Chapter 2

Cathal Cosgrave stood at the water cooler rinsing out his cup at five o’ clock on a Thursday afternoon at Morrissey & Scanlan, four hours later than he’d intended to leave work. He would hit the traffic coming out of Monaghan Town, but if he left right now, he’d still be able to pick up a new pig feeder from McKeown’s Supplies before they closed.

“So, you’re off then, big guy.” Sean Masterson entered, giving him a fist bump. “Off on the old vacaciones.”

“I am.”

“Did I see Deirdre asking you to fix her Excel again? You need to stop doing that. Not an accountant’s remit. You’re not the new guy anymore.”

“You’ll be thanking me when you get your sales bonus this month,” Cathal said.

“Fair point. But she better be paying you back.”

“Hardly.” Cathal reached for the tea-towel to dry his cup. Deirdre in HR did a convincing damsel in distress routine. Oh Cathal, how’m I supposed to do all this while you’re gone? Her tear-filled eyelashes and baby-voice shtick had done it for him. Yeah, he was a sucker. But it was harmless—she was engaged to a nice man from Belfast named Gary.

“Where you headed?”

“Dingle.” Cathal paused. “Skellig Michael.” Just saying those two words made his heart warm.

Recognition, then surprise, crossed Sean’s face. “Oh. Are you a fan of the films?”

“No, never really liked them.” Cathal shut the cupboard. “Doesn’t really interest me.”

“Haven’t seen the latest one yet myself. Was Princess Leia in it? No, wait—didn’t she die or something?”

“I wouldn’t know, Sean.”

“God, I can’t keep up with it. Anyway, she’d be the one to save the universe, not that little twerp, Luke Skywalker. And as for this hideout—well, now, that’s the bit I don’t get at all.”

“Hm?” Cathal eyed his watch.

“Well, they’re all trying to find him, aren’t they? Looking everywhere. He’d gone to do yoga and recharge his lightsaber and whatever it is Jedis do in their downtime, right? And where do they find him? I mean, where in all the universe and cosmic infinity and the rest of it do they find him?”

Cathal shrugged.

“Kerry. Galaxy far, far away, my arse. There they are, fighting for their lives, the universe going to shite, and he's sitting in a beehive hut on Skellig Michael where there isn’t even a feckin’ toilet. Does that make any sense to you?”

“They had to film it somewhere, I suppose.”

“Ah, they’ll be there now with their lightsabers, wrecking up the place. I hope you booked the boat, like, last year?”

“I don’t have a booking. I’ll take my chances in Portmagee when I get there.”

Sean made a tragic face. “Aiden Conroy went there on spec in June. He didn’t get a boat. I’m telling you, you won’t make it to Skellig Michael.”

I will. I don’t have a choice.

“He did a tour of Dingle instead,” Sean continued, “and said it was great. Brenda’s Bus-tours, I think the name was. It might be something for you to do while you’re waiting around, like. Which you will be.”

“Thanks. I’ll keep it in mind.” Cathal stepped toward the door.

“Why don’t you go to Costa del Sol? Somewhere warm?” Sean called after him. “Spanish chicas, they love big blond Irishmen. So I’m told.”

“Next year, Sean.” Cathal gave him a thumbs-up, then grasped the door handle. “We’ll go together.”

*

So far, so good. Cathal sank back against the orange and brown seating of the Bus Éireann coach to Kerry. He fiddled with the zip of the rucksack on his lap, debating whether to open it or not. It had been a squeeze to fit the urn in.

He carefully unpacked the top things onto the vacant seat beside him—wind-jacket, moleskin diary, pens, book. He ran his fingers over the cover of the hardback: Life in a Medieval Irish Monastery. The cover was stunning. Skellig Michael. The edge of Europe. It looked like the end of the world—a teetering lump of shark-toothed rock thrust into the Atlantic as if by some mythical giant.

Monastic settlements and the idea of ascetic martyrdom had always fascinated him. He’d first learned about the mysterious cluster of rocks in the Atlantic fourteen years ago, on his family’s first and last holiday with everyone, all six children. It was early October and they’d missed the boat season by a week. In a rare show of emotion, Father, then sixty-eight, had said he was disappointed, “gutted,” and vowed he’d be back.

And, in a way, he would be back soon.

Cathal's throat tightened with sadness. He tried to blot out the image of his mother crying. Her moans from last night still rang in his ears: If you leave me, anything could happen. They could break in and kill me!

Hopefully, all was well at home now and his older brother Caelan was keeping a good eye on her and the farm. It was just for two weeks. And Ballybay was a safe community where the neighbors looked after each other.

But you can take your holidays here. Monaghan has some lovely spots, she’d insisted.

Yes, but if he didn’t do this now, he never would.

He’d been that close to giving up on his mission, but when Caelan lost his job in Amsterdam last month, Cathal had persuaded him to come home for two weeks in July. Caelan—by some miracle and a little bribery (he could have Cathal’s car for the fortnight, for instance)—had agreed to it as he had “literally nothing better to do.” Cathal had even finagled it to coincide with his annual leave from Morrissey & Scanlan.

He was really riding his luck with this. And the escape felt good. He felt giddy. Outside, the road to Tipperary whizzed by. Looking after Mother, hoping she’d bounce back to her normal self, and the never-ending chores on what was left of their farm had blunted his will to be alive and his sense of time.

The plan? Hang around Portmagee, calling the boat operators every day until a vacancy came up. Being there at 8 a.m. every day that had decent weather would surely maximize his chances. Sean might be pessimistic but tourists got sick or waylaid all the time, or they chickened out once they saw that the climb of the rockface was actually dangerous.

But true to form, just as he was ready to leave, Met Éireann had issued a gale warning for tomorrow and Saturday, and it didn’t look like there’d be any boats going to Skellig Michael for the next two days.

So he’d made a last-minute booking of the bus tour Sean had mentioned. It would be something to do until the weather cleared up. Brenda’s Tours had a good few five stars on TripAdvisor, so it was hardly going to be a complete waste of time.