy hair was over his collar and he had cryptic layers of words scribbled on the backs of his hands with a black marker. It was going too far. I was going to say something, but when I came in Fred tossed an envelope on the bar.

Slipped under the door earlier, he said.

I felt my body contract for a moment, then the swelling hum of blood to my face. The envelope was slightly damp and unopened. On the front it said: “for the big ginger lass” in a rough hand. Clearly it was not from Sebastian.

Inside was a Polaroid photo. It was taken from Douglass's Cove, facing east toward Baltimore across the Gascanane Sound. The Polaroid man with the little dog: Padraig Cadogan. The light was weak and gray, like it was taken in the early morning, and the distance made the image vague, but I could make out the blocky black stern of Conchur's salvage boat. It was close to the black rock of Carrigmore and a small boat was pulled up and three men in storm suits were huddled around something, a white form on the rocks.

Fred was standing behind me, looking over my shoulder.

What's that?

I started walking toward the stairs. Why did Padraig Cadogan send the photo to me? Why a photo of the same rock where his daughters and nearly all the island children drowned? On the bottom of the photo was the date. It was taken that morning. On the back: “Christmas Eve 1972.” The day Highgate was abandoned on the island by his wife and family, the same day the ferry was lost.

I heard O'Boyle's voice in the dim light of his caravan, reciting the words his mother had scratched into the walls of the ruined castle:

Night swimmer, who watches the drowned and the yet unborn,

All will lament as the great eye is swallowed by wind and water.

I don't know what would happen if I lost her,
Highgate said.
I don't know what I would do
.

*  *  *

Oh, dear God.

I checked my watch. It was ten till noon. The next ferry left in five minutes.

Hey, Fred said, what's going on?

I'm sorry, I said, but I have to get out to Clear.

I ran upstairs to get my parka. I opened my duffel bag on the bed and ransacked the bedroom looking for something but I didn't know what it was.

Fred was standing in the doorway, his arms outstretched.

What the hell? Elly? What are you doing? Bill is bringing the boat in. I thought we might hang out.

I'll be back this evening, I'll take the six o'clock back.

What the fuck is with that picture? Who sent you that?

A man named Padraig Cadogan. You don't know him, it doesn't matter. I have to see Highgate. I have to show him this picture.

Why?

I'll explain when I get back.

Fred followed me down the stairs, a bar rag in his hand, his forehead knotted in confusion. It was a look of distrust. His face was bruised and swollen like that of an aging boxer after a bad fight. He didn't understand that I felt I only had a small chance to make it right. He didn't know that it was me who brought this on us.

I'll come with you, he said.

No. They won't let you.

Through the window I could see the ferry was tossing off the lines to depart. I dropped my bag by the door and stepped into his arms and hugged him tight.

But you can't go alone, he said.

I'll be back.

I released him and went out the door and across the street. When I reached the quay I turned back and Fred was standing in the doorway, his T-shirt rippling in the breeze. He held up his hand. When I left he must have still thought it was his fault, the pub, the Corrigans, everything.

That was the last time I saw my husband and I carry that heavy stone in my heart every day of this life.

*  *  *

The ferry was empty other than two Corrigans in the pilothouse. I stepped on the boat and they immediately motored out, as if they were waiting for me. As we came around by Gascanane Rock, I barely had the guts to look. It was difficult to make out at first, but there was something white lying on a flat piece of black rock, and as we passed I had a clear view.

It was Miranda, splayed out on her back, her limbs bent out to her sides and nailed to the rock with long ship bolts. Her fur was shocking white, almost clear, and the lines of her body in that position made her seem like something not of this world. Her rib cage was split wide open, the ribs visible and purple organs glistening. A raven perched on her head, feeding on the flesh of her snout, her eyes empty black hollows. A couple more ravens on the rocks nearby, preening their shining feathers.

One of the Corrigans stepped out of the pilothouse with his hood up. He cupped his hands around a cigarette and leaned back against the bow, facing me. When he lifted his head I could see the squared glasses and wide mouth, cigarette dangling.
Kieran
. He gazed at me, the smoke streaming out of his nose as we swung along the north side of the island. I looked away, my hands in the pockets of my parka, clenched tight. I had a deep, cramping sensation in my stomach, and I stared hard at the cliffs of Cape Clear. I was searching for a figure on the cliff top, but no one was there.

The black line of clouds that Fred and I had seen yesterday advanced on the island like a swelling curtain, moving with visible speed. The ferry fought through the high swells and charged into the North Harbor. Even in the sheltered harbor the water was white and tossed and the wind whipped foam into the air and carried it off into the hills like giant clusters of soap bubbles. A small group of people queued on the quay, bundled up and carrying bags and packages. As I came off they streamed onto the boat. Sebastian was at the end of the line, his leather satchel and binocular case strapped on his back. When he saw me coming off he stepped out of the line.

You are going the wrong way, he said.

His smile was tight. He was trying to be calm.

I can't, I said. I have to do something.

Listen, this gale is going to do some serious damage.

This island has been through it before, I said. It's not going anywhere. I just have to run one errand.

Okay, he said. I'll go with you.

Sebastian gripped my arm and pulled me away from the small crowd. He quickly scanned the pier.

There's something I have to tell you, he said.

He fixed his eyes on mine, his irises flexing and widening, his mouth going soft.

No, I said. I can't do this, not now.

Wait, he said, it's not—

Please just help me, I said, my voice cracking,
please.

There'll be another ferry, he said. Where do you need to go?

Up across Ballyieragh, by Lough Errul. I need to go see someone.

Let's cut through by the bird observatory, Sebastian said.

We headed up the hill behind the old ruined church and west along the cliffs of the north side of the island. The sea was deep black and the coming clouds from the west were shutting over the sky like a lid. The waves boiled around the rocks at the bottom of the cliffs, the swells already more than ten feet, thundering against the island.

In another couple hours, Sebastian said, we'll want to be off the island. Or dug in somewhere, high up.

We came along to the finger of land that held the crumbled ruins of Dún an óir, the Castle of Gold. Sebastian stopped and used his binoculars to scan the ruins.

I thought I saw something moving in there, he said.

I thought of O'Boyle's mother locking herself in the castle, scribbling on the walls her portents of doom. The land bridge was washed away, and to get up there you'd have to do a serious bit of climbing over boulders and sea.

That's a bit odd, Sebastian said, lowering his glasses. A group of birds, taking refuge. Can't tell what kind.

Let's keep going, I said, his caravan is just up over the next hill.

O'Boyle's new house had been dramatically improved, all the walls, door, and windows in place, a new sloping metal roof, the concrete chimney already belching smoke. The old caravan was squashed flat like a cockroach and had been dragged off a ways toward the cliffs. A steely, slanting rain, smelling of seawater, began to fall. We cinched our parka hoods around our faces.

Wonderful, Sebastian said. I hope this person owes you money.

We came down the hill toward the house. The windows were blazing with light, and I began to try to formulate what I was going to say. In the large window by the front door we could see a lamp on the kitchen table, a warmly lit scene that reminded me of the opening of a play. O'Boyle pulled out a chair and sat down, setting up a teapot and a couple of mugs. He was wearing a clean white shirt and smiling and laughing about something. He reached across the table and took hold of Ariel's hands. She was wearing a strange kind of crown of sea nettles on her head, a simple green dress, her head bowed, a smile on her lips. The fire flickered in the background, and I could smell roasted meat and potatoes.

They held each other's hands across the table, and I thought of that moment back in Cork, before all this started, when the winner was announced. When Fred turned and knelt before me, seized my hands in his, his face afire with joy.
It's really happening!
he said to me,
we did it, this is really happening!
The world spun around us like we were the only thing that existed, just for a moment.

I watched the two of them in their small circle of light. The wind shifted and pushed the rain sideways, burning my eyes with sea salt. Sebastian cursed and held his arm in front of his face.

Quaint, Sebastian said. We going to the door? Getting bloody soaked here.

No, I said. I'm done.

Seriously? Then let's get back to the ferry.

He took my hand.

The black wall of clouds had now overtaken Fastnet, and the thin finger of light seemed pathetic under its immensity. What could
I possibly say to Highgate? Would one more betrayal somehow assuage his grief?

Okay, I said, let's go.

We cut back south to the rim of the Ineer, to follow the path that led to Kieran's construction site and the Waist. The Ineer was frothing and rolling; sets of ten-foot waves thudded into the stone quay. The rock beach was already stripped bare to naked stone, and as we neared the cliff we could see the long black form of some enormous marine animal being pounded against the rocks at the foot of the cliff.

Bloody
hell,
Sebastian said. That's something you don't see every day.

What is it?

I leaned into the hill, away from the cliff, clutching handfuls of grass. I was too afraid to get close enough to the cliff to look down. Sebastian crawled on his hands and knees to the edge and peered over.

Not sure. Maybe a basking shark. Or pilot whale. The thing is
huge
.

He lay down and hung his head over the cliff, using his binoculars.