Shadows in Heaven

by Nadine Dorries

  Bee heard the bed creak at the opposite end of the room. ‘It will all be different in the light, Angela, you will see. ’Tis your turn for a rest. You sleep now, you sleep.’

  Chapter 9

  The flares had done their work. Brendan arrived and hot on his tail was Bridget, who had little to do or say, given that Father Jerry had already pronounced Angela dead. She rolled Angela onto her side, examined the gaping hole in her back, then laid her down again gently.

  ‘Jeez, ’tis an awful wound. There is nothing I could have done,’ she said apologetically, shaking her head as she looked up at the faces surrounding her. In every eye staring back down she met an unwillingness to accept that she, a woman of medical mystery and authority, could not bring Angela back to life.

  ‘Can’t you do anything, Bridget?’ asked Paddy, feeling both hopeful and foolish at the same time.

  In answer, Father Jerry resumed chanting his prayer. Hadn’t he just given her the last rites? Wasn’t it obvious to all that she was dead? Who were they to argue with God’s will?

  Bridget shook her head as she rose to her feet and turned towards Brendan. ‘We have a dreadful problem here. The woman has been murdered, in cold blood.’

  ‘Aye,’ said Brendan, ‘’tis a murder, that’s for sure. The men saw it happen too, from the ridge.’ Unnecessarily, he pointed towards the road. ‘I’ve sent for the Garda, but my guessing is McGuffey will be well gone by now. The men have looked down on the beach, his boat is nowhere to be found. Disappeared into thin air, so he has.’

  No sooner had the words left Brendan’s mouth than Captain Bob appeared on the clifftop and began making his way towards them.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ Brendan asked.

  ‘I saw the flares – I’m sitting out the storm until the morning,’ he replied without even a hint of hesitation.

  ‘Did you see McGuffey? You need to be careful – the man is on the run.’

  ‘No, I didn’t.’ Captain Bob shook his head but didn’t elaborate. ‘Was he here?’

  Sarah had fallen to the ground and was holding her mother’s head on her lap. Her tears mingled with the rain and ran into the blood that smeared the side of Angela’s face. Angela’s vacant grey eyes were open, staring up at her daughter, and they told her nothing. ‘What happened, what happened?’ she screamed as she looked about her. Pivoting on her knees, ripping holes in her stockings, she scanned the faces of the men around her, each one reflecting an uncomfortable, guilty, hopeless pity. ‘Is she really dead? Is she dead?’ she cried.

  No one spoke; they all simply looked towards Michael. He was the only person who could tell her. He had witnessed the full horror of Angela’s death and it was to him that she’d spoken her last words. Every one of the men there was wondering what she’d said, each one of them conscious that for too long they’d stood aside and done nothing while Angela had suffered at the hands of McGuffey, living their life by the word of God, let no man put asunder…

  All eyes turned to Michael. What a task he had, to tell the girl who’d been waiting for him all this time that her mother had gone.

  Michael fell back down to his knees beside Sarah and threw his arms around her, pulling her sobbing face into his chest. ‘She is, Sarah. She is.’

  Only he heard her muffled reply. ‘Thank God you came. You came back.’

  The priest, reclaiming his place on the ground next to Angela, spoke. ‘Let me pray with you, for you, Sarah, for you both.’

  The gathered men fell silent.

  As those in Tarabeg who had seen the flares made their way towards the coastal lights, Father Jerry’s voice rang out from the clifftop. Other than Sarah’s soft weeping, his was the only voice to be heard as a crowd formed around them.

  *

  Rosie was woken by a banging on her door. Lifting her head, she thought she was dreaming. But the banging was loud and insistent.

  ‘I’m coming!’ she shouted. Her blood ran cold – something was very wrong, of that she had no doubt.

  She opened the door to Teresa, whose long silver hair was, for the first time ever, not tied up in her customary bun but splayed across her shoulders. It was the first thing Rosie noticed, and it was a sign of just how serious a situation it was.

  ‘Come quick! The flares are up on the shore. Michael Malone is up there. Something’s wrong. Mrs Doyle has already left.’ Teresa had so much information to impart and quickly, her sentences were spoken in a staccato rhythm.

  Rosie responded immediately. ‘Let me get my coat.’ She turned and glanced up as an orange flare hit the sky. Her heart was hammering. Michael was home. Michael was up there? It was surely a sailor gone down, possibly the father of a child at the school. Without another thought, she pulled her coat over her arms and followed the people already leaving the village and heading towards the shore.

  The news spread around Tarabeg faster than the flares rose in the sky. As one by one the villagers assembled, they were stunned into silence at the sight before them. Michael, aware that his every word was being listened to, held on to Sarah, afraid that if he let go, she would disintegrate before his eyes. He held one arm under hers and across her back as she knelt on the ground, and with the other he stroked her hair as they rocked together. He bent his head as he spoke.

  ‘She was walking, running. I thought it was you – the rain, ’twas mighty fierce. She was talking to me and then your daddy came.’ The words ‘and then he shot her’ wouldn’t leave his mouth; they sat stubbornly on his tongue and he swallowed hard. He couldn’t tell Sarah what had happened. Could not inflict that pain on her. He looked up beseechingly at Seamus, who came over and knelt bedside his son on the other side of Sarah. Putting his arm around her shoulders too, Seamus helped Michael support her, father and son both holding Sarah upright, and he said the words that Michael couldn’t.

  ‘It was your daddy, Sarah. It was your own daddy. He took his gun to her, and now ’tis our job to protect you. Me and Michael and Nola. We will look after you now. You won’t be alone, so you won’t.’

  Michael’s eyes met those of his wise father above Sarah’s head and the message was unmistakeable. Say no more. She can’t take it in. Only Michael knew the truth and only Michael ever would. Only he had seen the wickedness in McGuffey’s eyes.

  ‘She was on the cliff,’ Sarah sobbed. She instantly knew why, but she would carry her own secret. In her mind, there was no doubt her mother had been trying to catch sight of her crossing the bay as she left. Wanting to catch and hold the last glimpse of her for who knew how long. But the priest and everyone listening would assume her mammy had been looking to see if her da was returning safely. No one would know that Sarah had been running away. She would tell no one, and without even asking him, she knew that neither would Captain Bob.

  ‘Let’s carry her home,’ said Brendan in a voice heavy with sadness. ‘The whole village will be up here in no time if we don’t. Help me, would you, Seamus. Michael, you look after Sarah.’

  Within minutes the procession began making its way to the McGuffey cottage. The sodden, bedraggled group made a pitiful sight. The villagers had sacrificed their capes to lay them under and over Angela, covering and cushioning her with as much care as if she’d been alive. Pete drove the horse and cart and as the rain eased and the wind moved deep inland, they wound their way along the clifftop and down to the cottage.

  Despite her best efforts, Sarah could not walk, even with Michael’s arms around her. Her legs gave way as she took her first step and her trembling was so violent, Michael had to support her to stop her from falling down.

  ‘’Tis the shock,’ said Captain Bob.

  Rosie stepped forward through the crowd and, removing her own threadbare coat, laid it across Sarah’s shoulders, pulled the belt to the front and fastened it across her. She didn’t speak, but before she returned to Teresa’s side, she caught Michael’s eye.

  ‘Thank you,’ he whispered as he scooped Sarah into his arms and began to walk with her behind t
he cart.

  The priest, Paddy, and a growing cortege of villagers followed slowly along behind them.

  Rosie’s mind was in turmoil. She returned to Teresa’s side and fell into step with her. Her eyes never left Michael; she studied every move of his hand as he stroked Sarah’s back, feeling the gentle pressure running up and down her own spine in rhythm with his movements. She felt every stone of the shingle path through the thin wet soles of her shoes and the pain made her want to shout out, but that was as nothing to the pain in her heart and the rage in her head at the sight of Michael’s hand caressing Sarah’s back. She hadn’t known. No one had told her.

  She had to save face, to maintain her dignity. Don’t cry. Hold up your head. Be calm.

  ‘You got here quick,’ said Keeva, who had joined them on the road.

  Rosie almost jumped as she was dragged out of her reverie.

  Keeva had always liked Rosie but found her difficult to talk to. She’d always assumed this was because she was the teacher and felt it was beneath her to make friends with a farm girl who made the tea and mopped the floor in the post office. Keeva had never encountered a shy person in her life, having grown up with everyone in her village. Where Rosie was reticent, Keeva was outspoken. ‘He’s killed her – she’s dead, Angela McGuffey, and ’twas her own husband,’ she said knowingly to Rosie. ‘He shot her – would you imagine that! And only here in Tarabeg. It’ll be as bad as Dublin here soon.’

  Bridget dropped back from the rest of the crowd and joined them. She’d seen Rosie place her coat around Sarah and knew what she was doing. ‘Would you help us in the house, Rosie,’ she said. ‘I’ll be laying Angela out with Teresa, we could do with some help. Sarah will be out of it and when they tell Bee, the poor woman will be beside herself and no use to anyone. Josie and the others will be up in daylight, but until then…’

  Rosie turned to Bridget and nodded her acceptance. It was a privilege, a confirmation of her status in the village to be called on in an emergency, the first time she’d felt accepted. Her heart flipped beneath her ribs. It was a lifeline, an opportunity to demonstrate her composure, a reason to remain in Michael’s company. ‘I will, sure,’ she replied and had to stop a rare smile from reaching her lips.

  Rosie saw everything, she was used to having eyes in the back of her head in the schoolroom, and so she noticed as Captain Bob, Paddy and Seamus, the three wise men, peeled away from the procession and turned down a boreen.

  ‘Off to tell Bee the news,’ said Bridget, who had also noticed.

  ‘Who is that man?’ whispered Teresa. ‘I’ve seen him in the village and I know he’s a fisherman, but he’s not one of ours, is he?’

  ‘He’s Captain Bob from Ballycroy and the man who has been keeping Bee’s boy fed and herself in sound mind and heart.’

  Teresa shot Bridget a sideways glance and tutted under her breath. She knew exactly what Bridget had meant.

  Bridget tutted back. ‘What would you have her do then, her being a widow with her baby not months old and still on the breast, eh, Teresa?’ she said tartly.

  ‘The good Lord would have provided,’ Teresa shot back over Rosie’s head, clasping her hands under her breast.

  ‘Aye well, when he does and you can find a better way for a woman with no husband, no work and no income, you can pass judgment. Thank God Josie and Paddy gave her a job, but a few hours a night in the bar was never going to fill the pantry or the flour bin. And what’s more, ’tis not up for discussion, with anyone. That woman deserves a break – and now, after this, more than ever.’

  Teresa had no response. From the tone of Bridget’s voice, the conversation was well and truly closed.

  *

  As the cortege reached the cottage, curious seagulls had swooped up from Tarabeg Bay and called out to one another with throaty cries of disbelief. The only sound louder than theirs was the relentless crashing of the waves against the rocks below. The clouds parted and dawn began to break, revealing a shoreline littered with torn nets, splintered fishing boats and ripped lobster pots, its glistening, well-washed sand strewn with seaweed, driftwood, Spanish glass and other unseen treasures of the ocean. The moon gave way to the sun and a blue sky presented its innocent, clean face. The cocks crowed and chickens ventured out, pecking and scurrying down the boreens.

  Those villagers who’d been too afraid of both the ferocity of the storm and the dark, believing the land was walked by the dead on a full moon, now filed into the McGuffey cottage to pay their respects. There’d been no murder in a village like Tarabeg since the guard house was burnt down in 1920. But a community so close to the ocean suffered untimely losses all too frequently. When death had paid them a visit, everyone knew the sounds, felt the displacement, translated the whispers on the wind. They hurried from the village to the shore with heads bowed low and shawls clasped tight under chins, propelling themselves with the aid of whittled willow sticks and clutching bottles of holy water to hear who it was they had lost and how. One by one, sack cloths were hung in cottage windows to block out the light as a mark of mourning, and candles flared into life, their flames dangerously close to the sacking. As windows blackened and tinder boxes struck, the news spread from cottage to cottage. The women gathered outdoors and began keening and gathering at the church for news and Mass. Children woke and cried; dogs howled.

  Paddy and Seamus had accompanied Captain Bob to Bee’s cottage to tell her the news before she heard it from the village mourners. But it wasn’t long before the women of Tarabeg arrived, clutching rosaries, whispering their condolences, keening and wailing.

  Captain Bob waited impatiently for them to leave.

  Seamus gestured him into a quiet corner as the last of the women filed out the door. ‘Don’t be worrying about Sarah,’ he said. ‘We’ll take care of her. Just you look after Bee, and if you have to leave, let me know.’

  Captain Bob squeezed his hand firmly in response. Though nothing had been spelled out, the tragedy had made it clear to him that the life he and Bee led was not as secret as he’d thought.

  ‘Don’t come back to work until after the funeral, you will still be paid,’ Paddy said to Bee as he and Seamus departed.

  With the door finally closed, Captain Bob opened his arms. ‘Oh, my little Bee, this is too much for you. This is too hard, for you and for Sarah.’

  For the next hour or more, Bee’s crying came loud and desperate, ripping at his heart, but when it eventually reduced to a gentle sob, he could tell she’d begun to rise above her distress and think of a plan.

  ‘I have to go to Angela,’ Bee sobbed. ‘She can’t be with strangers – I am her sister. Take me to the cottage, will you. And Sarah, she still has to get away from here. I must speak to her and Michael. She isn’t safe – that madman, he will come back for her, sure he will, and for Michael too.’

  Captain Bob hugged her close. ‘I doubt he’s that brave. There’ll be a guard outside the cottage door by now, and Mrs Doyle will have rung the Garda in Galway too. But sure, they won’t catch him, Bee. He will be off on his boat – somewhere abroad, I’d be thinking. Sarah will be safe. Come now, I’ll take you to see your sister, but are you sure you’re ready?’

  He tilted Bee’s chin upwards and looked down at her. No words would prepare her, he thought; he would just have to be there to catch her. ‘Right, let’s go then.’ He hugged her to him and wondered how many times over their life they would talk about this night. He still had a wife, but something had to change. He turned his face to the window and looked out across the ocean, all the way to America.

  As they approached the cottage, they saw Michael standing outside. Bee gripped Captain Bob’s arm and spoke urgently, fiercely. ‘He has to marry Sarah soon, Bob, or as God is my witness, McGuffey will do something. The man is mad.’ She stared out towards the clifftop and the sea beyond. ‘I don’t believe he’s gone anywhere, sure I don’t. I can smell the meanness of him. He’s still here.’

  Captain Bob was one step ahead of her and i
mmediately began speaking to Michael outside the cottage. ‘Michael, son, if ye are holding with your intention and plan to keep your promise towards Sarah, you need to do it soon, even in the face of this terrible act. If McGuffey does return, he will surely take matters into his own hands. You have to get the poor girl away, and both of you through to the other side of this, because if you don’t, if he has his way, you will have lost her for good.’

  Seamus, Paddy and Tig came out to join them as half a dozen women squeezed their way into the small cottage. They took Bee with them. A chorus of ‘Sorry for your troubles’ filled the air. The women began to keen and the sound of fresh grief flew from the cottage and past where the men stood. The men each held a mug of tea laced with whiskey in one hand, provided by Keeva, and a slice of boxty bread in the other, brought out to them by a woman shrouded in black and looking as old as the bay itself.

  Keeva stopped for a moment as she handed Tig his drink. ‘Are you well, Tig?’ she asked. ‘’Tis all such a shock.’

  Tig gave a sad smile as he took the drink and muttered his thanks. He was always the same in Keeva’s company – speechless – and after she’d left, he cursed himself. Having one leg shorter than the other, and a bad chest to boot, had robbed him of the confidence the other young men of his age took for granted. He didn’t notice the look of disappointment on Keeva’s face as she turned away.

  ‘Captain Bob is right, you have to get things done before McGuffey returns,’ Paddy said as he shook out the dregs of the tea from his mug onto the grass. ‘He will fox the Garda, for sure. McGuffey always gets his way.’

  Captain Bob laid his hand on Michael’s arm. ‘You need to put this right before something worse than death befalls that girl, and I’m thinking that would be a life in the back of a gypsy caravan at the mercy of Jay Maughan and the witch Shona.’