The two old friends walked silently out of the bar and up the stairs to their rooms. Conor was in 127 and Darragh next door in 128.
“I'll give you a rap on the door at around ten in the morning,” Conor said.
“Grand,” Darragh replied. He smiled over at Conor with the big grin he had often greeted him with since the days they were in primary school together. However, this time, Conor thought it was more of a goodbye than a greeting, because once they went to the Garda station in the morning, that was it. Their lives would be on very different roads.
Chapter X
A Pagan Place
Monday, 2nd January 1989
Despite the fact that Conor had so much to drink the day and night before, he couldn't really sleep, as too many thoughts about Darragh were criss-crossing in his mind. He only drifted off at about 6:30 and what seemed like five minutes later, he was awoken by the sound of a lorry chugging outside and the clanging of empty beer barrels that rang like bells.
He sat up in the bed and squinted at his watch. It was 11:15. He got out of bed and pulled on the clothes he had worn the night before, which were strewn across the floor. His paisley shirt stank of cigarette smoke. He went into the bathroom and brushed his teeth to wash away the stale taste of alcohol.
He didn't feel too bad, only a slight headache. Maybe the hangover hadn't kicked in yet. Probably he was so caught up in the revelation from the night before that he was in shock and his system was running on adrenalin.
He grabbed his bag and closed the bedroom door behind him. He knocked on Darragh's room door in the dark hotel hallway. There was no reply. He knocked several times, but no reply.
He went downstairs to the lobby and asked if the receptionist could ring Darragh's room, 128. The lady receptionist was about to ring when she asked, “Did you say room 128? Oh, sorry. He's already checked out.”
“Are you sure?” Conor asked, scratching his head. “When did he check out?”
The receptionist checked the large register in front of her. “He checked out about two hours ago, at 9:30.”
“Did he leave a message?” Conor asked.
“No, sorry sir. No message.”
Conor paid his bill at the desk. He wondered where Darragh had gone to.
Had he gone to a local Garda station himself? Maybe his conscience hadn't allowed him to wait for his friend to get up and accompany him.
Conor was unsure what to do now. Should he go and look for Darragh? But he didn't know which Garda station to enquire to. Maybe he hadn't gone to a Garda station at all. Maybe he'd gone back to Ballinastrad. Maybe he had gone on the run to God knew where.
After having a mug of coffee in the front bar of the hotel, Conor decided to take a walk around nearby streets just in case he might stumble across Darragh. He walked in and out of bars to check if he had gone back on the beer.
The futile search continued for two hours. Freezing, sleety rain was falling. It was pointless just walking about.
Conor decided to check back in the hotel they had stayed in the night before.
“Hi, I think I was talking to you a few hours ago,” he said to the receptionist. “My name is Conor Doyle. I stayed here last night in room 127. I asked you earlier about my friend Darragh Lonigan, who stayed in room 128. You told me he checked out early this morning. The problem is that I can't find him anywhere and I was just wondering if he'd called back here and left a message for me.”
“Okay, sir. Well, I have been here most of the morning and I received no message from your friend. What was his name again, sir?” the girl at the reception desk asked.
“Darragh Lonigan, a tall guy with longish red hair. Scruffy-looking.”
“I don't remember getting any message, sir. I will just ask some of the other staff members. I will be back in a minute.” The receptionist walked into the office behind the desk and returned a few minutes later. “No, sorry sir. No message from a Darragh Lonigan. I'm sorry I can't help you. I hope you find him.”
“That's okay, thanks. Bye.”
Conor decided that he might as well head back to Ballinastrad. He rang the bus station from the hotel to check the time for the next bus home. There was one leaving in fifteen minutes from Ceannt Station at Eyre Square. He then rang home to tell his parents that he was getting the three o'clock bus and that he should be in Rathalgin at around five. His dad said he would pick him up there. He asked if Darragh had rung the house and his father replied that he hadn't.
After legging it up Shop Street and William Street and down through a busy and wet Eyre Square, Conor made his bus just as it was about to pull out of the bus station. He had a good choice of seats because the bus was only half full.
The three o'clock news was on the bus radio. He tried to listen to see if there was any mention of developments in the Kearns' hit-and-run case, but there was no mention of it.
About an hour into the journey, there was nobody left on the bus but Conor. The bus stopped in a small village outside a building that appeared to be a grocer's shop, a post office and a pub. The bus driver got off the bus and went in.
After about ten minutes, the driver still hadn't come back. Conor assumed he was picking up or dropping off a parcel in the post office.
He was eager to get home to find out what had happened to Darragh. He was also busting for a leak, so he decided to get off the bus himself and go into the toilets in the small country pub. As he pushed in the front door, he discovered the bus driver sitting up at the small counter talking to an old woman behind the bar. He was sinking a creamy pint of stout and had another full one in front of him.
“Well, how's things now, young fella? Did you get fed up waiting on the bus? We will be heading off in five minutes. Will you have a pint?” the bus driver asked Conor.
“No, you're fine, thanks,” Conor replied.
“Are you sure?” asked the driver as he sank the end of his first pint.
“Ah, I'll have a quick half one of Powers, so. Thanks.”
Conor went off to the toilet and came back and knocked back his whiskey as the driver swallowed his second pint in two big mouthfuls.
The man gave a loud burp and said to the old lady behind the bar, “Thanks Rosemary, that was mighty, the best pint in the county of Galway.”
He placed his driver's hat on his head, got up off his stool, walked outside into the darkening evening and got back on the bus. Conor followed him out and onto the bus, then decided that he looked daft sitting at the back of the bus on his own and moved up towards the front to chat to the driver. The pair chatted on the way to Rathalgin about football and the best pubs in Galway and Sligo for good drink and loose women.
Conor introduced himself and told the driver that he was from Ballinastrad. The driver did likewise: his name was Ollie Fitzpatrick from Ballygalvin originally, but he'd been living in Sligo Town for the last thirty years.
When Ollie found out where Conor was from, he was full of questions about the residents of the town and surrounding area. He seemed to know everyone, who they were married to and who their fathers were. He knew more about the people of Ballinastrad than Conor did.
“It was terrible about Tom Kearns,” Conor said, thinking Ollie was bound to have heard about it.
“Yea and the Guards are no further on now finding out who killed him,” Ollie replied.
“I heard that they found a burnt-out car they believe belonged to the person responsible for the hit-and-run. And that it wouldn't be too long 'til they traced it to the owner,” Conor said as he offered Ollie a fag, which he accepted.
“Naw, that was a dead end. It came to nothing. The car was in bits; it had exploded. They couldn't find any evidence on it. The number plates had been removed and they couldn't make out any chassis numbers or anything.
Sure, that car might not be anything to do with the incident. It could just have been a stolen car, burned out by young lads, joy riders or whatever the feck you call them. I tell you, the Guards are going around chasing the
ir tails. They thought it was somebody from Sligo Town. Then they thought it was somebody from the local area. They haven't a bloody clue. They will never find out who is responsible, not unless the fecker has a conscience and owns up himself. That's the only way they will get the bastard.” Ollie seemed very sure of his sources. He would be getting gossip and information on his travels around Sligo and Galway.
Conor again thought of Darragh and wondered if he had given himself up yet in a Garda station in Galway city. What was he doing now? Was he lying in a cell, feeling that his life was over, or did he feel relieved he had finally confessed?
Thanks to the chatty driver, the remaining hour's journey to Rathalgin went quick. Conor's father was waiting for him in his car at the bus stop. The chat on the way home between Conor and his dad was about how the snow had all disappeared fierce quick, but how there was much more heavier snow promised in the coming days.
Conor didn't tell his father about what Darragh had confessed to, even though he wanted to. He didn't know what to do. If Darragh had not given himself up, should he tell the Gardai himself?
When Conor got home, his mother had his dinner in the oven. He ate it and sat down for a while in the sitting room, but he couldn't relax. He told his parents he felt wrecked after a rough night in Galway and that he was going for a few hours' kip upstairs in bed.
He lay in the darkened room on his single bed for a few hours, but he couldn't sleep. He thought about going for a few drinks in Sheehan's to help him sleep.
Just as he was thinking about it, he heard the phone ringing in the hallway downstairs. His mother answered it and shouted up the stairs, “Conor, a call for you.”
“Okay Mam, tell them I'll be down in a second,” Conor replied. He went downstairs to answer the phone.
It was Sarah.
“Hi Sarah, how are you? Did you survive the blizzard?” Conor asked mockingly.
“Yea, just about. Look, I'm just ringing to ask if you want to come up to watch a film or something. I got a video recorder as a Christmas present from my dad and I haven't a feckin' clue how to hook it up. It's been sitting in a box for the last week. I was thinking for my New Year's resolution to give up the booze and maybe watch a few videos at home instead. I even rented out a video today.”
“What did you get? I suppose, knowing your rotten taste in films, it's probably Dirty Dancing or some other tripe.”
“No, actually, you cheeky bastard, it's Midnight Run, with Robert de Niro,” Sarah replied.
“That's a fun movie. Good choice. I went to see it in the cinema in London. It's a good laugh.”
“See, I told you I could pick a good film. I'm not just a pretty face. I'll call down for you; you can't be borrowing your dad's car all the time. Oh yea—bring some popcorn.” Sarah laughed.
“Right,” Conor said, “give me an hour. See you then.”
He put down the phone, went up to the bathroom, had a shower and changed his clothes.
Sarah picked him up at around eight and they headed back out to Rossbeg. There were plenty of Garda cars patrolling the area. They still appeared to be searching around houses and farmyards. Conor wondered if the bus driver had been correct when he'd said they could not trace the burnt-out car to Tom Kearns's killer. The fact that the Garda cars were still searching around could mean Darragh had not given himself up earlier this morning.
“So when are you back at work?” Conor asked.
“I am back on the fifth, I think. What day is it today? You get so feckin' mixed up about what day it even is over Christmas,” Sarah replied as she lit a fag with the car cigarette lighter and blew the smoke out the window.
“I think it's Monday.” Conor laughed. “So you're back on Thursday.”
“Yea, Thursday.” Sarah sighed. “I hate the thought of going back to that bloody shithole of a bank. When are you going back to work in England? Or are you going back?”
“My flight is next Saturday. I'm back at work next Monday,” Conor replied.
“What are you working at? I think you told me last week, but I can't remember,” Sarah said.
“It's a company called Castle Insurance. We do car and home insurance.”
“Do you like it?”
“Yea, it's okay. I got promoted to section manager last November,” Conor said with a grin.
“Oooh, aren't you the lucky boy.” Sarah laughed. “Fancy Conor Doyle from Ballinastrad, a manager. A section manager for Castle Insurance in London no less, wowee.”
“Stop taking the piss,” Conor responded.
He and Sarah had always gotten on well. They shared a similar sense of humour and they enjoyed winding each other up.
After a short journey, Sarah pulled her car up outside the front door of her home. She got out of the car and opened the front door. Conor followed her inside.
“Well, take your coat off, Conor,” Sarah said. Conor took off his coat and hung it beside the door. “The video player is in the box on the table. I'll make a pot of tea. Are you hungry?”
“No, I'm grand, Sarah, thanks,” Conor replied.
After taking the VCR out of the cardboard box, he placed it beside the TV up on the shelf next to the window. He connected the leads from the VCR to the TV and after studying the instruction manual for a while, he managed to tune it in after four or five attempts and several outbursts of expletives.
Sarah and Conor sat down on the couch and watched the video she had rented. They shared a bottle of red wine and enjoyed the comedy and each other's company. Conor was trying hard to forget about Darragh and what he had told him.
He probably should tell Sarah about it. In fact, he thought, he should really tell the Gardai about it if Darragh hadn't already. But then he would be grassing on his best friend. What was the right thing to do? His mind was in overdrive.
When the movie was over, the pair sat and chatted for a time and both of them avoided bringing up Darragh's name. It had been a long day and despite the fact that he was so happy to be sharing time with Sarah, Conor was mentally exhausted. He began to find it difficult to keep his eyes open and eventually, he drifted into a snooze in front of the warm fire.
“Some company you are, Conor Doyle.” Sarah laughed as she elbowed him in the side.
“Sorry, it must be the wine. It always makes me sleepy. And the heat in here—it's bloody roasting.”
“Look, you better stay. I'm not able to drive you back into town after drinking and there are checkpoints all over the place,” Sarah said as she cleared up glasses from the coffee table.
“Okay. I'll stay in the spare room,” Conor replied.
“You don't have to, Conor. I find it hard to sleep on my own,” Sarah said, grabbing Conor by the arm. “Go on down to my room. I'll be down in a few minutes; I'll just tidy up.”
Conor walked down the hall to Sarah and Darragh's bedroom. After getting undressed, he got in under the cold sheets and shivered for a few moments. He could hear Sarah washing glasses and mugs in the kitchen.
He lay there and surveyed the bedroom. Some of Darragh's clothes and other possessions were scattered around the room. His brown and battered ex-army boots were sitting under a chair next to the bed and an old pair of paint-spattered Wrangler jeans were wrapped in a ball in the corner of the room next to the wardrobe. Two of his abstract paintings hung on the walls.
Guilt overcame Conor. He felt rotten to be sleeping in Darragh's bed and soon with Darragh's girlfriend. He turned his head over on the pillow to try to blot out all the mixed emotions that were going on in his head.
Sarah came into the room ten minutes later and got into bed beside him. She wrapped her arms around him and the two of them lay close together, holding each other. After a few minutes, he could hear Sarah drifting off to sleep. He looked over at the digital clock radio. It was 12:44.
Chapter XI
Riders on the Storm
Tuesday, 3rd January 1989
Darragh looked at his watch; it was 12:05 am. He was parked on the main s
treet in Ballinastrad. The town looked very quiet. Only five or six cars were parked along the street. Sheehan's Pub looked like it was closed; all the lights were out. The Christmas buzz was over and Ballinastrad had settled back into its usual quiet slumber.
He lit a cigarette and replayed the events of the previous twenty-four hours in his mind. He recalled talking to Conor in the hotel front bar in the early hours of the morning in Galway and how Conor had convinced him to go to the Gardai to come clean. He'd laid in bed in his hotel room contemplating what to do. He had decided that he must face the consequences alone and leave the hotel before Conor got up so his friend would be spared the embarrassment of accompanying him to confess his crime. After checking out of the Waterfront Hotel at 9:30 in the morning, he'd walked towards the nearest Garda station to get some relief for his heavy and troubled conscience.
However, he had just not been able to motivate himself to walk up the steps and in through the doorway to the front desk to begin the process. He'd hung around outside the Garda station for nearly half an hour trying to bring himself to take the short journey inside. Each time, he'd bottled out. He'd known that once he took those steps through the doors, his life would change forever. He would become the focus of ridicule, hatred and bitterness.
He'd gone into a nearby bar and ordered a whiskey to settle his nerves and give him the false courage to try again to enter the Garda station. One drink had turned into too many.
The more he'd drunk, the more he'd thought that perhaps there were other options. Maybe he could move away to the US and start again. Maybe he could in some way bury the flashbacks to the killing of Tom Kearns.
His thoughts had turned to the people closest to him; how could he leave them behind? His mother and sister in Sligo Town and Sarah back in Ballinastrad. He'd decided he would have to see them, to say goodbye to his family and make peace with Sarah.
Maybe he could convince Sarah to come with him to America. They'd often thought about it. Sarah had an older brother called Paul in Boston. He'd often invited them over. He'd said he could fix them up with jobs. They were both tired and fed up with Ballinastrad; it was time to get away, while they were still young.
The Whole of the Moon Page 8
