Himself(74)
Chapter 40
May 1976
The portents are right, as portents usually are, whether anyone heeds them or not: later on that day a biblical storm hits Mulderrig.
Down by the quay the fishermen are stunned. For in the space of a rapid fart the waves in the bay have gone from flat to grown. Above them the lightning is hopping and the thunder comes in sudden deafening peals. The wind slams past them, forcing their eyes shut and ripping the nets from their hands and the caps from their heads. It’s all they can do to stagger back up the quay, and when they fall in through the door of Kerrigan’s it takes three of them to close it behind them.
Bridget Doosey listens to the storm roar with her windows closed and her back door bolted. She has cats under the quilt, an illustrated guide to forensic toxicology and a freshly wicked lamp for the night ahead.
She shakes her head and thinks about the poor women with their wash out and their knickers all blown away in the blink of an eye. She considers the farmers in the fields, holding on for dear life to a cow, or a sheep, or a goat, or a gate. She hums a Patsy Cline song to the kittens huddled at her armpit. And what of the young ones who’ve crept into the forest for a bit of loving? You wouldn’t want to be out in this with your trousers round your ankles. You’d take it as divine punishment and you’d never get your flute out again. Or, just think it, the mammies with the babies squalling terrified in their prams. Oh Lord, imagine them, dropping shopping and grabbing little Martin and Michael. Running up the hill with the storm at their heels. Ah Jesus, run, save yourselves, save your children.
She wonders why she didn’t see it coming, having fireplaces of her own and being used to keeping an eye out for such things.
A thought suddenly strikes Bridget.
She eases herself out from under her cats, wanders over to the fireplace and runs her finger along the hearthstone. There’s dust, dead moths and cat hair.
But not a speck of soot.
So there’s more to this storm than meets the eye, and Bridget Doosey is betting it has most to do with one particular occupant of Rathmore House. And so, cursing her meddling tendencies, Bridget puts on her good gripping boots and winds herself into a sheet of tarpaulin the size of a topgallant. Then, taking hold of a stout walking stick and thanking the Good Lord for the ballast in her behind, Bridget Doosey sets sail for Rathmore House.
It was no surprise to Shauna that the men of Rathmore House were nowhere to be found the moment she needed a bit of help. She’d to get every one of the animals in herself. Blown all ways across the courtyard with a chicken under every arm and the roof tiles skittering along the ground after her.
Shauna sits at the kitchen table with a cup of tea in her hand.
Apart from the rioting storm, all is quiet at Rathmore House.
Mrs Cauley has fashioned herself a pair of earplugs from the obituary page of the Western People and settled down with her suspect list to embark on a bit of ratiocination. Apart from her usual demands for leg rubs and advocaat cocktails Shauna knows she’ll get no further conversation from the old woman.
Shauna closes her eyes and listens as the house sings the backing vocals to the song of the storm outside. Floorboards groan and windowpanes shudder. Somewhere a door slams in time while the keyholes whistle the high notes. And then a loud banging starts: fast, near, persistent. Shauna opens her eyes and lets out a cry of horror.
A beast is hurling itself against the back door.
It’s clawing at the door handle and fogging up the glass. It screams out to her with two twisted mouths and kicks the doorframe with its many tangled limbs.
Desmond and Bridget sit in the chairs Shauna has drawn up for them at the foot of Mrs Cauley’s bed. They each hold a full glass. The pair met on the road to Rathmore House and helped each other through the storm. Bridget is blithely smoking a cigarette with her feet up on a footstool. Desmond is still insensible.
Mrs Cauley watches Desmond closely; she knows that expression. ‘Desmond, look at me.’
He shudders. ‘It’s my fault he’s out there.’
Mrs Cauley nods. ‘It is of course.’
‘A man is out there alone in the forest because of me. Lost and in danger. I must go and search for him.’ Desmond makes a half-arsed attempt to shake off the blanket tucked around his knees.
‘You’ll do no such thing, Daddy. You’ll sit there and dry off.’ Shauna flicks at him with her tea towel as she bends to put an ashtray next to Bridget’s elbow. ‘Listen to Mrs Cauley, she’s already told you there’s nothing you can do.’
Bridget exhales and waves her cigarette at him. ‘What you have to understand, Desmond, is that this is Mahony we’re talking about. He’s a Dublin orphan, which means that he could survive on an iceberg in just his socks. You, on the other hand, are as helpless as a fruit fly out there.’
Desmond lets out a soft whine. ‘How can you know that?’
Bridget sneers and downs her whiskey. ‘Aside from that is the obvious fact that this is no ordinary storm; it has a design to it: a supernatural design. This storm is here to help Mahony, not finish him off.’
Desmond looks at her in bewilderment. ‘I don’t even know what you are talking about.’
Mrs Cauley sits herself up in the bed and frowns at him. ‘That’s enough, Desmond. Be quiet now.’
Bridget holds up her empty glass to Shauna for another. ‘A supernatural variety of storm will always be heralded by rolling clouds of soot from every fireplace and a rake of diving swallows. Exactly like today, eh?’