Arcanum: An Irish Mystery

by Ann Mann

  He made more calls. Conor Ferguson from the coach company was keen to go straight to the hospital and was very firmly instructed not to do so. He tried to contact Silas but the phone went to voice mail so he rang Deirdre McCall who told him that Silas and Clodagh were rehearsing in the theatre and that she would pass on the message. Tierney told her that he did not want anyone turning up at the hospital and they would be sent away if they did. He also asked if he could borrow the theatre after the evening performance for a brief press conference that night to which she agreed.

  He tried to remember when he was last in the area where Ahearne had been found and realised that it was about four years ago when he had taken the family for a trip to the ancient prehistoric walled village of Mooghaun. They had walked up to the fort, the largest and oldest in Ireland, through a delightful pathway shaded by tall oak trees and filled with wild flowers and looked down upon stunning countryside dotted with glimmering lakes and the panoramic view of the Shannon and its estuary stretching into the distance.

  He recalled thinking that there had been a very unusual feel to the place and he experienced a kind of dislocation which he put down to mild vertigo, for Joe Tierney was not the sort of man given to flights of fancy or who harboured the remotest belief in the supernatural. In fact, he was still incredibly proud of his last annual report which stated that although he was someone who worked on his instincts, his strength was his ability to maintain a cool and logical head, solving cases as one would a mathematical equation, with diligence and perseverance.

  It was strange though, reflecting on that walking trip now and the sensations it evoked. He wondered whether his wife and children had experienced anything similar but would never have mentioned it to them at the time fearing the embarrassment of their taunts and teases.

  He concluded that no-one should be surprised at anything in this country, after all, Ireland, the land of the Celtic Twilight, was seeped in superstition and historic folk-lore and where even in the twenty-first century a wide population still believed in the little people and the Banshee screeching out the coming of death. And sure, didn’t they even hold up the extension of the motorway from Limerick to Galway for ten years to protect the so-called ‘Faery Tree?’

  But it would be probably be best to keep thoughts like these to himself. For now.

  *

  Deirdre, Silas and Clodagh sat zombie-like in front of the rolling news network where the coverage about the driver being found was played and re-played.

  The more verbose of the two men who had discovered him was clearly enjoying his moment in the spotlight, in fact it was obvious that he had never been this excited since catching his first trout in the lake in 1969. His parboiled red complexion deepened with each sentence he uttered and he did not falter from his carefully prepared script.

  “I taught it was a tinker because he looked very rough. Very rough indeed. He came running…”

  “No, it was more stumbling…” Interrupted his less vocal companion.

  “Sure, stumbling towards us, shouting and panting he was until he fell down. Just in front of us, just like that. Fell down”

  “What was he shouting?” Enquired the interviewer.

  “Couldn’t make no sense of it.” Replied parboiled. “Talking in riddles.”

  “Aye, in riddles.” Echoed his companion.

  “Did he say where the others were?”

  “Nuttin. Nuttin about dem. Nuttin at all.”

  Deirdre reached for the remote and clicked the television into silence. They had all heard and seen enough and still none of it made sense. Silas and Clodagh’s phones tinkled with incoming texts from friends and families of the missing and they found themselves responding once again with ‘We know no more than you do.’

  Deirdre opened a small fridge and took out a bottle of white wine. It was nearly lunchtime and she felt they’d earned a drink. As she distributed it into three plastic tumblers, she raised hers and announced in a strong voice that disguised her doubts. “To finding Arcanum. Today.”

  “To finding Arcanum.” The two dancers repeated with forced cheer.

  “Today!” said Clodagh. “They must be found today.”

  Silas then voiced his decision. “I’m going to the hospital, Clodagh. Are you coming?”

  Deirdre frowned. “You won’t be let in. Tierney said no-one would be allowed in. And good luck in trying to get past the press pack.”

  “I can’t just sit around doing nothing. Let’s go, Clodagh.”

  She hesitated, wanting so much to get to see the driver. To scream the questions at him which were choking her with their tyranny. They would certainly be told they couldn’t enter his room but she visualised a familiar film script scenario where she would burst in through a barrage of security guards and white-uniformed hospital staff, rush to his bedside tearing away any tubes that were attached to his body and shaking him fiercely in order to get him to tell her where the others were.

  “Okay.” She said, picking up her bag. He was right about doing something, even if that something turned out to be a waste of time.

  Deirdre followed them through to the front doors of the theatre. “I understand, I really do, but I don’t want you to get into trouble.”

  Silas embraced her in a bear hug. “Thanks, but we’ll be fine. See you tonight.”

  The car journey took only twenty minutes and the dark clouds of evening were already edging in as they approached the hospital. Even if they had tried to get into the car park it would have been impossible as the press were everywhere and men in glowing yellow jackets were trying to keep order and making sure that ambulances and emergency vehicles could park near the entrances.

  They left the car a short distance away and realised that Deirdre had been correct in her assumption. They wouldn’t be allowed anywhere near the entrance unless they could come up with a foolproof idea.

  “Pretend to limp.” Silas said suddenly and Clodagh looked at him in surprise. “Pretend you’ve got your injury back and start limping. You can hold on to me and if we can get into A & E, we’ll try and find our way to the ward where he is.”

  Clodagh smiled at the conspiracy they were about to weave then realised she could improve on the idea. “I’ve still got the paperwork somewhere from the hospital in Dublin.” She rummaged in her bag and produced some crumpled forms. “Here it is!”

  “Good girl.” Silas was excited now but would not begin to count his chickens just yet. It was possible that the press had tried the same trick and that patients would be very carefully scrutinised before entering the building.

  He studied the crowded mayhem that surrounded the hospital and winked at Clodagh.

  “Showtime!” He told her and she obediently followed his lead, hopping on one leg and leaning against him for support. Like a pair of drunken crabs they navigated their way towards the A & E entrance and immediately were detained by one of the high-vis. clad security men.

  “My girlfriend’s injured.” Silas lied with urgency. “Please let us through.”

  “I’ve got to search you.” The man looked at them wearily, as though he wished he could be anywhere else but where he was at that moment. “Orders.”

  Clodagh leaned against the wall and Silas raised his arms. “Go ahead. I’m not a criminal and I’m not press although it’s hard to tell the difference these days.”

  The man grunted and gave him a quick body search. He seemed satisfied then turned his attention to Clodagh.

  “Alright, miss. Can I see inside your bag?”

  “Of course.” Clodagh replied sweetly, thrusting her old patchwork faithful into his hands. “You’ll see there’s paperwork in there from the National Orthopoedic Hospital in Dublin from a few months back.”

  He glanced briefly at the forms, scanned their faces once again and then waved them through the revol
ving glass doors into the accident and emergency unit, where they took their places on a couple of the small chairs that lined a wall surrounded by a wave of humans in various states of discomfort.

  “We made it.” Silas whispered as he glanced around apprehensively, expecting to be unmasked as the pretender he had become at any minute.

  “What now?” Clodagh asked him, almost wishing that she did still have her torn muscle so that they could be believed if challenged.

  “If no-one approaches us for our names, and frankly they are so busy I think that’s unlikely, then we try and get to the elevators and take it from there.”

  “But we don’t know which part of the hospital he’s in without asking.”

  “Then we’ll try every floor.” Silas told her determinedly. “There’s bound to be loads of security so we’ll look out for it.”

  Holding on to him once again, Clodagh limped towards the lifts as Silas swiftly read the guide to the various floors. Before he could digest the information and press the relevant button, a female voice called out from behind them and they immediately froze.

  “Excuse me? Hello there.”

  They turned to see a vision in white. One of the nursing Sisters of Mercy who threw them a look that demanded obedience.

  Feeling cornered and chastised, they spoke together. “Hello Sister.”

  Silas stepped forward to offer his hand which was refused. “I’m Silas Murphy and this is….”

  “I know who you are.” The Sister said, sternly but not unkindly. “And I also know why you are here.”

  “Sister, we are so desperate to know what’s happened to our friends.” Clodagh pleaded. “I know we shouldn’t be here, but do please try and understand.”

  The nun gave a sigh and softened her expression. “I do, dear. Really I do. But even if I let you wander around the hospital looking for the poor driver, you wouldn’t find him because he isn’t here.”

  Silas and Clodagh exchanged puzzled glances.

  “How is that?” Asked Silas. “The Gardai told the news people. That’s why they’re outside.”

  “I know, dear.” The Sister looked around, then drew them away from the busy lifts and over to a quieter corner at the end of the corridor. “But that was just a ploy, a ruse. Is that what they call it?”

  “Yes, Sister.” Said Clodagh, thinking for one insane moment that she was five and back at school. “But we still don’t understand.”

  “I really shouldn’t be telling you this.” The Sister’s voice dropped to an intimate whisper. “But the poor man is in the psychiatric unit. That’s not in this building, it’s further up the road and not obviously signed. If you want to try your luck, then by all means do. But I fear it will be impossible.”

  Silas squeezed Clodagh’s hand, knowing that the odds were stacked against them and they would have to abandon their carefully crafted plan.

  The Sister nodded, aware of their decision, and fingering her crucifix startled them with her next question.

  “How do you feel about not having gone on the coach that fateful evening?”

  Clodagh answered quickly. “By the grace of God, Sister, we were spared.”

  The nun stared at Clodagh for what seemed far longer than the few seconds it took to make her next remark.

  “My dear, has anyone ever told you that you are special?”

  Silas looked confused as an embarrassed Clodagh stuttered a response, trying not to think about her dream or what it might have meant.

  “Aren’t we all special Sister?”

  The woman whose calling had been to give her life to God and to others less fortunate smiled. She had looked into this young girl’s olive-green eyes and fancied she recognised a highly evolved soul with an undeniable inner wisdom of which the dancer was not yet aware.

  “Of course, my dear. But some are chosen.”

  *

  Having been highlighted on the international map for the past two months, the area around Ennis and the surrounding towns and villages was now approaching chaotic. Hotels and B and B’s that would normally have been in a state of suspended off-season animation were sending out for more beds to cope with the demand while the pubs and restaurants were heaving with travellers from all over the world, either directly or indirectly concerned with the disappearance.

  Silas and Clodagh were due to open their show the following week but had decided with Deirdre that because of the stress they were experiencing they were only really prepared to perform for the second half. Nonetheless, it was already a sell-out with everyone wanting to see Arcanum’s famous lead dancers who hadn’t taken the mystery bus.

  The pair were not exactly thrilled when Deirdre announced that the dance troupe Lighthouse would be opening for them, but had little choice in the matter. Someone had to do it and Silas could see where Deirdre was coming from in hiring Irish dancers. It added to the sense of drama for the audience and appropriately set the scene for their appearance in a more forlorn rendition of their Tarot dance which was to follow.

  Clodagh had too much on her mind to worry about Erin flitting around being chatty and irritating. Or that she would once again try to persuade her to join the troupe.

  The Sister of Mercy’s words yesterday were as cryptic as the High Priestess of her dream. If there was a message out there then she hadn’t got it yet and that, coupled with the grief for her friends, only served to make dancing her escape from such undeniably complex issues.

  If the driver was talking, then no-one had been told. Neither Joe Tierney nor his colleague in Ennis was communicating with Silas or the press and the searches near the lake and surrounding countryside had so far proved futile.

  When they finished rehearsal that day, Silas told Clodagh that he was once again going to try and see the driver even if there was a police presence.

  “Superintendent Tierney or the other detective has got to be there.” He told her. “They have to see us. Tell us what’s happening.”

  “Silas, the Gardai don’t have to do anything they don’t want to.” She said, concerned by this new hyperactivity that was consuming his personality. “We’ll know when they have something to tell us.”

  “How can you just sit around?” He didn’t want to raise his voice but was frustrated by her passivity. “The world and his wife are out there trying to find out what’s happened and we are the ones, along with the families, who have the most right to know.”

  “Okay, Silas. I’ll come with you, but I don’t think it’s going to work.”

  The Sister had told them that the building was not obvious as a unit connected to the hospital, but from her description they knew they were at the right place and as they drove slowly by, noticed a small sign-post indicating confirmation a few metres from the front door. Amazingly the press had not cottoned on and were still camped outside the main building further up the road.

  As he had done before, Silas parked the car five minutes away in a residential area and they walked together in silence down a short hill preparing once again to lie and to beg, anything to try and get nearer to the truth.

  A couple were crossing the road on to the pavement towards them and as they came closer suddenly stopped and stared with what seemed like more than just simple curiosity. The woman was tall, around fifty, with a pinched white face and wearing a leather coat, her badly permed hair blown into a fuzzy helmet by the November wind while the younger man was also tall wearing a trench style raincoat and tweed cap. Silas felt he knew him but couldn’t place where they might have met.

  The woman spoke as Silas and Clodagh hurried on, now all too familiar with people gaping or trying to engage them in conversation.

  “Are you the dancers?”

  Groaning inwardly, Silas stopped, feeling that he couldn’t just ignore the question.

  “Yes. Hello.”
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  To his alarm, the woman grabbed his hand pulling him close and crying pitifully. “Save him. You’ve got to save him.”

  Her companion tried to coax her away. “Come on now ma. Don’t be worrying the man.”

  Silas then realised he must be the coach driver’s son. The narrow eyes and blotchy complexion were now quite recognisable in a face drawn with grief.

  “Are you Mrs. Ahearne?”

  Brushing away tears with her coat sleeve she nodded as Clodagh placed a comforting arm around her shoulders.

  “How is your husband?” Clodagh asked gently.

  Mrs. Ahearne attempted to pull herself together as Silas, spotting a wooden bench on the pavement a little further down the hill, led them to it, indicating that they all sit and talk.

  “He’s bad. Not himself at all. The doctors say he has some psychotic disorder probably resulting from alcohol dependence when he was younger. Yes, he drank but he’s been dry for years. They keep asking me about depression or dementia and I keep telling them he’s never had nothing like that since we’ve been married.”

  “Has he said anything about what happened?” Silas pressed.

  “Nothing that makes any sense, but the hospital say he’s suffering from hallucinations so he’s got to have something called a PET scan to look at his brain. They think it might be schizophrenia. They’re giving him vitamins and have tested him for drugs which proved negative.”

  “What has he said though?” Silas struggled to keep his patience while maintaining a degree of understanding.

  The woman spoke between sobs. “He keeps saying ‘They’ve got ‘em, they’ve got ‘em.’ But not who the ‘they’ are. The detectives say it looks like abduction or kidnapping. But I said ‘wouldn’t someone have come forward and demanded a ransom by now?’ It’s all crazy and he’s not getting any better and he’ll be taking all the blame. That’s why I’m wondering if you…” She broke off and grasped Clodagh’s hand. “If you two would try and talk to him. Maybe it would jog his memory. Please…”