She blushed by way of confirmation. “It means the wearer is in a relationship.”
“Aha!” I said. “So more than just friendship.”
Angie pouted. “Why do you always have to pin me down? I like my ring. Bobby likes his ring. We like having rings together. Period.”
“And are you planning to send a picture of it to Sister Glenda along with the other snapshots of your trip?”
“I don’t need to be reminded of the convent, okay? I’m supposed to be testing how I feel about giving up sex before I make a commitment to the order, that’s what Sister said. To see if it’s the right choice for me. So I’m testing.” She grinned.
“Well, I’m glad you are,” I said. It was good to know that Angie was monitoring her feelings, but I couldn’t help joshing her. “Testing—one, two, three,” I teased, miming an announcer talking into a microphone. That broke the tension and we both laughed. The giver of the ring arrived soon after, which kicked up a fuss of tea-making.
“Don’t be troubling yourself,” Bobby said, while seating himself at the table. From that vantage point, he watched contentedly while Angie put water in the kettle and brought out a box of Mikados. Now, there was a sign of assimilation. After only a week in Ireland, Angie was addicted to these little wands of biscuit and chocolate. And here she was sharing her stash with her “friend.” I caught her placing her right hand on the table, next to Bobby’s, to create a display of the twin rings. His was the masculine counterpart to hers, with a thicker band showing a raised heart topped by a crown and supported by clasped hands. Bobby turned to look at her, and they shared what they thought was a private smile.
Then Bobby sat up straight, as if waking himself up, and put a question to me. “Did our girl tell you she’s going to be a star?”
“With Angie, you have to be ready for anything,” I said. “Star of what?”
“We’re putting on The Playboy of the Western World to kick off our summer festival on Sunday, and we need a fill-in for one of the cast who just dropped out. Angie’s agreed to take her place.
“But that’s only a few days from now. How’s she going to learn the part?”
“It won’t be hard,” Angie replied. “I’ve just got a walk-on part with a couple of lines. It’ll be fun.”
Angie’s always been attracted to the theater. All through school she tried out for plays and usually managed to get chosen for a role. It started with Eat Your Veggies in the first grade, when she played a carrot. (Angie was always the tallest girl in her class.) So it wasn’t too surprising that she would volunteer to step in at the last minute at the request of her new beau. “Bobby plays the hero,” she enthused. “He’s going to help me rehearse.”
“Well, good luck,” I said.
“You’re supposed to say, ‘break a leg.’ That’s what theater people say.” She beamed.
“Do you know the play?” asked Bobby. “It’s by John Millington Synge, our greatest playwright.”
“I’ve never seen it, but I’ve always been intrigued by the title.”
With the pride of the newly informed, Angie took it upon herself to explain. “It doesn’t mean ‘playboy’ in, like, a rich guy who runs around with a lot of babes. It means more of a rogue and a braggart. And the ‘western world’ refers to right here. It’s a play about the west of Ireland.”
“That’s right,” added Bobby. “It’s set on the coast of County Mayo.”
“It’s about a stranger who comes to town and claims he’s running from the police,” continued Angie. “His name is Christy Mahon—that’s Bobby—and when he tells his story, the people take him for a great outlaw, and all the girls chase after him.”
I must have looked puzzled.
“It’s a comedy,” said Bobby.
I could use a comedy right about now, I thought. “Well, you’ve definitely got my interest. I can’t wait to see it.”
“Then we better get on with our rehearsal,” said Bobby. “Will you excuse us?”
I left them together, huddled over their paperback editions of the play. Angie seemed happier than she had been in a long time.
There’s a busy little butcher shop in a small strip of stores at the entrance to Achill Sound. I suggested we go there to get meat for dinner, preferably something other than lamb. I had started to feel globules of lamb fat congealing in my blood. Before we left the cottage, Toby said hello to the budding thespians and was treated to a display of their new rings. “Bobby seems nice enough,” he said as we drove through the low-lying, monochrome bog lands. “Maybe this time it’ll work out.”
“I hope so. Angie’s had too many disappointments with men.”
“I have a feeling,” said Toby, “this time might be different.”
“From your mouth to God’s ear,” said I.
Twenty minutes later, as we approached our destination, we encountered an angry group of people milling about the small parking lot in front of the butcher shop. They were blocking the entrance, so we pulled to the curb. Within moments, the restive gathering spilled out of the parking lot and into the street. Protestors brandished signs. Save Our Greenway, said one. No to the Achill Steam Train, said another. Save Our Cycling Path, Keep Achill Green, said a third. Some of the demonstrators had bicycles by their sides; others carried walking sticks and had backpacks. Passersby stopped on the sidewalk to see what was going on. A buzz of approval arose when a red-haired woman and a burly man stepped out of the shop and moved to the front of the crowd. The man I recognized as the instigator of the brawl in the Annexe pub; he was red-faced Michael O’Hara. Today he wore a butcher’s apron. The woman beside him was striking: tall and slim, with fiery red hair flowing down her back. She wore a green cloak around her shoulders, which reminded me of Maud Gonne, the beautiful Irish revolutionary who cast a spell on Yeats. She must have mounted a box or platform of some kind, for in a moment she was elevated above the crowd.
“Let’s see what’s happening,” said Toby. He slowly drove forward past the blocked entrance and found a parking space down the street. We walked back and stood at the edge of the crowd to listen.
The speaker was inveighing against Uncle Bert’s idea to reconvert a section of the old Achill railbed to its original purpose. Just a few years ago, she reminded the protestors, the rails had been torn up and the trackway transformed into a hiking and bicycle trail for the enjoyment of all. What once was the Great Midlands Railway was now the Great Western Greenway, an environmental gem stretching some twenty-six miles from Achill to Westport. The disused rail route had been granted a second lease on life and was now a path for nature lovers on foot or on bike.
“Our greenway is known throughout the country,” the woman shouted. “But today it is threatened. Greedy businessmen want to convert it to a train ride for personal profit. The death of the project’s top developer hasn’t stopped them. The plan is still moving forward, led by his partner and their rich backers. It’s up to the people of Achill to stop them!”
“We will!” shouted one belligerent man. “Frank Hickey will get what’s coming to him!”
I grasped Toby’s arm at the elbow.
“We don’t want that kind of talk,” the speaker admonished. “I understand your anger. But we’re taking our grievance to court. That’s why I’m asking for your donations. Solicitors cost money, and you can be sure the developers have plenty of that.” She scanned the faces in the crowd and continued. “We’ve already seen how easily green belt protection can be circumvented. The county planning committee has shown just how susceptible it is to business interests by giving its approval for a disgraceful scheme, supposedly to increase tourism on Achill. Sure, their decision’s no surprise. Didn’t money tempt Judas to betray the Lord? I’d like to know whose hands were crossed with silver before the planning committee got flexible.”
“Dead right!” yelled the butcher.
“The applicants,” she went on, “have influence and large financial resources, and we’re nothing but a bunch of bo
ggers and fishers to them. And yet, we’ve pushed back. We’ve spoken at council meetings, we’ve sent a petition, and we’ve held demonstrations. Now legal action is required if our greenway is to be preserved.”
“And if legal action doesn’t work, we’ll damn well block the construction. We’ll down the site!” shouted another voice.
“Save our greenway!” The chant picked up with people standing near the speaker, and it spread throughout the group. Pretty soon everyone was chanting, the notable exceptions being us.
We were spotted by Michael O’Hara, who pointed in our direction. “That fella in the back is a friend of Frank Hickey,” he called out. “He’s no friend of ours.” That prompted a collective grumble of resentment. A man standing next to us turned to Toby and said, “You’re not welcome here.” Another man began pushing his way toward us.
Toby said in an even voice, “We’re going.” He tugged me gently into the street. The men let us pass, but several rough-looking boys followed us to our car. I said to Toby, “So much for the butcher’s.” That evening we made do with soup.
11
AT FIRST I THOUGHT I WAS DREAMING. The clock on the night table read 3:20. And there it was again—a screech of metal wheels, the hoot of a whistle, the rush of something mighty passing by, and the distinctive rhythm of clickety-clack, clickety-clack that could mean only one thing—a train hurtling through the night. But there hadn’t been a train on Achill for eighty years.
Toby woke up too. “What the hell was that?” He threw the blanket aside and swung his legs over the side of the bed. The racket of a roaring train repeated at a volume that suggested it was close. I grabbed my robe and followed Toby to the kitchen, the side of the house from which the sounds were coming. We peered out the window. Outside, the grounds were enveloped in fog, through which black patches of sky were just visible. It was impossible to distinguish anything on the ground except for a green glow in the distance. I remembered there was a vacant field. I squinted, trying to penetrate the gloom. Gradually the greenish glow resolved into a row of shimmering figures floating in a haze and gliding above the ground seemingly without effort. The figures moved horizontally from right to left, as the sounds of the roaring train continued. A steam whistle hooted, and a pitiful moan of human pain drifted across the field.
“It’s the Ghost Train!” I wailed. “The old man at the tomb predicted it.”
Toby was having none of that. “Ghosts, my ass. It’s some jokers putting on a show, trying to scare us.”
“They’re doing a good job of it.”
“Those aren’t ghosts. They’re men. I’m going to get a closer look.”
“Ghosts or men, they’re not friendly to us. Leave them alone.”
“I’ll be careful. They’ll be expecting us to come out the front. I’ll use the back door and go around the house. Stay here.” Before I could stop him, Toby had grabbed a jacket and slipped out the back. Bending low, he kept the jacket over his head as he made his way toward the apparition in the misty field. In seconds, he had disappeared into the night.
A light flicked on in Mom and Dad’s cottage. They had been awakened by the noise too. I quickly pulled on jeans and a sweatshirt and left by the back door. I scurried across the parking area to join Mom and Dad, banging on their patio door and calling out that it was me. Angie—apparently she was sleeping in tonight—let me into the living room. She pulled at my sweatshirt, like a child desperate for attention. “It’s the Ghost Train, just like Brian said! That means there’s going to be another death.” I tried calming her down and explained Toby’s view that the whole thing was a hoax. Dad appeared in his pj’s just as I was saying that Toby had gone out to confront the pranksters.
“This could be trouble,” said Dad. “I’m going out to help him.” He started for the bedroom to get his clothes.
“Jim, you stay right where you are,” Mom commanded. “We don’t need both of you in danger.”
“Toby knows how to take care of himself,” I said. “But I’ll go after him just to make sure he’s okay. You better stay inside, Dad.”
“Then take this,” said my father, handing me a baton-sized flashlight, suitable for double duty. “And don’t do anything foolish.”
“I won’t. No, don’t turn on the front light. That way they won’t be able to see me leave.” I slipped across the darkened threshold and stole across the parking area in front of the house. I headed in the direction of the greenish haze. But within a dozen paces, the mist congealed into fog, and the green light disappeared. The flashlight proved useless when I aimed it toward the ground. The beam reflected the opaque surface of the fog, creating a cottony glare. A moment later I stumbled over a clump of grass and went sprawling, and the flashlight flew from my hand. I patted the ground around me until I found it, then resumed my forward progress. I remembered the hedge only when I reached it. Exploring with an outstretched hand, I probed for an opening. I found a break eventually and pushed through it, into the field where the apparition had appeared.
The sounds of a train had faded away. I pushed on, looking for some sign of Toby. I was afraid to call his name, fearing that I might attract the unwanted attention of a ghost or a rascal. Suddenly my fear was realized: a lumbering shape emerged from the fog. The figure bore the outline of a man but had a pale, unearthly mien. Its face and groping, outstretched hands were no human color but a ghastly green, and in an instant my rational mind deserted me. I reverted to instinct and screamed, confronted as I was by a ghoulish spirit from beyond the grave. The creature rushed directly at me. I threw up my hand to ward off the charge, but that defense was ineffective. My palm slid across a clammy green cheek, and I hit the ground hard.
The next thing I knew, my head was cradled in Toby’s lap and he was stroking my forehead. “You’re bleeding,” he said. “How do you feel?”
“Fit as a broken fiddle.” It was meant to be a game reply, but lame was more like it. Gingerly, I rose to my feet. I tested them and was pleased to find they still worked, in a fashion. I looked around for the flashlight, but it was lost.
“Easy,” he said. “You took a bad tumble.”
“Toby, one of those things attacked me, and it wasn’t human. I saw it up close. It was green.”
“Uh-huh. Like your hand?”
I raised the appendage in question and was shocked to see a green palm glowing in the dark. “What the . . . ?”
“Phosphorous paint,” said Toby. “You must have brushed some off the guy who knocked you down. Makes you glow green in the dark. When I was a kid we got hold of a can of it one Halloween and scared the hell out of the neighborhood.”
“So they weren’t ghosts after all?” He shook his head. “But what about the train we heard? It sounded like it was right outside the cottage.”
“It probably was. Some joker playing a track of sound effects.”
“But I saw them too, the people sitting in a row, looking like they were on a moving train.”
“They were parading behind a hedge about waist-high, so you couldn’t see the lower half of their bodies. The fog and your imagination did the rest.”
“But why go to all that trouble?”
“To scare us off. Get back at the family of the developer. And have their fun. C’mon. Show’s over. It’s damp out here, and that cut needs cleaning.”
I don’t like being fussed over. Thank God, Toby didn’t try to commiserate while he was fetching bandages. Mom’s not a gusher either, but she’s mom enough to wince when she sees her child bleed. So we made a stop at our place to wash the scrape on my forehead. It wasn’t bad, but the head bleeds worse than other places, so I applied the offered Band-Aid. Then I fluffed my bangs so they hid the spot, and we went next door.
Dad opened the door before we knocked. He had been on alert since we left. How long had we been out there—five minutes, fifteen, more? Whatever it was, it was too long for my family. Dad hugged me to his chest. Mom grabbed Toby with one hand while she reached for me with the
other. Pretty soon we were in a group hug, with Angie looking on.
Four o’clock in the morning is the reverse of teatime, but tea is what an Irish family does if they don’t do whiskey. The story took longer to tell than to happen, what with Angie’s excitement, Mom’s worries, and Dad’s practical questions. Like good reporters, we gave them a clear picture of the what and the where. But the who and the why were as foggy as the night. Someone wanted to frighten us, but why? To make us leave the island quickly? What good would that do, and for whom? Dad thought the escapade must have to do with his brother’s death: Bert’s killer got his friends to give us the spooks so that we would take off for the States. The guards would send Bert’s body back home, give up on a weak case, and leave Bert’s killer free.
Toby was looking up the way you do when you’re trying to remember something. “What are you thinking?” I asked.
“That crowd yesterday at the butcher’s shop. Some of them might do something like this.”
Mom spoke, and I froze. I saw the witch face emerging. “I’m not surprised,” she said, looking at Dad through squinting eyes. “Bert’s tearing this island apart, even from the grave. This railway project is just one more of his selfish, rotten schemes. The man held nothing sacred—not nature, not community, not family.” Tears were welling in her eyes, but she was not breaking down. She was still fierce. “What a legacy!”
Dad rose and took his cup to the sink. His back was to me, so I couldn’t see his expression, and I didn’t need to. He was bereft, and Mom was making it worse. Maybe Dad wasn’t thinking that. Maybe it was just me. Thankfully, while I sat at the table thinking bad thoughts, Toby took the teacups to Dad and helped him wash up, while Angie took Mom’s hand and led her to bed.
12
EVEN TEA-SOAKED, the Barnes family sleeps like hounds before a hearth, but Toby was jagged by the caffeine. He sent me to bed, while he stayed up reading, in the kitchen. The better to hear any further pranksters, he said. When I came seeking breakfast four hours later, he was still at the table, with a satisfied smile.
The Dead of Achill Island Page 10
