by John Brady
“I want to see the water there,” he said. “The colours.”
McKeon’s voice startled him.
“There was a wild Colonial Boy
Jack Duggan was his name’’
Holy Jesus, Minogue thought. McKeon banged his can off Minogue’s.
“Come on there Matt, you know this one!”
It was Orla’s laugh he heard.
“He was born and raised in I-er-land
In a -h-a place called Ca-ha-s-el-maine”
“— arra, Jases, now, is the captain of the ship the only one singing? What? Sure we’re home free now, Matt! It’s the law of the sea, me bucko: sing!”
“I don’t want either of the women to drown trying to get away from the sound of me singing ‘The Wild Colonial Boy.’”
McKeon slapped him on the back.
“Ah God, you couldn’t be that bad. Sure listen to me, man — I haven’t a note in me head.”
Minogue gave him the eye. McKeon laughed.
“Those two out there have us written off anyway,” McKeon said with a yawn. “Well, mine has, I mean. Orla thinks she has me codded. But she hasn’t.”
He popped another can and drank from it.
“About the singing, is it?”
“Christ, no! Orla hates me, man. I’m a pig. A bollocks. A male chauvinist pig bollocks. A patriarchal male chauvinist pig bollocks.”
The boat yawed. Minogue cocked an ear.
“What are you thinking. Sharks is it?”
“They’re in long enough.”
“Ah, sit down. There’s a ladder. They can climb out.”
Minogue weighed his can.
“Aren’t you a bit hard on yourself there?” he tried.
“Not a bit of it,” said McKeon. “She hates me.”
“Is she gay?”
“No, she fucking isn’t. It’s the times we’re living in. Everybody hates fifty-one-year-old successful males. You listen to GOD, don’t you? The one about families. ‘Do You Believe’?”
“I think so. Maybe.”
“Well, okay. This is what it’s all about. It’s about me not being the modern sensitive chap, that’s what I think. I love her, you know? She’s me daughter like, but she drives me around the fucking twist. So I just ignore her. ‘Da, bring me out in the boat. Today, half-seven.’ ‘Yes, love. Whatever you say, love.’ That’s how I’ve learned to operate.”
Minogue drained the can. He could tell Kilmartin that he had a lost sibling in McKeon. A millionaire, Iseult had said.
“What would you suggest, then?”
“I don’t know,” said Minogue.
“Well, you’re the bloody detective, aren’t you? A Clareman too, aren’t you?”
“Well, I was, I am I suppose.”
McKeon tapped his temple.
“The second sight and all that, your crowd in Clare?”
“So they say.”
“Come on. I should be the cop, shouldn’t I?”
McKeon had a can out, opened and next to Minogue’s hand before the Inspector could say anything. He accepted it and nodded his thanks.
Minogue watched McKeon wipe a trickle of beer from the corner of his mouth.
“Did you ever wonder if yours hated you?”
“Well, when she wasn’t so pleased with some of the edicts, when she was younger like.”
“Really. I heard you were a pushover. The tough guy stops at the front door?”
“Was that in some review of the art thing as well?”
“No. Orla threw it at me in a row. ‘Well Iseult’s da doesn’t be’ . . . et cetera.”
Minogue slid out from the bench. McKeon grabbed his arm. Minogue stared at him. He thought of Johnny Leyne.
“What’s your hurry there, Matt? Here would you like a smathán?”
“No thanks. It’s gone quiet out there.”
“Ah, sit down, can’t you.”
“I’m going out and see about Iseult.”
“They’re in the nip now.”
“I know.”
“But you won’t be looking?”
“I won’t be looking, that’s it.”
“Hard to miss Iseult. Jases, she’s the size of a, well . . .”
Minogue was suddenly sorry for him. McKeon had the bluster, but he was openhanded too. And he wasn’t afraid to look at something straight on. Maybe his daughter did hate him. Minogue wanted to tell him that she’d get over it. He wanted to let McKeon ask him questions about gruesome murders and evil masterminds. He wanted to smile back at him and ask him tips for betting he didn’t care about, about his boat and his adventures, about his tiled driveway or golf or whatever the hell people talked about these days. The damn beer must have some maudlin ingredient. He found himself winking back at the florid smiling face.
“A whale, Tom. It’s whale-watching I’m about.”
The guffaws gave way to a song.
“Are ye right there Michael are ye right,
Do ye think that we’ll get home before the night?”
Minogue waved him away when he tried to rise.
“I’m under instructions to keep you confined to quarters.”
“Mutiny,” said McKeon. “We can’t have that.”
“Until they’re under wraps anyway.”
The evening sky blinded Minogue for several moments. The water was lemon and gold to the shore side. He heard murmurs from the other side of the boat, a laugh.
“Iseult. It’s Captain Cook here. Come in now can’t you.”
“All right.”
Teeth chattering, he heard.
“I’m coming over your side. Are you hanging on to some rope there?”
“Yes. Orla’s just heading out a bit. I’m going to pull myself up the best I can.”
“No! Don’t be straining yourself there. I’ll do the pulling.”
Lines spread from Orla’s drift through the water. Dimly he glimpsed her body as she turned and treaded water. Iseult was red.
“Great God,” he said. “You look perished. Come on now.”
He felt the boat give a little to his side. The rope ladder was off the back. He kneeled down and braced himself.
“That’ll be a boll— that’ll be difficult now to get on, love.”
She grunted and pulled at the rope.
“I have me feet . . . but it keeps on going under the boat.”
“Give me your hand there, yes. I’ll take hold of your wrist now and you take hold of mine . . . use the other one to get a hold of that whatchamacallit.”
He was reaching for her oxter with his free hand when he heard the cabin door open. He turned.
“Hi, Tom,” he managed before Iseult lost her footing. For a moment he knew he could let go of her but also that he couldn’t. His good knee hit the edge as he tumbled. Iseult let go. He brushed by her as the water closed over him.
He kicked but the coat was like cement. Keys, wallet, shoes, coat, change — all dragging him under: mustn’t panic. His hand glanced off some part of Iseult. Bubbling, voices, a shout, bumping sounds. She grabbed his collar. Another hand grabbed his arm. His head was in the air. He opened his eyes. Orla had swum in. The water wasn’t cold. He began to sink again. Should he try to get out of his shoes or this bloody jacket? Something slapped the water beside him. McKeon was shouting and laughing. He grabbed the tube. Styrofoam, more neon colours. He elbowed onto it and looked around.
“It’s nice isn’t it?” said Iseult.
The salt hurt his eyes. He reached down and felt for his wallet and keys. He tried to get further up the Styrofoam tube. It didn’t surprise him that he didn’t much care anymore.
“It is,” he spluttered. “It’s not bad at all.”
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