Chapter 3

I’m here! I’m freaking here! Take that, baldy Tony! Take that, tiny Si!

Take that, traitor Jeremy.

Avery put down her rucksack beside her R2-D2 roller suitcase on the pavement outside An Cafe Liteartha, held out her arms wide, twirling and sniffing the salty, wet breeze of Dingle town.

The first thing you noticed about a country was its humidity and its smell, and here, both were fantastic. Even on the tarmac runway teeming with heavy machinery back in Dublin Airport, it had felt great. Who cared if the sky was dark grey? It was sheer heaven. It was the smell of wilderness and freedom... a new life.

She’d trekked across Dublin, taken the train from Heuston Station down to Cork—from there, a bus west to Dingle. She’d resisted the temptation to stop off in the pretty towns and villages along the way, with their colorful, crammed shopfronts and pubs. If time allowed, she could always do some extra sightseeing on the way back to the airport—in exactly two weeks—but for now, her priority was to get as close to the rock as possible, as soon as possible.

Because suddenly it seemed complicated.

Everyone she’d spoken to about Skellig Michael had told her it would be impossible to get there unless she’d booked way in advance, which of course she hadn’t. The maximum number of tourists allowed on the island was 150. She might have to revise the plan, or maybe create an app for disappointed Star Wars fans to distract themselves with while waiting for Skellig.

Either way, she wasn’t giving up yet. The tourist office had recommended a small outfit (they were all small outfits) called Brenda’s Tours, based here in Dingle. A female driver sounded appealing, and the reviews were positive. The bus was sure to be crammed with fans just like Avery, anxious to experience for themselves the atmosphere of the final, climactic moments of The Force Awakens.

Sigh.

“Welcome, everyone,” a strong, warm voice rang out. It belonged to a stout, mid-fifties lady with a kind, weather-beaten face and greying, wavy hair standing before her in a mustard rain jacket. “My name’s Brenda and I’m your guide for the next few days.”

Avery took R2-D2 and wheeled him a bit closer to the tour guide. Brenda waited as people peeled themselves off the walls of various shops and cafés facing the parking lot and formed a wide circle around her. “Shocking weather, isn’t it? But don’t worry, we’ll make the most of it and have some fun anyway, won’t we?”

A cheer of male voices erupted from the side. It came from a group of seven or eight men in their twenties, with sleep-deprived faces and scruffy facial hair. They’d been loitering on the windowsill of the pub across the road and Avery had assumed they were just part of the local scenery and would remain so, but no, they were all coming for the ride.

“Are you on a stag weekend, lads?” Brenda asked them, her voiced laced with steel.

Yeah, yeah, mumble, mumble, mumble, came their grunted replies, in some weird accent that never featured in movies, ever. Their football shirts and beer cans seemed to say everything there was to say about them—which was just as well, for they were utterly indecipherable.

“Well, I’ll have my eyes on you. Who’s the lucky man?”

One of them nodded, which set them all off in a chorus of teasing.

Brenda’s smiled stayed fixed and she turned to the rest of the passengers. She was counting them and consulting her list.

Avery inspected the others too. There was an old lady with hair like a helmet of steel clamped on her head, crowning a stoic face not unlike Chancellor Angela Merkel’s. Beside her stood an elderly Japanese couple who looked very fit; an old guy next to them who didn’t; and there, right at the back, a tall, bearded blond man in an old-fashioned blazer clutching a tattered rucksack. He could have passed as an extra in a Viking movie. He’d probably look good in a kilt. Or as an albino Chewbacca.

Then her spirits sank. This wasn’t how Star Wars fans reacted to her. This was not her tribe. Not even close.

She frowned and looked back at the big guy again. Her only hope. His gaze was on the bachelor party—no, she reminded herself with a private giggle, they’re called stag lads here—his expression mildly anxious, and he didn’t seem to have seen her

She supposed she looked as outlandish to the rest of them as they did to her, with her chiseled black bob, Rey’s replica jacket, the cynical I heart Jar Jar Binks T-shirt—a joke none of them would get—purple leggings, sleek laptop bag, and of course, R2-D2.

“I hope you all feel comfortable. Are you ready for our trip around this beautiful part of the world?” Brenda resumed. It got a few nods. She turned sharply to the stag lads. “There’s no drinking in the bus, lads, so if that changes your mind about coming, you’ll be sure and let me know, won’t you?”

They shuffled their feet in resignation. Avery was relieved. She didn’t want to share a bus with a gang of drunken men. She was the only female under thirty in the group. Her radar for trouble was well-honed after five years of living in Eastside, often hanging out in places where men predominated. She didn’t need any kind of crap on her research trip—but if it happened, boy, she’d deal with it and they’d be freaking sorry. Her judo skills would see to that.

Brenda’s gaze fixed on her at that moment and Avery read intelligence there. The glance was brief, but it seemed to say, Don’t worry, you’ll be safe in my bus.

Avery found herself nodding and unclenching her fists. This time when she glanced back, the big blond guy was looking at her, but he averted his gaze even sooner than she did.

“Now, let’s get the bags aboard, shall we?” Brenda motioned to the tour bus behind her—a metallic blue coach about forty feet long. Rust skirted the edges and the bottom panels were heavily dented. It was clean, but it had definitely seen better days.

You drive in that thing? You’re braver than I thought, Avery was tempted to say. Instead, she stepped forward and shoved her suitcase into the luggage compartment.

The lads crowded around and flung in their sports bags every which way, and it was soon clear that the luggage wouldn’t all fit into the smallish space without better organization. The Japanese couple were talking to Brenda by the entrance of the bus, so she was in no position to intervene, so Avery decided to sort the matter out herself. The sooner they were on the way, the better.

“Wait up,” she said to one of the stag lads, a tall skinny redhead. “I need to sort these first, before you put yours on top. Better they go this way, look.” She pulled out all their bags again and arranged the bigger ones neatly on the bottom layer, smaller on top, leaving room for whoever was left.

When she was finished, she scooted out from under the luggage doorway, all hot-faced and sweaty. The big blond guy was there, holding up the door. His olive eyes, caught in a beam of sunshine, were fixed on her. She had to admit those eyes were attention-drawing, deeply soulful. But then he just stood there, in all his wild blondness, gawking at the formation of the bags, making no move to give her his own bag or anything useful.

She cleared her throat. “Here, let me take that for you.” She tugged at the strap hanging from his rucksack.

“No!” He backed away as though she were diseased and strode toward the bus entrance, patting his rucksack protectively.

“Sorry,” she mouthed after him, not sorry in the least.

Weirdo.

*

The last one onto the bus, Avery took the seat farthest from the stag lads and Weirdo, all of whom had claimed the back of the bus. Stag lads were on the left side and Weirdo had the right all to himself with his rucksack on the seat beside him as if warding off anyone who might be crazy enough to sit there. She had a sudden urge to go down there, pull it off him and throw it out the window.

There were a few empty rows in front of Weirdo and the stag lads, and then Avery, the Japanese couple, the old guy, and Angela Merkel all huddled up front. Avery had the seat right behind Brenda, close enough to see the dashboard and to get the full panoramic view through the windshield. It was already awesome.

Brenda drove slowly out of the town, heading west. “As you probably know, we’ll be doing Eask Tower, Ventry Village, and Dunbeg Fort today. Yes, I know other tours do everything all in a day, but I like to take my time and let you savor each location.” She didn’t use a microphone—her voice carried well enough to reach everyone unaided. It was nice to be up close behind her, listening to her eloquent speech, catching her subtle punchlines, and seeing the twinkle in her eye in the mirror as she recounted local history, folklore, and legends.

They passed quaint little cottages, painted in pinks and blues and yellows, at the edge of Dingle town. They dodged happy-looking children and dogs. Avery told the driver of her long trip from LAX to Dublin, to Cork, to Kerry.

“Dingle’s not quite a galaxy far, far away, but it can take a while to get to, all right,” Brenda said.

Avery perked up at these words. “Are you a fan?”

“I’ve three sons in college,” Brenda said with a loud laugh. “Do you think I’d any choice in the matter?”

“I’m hoping to get to Skellig Michael.”

“And you wouldn’t be the first, my dear. But with the weather like this…” She clucked reproachfully. “How long are you in the area?”

“Two weeks.”

“Well, my advice is to explore the rest of the coastline. Skellig Michael is a special place all to its own, but you’ll find there are places that are equally worth your time.”

She sounded like she was letting her down gently. “Yes,” Avery said, undeterred. “It is beautiful… everywhere.”

“You’ll find the men are nice, too.”

Avery forced a smile. Lately, romance was just window-shopping and role-playing. It was a game, but everyone pretended otherwise. You break up, you face-palm, you move on. The process was so universal that with some men, she face-palmed as soon as she met them, in anticipation.

She sank back into the worn leather seat. Trees and stone walls trundled by with a pleasing rhythm. The toll of travelling had finally caught up with her. The wave of adrenaline that had gotten her from the airport to this point had now subsided, no longer needed. She was sleepy, and simply happy that someone else was in the driver’s seat and all she had to do was be there.

She woke when the bus stopped moving.

“Where? Uh, what?” Grappling for her bearings, she latched onto Brenda face’s smiling face in the rear-view mirror.

“We’re at Eask Tower, dear.”

“Oh.” She sat forward, rubbing her stiff neck. “Oh right.”

At that moment, Weirdo passed by her seat with a flash of bright hair. He stepped nimbly down the steps of the bus, head bent because of his height. Of course, the backpack was still with him, surgically attached to his broad back.

She swung back to look at Brenda, whose keen eyes were on her face as if she wanted to say something.

“The Force is strong with that one,” Brenda said in a low murmur.

Avery grinned. “He must have Yoda in the backpack.”

Then she grabbed her own bag and followed the rest of the passengers outside into the fresh air.

*

Cathal had reached the top of the muddy climb through sheep’s pasture. On a clear day, you could probably see the Skelligs, the Blasket islands, Carrauntoohil—but today, not so much.

Everyone else was taking photos. He didn’t have a camera with him. He didn’t even have a phone—and he was glad of that now, because he definitely wouldn’t have resisted the temptation to call home.

Nothing was clinically wrong with Mother, but she hadn’t been the same since Father died eleven months ago. Some good days, some bad. Psychosomatic, the doctors said. He’d gotten three separate opinions, all with that similar, baffled shaking of the head. Such a waste of a life, they seemed to say. She was only sixty-two, and already living with one foot in the grave.

After the unhelpful diagnoses, he’d quit his Dublin job and moved back to Ballybay. Mother needed someone there. But this week he was going to be selfish. Caelan had a whole list of instructions to follow. There was no need to bring a phone here except to contact the boats going to Skellig Michael, and he could do that from the landlines in whatever B&Bs he stayed in.

The sea looked choppy today, grey and angry. No boats to be seen, only the distant liners. The forecasted gale force winds had yet to strike, but this breeze could still whip the face off you. The southwest was certainly wilder than the northeast.

The stag lads were huddled in a bunch under a rowan tree, smoking cigarettes and taking gulps from an illicit stash of beer. They were already near their limit, judging by the nature of their talk. He’d had to put up with them for the time it took to get from Dingle to here. God, they never shut up. So far, they’d slagged off Dubliners (they were from Cork), Kerry people, the Gaelic Athletic Association, Justin Bieber, and all the girls in a certain institute of technology, and had reenacted a swordfight from one of those Star Wars films, complete with buzzing electronic sounds every time they fictively hit someone.

Needless to say, he’d got no reading done.

Instead, he’d watched her, the strange woman of roughly his age, who had talked to Brenda for most of the trip. American, quite obviously, with a weird sense of fashion, but there was something about her that made him want to keep looking. She was different to the women at work, who tried so hard to conform to some ideal that they ended up looking similar. All of her being seemed to say, Yeah, this is me. Think what you like. And he liked that in a woman.

There she was, standing close to the tree, taking pictures out to sea. The stag lads were taking the opportunity to size her up—unabashedly gawking at her chest enclosed in its tight T-shirt, her round ass, her shapely legs. The elbow nudge that the tallest gave to his mate sent a pulse of warning through his gut.

Cathal moved slowly over the grass until he was within hearing range of them.

“…just have to go on over,” one was saying. “Yeah, she wouldn’t say no to ye, would she, Dec?”

His spotty friend, Dec, presumably, laughed an ugly, insecure laugh. This Dec character had to prove himself now the gauntlet was thrown, and it had her name—whatever it was—on it.

When they got back on the bus, he’d move right up front.