“A coffee for me please,” said Detective Mulcahy.
“I'm grand,” said Sergeant Burns. “I'll take nothing, thanks.”
“Well, are you any nearer to finding the scumbag that killed Tom Kearns?” Sarah asked.
“No, unfortunately not. We are still … looking into a few, er, things. Now, miss, I apologise for calling at such an early hour. It is 'miss', isn't it? Or is it 'Mrs'?” Jim Mulcahy asked.
“It's miss.”
“This is just routine, miss. We have to call to every house in the area. I hope you understand. Your name, please, miss?”
“Sarah Gallagher.”
“You're not from around here, Sarah. That's not a Sligo accent.”
“No, I'm from Letterkenny, in Donegal.”
“Do you work local?”
“Yea, I work in the Bank of Ireland in Ballygalvin.”
“Do you have a car, Sarah?” Detective Mulcahy asked.
“Yea, the Ford Mondeo parked outside.”
“The other car outside—the Opel—who owns that car?”
“A friend of mine who stayed over last night.”
“Can I ask who it is?”
“Just a friend. His name is Conor Doyle. Well, actually, he is more of a friend of my boyfriend. He just called up to see him last night and my boyfriend wasn't here. He said he would wait 'til he got back. It got late and he stayed over in the spare room.”
“You said you have a boyfriend,” Detective Mulcahy said. “Does he live here?”
“Yea … but he went over to see his mother in Sligo Town. I expected him back last night, but he must have met up with friends. You know how it is at Christmas time. He probably will be home sometime later today. Will you have another cup of coffee?” Sarah asked.
“No, we're fine.” Detective Mulcahy responded. “What's your boyfriend's name, Sarah?”
“He is Darragh Lonigan.”
“Is he anything to do with the former county councillor, James Lonigan, who lived in this area?”
“Yea, a son of his,” Sarah replied.
“Really? I used to know his father, James, very well. He was a good man, a great man to get things done, a good man for Ballinastrad. So that makes Darragh a nephew of Eamonn Lonigan, the T.D. in Galway. Now there is a man who is very influential,” Jim Mulcahy said.
“Oh, I think I know your boyfriend, Sarah. He frequents the bars in Ballinastrad quite a bit,” Sergeant Burns said.
“Yea, you could find him in Sheehan's regularly, all right,” Sarah replied.
“You said he has gone to Sligo, Sarah, to see his mother. Does he have a car?”
“Yes, an old Toyota Starlet. I'm surprised he brought it to Sligo. It was giving him a bit of trouble.”
“What kind of trouble?”
“Oh, it's the alternator. I think it's faulty or something. I'm sorry, I know damn all about cars. He said it was hard starting at times. He tells me things about the car, and I don't really listen, I just remember him saying something about a faulty alternator.”
“How old is your boyfriend's car?”
“It's about eight years old, I think.”
“Okay, do you know the registration number and the colour?” Jim Mulcahy asked.
“Oh, it's a kind of a pale sky blue, with plenty of rust on it. I'm sorry, I don't know the registration. Hold on, I might have it on something. Give me a minute to look for it,” Sarah replied.
“Take your time, Sarah.”
Conor could hear Sarah opening and closing drawers and cupboards in the kitchen for a few minutes.
“Here, take this, detective. It's a car tax form that has the registration number of Darragh's car on it,” Sarah said.
“Thanks, Sarah. When did you say your boyfriend was due back again?” Jim asked.
“Sometime today, maybe tomorrow. When Darragh meets his mates in Sligo, it can take a while.”
“Yes, I understand. Well, that's fine, Miss Gallagher. Look, we might take a look around outside and we will call back in a day or two when Darragh gets back, just to ask him a few routine questions. I hope you don't mind?”
“Sure, that's okay.”
“Oh, and thank you for the coffee, Miss Gallagher.”
“No problem. Good luck with your enquiries and I hope you get whoever is responsible for killing Tom soon. I believe his funeral is on later this morning,” Sarah said.
“It is. That's why we are doing our enquiries so early. Thank you again, Miss Gallagher and Happy New Year,” Detective Mulcahy said.
“Oh yea, it's New Year's Eve. I almost forgot. Well, goodbye.”
Conor could hear the front door closing and Sarah walking back down to the bedroom.
“Well, they are gone, thank God,” Sarah said.
“Yea, I could hear all the chat from the room here,” Conor replied.
“It was just a routine visit, they said. They are calling on everybody. They asked a few questions about Darragh and where he was. It was a bit awkward. They wanted to know where his car was,” Sarah said as she sat on the side of the bed and watched Conor get dressed.
“Don't worry about it, Sarah, they are asking everybody questions. I suppose they have to.”
“Yea, I suppose you're right.”
Conor sat down on the bed beside Sarah and put his arm around her and hugged her.
“Look, I better be heading off. I have to go to the funeral. Me auld fella will be going mad with no car,” Conor said.
“Do you want some breakfast?” Sarah asked.
“I'll take a quick cup of tea,” Conor said, walking out towards the kitchen.
After finishing his tea, Conor got up from the table and put on his coat. “Look, I'll be off. Will I see you later this evenin?”
“Yea, I might meet you for a drink later. I'll see you about eight in Sheehan's,” Sarah replied.
“That's grand,” Conor said as he gave Sarah a kiss on the cheek and went out the front door.
It was just starting to snow; light flakes were floating gently down to the cold ground. Conor rubbed his hands as he got into the car. He started it up and headed back home. The sky was growing dark as the snow was getting heavier.
After having a quick shower, Conor walked up with his parents to the church for the funeral for Tom Kearns.
The funeral service was due to start at eleven. It was now 10:30 and the church was nearly full, apart from the reserved seats at the front. Conor and his parents took a seat at the back of the church. Tom was a well-known and well-liked man. He never missed a local funeral or removal himself.
The bell rang outside the church and a few minutes later, the church door opened to a cold breeze as Tom's coffin was shouldered in by four middle-aged men and a younger man in his twenties. Conor's father told him that it was Tom's two brothers from America and his brother-in-law and nephew. Regina, Tom's daughter and her two sons followed. Regina wiped her eyes as she walked and held on tightly to her son's arms. A tall, bald man walked behind her, presumably her husband. Father Gerry Mulvey walked at the front of the procession, turning around to bless the coffin.
During the service, Father Mulvey spoke about how Tom had found solace in the church after the death of his wife Maureen many years ago and how Tom always attended Mass every Sunday and was always available to do any jobs that needed doing around the church and local national school. Tom was reliable and always had time to help anybody in need. Father Mulvey also urged anybody who had any information about the hit and run incident to come forward to the relevant authorities.
After sympathising with Tom's daughter and brothers, Conor and his parents stood beside the grave to watch Tom's remains being lowered into the cold, dark earth. Snow was falling on the coffin as it slowly descended. Regina's tears and cries were blended with a song that was sung by a young teenage girl with red hair. She sang one of Tom's favourite songs, After All These Years, which had been made famous by the ballad group Foster and Allen.
Conor wasn't a lover of
sentimental, middle-of-the-road ballads of the country and Irish genre and would often poke fun at the first note of them when they came on the radio. However, he felt emotional whilst listening to the red-headed teenage girl singing accompanied by a spotty, lanky, dark-haired lad on acoustic guitar. Conor looked over at the snow falling on the black coat that Tom's daughter, Regina, wrapped around herself as she tossed a white rose into the grave onto her father's coffin. The sombre scene got to him and he could see eyes going watery and red on many grown men standing beside him.
As Conor left the graveyard, he stopped to talk to old school pals. The talk centred around the tragedy of Tom's death. One of the lads in the group mentioned that his cousin was a Guard and was involved in the investigation, and that he had heard the Guards had found a burnt-out car the evening before they thought could belong to the person responsible for the hit and run.
The car was supposedly discovered in a laneway headed to an old disused quarry about twenty miles away, near to Glengarrif. They assumed that perhaps the owner was attempting to push the car into the flooded quarry hole, but the car got stuck on the muddy pass. The muddy lane was ploughed up and it looked like, after failing to get the car unstuck, the owner had panicked and torched it. The number plates were removed and no documentation belonging to the owner was found, but the Guards were looking for a VIN or chassis number or something. If they found one, they might be able to trace it back to the owner.
The conversation then changed to the more pressing issue of where to go later, as it was New Year's Eve. Conor arranged to meet them for a pint or two in town.
He headed back down to his home and had dinner with his parents.
“I forgot to tell you, Conor, that there was a phone call for you here last night about nine o'clock from your friend Darragh,” Conor's mother said.
“Oh yea? What did he say? Did he leave a message?”
“He just asked where you were. I told him that you had gone out to meet a friend. I think he said he was ringing from Galway. It was hard to make out what he was saying, he sounded drunk. I think he said that he would ring back at six this evening.”
“Okay, thanks for letting me know, anyway, Mum. I feel a bit knackered. I might go upstairs and lie down for a while,” Conor said as he yawned.
After lazing around in his bedroom listening to his old records and reading a book all afternoon, Conor went down to the sitting room to wait for Darragh's phone call. He felt nervous at the thought of talking to him after what had happened the night before with Sarah. He thought about telling him the truth. How would Darragh react? Would he be upset or angry, or would he not give a fuck?
Conor looked at the clock on the mantelpiece; it was five minutes to six. He stared at the clock and then down to the open fire below. The sticks were crackling and sparking. The fireguard was sitting in front of the fire to protect the 'good' carpet, which was well-worn at this stage. The Labrador was stretched out on the mat in front of the warm fire. The dog wagged his tail hard against the floor as Conor looked over at him.
Conor looked to the clock again. It was only just gone six o'clock. Darragh would hardly ring on time anyway.
He might not ring at all. He was probably pissed in a pub somewhere and wouldn't even remember. Just as well, Conor thought, as he wanted to avoid talking to him at this point.
Twenty minutes passed and still no phone call. Conor went over to the window of the sitting room to have a look at what was happening outside on Main Street. The snow was continuing to fall. There was a heavy white coat of snow on the road outside and the cars coming along the road were driving slowly and carefully. Kids were grabbing huge handfuls of snow off parked cars and pelting each other.
It didn't seem that long ago Conor and Darragh were at the same craic. They'd loved the snowy days. Especially when they'd gotten days off school.
Conor went back to the chair beside the fire. He looked at the photos on the mantelpiece. There were several black and white photographs: one of his parents on their wedding day back in 1953, another of Conor and his older brother Sean when they were at primary school back in the late sixties.
Sean had lived in Dublin for the last eight years. There was a large colour picture of Sean and his wife and their two young daughters up on the mantelpiece in a gold-coloured frame.
Conor was falling into a half-sleep looking into the fire when the phone rang. He rushed over nervously to pick up the phone.
“Hello, hello, hello.” There was a short silence.
“Is that the Doyles in Ballinastrad? I'm not too sure if I have the right number,” said the female voice.
It took a while for Conor to register who it was. “Is that Sarah?” he asked.
“Yea, it is,” Sarah replied. “Hi, Conor, how are you? I wasn't sure if I was through to the right number. I had to look for your parent's number in the phone book.”
“Where are you ringing from?” Conor asked. He knew there was no phone in Darragh and Sarah's house.
“I'm ringing from Greegan's post office in Rossbeg. I just drove down here from the house. It took me ages to get here. The roads are desperate with the snow. Look, I'm just ringing to tell you that I won't be coming down tonight for a drink, in case you were waiting for me at the bar. I'm sorry, the roads are just cat. I was sliding around the place getting down here to the post office; I don't want to chance driving into Ballinastrad. I would never get up some of those bloody hills on the way in. I hope you don't mind,” Sarah said.
“No, no, it's fine. Christ, don't be daft driving down. I didn't realise the roads are so bad. It's probably worse up at the mountains where you are,” Conor replied.
“Yea, it's as bad as I have seen them up here. It's been snowing heavy since you left this morning,” Sarah said. “I'm looking out the window at the snow falling on my car.”
“Look, I hope you make it back to your house all right. You will have a quiet time on your own for New Year's Eve. I suppose I wouldn't make it out to you either,” Conor replied.
“No, you wouldn't have a hope. Look, I'll be fine. I'll watch some crap TV. Call up tomorrow if the roads are clear,” Sarah said.
“I will,” Conor said.
“Look, I better go, Conor. The snow isn't easing off. Happy New Year.”
“Happy New Year, Sarah. Bye. See you tomorrow.”
Conor thought for a moment after the phone call. All kinds of ideas were going through his head. Were the bad snowy roads just an excuse? Did Sarah regret what had happened the night before? Did she want to avoid seeing him? But why then would she invite him up tomorrow?
As all the thoughts were spiralling around, the phone rang again. Conor picked it up.
“Hi, Conor, it's Darragh.”
“Hi. How's the craic? Where are you?” Conor asked.
“I'm in Galway City, back in our old stomping ground, Conor. I just fancied a change of scenery until things blow over, until Sarah calms down. I thought I would give her some breathing space. Sure, you know the craic yourself.”
“Yea. How long are you staying over there?” Conor asked.
“I don't really know—maybe a few more days. That's why I'm ringing you, Conor. Come on over. It will be a laugh. Come over tomorrow—a few pints on New Year's Day in Galway city. What could be better?”
Conor hesitated. He thought about what Sarah had said about calling over tomorrow. But did she really want him to call over? He was unsure.
“Yea, Darragh, okay. I'll meet you so in Galway. Whereabouts?”
“In the Quays Pub at five o'clock. That will give you time to get over,” Darragh said.
“Okay, Darragh, I'll see you there, so. I wouldn't mind a change of scenery from Ballinastrad myself, to be honest.”
“Good man. I'll see you tomorrow. Happy New Year, Conor,” Darragh roared down the phone.
“Happy New Year to you too, Darragh, you mad bastard. Good luck.”
Conor was unsure if he had made the right choice in agreeing to go to G
alway the next day.
Then he decided it was for the best. He needed a break from Ballinastrad and he thought Darragh and Sarah would eventually patch things up in a week or so. The night he shared with Sarah was probably a stupid mistake, and she probably regretted it now, so it was best to just forget it ever happened and say nothing to Darragh about it. It was just a drunken mistake, he kept telling himself.
He rang up the bus timetable information and was told that there was a bus leaving Glengarrif for Galway at 1:30 tomorrow afternoon. Rather than going out, he decided to prepare himself for probably a day or two marathon drinking binges with Darragh in Galway. He spent New Year's Eve at home with his parents and had a few drinks in the house before going to bed around one in the morning.
Chapter IX
New Year's Day
Sunday, 1st January 1989
Conor's eyes opened. He stared over at the clock on the bedside locker. It was quarter past eight, and just getting bright outside. A faint beam of sunlight pierced through the opening in the blue curtains.
He turned away from the light and thought about catching another few hours' sleep. His bus was not until 1:30 and he would probably get very little sleep over the next night or two in Galway. As much as he tried though, he couldn't drift off to sleep again.
He had nearly forgotten that it was New Year's Day, the start of a new morning, a new day, a new month and a new year. It was 1989, the last year of the eighties. 1988 was gone now.
It wasn't a bad year, he thought. He was established now in London with a reasonably good job and a nice apartment. He had some good mates in London. The highlight of the year was when Ray Houghton scored the winning goal against England in Stuggart in June. The cheers had been deafening in all the Irish bars in Kilburn. They had got one over on England, the old enemy.
Most English people treated the Irish well over in London. They were friendly and helpful.
But there was an underlying tension. The struggle in the north of Ireland between the IRA and the British forces had frequently spilt over to the British mainland. This made life difficult. Occasionally, skinhead yobs would shout abuse at Conor and his Irish mates as they came out of Irish bars, things like “Fuck off back home, Paddy” or “You murdering Irish bastards”. They just ignored it. Conor had heard stories of Irish lads being kicked to death if they responded to the taunts from the skinheads. It was best to keep your head down.
The Whole of the Moon Page 6
