by Tara Heavey
After we had hurtled along for a while without crashing, I decided to chance opening one eye. I found that we were speeding down a narrow, tree-lined avenue. I looked to my left and realised how far up into the hills we had already climbed. Through the trees, I could see the edge of the village nestling in the valley. The river wound about the houses like a long blue ribbon. Ahead, the trees seemed to stretch into infinity. They reached out to one another across the road, forming a verdant arch; sunlight dappled through at intervals, making the leaves sparkle like so many emeralds. This wasn’t half bad. It sure beat the soggy sheep and grey rocks of County Galway.
As we climbed higher and higher, the trees gave way to rolling green hills that undulated softly into the distance. We passed a field of black-and-white cows, like the scattered pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. A field of cloud-like sheep, with black faces and ears like handlebars. A field of horses in varying shades of chestnut and grey. At one point, a rabbit scuttled across the road in front of us, narrowly avoiding the bald tyres of the Peugeot. I imagined that Johnny Power was a prime suspect in a large percentage of the roadkill incidents in Ballyknock and its environs.
The man himself cleared his throat and turned to me. He yelled something that I couldn’t quite make out over the roar of the engine.
‘Say that again, Johnny.’
‘I said, why don’t you have a car?’
‘I do. It’s in being serviced.’ I didn’t like the way he kept turning to look at me every time he spoke. Keep your eyes on the road, for God’s sake, man.
‘What do you drive?’
‘An Audi TT convertible.’
‘Begod,’ he cackled, ‘Tyrone must be paying you too much.’
‘You can never be paid too much,’ I yelled back.
‘You might be right there, love.’
‘Watch out for the tractor!’ I screeched as a blue tractor loomed up around the bend, directly ahead of us. The Peugeot emitted an almighty screech and skidded to a halt, just inches away from the massive back tyre of the tractor.
‘Jaysus, that was a close one. The brakes are working, anyways,’ said Johnny cheerfully.
I, a Catholic of the very definitely non-practising variety, uttered a silent prayer of thanksgiving.
I twisted around in my seat and peeped out through the bars of my fingers. The tractor was a 1970 reg. It was even older than me, for God’s sake; no wonder it was such a wreck. My eyes travelled upwards to the cab, which was open at the back. It was a convertible! Not pleasant driving in inclement weather, I guessed; but on a fine September evening such as this, when it was hot enough for a man to drive along without a shirt on his back, I could think of no better mode of transport. Yes, I thought, as I lowered my hands from my eyes and feasted them on the broad, tanned expanse of muscle and sinew before me, I heartily approved. I watched, spellbound, as the owner of the back braked the tractor, his muscles rippling enticingly.
Johnny stuck his head out of the car window and shouted, ‘Well, boy, how are you going?’
‘Ah, is it yourself, Da? I’m grand.’ And, with that, the godlike creature hopped out onto the roadway. Maybe we had crashed after all. I was really dead, and this was an angel come to carry me away. I fervently wished that I had time to brush my hair.
‘What do we have here?’ His voice matched his torso, strong and powerful. He had ducked his head and was looking in at me through the driver’s window, grinning his head off. Yes: very soft on the eye indeed.
‘This is Tyrone’s girl, Elaine ... what did you say your last name was, again?’
‘Malone. You can call me Lainey.’ I extended my hand eagerly past Johnny’s face, nearly whacking the poor man in the nose. ‘Pleased to meet you.’
‘And I’m very pleased to meet you too, Lainey. I’m Jack Power, Johnny and Bridie’s favourite son.’ He wiped his right hand on the leg of his overalls, which had probably once been navy blue and which made his hand even dirtier. I didn’t care. He engulfed my hand in his. It was the size of a shovel.
‘Would you go ’way out of that. There are no favourites in the Power household. Did you move that heifer today?’
‘I did.’
‘How was she looking?’
‘Could’ve been better. I think we should get Matt to have a look at her.’
Johnny turned to me. ‘Matt’s another of my sons. He’s a vet.’
There was another one like Jack back at the ranch! In fact, hadn’t Bridie said she had seven sons? My sense of optimism about the whole Ballyknock experiment reached a new high.
‘Anyway, we’d better be off. I’ve to take this young lady up to Power’s Cottage.’
‘Is that where you’re staying, Lainey?’
I nodded.
‘On your own?’
‘All on my own.’
‘We’ll have to make sure you don’t feel too lonely.’
I nodded again and grinned foolishly. I hoped that meant what I thought it meant. Jack winked at me, then stood up and banged the roof of the car twice in farewell. It felt like his hand was going to come right through the rusty exterior.
We headed off again at breakneck speed. I almost felt sorry for the car; it had to put up with a lot. I closed my eyes again and braced myself for the next near miss. My foot reached for the imaginary brake half a dozen times. Every now and then I opened my eyes to try and admire the scenery. It really was stunning. Not a bad place to die, I reflected.
One thing was worrying me, though. We seemed to be driving for miles and miles, deeper and deeper into the wilderness. I hadn’t noticed many houses, either. I wanted badly to ask, ‘Are we there yet?’ but I didn’t want to risk sounding like a pathetic child.
I needn’t have worried. Without warning, to me or any other drivers who happened to have the misfortune of sharing the road, Johnny made a sharp right turn into what could only be described as a boreen. This was the steepest hill we’d been on yet. The trusty Peugeot laboured up the windy road, roaring like some injured wild animal. I thought I could feel my ears popping, but surely that was just my imagination. I wouldn’t have to worry about the house flooding, that was for sure.
Without bothering to change gear – sure, why would you want to be bothering with any of that oul’ malarkey anyway? – Johnny brought the car, skidding and complaining, to an abrupt halt.
‘Here we are. Home sweet home.’
Thank you, God! I exited the car as if it were on fire, delighted just to be alive. I felt like kissing the earth, like the Pope does when he visits a new country. And a new country it was.
Chapter Five
I was delighted to discover that my home for the coming months was a city girl’s dream of the charming country cottage. Two hundred years old, but recently refurbished; oodles of character, but with all mod cons.
The cottage had been donated to the Power family by an extremely generous neighbour at the time of the Famine, when the Powers had been evicted from their former home by the archetypal evil landlord. Johnny delivered this brief potted history of the house as he carried in my bags. He made sure I was settled in before he tore back down the hill in his red chariot, no doubt causing small furry animals to run for their lives. I waved him off until the car was a red dot on the horizon, and then went back inside.
I felt very happy – even though the place was tiny. It was hard to believe that the cottage had once accommodated a family of eleven. I would barely be able to fit myself in, with all my clothes and useless knick-knacks – even though I’d planned to leave half my stuff in Dublin. But I had a good feeling about this place. A person could be very happy here, I thought.
I was still wrapped up in warm, positive feelings as I snuggled up in my bed that night. I had just passed a pleasant evening curled up on a very comfortable, chocolate-brown, distressed-leather two-seater in front of the modest fire that I’d lit. Some thoughtful person – I guessed that a member of the Power clan was the kind culprit – had provided a wicker basket full of briquettes, lo
gs and firelighters.
Above the fireplace was an old framed photograph of a stern, handsome woman in old-fashioned dress. It had been taken in the days before people said ‘cheese’ for the camera. Her eyes had a disconcerting habit of following me around the room. It was a little creepy, to tell the truth. I’d have to find out who she was.
I had feasted on a tea of scrambled eggs – just like Mother used to make – and, for dessert, the best soda bread and strawberry jam that money couldn’t buy. This was all washed down with copious mugs of steaming hot tea, accompanied by two Marlboro Lights and the latest Stephen King. I sighed as I puffed away. This was nice. No Paul to complain.
I was blown away by the absolute silence of the place. Our flat in Dublin backed onto a major thoroughfare, and I had grown up living in the ’burbs; the lack of noise pollution – traffic, sirens, car alarms, raucous shouts from fights outside the local kippy chippy – was quite daunting. Not that I missed these sounds, any more than I missed having to listen to Hazel row on the phone with her parents, or Christiana having sex with her latest acquisition, through the paper-thin apartment walls. I supposed I’d get used to it, this weird blanket of silence.
And there was something else, too: the darkness. I had forgotten what country dark was like – that rich, deep, secret darkness that results from a total absence of street lighting. I opened the front door at one stage, captivated by the spectacle of a multitude of diamanté stars piercing the big, black, velvet sky. I stood on the two-hundred-year-old doorstep, thinking of that song, ‘The Night Has a Thousand Eyes’. And then I gave myself the creeps. An unknown animal hollered into the darkness and I hurried back inside and closed the door on the night, before it could suck me in – envelop me. Maybe I should lay off the Stephen King novels for a while.
But anyway, there I was, lying snuggled up underneath my big eiderdown quilt, revelling in the feel of the crisp, clean cotton sheets. (The all-seeing mother-eye had forced me to wash up before I retired.) The phone was beside the bed, just a hand-stretch away, and so was the bedside lamp. I had put a chair up against the inside of the bedroom door – just to make myself feel more secure, you understand. Oh, and I had placed a kitchen knife under the mattress. I laughed at my own stupidity, telling myself that it was just for the first few nights, until I got used to the alien surroundings. To the darkness. To the silence. I eventually drifted off to sleep, counting, not sheep, but the hairs on Jack Power’s chest.
I woke with a start and looked around wildly. Where the fuck was I?
Realisation dawned, and I checked the time. I had been asleep for about two hours. What had woken me? I tried to remember if I’d been having some kind of strange dream. Definitely no more horror books for me; from now on I was going on a strict diet of chick-lit and the autobiographies of former Spice Girls.
What the hell ... In one swift movement I leapt out of bed and flicked the switch on the bedside lamp, managing to knock it over in the process. I fumbled around for the knife under the mattress. There it was again – the noise! I stood in the middle of the bedroom floor, looking from left to right with terrified eyes, holding the knife aloft, legs planted wide apart as if I was ready to take flight or spring upon somebody. I must have looked like a bad scene from Xena Warrior Princess. The episode where Xena swaps her leather tunic for Marks & Sparks teddy-bear pyjamas.
I jumped again as the noise was repeated. The roof – it was coming from the roof! I looked up, terrified, at the Velux window, half-expecting to see a man’s face grinning maniacally in at me. There was nobody there.
There it was again. It was a very definite scratching sound – furtive.... And again! But this time it wasn’t a scratching. More like a creaking. Rhythmic. Repetitive. More like ... footsteps. And it wasn’t coming from the roof, I realised with a sick, heavy feeling in my stomach. It was coming from the attic.
For the second time that day and in about five years, I prayed, with sincerity and from the bottom of my heart. With a further sinking feeling, I noticed that the attic trapdoor was in the bedroom ceiling. Why hadn’t I listened to my father? He had been right all along. Lone females getting murdered to death in isolated country cottages – you heard about it all the time....
‘Who’s there?’ I asked ludicrously. My voice came out in a strangled whisper. I cleared my throat. ‘Who’s there?’ I croaked loudly. Of course they were going to answer. Hi, it’s me. Billy the axe murderer. I’ve come to hack you into a million pieces. I hope tonight is convenient for you.
‘I’m calling the gardaí!’ I shouted. Even I detected the dangerous note of hysteria in my voice. This time it had an effect. The footsteps broke into a run.
Omigod!
I dived on the phone and jabbed 999, barely registering that my fingers were trembling. At least the phone was working. I had half-expected it to be cut off, just like in the old horror movies.
‘Hello, what service do you require?’
‘Police! Quickly! There’s someone trying to break in! I’m on my own!’ I gibbered.
‘Calm down, please. Give me your name and address.’
I did, suppressing the urge to scream at the woman. How could she be so calm? Did she not know that this was an emergency? (Presumably she did, seeing as it was her job to man the emergency phone line, and all.) As soon as she had assured me that somebody was on the way, I hung up and shouted up at the attic defiantly: ‘Now, you scumbag, I’ve called the police and they’ll be here any minute! And,’ I added, as an afterthought, ‘I’ll have you know that I’m a solicitor!’ That should do the trick, all right. What was I going to do? Send him a summons by registered post? Buy him a house?
While I waited for the gardaí to arrive, I sat like a statue at the edge of the bed, knife in my right hand, phone beside my left. I stared at the attic trapdoor for the entire time, afraid to take my eyes off it for even a second in case a murderous lunatic burst through.
At first I thought he had gone. Everything was quiet for a long time. How had he got out? How had he got in? I would have to get the gardaí to investigate.... But every now and then I would hear a furtive creak. He was still there, all right. Why hadn’t he tried to escape? Why hadn’t he attacked? And where were the gardaí? They were taking their time. It would never take this long in Dublin. Mind you, I would never have found myself in this position in Dublin, because I was never on my own at night. I was going straight back home. I would ring Tyrone first thing in the morning – if I made it through the night, that was – and tell him I couldn’t do it. He’d understand when he heard what a terrifying ordeal I’d been through. Where were the bloody gardaí?
At last, I heard the sound of a car coming at considerable speed up the hill. Thanks be to God! The light of the headlights filled the bedroom and broke me out of my trance. Relief flooding my system, I jumped up from the bed and flew to the bedroom door, pulling the chair out of the way. I ran out to the front door and went weak with joy at the sight of two burly uniformed gardaí.
‘Oh, thank God, you came.’ I grabbed the policeman nearest to me by the arm and dragged him into the bedroom.
‘You’re all right, Miss. You’re safe now. Did you scare him off when you woke up?’
‘No, he’s still here,’ I hissed urgently. ‘Up in the attic.’ I pointed up at the attic door.
The two gardaí stood in my bedroom and looked up at the tiny trapdoor in the ceiling.
‘Do you have a ladder handy?’ asked the second garda.
‘I don’t know. There might be one in the shed.’
‘I’ll go check.’ Garda Number Two started to leave the room. Just then, a scuffling sound came from the attic again, loud and clear. It was as if someone was crawling along on his hands and knees. I gripped Garda Number One’s arm again.
‘There it is again! He’s still up there. We’ve got him trapped.’ I smiled triumphantly, feeling like Nancy Drew after solving some particularly troublesome mystery.
The two gardaí exchanged a look. I cou
ldn’t interpret their expressions.
‘Is that the noise you heard before, Miss?’
‘Yes! Quick, get the ladder.’ I was crazily glad that he’d called me ‘Miss’ instead of ‘Madam’.
Garda Number One nodded at Garda Number Two, who went out. We could hear him rummaging around in the shed. Every now and then, a loud scuffling noise came from up above. I clung to Number One’s uniformed arm harder each time, forgetting all about being proper. The garda glanced at me uncertainly. Looking back, I think he might have been a little embarrassed.
At last Number Two came back in, bearing a rusty, paint-splattered ladder. He ascended jauntily and began pushing at the attic door in a manner that I could only describe as careless.
‘Watch out – he may be armed!’ I hissed urgently. The garda peered down at me, a bemused (or was it amused?) expression on his face. For the first time in my life, I wished fervently that Ireland had an armed police force. Then they could blow the bastard’s head off and plead self-defence. It would serve him right for frightening the shite out of me.
I dug my fingers deeper into Number One’s arm and shrank against him. I wanted to run out of the room, but my feet seemed rooted to their spot on the bedroom carpet. It occurred to me that the gardaí should have made sure that I was safely out of the vicinity. Surely this was negligent of them.
The upper half of Number Two’s body disappeared into the attic. We could see the beam of his torch sweeping back and forth; then he swung his legs up, and we could hear him walking slowly around. He seemed to be up there for an age. What’s going on? I felt like yelling up at him. The garda beside me seemed very relaxed. I would have thought he’d be getting ready to attack, in case Number Two needed backup.
I couldn’t help uttering a short scream as a head appeared in the trapdoor. Number Two was peering down at us with something like a smirk playing about his lips.
‘Well?’ said Number One. Number Two nodded at him and then looked at me.
