The Ladies' Midnight Swimming Club(25)
After one awesome wash, he jumped back from the wall. Far off, he noticed the old cottage dug into the cliffs. He remembered it from his last visit, always empty out of season; it looked deserted tonight. He set off walking for the cottage, with no great plan in mind. Maybe it was empty and he could stay there for the night? That would teach his mother a little lesson. If he let them see that he could as easily disappear here as he could in Dublin, his mother might just decide to go home sooner rather than later.
He darted along the blackening roads, leaving the lights of Ballycove behind him quickly. Soon, he was on the narrow boreen that led to the only house overlooking the sea from these cliffs. The owner, an old man who Niall had never known, had put in a road at some point. Over the years, the peaty foundation had knotted and buckled it so it was uneven under foot and it slowed him down as he ran to escape the light rain that promised to turn into a ripping shower at any moment.
Once he reached the door of the cottage, he stopped for a moment, taking in the silence of the place. It was only now; as he stood with his hair slapped wet against his face that he considered the possibility it might be rented out to a new tenant these days. He trod softly around the perimeter, peering in each black window, but there was no-one here. He pulled out his phone. This was a village where everyone left a key out; in fact, he wouldn’t be surprised if they had left the door open. He pushed it just in case, but no, a quick search turned up a heavy black key that slipped easily into the lock and in a minute, he was inside the cottage.
He wondered about switching on a light, but decided against it for now. It was a tiny place, one main room that was kitchen, living room and lounge and off this, a bedroom. To the rear, there was a larder and then to the side a small bathroom with a walk-in electric shower that owed a lot more to considerations of access rather than design. A small smile crept up through him. It was warm. Whoever owned the place had left the heating on a timer and so, with closed-up doors and windows and walls that were almost two foot thick, it was as snug as a nest, perched high over the crashing sea below. Of course, there was no Wi-Fi, no real television service, but there was coffee in the cupboards, water in the kettle and familiar staples from home like pot noodles and a tube of Pringles.
Yes, he thought as he flicked on the kettle, this would do very nicely indeed. If he tidied up after himself and kept a low profile he could pop in and out of here again… This place could suit him perfectly. If he disappeared often enough and for long enough, knowing his mum as he did, it wouldn’t take long until she realised the best thing for all would be to go back to their real lives in the city where they belonged.
Niall spotted the vodka when he’d finished the pot noodles. It was almost a full bottle, stashed top out over the old dresser. He climbed on a chair and reached in. Lovely. And behind it a bottle of whiskey sat nestled for another day. Niall never really drank, apart from an occasional half glass of wine his mother poured for him on special occasions with dinner. It just hadn’t been interesting to him. It had, he knew, quite a bit to do with his father not taking a drink. His father had talked often about the life his own family had endured at the hands of his grandfather’s alcoholism. Niall couldn’t remember his grandfather, but he’d seen enough photographs to know that they were made of the same stuff. The notion of ending up anything like the old man had steered his dad on a completely sober path his whole life.
Damn it, what did it matter if he drank the whole bloody bottle? Who’d know about it anyway? Another voice, a cruel and twisted voice, muttered something else in his brain – and who would really care?
The cups and plates in the heavy dresser were all very old-fashioned. It was a choice of either fat builder’s mugs with logos that had long gone out of use or delicate gold-patterned china that was too effeminate for real rule breaking. Niall settled on a mug and wiped it out roughly with his fingers. He poured a more than decent measure and gasped on his first gulp. God, this stuff could poison you. All the same, it wasn’t about the taste, was it? Vodka or any kind of drink was all about getting smashed.
He settled the bottle on the floor beneath his feet and sprawled across an old sofa that probably was cosier if the fire was lit, but Niall was content enough in the darkened room, with the lighthouse in the distance giving off an occasional flash of light.
Funny, but once he found a grungy playlist on Spotify, he sipped the vodka steadily and soon, he’d finished the whole mug. As the night fell heavy and black around the cottage, he raised the volume on his phone until he heard a rumble of something right outside the cottage. A blinding flash of light sheeting across the sky and reflecting on the water for miles out to sea heralded the arrival of the storm. Niall was glad to be safe and warm. A part of him delighted in the notion of his mother frantic, wondering where he might be.
At around three in the morning, after he had made a sizeable impact on the bottle of vodka and when his legs could hardly hold him without the threat of buckling, he decided he might as well try out the whiskey. He pulled the chair over clumsily before the dresser. It took two attempts to get his drunken body standing up so he could reach the stash. He felt around the dusty top, blindly and drunkenly having an idea that it must be there, when suddenly the most terrifying snap grabbed his hand.
Pain shot through him so quickly, he didn’t have time to register the mouse trap on the end of his fingers. It sent an electrifying current of fear and shock through his whole body. It knocked him back, throwing his already wobbling frame off balance. He felt himself, hands waving in the air, his whole body like a wind sock, being blown out against forces of alcohol and gravity that were too fine for his fuzzy brain to conquer. He seemed to fall, in slow motion, the chair moving away from under his feet, the soles of his feet, pushing against it and then, slowly, slowly, his body sailing like a grotesque puppet to the flag-stoned floor.