The Whole Of The Moon
Kevin McManus
Copyright (C) 2016 Kevin McManus
Layout design and Copyright (C) 2017 by Creativia
Published 2017 by Creativia
Cover art by Austin Macauley
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author's permission.
Table of Contents
Dedication
Chapter I Solstice
Chapter II The Crossing
Chapter III Rossbeg
Chapter IV In the Bleak Midwinter
Chapter V The whole of the Moon
Chapter VI Renegade
Chapter VII Broken Land
Chapter VIII After All These Years
Chapter IX New Year's Day
Chapter X A Pagan Place
Chapter XI Riders on the Storm
Chapter XII Running to Standstill
Chapter XIII Into the Mystic
Chapter XIV Dusk
Chapter XV April Skies
About the Author
Dedication
To my wife Mary for providing me with the strong support and encouragement to finish this novel and to get it published. To my mother Noreen, my father Kevin and sister Miriam, thank you.
To inspirational music and western landscapes.
Chapter I
Solstice
Wednesday, 21st December 1988
One mile outside Ballinastrad, County Sligo
As it was the shortest day of the year, it was already getting dark when Tom rolled back the sleeve of his jumper to check the time on his watch.
“Ten past four,” he whispered to himself as he leaned on the grape handle while he took a pull of his fag. He finished off the cigarette with one long, last drag and threw it out the shed door onto the farmyard outside, stamping on it forcefully with the heel of his boot.
Better get on and finish the job, he thought as he raised the grape, arching his strong, tall and wiry frame. He continued to clear the straw bedding and dung from the floor of the shed, placing it on the heap outside in the yard.
When the floor was clean and the work complete, Tom took the grape and placed it carefully in the corner of the shed, then closed the door securely behind him. After washing his boots clean under the tap on the wall next to the hayshed, he walked across the farmyard and looked back to ensure everything was in order and in its place.
He took pride in his work. Everybody always said that Tom Kearns was a tidy man who did a job right. He was no slacker. He could turn his hand to anything, laying blocks, plastering and carpentry work; he could even do a spot of wiring and plumbing. The locals always remarked that Tom was “blessed with great hands and a sharp mind, but it was a shame he was so fond of the drink. Ah, sure he could have done anything he wanted, but the drink got the better of him.”
Since his wife died back in '73, fifteen years now, he wasn't the same. His wife Maureen had died of cancer in terrible pain. He was heartbroken, but of course never spoke of it, instead burying the pain within himself the day he buried her in the ground.
Tom crossed the farmyard and walked towards the back door of the farmhouse. He tapped gently on the glass. Mrs Mary O'Brien, a short stout woman wearing a flowery apron, came to the door.
“That's a cold evening, Tom,” she said. “Do you think it will freeze?”
Tom looked up at the clear starry sky, tightened his black top coat and rubbed his hands. “I'd say it will all right, Mrs O'Brien.”
“Come in, Tom. Come in and warm yourself.”
“Ah … okay, so,” Tom replied, pulling off his Wellingtons and leaving them in the porch on a sheet of newspaper Mrs O'Brien had left out. He followed his host into the kitchen, where he was met with a warm and comforting blast of heat from the Stanley Range and the smell of warm soda bread baking.
Mary O'Brien was the wife of John O'Brien: gentleman farmer, publican and undertaker in Ballinastrad. Tom worked on the O'Brien's farm as a farm labourer during the winter months. The pay wasn't great, but he got his meals and plenty of free pints in John's pub at night. He was good old reliable Tom Kearns, who never looked for much pay. Cash in hand and on the scratcher too, of course. He was no fool.
“Sit down there, Tom and have a cup of tea,” Mrs O'Brien said as she poured him a mug of tea and brought him out a plate of soda bread, cheese and ham. It had only been a few hours since she'd given him a large feed of boiling bacon.
Tom pulled out a chair from the kitchen table and sat down. Taking off his cap, he wiped the sweat from his forehead.
It was a hardened, tired and lined forehead. He was fifty-eight now, but he had the face of a man ten years older. However, his body was fit and agile, apart from a barking cough from too many fags.
“It's hard to believe Christmas is almost upon us again, Tom.”
“It's unbelievable, Mrs O'Brien. It comes around so fast; sure, the time is flyin'.”
“What are your plans for Christmas day, Tom?” Mrs O'Brien asked.
“Oh, I will be at home this year. My daughter Regina is coming home from England with her husband and her kids,” Tom said.
“Ah, isn't that lovely, Tom. It's nice to have company at Christmas time. Regina, God. I haven't seen Regina in years; how is she getting on?”
“She's fine. She hasn't been home in about five years. She has two boys now. I think they're around seven or eight years old. God, I'm not too sure; I don't see them too often.”
“How long is Regina in England now?” Mrs O'Brien asked.
“I think she's there about eighteen years,” said Tom.
“My God, eighteen years. I didn't think she was away that long. You must be delighted they're coming home,” Mrs O'Brien said as she tidied up the mugs and plates from the table and brought them over to the sink.
Tom finished his supper and at around five o'clock, he got up from the table. He knew not to outstay his welcome. Thanking Mrs O'Brien, he told her that he would be back in the morning to fodder the cattle.
He walked out towards the back porch and closed the kitchen door quietly behind him. Putting on his Wellingtons, he went out the back door and around the side of the house to where he'd parked his Ford Cortina.
A dog ran out in front of him and growled as he turned the corner and opened the front gate. Tom patted the old dog on the head to reassure him nothing was wrong.
He got into his car and lit another fag, then turned the ignition four times before the 1974 grey Cortina eventually started. It was hard starting the last day or two thanks to the cold weather and probably needed a new battery. He would have a look at it tomorrow when he had time.
Following the short journey into Ballinastrad, Tom parked outside Dolan's Pub on Bridge Street. He turned to the pubs of Ballinastrad night after night for solace, comfort and companionship. It was better than sitting at home in a lonely house too full of memories, emptiness and silence now.
Opening the front door of the bar, he went in and warmed himself next to the open fire, then ordered his first pint of stout from Jennifer Dolan, the publican's daughter.
“That's a bitter evening, Tom! I'd say we'll get a hard frost. They were saying on the radio that there's heavy snow coming around Christmas, but sure, they haven't a clue,” she said, placing Tom's pint on the bar and giving him his change.
“You're rig
ht there—they haven't a feckin' notion. Give us out a packet of Twenty Major there too, Jennifer, good girl.”
Tom took a seat at the bar and sank the pint, following it with a half one of Powers Whiskey as he lit a fag.
After spending about two hours in Dolan's, he strolled up Main Street to O'Brien's Pub at around eight o'clock to meet the boss and get his Christmas wages and a few pints on the house.
The craic was good in O'Brien's. There was plenty of slaggin' going on and Tom didn't say too much, as usual; he preferred to listen in and make a few dry comments that always got a roar of a laugh from the other regulars. Tom was quiet, a shrewd man, a listener, a thinker. He was admired by his peers as a good worker and a clever man you could always rely on. “Sure, Tom Kearns could have been an engineer or an architect if he had got the schoolin',” was often repeated around the village of Ballinastrad.
At about 11.45, Tom looked at the clock at the side of the bar and swallowed down the last mouthful of stout, then said good luck to the publican and the boys at the bar.
“See you tomorrow Tom,” said John O'Brien as Tom walked out the door as straight as if he had never had a drink.
Tom stood outside and lit a fag. The footpath and road were glistening with frost. There had been a light fall of sleet earlier that was now coated to the ground and frozen firm. It crunched under his feet as he pounded them to keep warm.
He walked slowly and carefully back to his car. The car door was frosted shut and he had to give it a good pull to open it. Sitting in the car, he pulled his car keys out of his coat pocket. He turned the ignition.
There was no response. He tried it four more times. Still no good.
“Feck it,” he whispered to himself.
He got out of the car, slamming the door behind him, and thought about going back into O'Brien's and asking John for a lift home. On second thoughts, he decided he wouldn't. Tom was a proud man and didn't like having to ask for a lift from anyone.
Instead, he looked up and down the street to see if any of his neighbours were in town to give him a lift the three miles out to his house. The town was quiet, but he spotted a blue Toyota belonging to a younger man who often travelled out the road to Rossbeg; maybe he might carry him if he was on the road.
Tom decided to walk out the Rossbeg road a bit. He would probably get a lift from someone and if not, sure, the walk wouldn't kill him. He'd done it many a time before.
Pulling his cap down tight on his head and buttoning up his top coat, Tom walked against the biting frosty air and looked up at the sky with the whole of the moon shining down upon him. The road was treacherous underfoot and he slipped several times. He walked on for about ten minutes and two cars passed him. Eventually, he thought, somebody would recognise him and stop.
He heard another car coming up behind him. Tom decided to stand out from the ditch a bit and turn his face towards the oncoming car so he could be noticed better.
The car was approaching fast behind him. It seemed to be slowing and speeding up erratically. Tom recognised the car: a blue Toyota Starlet.
He turned to wave at the car, and at that, it swerved in towards the ditch. He tried to jump out of its way, but the car rebounded off the ditch and swerved back out in Tom's direction, hitting him on his side. He fell under the car and it dragged him fifty yards down the road before the brakes screeched.
Tom could hear the car stopping and after a few minutes, the car door opening, but he couldn't see anything for the warm blood was pouring into his eyes. He heard a man's voice slurring, “Oh Christ. Jesus Christ.”
But the man did not walk towards him; in fact, Tom heard footsteps walking away. He tried to speak, but was unable to get the words out. He tried to lift his arm to make some sort of gesture, but he was unable to raise it. He was starting to feel himself drifting into unconsciousness.
The car door opened, the engine started and it drove away.
The last thing Tom could hear was a gentle cold breeze rustling in the branches of the trees overhead. He felt cool drops of sleety rain on his face.
Then there was silence.
Chapter II
The Crossing
Thursday, 22nd December 1988
Busáras, Dublin
God, it's cold, Conor Doyle thought as he curled his toes inside his boots trying to warm his feet. He sat on the bus watching the passengers lugging in their cases and Christmas shopping.
The seat next to him was empty; he wondered who would end up sitting beside him. He would be very fortunate to get the luxury of a whole seat to himself on the three-hour journey to his hometown of Ballinastrad in Co Sligo, especially a few short days before Christmas, when over-cramped, cold and damp CIE 'luxury express coaches' were the norm.
He stared at the pretty brunette girl coming up the aisle towards him. Maybe she would be his companion on the journey home. No. Feck it, he thought as she went straight for the back seat.
Conor turned to the window, writing his name in the condensation on the glass. He peered out at the doors of the bus station, watching hundreds of people shuffle on to buses going to Cork, Galway, Tullamore and Limerick. His observation was brutally disturbed by the thud of a large old woman flopping down into the seat beside him. She placed luggage on the floor beside her, forcing Conor to pull his legs into the cramped space between the seats.
Conversation between Conor and his companion spewed awkwardly as the bus pulled out from the station and out of the city onto the N4 Sligo road. Conor began to regain feeling in his feet as the temperature in the bus rose to a few degrees above freezing. By the time they reached Leixlip, the woman next to him was snoring in his ear.
Conor reached into his coat pocket to take out his Walkman and put his headphones on. He drifted into a half-sleep staring out the window at the winter countryside sliding by him as he listened to the Fisherman's Blues album by the Waterboys.
His eyes watered from the cigarette smoke that clouded and hovered inside the coach. He was tired; he had left London the evening before, getting the train to Holyhead and the ferry across to Dún Laoghaire. When he could, he'd caught a bit of sleep on the over-crowded train and ferry.
Thousands of Irish were making the crossing home like Conor. All were eager to see welcoming parents, children, siblings and friends. They felt embittered that at the end of their short Christmas holidays at home, they would have to say painful goodbyes yet again to return to the only choice they had: a job in England. They'd had to leave Ireland, a country that had failed them.
Conor made the move to London two years ago at twenty-five, in the summer of 1986. After leaving school, he'd gone to university in Galway to study arts. He'd worked hard at college, receiving a first-class honours degree, but even with qualifications, he'd found it difficult to find any permanent, well-paid work.
He'd spent long terms on the dole, interrupted by spells in various jobs such as part-time teaching, bar work and sales. He'd found the lack of permanent work frustrating and disheartening. Like thousands of other young Irish people, his only option had been the plane or boat to Britain or America.
This mass emigration mirrored the harrowing passage of the young Irish in the 1950's. The current generation was forced to leave a country that had been raped by unemployment, corrupt politicians, the Catholic Church, lack of investment and lack of hope.
Conor had chosen to go to England, where he had many cousins, friends and former classmates already. The Irish looked out for each other over there; a strong Irish community existed where he lived in Kilburn.
He'd started out as a labourer on a building site. However, over the last year, he had moved on to become a claims manager for an insurance company. He was happy enough in London, earning good money in a secure job at last. He lived in a comfortable apartment, had a good social life mixing with old friends from home and got on well with his English co-workers. Yet he always thought about coming back home and giving it another shot.
He hoped things had improved.
Coming home now for Christmas, he played with the idea of maybe finding some reason to stay around his hometown of Ballinastrad. Hey, maybe he would find that dream job opportunity at last, or that cute girl and settle down and live in a wild remote shack up in the hills raising goats and chickens and writing poetry. He smiled to himself as he thought about the idea.
The bus journey seemed to drag and drag as the bus got caught up in one congested, bottleneck town after another. The bus shook and spluttered and the radio crackled and whistled as it stubbornly refused to sit still on any radio station. The air was thick and dark with cigarette smoke.
Conor tried to look out through the condensation and dust-covered window to figure out how many miles were left 'til he reached the nearest stop to Ballinastrad, Ballygalvin, where his father would collect him.
After three long, uncomfortable hours, the bus reached his destination and he gladly got off.
“Thanks be to fuck,” he said to himself as he dived into the luggage compartment at the bottom of the bus and pulled out his bag. He closed the compartment door and waited 'til the bus pulled off, then crossed the road to Maguire's Pub to ring home.
It was four o'clock and getting dark. The streets were lined with cars as housewives did a bit of Christmas shopping and their husbands took the opportunity to sink a few pints in the local pubs.
Conor walked in the front door of Maguire's. The small pub seemed to be stuck in a time warp; it still had that 1967 look about it. It was decorated with your compulsory J.F.K. photograph on the wall over the fireplace and the Sligo Connacht champion's team of 1975 photograph framed over the bar.
A stout, white-haired and moustached barman watched him closely as he walked in. Not that there was anything extraordinary about Conor: he didn't look like trouble. He was average-looking, average height with a slim build and tightly cropped dark hair.
Conor was busting after his long bus journey and went into the gent's toilet, which stank of stale beer, bleach, puke and piss. He stood at the urinal alongside a thin, middle-aged man in a filthy grey suit. They exchanged pleasantries and had a brief chat about how cold it was and how quiet the pubs were.
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