Chapter 11

Cathal took off his rucksack and placed it on his knees, hugging it, but keeping his eye on Avery. Even from this distance, he could tell by the way she walked—jerkily, arms folded into herself, head down attacking the wind, her black hair streaming backward—that she was furious. Furious with him.

The only explanation was that she had called Graham last night, too, and he’d led her on to believe she had a seat. Judging by her reaction, she’d been sure that seat was hers. So, from a certain point of view, he’d stolen it from her. Yes, it felt bad—awful—and he’d had to beat down the impulse to offer her the place at the very last moment.

But he couldn’t do it. Father’s last wishes weighed too heavily. Avery would have other opportunities, and better days, to get to Skellig Michael and to take her videos for her Star Wars fans and whomever else’s attention she was seeking. But every passing day with the un-scattered ashes seemed like a further insult to his father.

The boat rocked in the water. The sea spat in his face, like rain, except salty. His twelve companions, clad in the black oilskins Graham had provided, looked tired, withdrawn, and even scared, each avoiding the others’ eyes, peering out to the grayness of the sea. Most seemed to be British. Two were Italians. The youngest was a boy of about twelve, huddled close to his father. Twelve was the minimum age for this trip, and he was beginning to sense why.

The waves looked shockingly huge out in the harbor, the sky even less reassuring, with dark clouds drifting in from the west. The sun was a milky blob, barely pushing light through the gloom.

Graham pushed off. “Here we go,” he said with a joviality Cathal was sure none of them shared. The skipper then passed around damp, crinkled photos of Skellig Michael. The photos were unremarkable. He wondered if it was some trick to take people’s minds off the sea.

Mad Graham seemed to be making love to his boat, coaxing it in low tones when the green water reached the height of the bow. By some miracle, he managed to avoid each of the menacing waves that seemed destined to crash over them. With a sudden flick of the helm, he’d knock the boat on another course so that the hill of water broke to the left or right. It happened again and again and Cathal wondered if this trip might be possible after all.

But it was still disquieting that none of the other boat operators had dared to sail out today. Already he was beginning to feel a twinge of unease in his stomach. The balance felt all wrong; this relentless, jarring motion set his sense of equilibrium off. Although it was only three minutes into the journey, he found himself hoping the time would pass quickly.

He just had to think about something else. And no, not Avery. He had to think of the moment when, at the top of the six hundred steps of Skellig Michael, he’d lean into the wind, say the prayer, and open the lid of the urn. Then it would all be over.

He heard an oooh from the other passengers and half his vision went black. Something had whacked him from the side—heavy, painful, violent. He couldn’t believe a wave of water had such power. A numbing coldness travelled up his leg under the oilskin. He gripped his rucksack tighter, bracing himself for another attack, all his focus honed on the next wave. Last thing he needed was the urn washing overboard.

Gripping the steering wheel, Graham no longer looked jovial, no longer enamored with his boat. His face creased into lines of deep concentration, his gaze darting from one side of the ocean to the other, to the sky and back to his controls. All eyes were glued on him with the same vivid attention airline passengers gave air stewards whenever a plane lurched.

“Ah, now, this won’t do at all,” he said when there was a lull in the wind and the waves. “If I don’t turn around we may get into a spot of trouble. Even Graham the Mad isn’t that much of an eejit. That’s it, folks, we’re turning around.”

A chorus of moans greeted this announcement, interspersed, Cathal sensed, with a round of relieved sighs from some passengers. His was not one of them.

Father, I’m sorry. I didn’t make it.

He glanced at the skipper’s face to see what chance there was of encouraging him to try again later, perhaps with a foolhardier subsection of the passengers—he was “Mad” Graham after all—but he thought better of it. There were lives at stake. “Can I help?” he called out.

“Naw, nothing for it but to turn the boat around,” Graham called back.

They chugged back into the harbor, a dejected group of damp, bedraggled tourists. There were mumbled jokes and wry laughter. Sheer relief had made them more sociable.

“We’re going for a coffee in Skellig Center,” one man with a London accent said to him. “You’re welcome to join.”

“You’re very kind, but no thanks,” Cathal replied. “I’ve stuff to do.”

The guy gazed around the empty harbor skeptically. “All right. Well, see you around.”

When they had tottered out of view, Cathal rose from the rock he’d been sitting on. With squelching strides, he passed the docks and headed into Portmagee town. Right now, he could really do with a phone, with internet, the whole twenty-first century arsenal. Because there was going to be a change of plan.

Re-joining Brenda’s bus tour wasn’t an option. He wanted full control over where he was travelling every day and where he was staying overnight. He needed a car.

Could he take the bus back home and grab his own car back off Caelan? No, Caelan would blackmail him into staying then, or Mother would get conveniently sick and need to be hospitalized. Ballybay wasn’t an option.

Well then, he’d rent a car. There had to be somewhere around here. It was a touristy kind of place, after all. He’d ask in town. He headed for the Moorings B&B and Restaurant on the waterfront. They were just opening for breakfast.

“Car hire?” the proprietor said. “Not anywhere here. We’re not exactly Dublin.”

“I could take the bus into Tralee then, and try there,” Cathal thought aloud.

The proprietor’s face turned tragic. “Did you book it?”

“Did I have to?”

“Oh, you’ve to book the day before, before 3 p.m.,” he said, as if this were self-explanatory and documented in some sub-amendment of the Irish Constitution.

“Would they make an exception, do you think?”

“Oh, I doubt that.”

“Right. Well, thanks for your—”

“Would you look at the state of him!” A woman bustled up and shoved the man aside in a way that made it obvious he was her husband. “How did you get so wet? Is it a storm outside?” She peered around Cathal to convince herself the weather was, in fact, just mildly horrible.

“I was trying to get to Skellig Michael,” Cathal explained.

Wife and husband exchanged a glance, laden with meaning. “Were you with Mad Graham?” she asked in a hush.

“I was, yeah.”

She shook her head. “That lad. You know his father drowned at sea, and his brother, too? Those Towles, they never learn. Look at the state of you. Come on in now for a cup of tea before you catch your death out there.”

Cathal hesitated, but this was sound advice. His clothes were dripping. More importantly, the rucksack was soaked through and he had a paranoid fear of water seeping into the urn and turning the contents soggy, no matter how remote he knew the possibility was. He had to check it wasn’t the case. So he let himself be guided in.

The well-tended restaurant was cozy and warm. He liked it immensely.

“I’m Mrs. Leeson. Sit there now. I’ll get the fire going.”

“Thanks, Mrs. Leeson, you’re very kind.” He peeled off his wet outer layers and sank into the deep leather chair by the fire. Gingerly, he opened the rucksack and inspected the urn. No water had leaked in. Relieved, he ordered the most expensive breakfast on the menu.

While the proprietress was in the kitchen, he took the time to wander around the bar area. It was a cozy yet modern bar that he definitely wouldn’t mind spending an evening in. At the beer taps, there was a poster of some old fella showing you how to pull a pint of Guinness in six easy steps. So ridiculous, and something of a puzzle, until he read off the small print: “Recreate Jedi Master Mark Hamill’s ‘Perfect Pint’ visit to the Moorings.” So, apparently, the Star Wars actor had learned to pull a pint here and they judged that achievement to be poster-worthy. He shrugged and kept walking.

In an area off to the side of the bar there was a little set-up where you could have your photo taken against a scene setting of Skellig Michael. Even he recognized the black-clad figure in front of it—Darth Vader. Only problem was, the guy was tiny and only came up to his navel. He patted it on the helmet, wondering who on earth would be bothered talking their photo beside a dwarf-sized film-figure in front of a fake photo of Skellig Michael when the real thing was just outside, across the ocean.

“Are you from the north yourself?” Mrs. Leeson asked, returning with the food, which smelled like heaven.

“Monaghan.” Cathal sauntered back to his table and took his position, knife and fork ready for attack.

“We don’t get many of you around here. But you played well against Kerry last year. Shame you didn’t make it to the final.”

“We’d no hope against you anyway,” Cathal smiled, knowing how important hurling was to Kerry. Monaghan had just had a fluke year last year.

Mrs. Leeson had new guests to deal with and left him alone with his thoughts and his calories. Gradually the heat seeped back into his bones, and his body thanked him. But by the time he’d finished the tea, his guilty conscience plagued him. Incessant voices.

You had one thing to do. One thing.

And then the other one, strangely more compelling.

You’re just being a dick!

Mrs. Leeson entered the room and announced, “You should talk to Jimmy Dolan.”

“Who’s that?”

“He’s got cars that he lends out from time to time to tourists like yourself. My husband doesn’t agree with it but there’s no harm in it. I’d imagine he’d have something if you asked him nicely.”

“Where would I find him?”

“Well, if you hang around ’til one o’ clock or so, he’s sure to turn up in the Fisherman’s Bar.”

“Okay.”

“It’s just down the road there to the left. Can’t miss it—white walls, red windows. Or just ask for the gay bar and they’ll tell you. It’s really not a gay bar; that’s what we call it because it’s always just men.”

“Great, thanks.”

He stayed by the fireside, enjoying the warmth, until he’d dried up enough to walk again. Then he headed out in search of the Fisherman’s Bar, which he found easily. This was a normal pub that didn’t push any Star Wars memorabilia in your face.

He took a seat at the bar in front of the Heineken and Budweiser taps and asked the barman to alert him if and when Jimmy Dolan entered. Then he took out his Monastery book and started chapter four, tending a large mug of coffee beside him on the mahogany bar.

He couldn’t concentrate. Avery’s face tormented him—the expression in her blue eyes when she realized he’d stolen her place on the boat—sheer unmitigated fury, obviously, but something else, too: disappointment. Like she’d discovered a new side to him. She’d been near to tears. It was all his fault.

Yes, he’d been telling himself his mission was more important than her goals, but really, was it? The ashes could wait another few days. They didn’t have a best-before date. It was no wonder the expedition had been thwarted by the weather. It was perfectly karmic.

Guilt, literature, and coffee made strange companions for the next slow, damp hours. Random beams of sunlight drifted in through the stained-glass windows and the pub had the quiet, consecrated atmosphere of a church before Mass. Only the murmuring of old men’s voices broke the silence. He wondered what Avery was doing in Caherdaniel now—apart from thinking he was a dick.

When Jimmy—a stooped but energetic man of about sixty—entered the pub for his first Guinness at 1:30, the barman gave Cathal the secret nod.

Cathal rose and took a seat at the bar beside him and struck up a conversation with him that eventually—after Cathal had bought Jimmy a pint and discussed the latest exploits of the Kerry hurling team—meandered around to the point. Not surprisingly, Jimmy already knew exactly what Cathal wanted. “Mrs. Leeson down in the hotel said you got a dousing on Towle’s boat.”

“It was a bit rough all right.”

The older man shook his head forbiddingly. “They should leave the place alone. All these day trippers, looking for a buzz. Destroying the place. Some of them falling off it as well.”

“Mm,” Cathal agreed. “There’s little left of the spiritual.”

Jimmy’s eyes landed on the book. “Are you a pilgrim?”

“I’m not, no. I just like the history of it.”

Jimmy nodded knowingly, and when he finished his second pint, he invited Cathal to follow him. They walked down the road to a cottage, where Jimmy led him around to the back. It expanded into a surprisingly large yard full of rusting car parts, mechanical debris, and hardy weeds. But shining out among the chaos were three vintage cars lined up along the back wall, beautifully polished.

“There they are.” Jimmy pointed to the vehicles proudly—a red, green, and grey trio of retro automotive glory. “What do you say to them?”

“Fantastic,” Cathal said. And they were. He was no expert, but he could tell these were well-tended. So much so that he felt nervous about taking one out now.

Jimmy stood by the red one and slapped his hand on its roof. “Now this beauty here. It’s a Ford Consul Capri 335. When I got her, she was in great shape—a bargain, you could say, from my cousin’s late father. But the fuel tank was an awful mess. So I cleaned it, and I re-lined it, and I replaced all the fuel lines. But—” He paused dramatically. “I still had no fuel to the carb, so I went and bypassed the mechanical fuel pump with a six-volt model electric pump, and now she’s grand. Used her for my daughter’s wedding, and what a great day that was.”

“Right,” Cathal said. “So, uh, you’d be interested in hiring it, you said? What are you asking per day?”

Jimmy looked at him speculatively. “Twenty Euros a day, and a hundred deposit up front, if you didn’t mind.”

“I can do that. I’ll have her back to you latest in nine days. Would that be all right?”

“Aye, that would be fine. “But you better take good care of her.”

“I will.” Cathal took Jimmy’s rough hand in his and the deal was done.

After Jimmy handed him the keys and written instructions for refueling, the first thing Cathal did was open the boot and put the rucksack inside. It felt so good to have the urn stored somewhere safe and dry. He wasn’t moving it again until he’d either gotten a ride to Skellig Michael, or had to give up and go home.

He slid into the leather driver seat, noting how different everything was from his own Opel. It was far too flashy and it wouldn’t go fast, but it didn’t matter—it would get him from A to B.

The ignition started with the rumbling chugg-a-chugg of a prehistoric engine. Petrol fumes filled his head cavities. He rolled down the window because Jimmy seemed to want to say something over the din.

“Careful on the right turn at the top of the road. Is it just yourself then?” Jimmy shouted.

“It is.” Cathal hesitated. “Well… I don’t know. There might be another.”