First published 2017
by Black & White Publishing Ltd
29 Ocean Drive, Edinburgh EH6 6JL
www.blackandwhitepublishing.com
ISBN: 978 1 78530 117 9 in EPub format
ISBN: 978 1 78530 107 0 in paperback format
Copyright © Deirdre Eustace 2017
The right of Deirdre Eustace to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without permission in writing from the publisher.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
Ebook compilation by Iolaire, Newtonmore
For
Tom Walsh
7th July 1962 - 26th October 1997
Your wisdom, courage and humanity continue to inspire
Contents
Title Page
Prologue
Three Years Later
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
Prologue
And so it began – like all things that shape and pattern our lives – softly, quietly: a faint tap-tapping at the bedroom window hauling her from the depths of an exhausted sleep. She turned on her side, half-conscious now, tugged the pillow down over her ear. Tap, tap, tap – a stray tail of Virginia creeper loosened by last night’s storm, dancing on the glass. And then what sounded like her name – ‘Alison!’ – echoing against the window pane before falling away again. She stretched a heavy arm across to the right-hand side of the bed. Still no Sean. ‘Alison! Alison!’ again, and the tapping louder now, more urgent. Eyelids fighting the pull of sleep, she hoisted herself up onto her elbows. ‘Alison?’ A male voice. Sean. She sighed, slowly waking, remembering. Sean. He must have forgotten his key in his hurry to be away last night. Palming her hair from her face, she felt for the bedside lamp, her eyes tightening at its glare. Immediately the tapping ceased, the heavy crunch of feet on gravel disappearing towards the front door. Pushing back the bedclothes, she eased her toes slowly onto the floor. The cold of the bare wooden boards gripped her feet, banishing what remained of sleep. Her eyes found the clock: 6.50 a.m. Another lock-in at Phil’s, no doubt. She ran a hand over her eyes, her forehead, the memory of last night’s argument heating her temper. Sean would have a skinful now, talk tumbling out of him, incomprehensible, words thick and tripping over each other in their hurry to be heard when he hadn’t had a single one for her when it mattered, when it was needed.
Let him wait, she thought, unhooking her dressing gown from the back of the door, buttoning it slowly. The night he’d put her through. She padded barefoot to the hall. The cold of the storm had seeped into the house. She huddled into herself, hugged her arms against it.
Reaching for her key, she glanced out through the porch window. The sensor above the front door threw an arc of pure light into the darkness, its starkness accentuating the pallor of Father Ger’s face against the pitch black of his coat collar; the deep knot between his brows, the tight set of his thin lips. It fell too on Kathleen, picking out the gold in her bowed blonde head, the tight clasp of her entwined fingers, shadowing the dent that they made there, pressed to her lips. ‘Maryanne!’ Her breath caught on the name, her mother-in-law’s face flashing before her as she fumbled with the key. Something has happened to Maryanne and of course Sean’s not even here when he’s needed! She gave the key a second quick turn. On the springing of the lock she took a deep breath, held it as she pressed down on the handle, felt the door yield.
‘Father, Kathleen, what’s . . . Kathleen?’
Biting down on her lower lip, her chin trembling, Kathleen, eyes wide with warning, stared straight at her, her head shaking from side to side, as if in slow motion.
‘Kathleen?’ Alison took a step towards her. It wasn’t the wind rushing through the open door that chilled her, it was a knowing, deep inside her, an emptying out.
‘Alison, Alison,’ the priest was holding her by the arm now, urging her backwards. ‘Let’s step inside, good girl, in out of the cold.’
‘Maryanne – is it Maryanne? Has she – has something . . . ’
‘Maryanne’s fine.’ He squeezed her arm in reassurance as they stepped back into the hall.
‘But what then? Who . . . ’
Kathleen’s arms were around her now, tight, the damp of the rain from her coat causing Alison to shiver.
‘Oh, Alison . . . ’ Kathleen pulled back slightly, looked up into her friend’s wary face. ‘Alison, it’s Sean.’
‘Come on, Alison, we’ll take a seat.’ The priest took a step towards the sitting-room door, turned on the light.
‘Sean?’ She looked down at Kathleen, her brow knotted in confusion.
‘Please,’ Father Ger insisted, and Kathleen, taking her hand, led Alison through the door to the couch.
‘But, wait a second, I don’t understand.’ Alison, smiling now, her thick red curls dancing with the shake of her head. Kathleen sat down beside her, clasped her free hand to Alison’s tensed shoulder.
‘Sean’s down at . . . What, Kathleen? What? – oh my God!’ Her hand flying to her mouth, her green eyes flashing. ‘He’s driven the car, hasn’t he, full and . . . ’
‘Sean is missing, Alison.’ The priest’s words were clear and level, as he squatted down on the rug before her. ‘His boat’s been found but as yet—’ Alison’s high laugh cut through his words. He bent his head, took a deep breath. ‘Alison, please, listen to me.’
‘No, Father, no, you listen to me.’ She nodded her head as if to reassure, to encourage her own tentative smile. ‘You see, Sean didn’t go out yesterday evening. I know.’ She squeezed Kathleen’s hand. ‘I checked.’ Her smile widened, her eyes darting from one disbelieving face to the other. ‘I went down to the pier – me and Hannah – around seven, when the wind got up. We drove back through the village. Sean’s van was parked outside Phil’s – he’s not missing,’ the ghost of a laugh tailing her words. The priest rested his arm on the coffee table, nodded to Kathleen. Kathleen’s hand stole to Alison’s cheek, turning her face gently to meet her eyes.
‘Alison, please. Listen to me now, yeah? Sean—’ Her lower lip began its tremble again, she shook her head, straightened her neck and shoulders. ‘Sean left Phil’s at eleven. The two Careys left with him.’ She cleared her throat, began again. ‘All three of them left the pub at eleven. The storm was well up.’ Alison stared at her eyes, at her lips, moving, forming those words. ‘They parted at the mouth of the pier. Sean said he was going down to check on something.’
‘Well, of course he was,’ Alison interrupted, her head held forward, her hand stroking the length of her neck. ‘He’d have been worried that the mooring rope was secure.’ Kathleen turned away to hide her fresh tears.
‘Shrimp pots, Alison.’ Her eyes studied the priest as he spoke, unbuttoning his coat. She was struck by the almost translucent white of his fingers, the neat, blunt fingernails. ‘The Careys thought he meant the pots on the quay, not the ones he had out.’ He pushed out the words, taking a seat on the couch beside her.
Alison’s short laugh was laced with derision. She sat back in her seat, threw out her hands in exasperation. ‘Oh, for heaven sake, Father! Out on the sea?
Sean? On a night like that?’ Eyebrows raised, she threw Kathleen a look of mock vexation. ‘Sean’s been on the sea since he was a boy, for Christ’s sakes! Sorry, Father.’ A nod to the priest. ‘He’d never risk heading out on a night like that. Never. Not Sean, of all people.’
Another deep breath and the priest tried again, this time steeling his words with a little more conviction and authority. ‘Brian Carthy saw him, Alison. Saw the green light on the starboard as he left the harbour. Around midnight.’ He paused a moment, allowing his words to settle on her. Alison’s lips clamped together as everything inside her tightened, closed. And then the cold of Kathleen’s hands, finding hers. ‘Young Joe O’Sullivan’s mother raised the alarm about an hour ago,’ the priest continued, softer now. ‘It seems the poor lad saw the boat go down. But we can’t make sense – he’s too upset, unsure of what time . . . ’
‘No, no, it can’t . . . ’
‘Alison, we’ll find him.’ Kathleen squeezed her hands tightly. ‘The search is already underway, the helicopter and lifeboat have been called . . . ’
‘And the local boat is ready to launch at first light, weather permitting,’ Father Ger encouraged, his heart sickened. No matter how many times he broke this news, it never got any easier. The false encouragement, the raising of hopes – only to see them shattered again. The anger that he knew would follow, at him, at God, the heart-breaking unanswerable questions. He ran a hand over his bare head, as if to offer it protection. ‘The boat hit the rocks just to the left of the pier. He’s close, Alison, you’ve got to have faith – he’ll be found and safe by daylight, please God.’
‘This is nonsense!’ A hot anger roused her from her stupor, propelling her from her seat. ‘Absolute nonsense!’ Her voice rose with her. ‘Sean would never, do you hear? He would never! I’m, I’m getting dressed, I’m going down there to get him!’ Eyes ablaze, she looked into their faces with almost disgust before turning to the voice at the door.
‘Mam?’ Still sleep-wrapped, Hannah shivered in her nightgown against the door jamb. ‘Mam?’ Running now, into Alison’s open arms.
Fists of foam shivered in the headlights as they rounded the bend on the road above the harbour. Alison strained forward in the passenger seat, eyes trained on the sea. The horizon line was barely distinguishable in the bleak dawn light. Bleached of all colour by the storm’s assault, the heavy grey sky stooped to meet a mackerel-backed sea of grey on greener-grey on black, the only break a narrow tear at the rim of the sky to the east, a watery light pouring down, like heaven, bleeding. The sea was falling back into a grudging sleep, lazily licking and frothing the cliffs, its gluttonous appetite almost sated. The wind continued its whip and hurl.
‘We’ll have to walk from here.’ Father Ger eased the car onto the grass verge. ‘The road to the pier is flooded. We’ll take the cliff path.’ Alison had the door open even before the car came to a halt, belting her coat as she ran towards the pier, the wind whipping her hair across her pinched face.
The boats in the harbour heaved and keeled to the dance of the water beneath them, groaning as their flanks collided. The fishermen had already gathered, boots and oilskins sodden and heavy, their urgent shouts flung back on them by the wind as they unknotted ropes and chains, two and three together, winding and fastening and tightening the mooring ropes around the bollards, the boats like wild horses fighting their fettering. And all the time the constant chorus of the yacht masts, like a thousand tiny death knells announcing the inevitable.
Alison ran towards the storm wall, the icy water leaping its foam-littered top, salting and soaking her face, her hair. ‘Sean? Sean?’ Her shout smacked back in her face. Out beyond the harbour the little punt that the fishermen used to access the pier at low tide tossed and bobbed like a demented toy, the blue and white bow now visible, now gone, its rosary of orange buoys stretched tight in a sinister smile.
‘Hey! Careful! Jesus!’ The fisherman grabbed her arm, dragged her to safety as a massive white wave leaped the wall, sweeping a stack of empty fish boxes into the water. ‘This way!’ Her wild green eyes followed the nod of his head to the left, to the tight knot of men and women gathered on the cliff.
Fighting her way through them, breathless, she looked down into the water, her heart straining, heavier, heavier, mouth dry, her teeth finding the corner of her lip, biting down hard, her stomach seeming to heave and fall with the motion of the boat’s bow, pitching and tilting against the unforgiving rocks. She felt arms close around her as the weakness spread upwards through her legs, her hips.
Then it burst like thunder over the cliff tops, its giant orange belly and urgent, ear-shattering roar piercing the grey, its mighty blades chopping, defying the wind. Seagulls sheltering in nooks high in the cliffs took to the wing beneath it as the chopper’s search beam transformed the cliffs into a magnificent stage set, picking out their browns and golds and reds and the ancient greens of copper streaking the cliff face like giant tears.
‘Sean!’ The wind stole his name from her lips as her body crumbled.
The brandy stung her throat, its fire burning a path down into her darkness. She pulled the blanket tight around her shoulders.
‘ . . . rest in your own bed . . . call you when there’s news . . . ’ The conversation spun, broken, around her. The tea room in the Sea Safety Centre was crowded, hot, the babble loud and oppressive. She needed to be out, needed to be near him when he returned. She rose on unsteady feet, clasped the blanket tight at her neck.
‘Alison, take it easy, you—’
‘I’m fine, honestly.’ Alison didn’t even recognise the woman’s face. ‘I just need to get some air.’
‘Wait then, I’ll come out—’
‘Thanks,’ Alison replied, pressing the blanket into her hands, ‘I’m fine on my own.’ Holding the hand rail, she descended the stairs to the quay, her stomach threatening to heave with every shaking step.
‘Joe?’ He palmed his blue cap low on his head, turned back down the stairs. ‘Joe! Wait, please!’ He stood, head bowed, his foot kicking at the rail.
‘What happened, Joe? Where’s Sean – did you see him?’
‘Gone.’ The single word was wet, guttural.
‘What?’
‘Gone! Seany’s gone!’ Head dropped to his chest, a wail erupted from him, filling the stairwell.
‘Leave him, Alison,’ Father Ger, behind, hand on her shoulder. ‘Go on, Joe, good lad, get yourself home now.’
‘We’ll find him, Joe, we’ll find him,’ Alison called, the tails of his too-long coat disappearing through the door. Poor Joe. Poor innocent, senseless Joe. Sean’s ‘right-hand man’, his pet since childhood. The absolute devastation in his child-like face ran a shiver right through her. How would he – with the mind and understanding of a ten-year-old – how could he ever even begin to understand all this? Her first tears stung, fell.
‘I’ll drop you back to the house, you need to—’
‘I’m going nowhere.’ She shook the priest’s hand from her shoulder, continued her unsteady way down the stairs.
Out on the water then, cold hands grasping the bow rail, shouting his name against the roar of the helicopter above, her stomach long since emptied into the water. Exhausted eyes scanning every rock and cove, every inlet and stretch of sand, for a flash of colour, a movement, a sign. Anything. It couldn’t end this way. No, Lord Jesus, no, not this way. The angry words she had flung at him in the heat of their passion echoed in her head. A selfish bastard she had called him, yelled at him to be gone, that he was no good to her anyway. Oh Sweet Jesus no, she pleaded to a god she had not believed in since childhood. This couldn’t be the end, not after twenty-two years. Not Sean – not her childhood sweetheart, first love; her husband, the father of her child. She closed her eyes, bent her forehead to the cold of the metal rail. Please God, anything, I’ll do anything. Please, please, just give him back to me!
Alison hardly saw the house that first week. With Hannah safely moved in with Marya
nne, she only ever touched home to shower and change before heading back down to the pier. Returning to her bed for a few hours of fitful sleep when the search was called off for the night, then up again before dawn to start all over. The pies and casseroles delivered by concerned neighbours littered the kitchen counters, untouched. Food was the last thing on her mind, a warm mug of soup from the volunteers at the quay enough to keep the cold at bay.
She hated being on the quay, itched all the time to be out on the water. To be nearer him. To be there, out there, in case the others would miss him waving from the safety of a cave, an inlet. She would be the one to find him. He was out there, waiting for her, and every minute spent on land was a precious moment wasted. Besides, she could no longer bear to listen to the hopelessness that had crept into their idle chatter. To watch the agony on the faces of those revisiting what had once been their own reality; their wounds freshly opened, staying close to her, as if she were one of them now. Well, she wasn’t! Sean was missing, that’s all. Missing. Not drowned.
‘That’s five now, in under three years,’ she heard Ned Fleming announce, calling the death roll on his nicotined fingers, the two fishermen beside him crossing their chests in a silent acknowledgement of luck. And God save her from the likes of Pat Ryan, puffed up with importance in his rescue uniform, pontificating on the number of days it takes a body to sink, decompose, inflate, rise up and, if not spotted then, sink once again, forever. Well, she’d show them. Sean would show them, make them eat their words! And Maryanne. Above all, she could not understand Maryanne. Not once did the woman come to the pier – her only son, her only child, alone, out there. ‘Let him rest’ was the only answer she would make when Alison probed. ‘Let him rest in the one place that he loved.’
* * *
Alison stood at the look-out post in the Sea Safety Centre, a mug of now cold tea cupped in her hands. She stared out at the blues and reds and yellows of the boats circling at a safe distance from the map of underwater rocks. Seagulls swooped and dived, slicing the wrinkled surface of the water. The rescue helicopter hovered above an outcrop to the left, where the sun greened the water. Her eyes watched keenly as two of the larger boats made an about-turn, pointed themselves in her direction. Today, she mouthed silently, please let it be today. Gulls keened at the mouth of the harbour, where the wind skimmed the sea’s surface, making it move, like the twitching hide of a beast, crouching, waiting. The radio crackled to life behind her and she spun round, her heart swelling.
Finding Alison Page 1
