by John Coyne
Derek Brennan turned off the highway and stopped at the main entrance, waiting while the security guard came out of the gatehouse and raised the wooden bar. Then he pulled up beside him. "Quiet night, Rick?" "Yes, Mr. Brennan."' "None of those high school boys around then?" "No, sir, not with the south gate closed." "Good. Where's Ted?" "Oh, he's out there someplace. Do you want me to call him on the CB?" "Yes, let him know I'm going up to the castle in case he sees the lights on in my office. Then I'll be stopping by the guest house. The old lady hasn't gotten out, has she?" The guard shook his head. "Haven't seen her." "Good. I got on Conor's case, told him we'd have to put her away if it happened again. He's been too lax, I think." "Mr. Brennan, I've been meaning to ask you. Did you see her the other day, when we were tracking her through the woods?" Derek shook his head, looked up at the guard. "Why, what did you notice?" "Well, I didn't get a good look. I was down by the truck and I had the binoculars on her. She was running across the ridge, and I couldn't see her clearly, of course, because of the trees, but she looked strange, you know, from the distance." "How so?" "Well, she didn't look much like a woman." "What do you mean?" "She had long yellow hair, all right, and she was small, but she didn't run like an old woman, sir." The security guard was shaking his head. "She ran like some kind of animal." "Rick, the woman is crazy. She has been locked up in that cabin for longer than you've been alive, and I'm afraid she isn't really much better than an animal. I'm trying to find an institution that will take her but it's hard. The state is putting people like her back on the street every day." "Well, don't worry, Mr. Brennan. It can't be long now." "How's that?" "She can't live forever." Derek shook his head and laughed. "I don't know, look at Conor! The Irish are a hardy bunch, Rick. All that cold, damp weather keeps them healthy." "Not all of them, sir." Derek glanced up at the guard questioningly. "Those girls buried up on the hillside." He nodded toward Steepletop. "There isn't one of them lived past twenty." Derek's fingers tightened on the steering wheel. "That was a long time ago, Rick. People died young in those days." It won't go away, he realized; the graveyard had become his albatross. The past, he thought regretfully, couldn't be buried. It kept coming back, not to haunt Ballycastle but to destroy it.
When Himself lived in the mansion there had never been a door locked, a room that Conor didn't have access to. He thought of that as he fingered through his chain of keys, looking for the one that would open the kitchen door and let him into the dark, silent building. He didn't turn on the lights. That would only bring the security guard and though Conor always had reason enough to be in the castle, he didn't want anyone to know that he had been back in the building tonight. Besides, he did not need lights. Thousands of times he had made his way about the castle in the dark, leading one girl or another up the back staircase.
"But Conor, Himself won't want us tonight, what with the party, and all those people," Carmel said, coming up with him across the lawns. Conor shook his head and shrugged. "He just told me we should come along, luv." "Oh, Conor." She clutched his hand. "It isn't right, all those pictures. I don't want anyone to be seeing what we do together." She leaned close to him, and in the shadows of Ballycastle they embraced. The music from the ballroom on the river had already begun and they swayed slightly to the rhythm. Then Conor broke away, and led her to the castle by the hand.
Conor went up the back steps into the small study, moving slowly; the steep steps were hard on him. At the top he had to stop and rest. He was out of breath and wheezing.
"Should I undress now?" she whispered in the darkened room. That was what they always did, acting as if they were alone while the master took his pleasure. Sometimes he simply stood and watched, but even when he circled the bed, using that camera of his, they had to pretend he wasn't there at all. In all the times she'd been up to his room, she'd never heard the master speak a word. "Ah, here you are!" Fergus said, before Conor could answer. He entered the bedroom in a rush, his booming voice startling them both. He had come straight from the party, dressed in elegant black evening clothes, and Conor could see he was already flush with drink. "Thank you, Conor, my lad." Fergus set his champagne glass on the dresser and loosened his black tie in one quick, clumsy jerk. The first gold stud on his starched shirt front popped loose and shot across the floor. Carmel jumped for it. "Let it go," Fergus laughed. "Let it go, my love."
Stronger now, Conor went quickly along the hidden passageway to Derek Brennan's office, then let himself into the dark room that had been Fergus's bedroom. Crouching down beside the desk, he took out his flashlight and beamed it on the locked drawer. Then he pulled the chain of keys from his pocket, all the keys he had collected over the years at Ballycastle.
"Should we get ready, Mr. O'Cuileannain?" "No, not now." Fergus was calmly taking off his platinum cuff links, dropping them onto the top of his chifforobe. "Why don't you go along instead, Conor lad?" Conor glanced at Carmel, smiled. It was all right. Himself had changed his mind. He was too drunk to want them. "Well, we'll be going then, sir." He reached for Carmel's hand. "No, Conor. You run along and leave Carmel here with me." He was working on his shirt studs now, popping them out one by one. Carmel turned quickly to Conor, pleading with her eyes. "But don't you want me, sir? I mean, it's always Carmel and myself." "Not tonight" Fergus stepped between them. "You go out to the north field and see about Nightfall. That left foreleg of his was swelling up this morning. Go on now. Carmel will be here when you get back."
Abandoning his keys, Conor pulled a screwdriver from his back pocket and shoved it into the crack, breaking the simple lock. He opened the drawer. The album was there. The past. All those nights that he had blocked from his mind.
Carmel's heart dropped when the door clicked closed and Conor was gone. "O dear Mother of God," she prayed. "Listen! Can you hear that music?" Fergus asked. He bent down, fumbling with her blouse, breathing quickly, as if in pain. "Please, sir." He would pull off the buttons and Mrs. Wilkinson would be after her, seeing the damage. "Fucking clothes," he swore, then ripped the white blouse away. The milky softness of her breasts startled him. "Ah," he whispered, pleased by the sight. "You're a lovely lass, Carmel Burke." And he bent to kiss her. She shivered when his wet lips found her nipples. "Please, sir," she begged again. "Don't worry about Conor, now," he said, guiding her toward the canopied bed. "He knows all about it." He was eager now, hurrying, directing her to lie face down and naked on the bed. Then he tied her wrists and ankles to the bed posts, pulling the velvet straps until she cried out with the pain. Spread-eagled on the bed, Carmel managed to turn her head and saw Fergus drawing his riding crop from the chifforobe. She had seen the crop before. Fergus had made Conor hold it in a couple of their photographs. But this time, she sensed, he meant to use it. The first blow fell on her buttocks and she screamed. "Oh, no, Carmel, you mustn't scream. Mrs. Wilkinson will beat you for misbehaving." Gently he turned the weeping girl's face into the pillow and hit her again. Once, then twice, again and again, faster, harder. She sobbed into the pillow until the pain overwhelmed her and she fainted. She woke when he entered her, crushing her pinioned body under his heavy weight. She tried to move, to turn her head to scream, but his hands had seized her long black hair and he held her secure, face down in the fat goosefeather pillows, as he drove against her again and again, pounding into her body. She fought to breathe but the hands were unrelenting, and as she died she knew that this had been what Fergus always wanted.
Conor lifted the large album from the bottom drawer and tucked it under his arm. He felt immensely better, safer, now that this final piece of the past was safely in his hands. Nothing now remained that could tell strangers what had taken place at Ballycastle.
Nightfall's foreleg was not swollen. Coming home, Conor followed the music from the ballroom, heard the women laughing and the sounds of silverware and glasses clinking together. It had never been like this before, he thought. Himself had never wanted to be alone with the girls. He felt tears on his face and realized only then he had been crying. From t
he top of the hillside Conor could see the ballroom, all lit up and sparkling. The staff had spent a week polishing every inch of glass, the roof and all, then prayed it wouldn't rain the night before the party. He could see the guests as well, the women in their lovely gowns, the men in evening clothes. It looked, he thought, like a movie picture, and he went on walking. In the tall birch trees by the river he stopped again. The guests were coming out on the lawn, carrying glasses of champagne down to the cool bank of the river. Dinner was over, he thought; they would begin to dance again soon. Himself would be returning to the party. He started to move on when he heard a noise from the opposite bank. Someone was creeping along in the brush hiding from the couples on the lawn. Conor pressed his body against the birch behind him and held his breath. It would be prowlers, he thought at once, or anarchists after Himself. From where he hid in the woods he could see the bridge and the telephone at the boat dock. He moved carefully, hiding in the trees, on a parallel course with the intruder on the other bank. Suddenly, when they were at some distance from the ballroom, Conor's quarry emerged from the underbrush, shaking dirt and mud from his clothes. Then he glanced around, making sure he was alone. It was Fergus O'Cuileannain. Conor crouched motionless as the master peered across the river. Satisfied that he was unobserved, he set off toward the castle, and Conor straightened and stared after him. He could think of no reason why Himself should be crawling through the mud of the river. But if Fergus was down here it meant Carmel was at the castle, waiting for him. But he was wrong. Crossing the bridge he saw Carmel below him, her body caught in the stone pilings. He grabbed the wooden railing and stared down at his lost love. Still buoyant, she floated in the river, her pure white face a water lily surrounded by the black waves of her hair. "Carmel," he whispered. And her body broke free, slipped under the bridge and was swept away, as if finally she were free of him, of Fergus and of Ballycastle.
Conor stood up straight, clutching the photo album. He had heard something-the sharp sound of a door being opened and shut. He cocked his head, listening. Someone was crossing the first floor entryway, coming toward the stairs. Conor stepped back to Derek's desk, replaced the album, and quietly slid the drawer closed. He crossed quickly to the fireplace and in the dark he felt the paneled wall until he found the latch and swung open the hidden passageway. He stepped inside, pulled the panel closed behind him, and waited to see who else had business in Ballycastle after dark.
"The album is gone," Derek told her. He had waited until Scott went into his room to study and they were alone, drinking coffee in the living room. Barbara bolted up on the sofa, surprised at the news. "Did you call Security?" Barbara asked quickly. "Maybe we should call the state police." "Barbara, I know who took it." "Who?...Conor?" Derek nodded. He set his coffee cup down and took out a pack of cigarettes, lighting one nervously as he continued to talk. "He found out about it, that's all. You didn't say anything, did you?" "Of course not." Derek shrugged. "Well, he must have overheard us talking this morning." Barbara flopped back in the sofa. "Well, what do we do?" "There's not much we can do, is there? That album was the only real evidence we had. If Conor has it, and we both assume he has, then we're stymied." "Can we have the bodies exhumed? That ought to reveal something." "Not forty years later. Besides, it's a legal issue. We'd have to go to court, show some evidence that the women on Steepletop were murdered." "And that's something you don't want," Barbara said quietly. Derek nodded, kept sipping his coffee while she watched him silently, judging him. He said then, in defense, "I'm not being heartless, Barbara. I'm not being irresponsible." "Oh, no?" "Fergus is dead." "Conor is alive. And so is Maeve Donnellan." "Maeve Donnellan is crazy and Conor is senile. What could we possibly learn from either one of them?" "We have the graveyard. The album..." "Now stolen." "Stolen, but not yet lost," Barbara snapped. She realized then that they had drawn up sides. "Nevertheless, we're not going to start digging up graves, or start accusing Conor of murder." Derek stood up. He too felt the new chill in the room. "But he did steal your album." "Yes, I'm assuming so." Then he added without thinking, "Unless you did." The minute he said it he regretted it. "No, I didn't break into your office," she said haughtily. "I didn't jimmy your desk drawer. I wouldn't know how, even if I wanted to." Now she was on her feet, ready to rail at him about his responsibility to Ballycastle, but it wasn't her place. She was only an employee. Temporary help. Unlike the Irish girls, she would leave Ballycastle. She had a life of her own beyond these walls. She had Scotty. Her family. And then she remembered Scotty's request and asked about the Halloween party. "I know you don't rent out the building, but this one time might be useful for community relations. The Foundation doesn't really promote itself locally." She could hear herself selling the idea and she stopped. She didn't want to be indebted to Derek. "I don't see any problem," Derek said immediately. He seemed happy at the chance of ending the conversation on a pleasant note. "Tell Scott it's okay. I'll call Bill Russell tomorrow at school and set it up." "Thank you. They'll appreciate it, I'm sure." She opened the door and waited. He wanted to smooth things over, she knew, but she was no good at masking her feelings. He stepped onto the porch and took a deep breath of cold night air. Then he turned back and said, as one last word, "I think I'm being responsible, Barbara. Conor is the only one who knows, and no one will ever persuade him to speak out against O'Cuileannain." She nodded, resisting the urge to argue. She had thought of a plan, but it would be foolish to confide it to Derek. She ushered him out in silence.
