by Ann Mann
His attention had been captured there by a certain pagan practice of divination which he had embraced wholeheartedly. A map of the imagination which was not merely simple fortune telling.
The woman had learned how to divine the art and considered herself now an expert, although caution had to be exercised for the clergy had long condemned the ‘Trionfi’ which her Master had gifted her as the ladder to the gates of hell.
Anyway, she preferred to refer to its much simpler name – The Tarot.
*
They can vanish sometimes, the people closest to us. Disappear without trace leaving us bewildered and bereft. You hear about it all the time. Adults, children, even boats and planes.
Clodagh struggled to feel optimistic as the Ford Fiesta purred its way towards Ennis on that late September afternoon. The leaves were already beginning their transition to gold and a bitter-sweet melancholia descended upon the air in a haze of autumn moistness.
Conversation between the three of them was limited. Silas drove with an expression of grim concentration, his eyes occasionally darting left and right when he thought he might have spied a similar type of coach to the one he had hired. The stark truth was that they had not encountered any that looked even remotely like it anywhere on the journey. Stopping to fill up at the motorway service station they had enquired if a vehicle of that description had been there sometime during the early hours, but were rewarded with the shaking of heads, promises to check with colleagues and no, they didn’t have CCTV.
Nothing. A negative word that carried so much weight and on hearing Silas say it yet again that weight pressed heavily on Clodagh’s heart. She desperately needed to believe that her friends would by now have arrived at the theatre, filling it with their chatter, colour and laughter while they prepared for tonight’s show.
Justin was stretched out on the back seat sleeping. How she wished that she could sleep away the events of the last twenty-four hours. First there had been her injury. A silly mistake which should never have happened. Turning on her foot the wrong way during those double clicks had put the production in jeopardy and she found it hard to forgive herself for such carelessness.
Then of course there was the dream. The dream she could not erase from her mind. It seemed to beg to be understood and yet she struggled to grasp its meaning. Why was she giving herself such bewildering advice while dressed as a character in a pack of fortune-teller’s cards? How could she use that advice, anyway?
But by far the worst of those events was the one they were all living through now and Clodagh realised that at some point very soon the parents and friends of those missing would wonder why they hadn’t received a phone call or a text from their loved ones.
She considered reminding Silas of this but then decided against it. He had enough to think about and it would only add to his anxiety. She thought of her own parents and how they would react to such a strange and unsettling situation. An only child, she had grown up in a comfortable middle-class home doted on by her mother and father and their tight knit closeness had never been threatened.
She hadn’t been pressured into studying the Irish dance. In fact, it had been quite the opposite. While the other children of her age were being pushed and cajoled into taking lessons, often to please their mothers’ own thwarted and frustrated ambitions, Clodagh had always been ready and willing to learn to perfect what she loved to do. Dressed an hour before leaving for her classes, she would carefully smooth down the short, emerald taffeta skirt which she wore over her black leggings, curl her long red hair and practice her warming-up exercises in the cosy, Aga-centred kitchen of her parents’ County Wicklow home.
When she was seven, the family moved to the Dublin suburb of Donnybrook where her father had been offered a lucrative partnership in a leading law firm and it wasn’t difficult for her mother to also secure a part time job as a primary school teacher. But the best thing about the move for Clodagh was the proximity to her Auntie Peggy. Her mother’s sister lived in Dublin and taught Irish dance at her own prestigious school. A four time Irish champion winner, Peggy never considered herself good enough to go pro. Also, Irish dance was not a very fashionable profession to follow in the eighties. It had lost its bite and many thought it had had its day, but then the whole attitude towards it changed in the mid-nineties when a group called Riverdance burst into people’s consciousness and at that precise time her brilliant niece came to live nearby.
Peggy adored having Clodagh in her class. Not just because she was her niece but because she was so very good. “You dance from the heart Clodagh,” she used to say. “That is important. The steps have to be right, but, particularly in a set dance it is essential to dance from the heart and immerse yourself in the story.”
Entering Clodagh in her first feis when she was twelve was nerve-wracking for the whole family, although Clodagh rose above her nerves and delivered a stunning performance which she was to repeat time and again. Soon she was competing in regional, national and international competitions and travelling all over the world, adding more trophies to her parents’ already overflowing cabinets.
In 2009 while competing in a feis in New York she met Silas Murphy. There was no hint of a sexual relationship; Clodagh was then dating a young actor from the Abbey Theatre and Silas had a long-time girlfriend in his home town of Boston. But they clicked immediately, sharing the same dedication and vision for their respective futures and determined to work together as soon as an opportunity presented itself.
Clodagh had never seen a better male dancer since Michael Flatley nor such an imaginative choreographer. Silas told her that his plan was to come and live in Ireland, embrace the culture and eventually form a troupe there. He had a daring and ambitious idea for a set dance which he was starting to put together with an American composer friend and he hoped to make the move sooner rather than later.
Suddenly the harsh sound of a blaring horn jolted her out of her reverie and she was aware of Silas swerving the car to avoid a lorry which had overtaken them, finally screeching to a halt at the edge of a country lane. During her daydreaming the whole landscape had changed from the boring monotony of a concrete roadway to one of rural pastureland, where sheep grazed contentedly beneath mountain ranges, white-washed cottages sat bathed in a salmon sunset and purple-leaved yellow Sorrel sprouted defiantly by the roadside.
“Idiot!” Silas yelled, then turned to Clodagh and Justin. “Everyone alright?”
Clodagh nodded. “Where are we?”
Silas checked the satellite navigation. “I’ve come off the motorway at one of the exits where Ferguson thought the coach might have done. Now we’re going the country route and because I don’t want to get to Ennis too late, I’m just going to follow the road signs. The coach driver might have done that if his sat. nav. failed. This is somewhere called “Moneygall.”
“Wait a minute,” Justin said, allowing himself a brief smile. “Isn’t that where…?”
“Sure it is.” Silas nodded. “I thought I knew the name. Obama came here a couple of years back to trace his ancient ancestors.”
“It’s lovely,” murmured Clodagh, winding down her window and enjoying the sound of birdsong striking up an evening chorus.
“Yeah, pity we haven’t got time to enjoy it’s delights,” Silas told them solemnly. “While we’ve stopped though, I’ll try the theatre again.”
The others could tell from his conversation that the dancers had still not shown up. The manager, a woman called Deirdre McCall had told him that cancellation notices had been put up and the audience for that night would be having their money re-funded. She was desperate for a meeting and Silas assured her that they were on their way.
They lapsed into silence again as Silas started the car and they continued their cheerless journey through yet more picturesque countryside and coastal roads each hoping and praying that they may find some answers befo
re they arrived in Ennis.
Despite herself, Clodagh fell asleep. And somewhere, just past the magnificent Dromoland Castle Hotel with its rich history and famous patronage, the torn muscle in her calf was inexplicably healed.
*
Forty-nine year old Detective Superintendent Joe Tierney finally had the decision made for him. He was told by the Commissioner to temporarily abandon and delegate the two cases he had been working on for weeks and to concentrate on this missing coach and its passengers.
Was this more important than the jewellery robbery in O’Connell Street or the shooting of a young boy on the outskirts of the city he wondered as his chief left the office? At this stage, he didn’t think so, but it was an odd and unusual situation that was obviously now calling for action. On a lighter note, his teenage daughter would never forgive him for not making the effort. Sacha, who at sixteen was besotted with the Irish dance and a proud pupil of Miss Peggy O’Neill’s school in Grafton Street. Indeed, Miss O’Neill’s own niece Clodagh Trevor was the female lead dancer in Arcanum which he had been dragged to see and reluctantly had to admit it was a grand show.
It was 6.00 p.m and the coach had still not arrived in Ennis as planned. There were no reports of it being involved in an accident and the coach company and the family of the driver were all putting pressure on the Garda to find out what had happened.
Now he was going to have to instigate an intensive search in tandem with the Garda Siochana in the County of Clare as well as with the Missing Persons Bureau and possibly the Criminal Investigation Department and it was set to be a complicated and expensive procedure.
Joe Tierney and his colleagues had worked through the most challenging and toughest of times over the last decade as robbery, drug and fraud offences in the city as well as gun crime had risen sharply. Ireland’s people were mourning the extinction of the Celtic Tiger, the euro had sunk to an all-time low and the prosperity that had embraced the whole country for one enchanted moment, disintegrated like the bones of the great Republican leaders.
At least he had managed to buy his modest semi-detached house in Clondarf just at the right time and thank God he did not want or need to sell it now, as that would be one hefty problem he could well do without.
He chided those who said everything had improved and that the Celtic Tiger was about to rise again like the Phoenix, maintaining that caution rather than misplaced optimism was better embraced at the moment. He had applied this philosophy not only to his private life but also to his thirty years in the service of the Garda and it had proved, in his opinion, to be the wisest and most effective stance to maintain.
But now here was a case that was threatening to blow apart the carefully managed budgets and would end up using hours of man-power and resources unless he could find this bloody bus. And it had to be somewhere between here and Ennis, didn’t it?
Tierney ran his hand over his course, rust coloured hair and realised it badly needed cutting. Try and find time for that, he told himself dismally. Plans had to be made and just where was he to start?
He stared again at his computer screen where the grainy images of the previous night’s CCTV from the toll station was frozen. A hand paying the toll fee stretched out of the driver’s side of the coach before the shiny, black vehicle slowly departed for the motorway. Where the hell had it gone from there?
With a sinking feeling he knew there would have to be a public appeal. The families of the people who were missing would expect no less. Then of course there was the press. It wouldn’t take long for a story like this to get out and be sensationally reported and for the ripples to spread. The appeal would have to be combined with a press conference and where better to set it up but the theatre in Ennis where he knew the choreographer and Clodagh Trevor were now.
He realised he would have to try and arrange all this for the morning. It would be then over twenty-four hours since the coach had left Dublin and a decent amount of time given up to searching would have already elapsed.
Joe Tierney buckled down to a long night ahead including a drive to Ennis. Mysteries were there to be solved and he was determined not to let this one escape him.
*
Deirdre McCall was a short, no-nonsense woman of indeterminate age with long, mousy hair swept into a doughnut, a penchant for Celtic costume jewellery and billowing flowery tops worn over black trousers. She had worked her way up to Manager of the Irish Music Theatre in Ennis from years of backstage and management experience in various regional theatres around the country, her last senior position being Chief Administrator in the prestigious Gaiety Theatre in Dublin which she left three years ago in order to care for her sick mother in her home county of Clare.
This evening she spoke in a calm and business-like tone making it clear that speculation regarding the whereabouts of the troupe was off the agenda at the moment and that she could not afford to allow the theatre to remain empty for much longer.
Silas said he understood, although he had been hoping for some empathy and understanding of something he was powerless to do anything about. Deirdre softened somewhat after about an hour and as they sat in the plush red seats of the stalls facing the Arcanum scenery that had been set up earlier that afternoon, she voiced her concern.
“What are you going to do, Silas?”
“Honestly, Deirdre, I haven’t a clue. Let’s see what the cops come up with. At least it’s been classified as a missing persons case now and they are actively searching. The worst thing I have to do tonight is contact the families.”
His energy depleted, he had asked Justin to take Clodagh and their bags to the hotel. Joe Tierney had called and Deirdre had agreed that an appeal and press conference could take place at 10.00 am at the theatre the following morning. He would need to be on top of that and would try and get a good night’s sleep, although that prospect seemed unlikely with the many concerns that were flooding his mind.
“Would you and Clodagh be willing to dance here for me?” Deirdre ventured, studying his worried face. “Until they turn up, I mean?”
Silas was surprised. It was something he would never have considered and wasn’t sure how it could happen.
“Well, for a start Clodagh has a leg injury. That’s why she didn’t leave in the coach as planned. And I haven’t choreographed anything for the two of us that doesn’t involve the troupe.”
“I don’t mean to sound insensitive.” Deirdre told him. “But if they don’t arrive and the press make a meal of this, which I’m sure they will, then the publicity for you and this theatre would be pretty full-on. None of us can do anything that the police aren’t already doing, so we have to do something. I’m not suggesting a full show, I can book other acts in, but if we had the two of you dancing together or dancing solo as guest artistes, that might help us all. You don’t have to make a decision right now, but please think about it.”
Silas stood up and paced along the row of seats his brain in turmoil. How could he even consider working out a routine for himself and Clodagh while his troupe were missing? Or consider working at all? But Deirdre had a point. Although he didn’t want to entertain the notion that another day might go by without them being found or God forbid more than another day, he couldn’t just sit around waiting and making himself sick with worry.
“Let me sleep on it.” He told her and she nodded. “And see what happens tomorrow.”
He saw Justin walking in and waved him over. “What happened with the hotel?”
Justin flopped into a chair in the row in front of them. “Awkward. They say they can’t hold the rooms past tonight.”
Deirdre rose explaining that she had a mound of e-mails to attend to. “I’ll see you in the morning. You’ve got my mobile number if there’s any news and don’t be afraid to ring at any hour.”
Silas allowed himself to be pecked on the cheek as she swept out of the theatre, lea
ving a trail of Yves St. Laurent’s “Opium” wafting in her wake.
“Where’s Clodagh?” He asked Justin, who had enviably changed into a clean T-shirt and was wearing a blue sweater fashionably draped around his shoulders.
“At church.”
An inappropriate response hovered on the edge of Silas’s tongue which he swallowed hastily. ‘What’s she doing there?’ would have been an insane thing to say in the circumstances. He knew how important Clodagh’s faith was to her and of course she was there praying for her friends.
“Silas, did you notice she wasn’t limping when you dropped us off?”
“No. What are you saying?”
Justin decided to abandon the fashion statement and pulled the sweater on over his head. “Just that. She wasn’t showing any sign of her injury. In fact, walking completely normally.”
“Did you ask her about it?” Silas was puzzled. “It can’t be better yet.”
“No, it can’t. A tear like that can’t suddenly mend itself. And yes, I did ask her and she just said ‘It’s okay now.’
“I need her to help me with telling the families. We have to do that tonight before they hear it from the press. Let’s go.”
There were too many odd things happening which were difficult to explain and Silas had neither the energy nor the inclination to give the matter any further thought when more pressing and immediate practicalities were demanding his attention.
*
It had to be the most agonizing experience of their lives, making those calls to the loved-ones of the missing. The sense of futility when each call ended took them beyond pain.
Each pick-up had begun with the usual greeting. “Silas, how are you?” “Clodagh, how lovely to hear from you,” and then the silences, the sheer disbelief and finally the choking sobs and little in the way of goodbyes.
