Chapter 8

Avery pulled off her socks and laid them to the side of her destroyed slave boots. She’d spent half an hour in the communal bathroom trying to clean them while everyone else was down in the pub. Freaking two hundred fifty dollars.

Before coming on this trip, she’d imagined luscious green fields, stone walls, cute sheep, dainty villages, old boys in felt caps waving as you passed by. She’d expected rockfaces scrubbed clear by the wind and rain, and the peltering rain itself. But she hadn’t expected so much walking.

Today had been, in a word, grueling. Maybe the likes of Cathal got his kicks from trudging over boulders for hours on end—in fact, she knew he did—but it wasn’t her chosen path to Nirvana. And the conditions were crap for recording. The videos were grey. Audio was impossible with the wind—all you got was a wall of white noise that was impossible to edit.

While being there had a magic sense of its own, you couldn’t get any of that across on media. Also, with the scrambling they had to do in places, you needed both hands. You were in the here and now. There’d be no way to take out a phone, much less a VR headset or smart glasses—they’d blow right off your face.

She should have gone to Italy.

Well, she wouldn’t give up yet. The tour had stopped at Cahirsiveen for the night, the closest they would get to Portmagee, about seven miles away. She scrolled down the websites on her laptop screen that listed all the operators who went to Skellig Michael and actually landed there—some just took a spin around the Skellig islands because that was so much easier. She’d called two already to check if there were any cancellations for tomorrow. She’d been surprised to get any answers this late but apparently these skippers were quite happy to take late calls. So far, yes, there’d been cancellations—but only because the entire boats had been cancelled due to the weather.

“We did have one cancellation, yeah, so there’d be a free seat for ya,” the next guy said—or at least that was what she thought he’d said in his thick accent. She squeezed her fist in victory.

“But the weather’s not looking the best. Tell ya what, call me in the morning. Sure it may change yet, and they don’t call me Mad Graham for nothing.” He finished the call with a somewhat manic laugh.

The skipper’s name was Graham Towle and he operated out of Portmagee. Tomorrow could be the day. It wasn’t the best weather, but you couldn’t have everything. It would be enough to get field data, to get a feel for the experience, to discover the points in the journey when a Star Wars fan would want to recapture a scene from the movie. She would record her thoughts at every stage of the climb so as to be sure not to miss out on anything her app users might want to do or see. Her phone memory was clear—a clean SD card ready for all the videos she’d be taking.

Buoyed with optimism, she made her way down the narrow staircase to the living room of the B&B, a small cottage on Cahirsiveen quay. The atmosphere was relaxed and cozy in the living room. Brenda knew the proprietors, a mid-thirties couple, and was currently deep in conversation with them in the far corner of the room. Everyone who wanted could join in, or simply do their own thing on various mismatched chairs and sofas placed around the low-ceilinged siting room.

Only the stag lads were absent—reputedly having a beach party—and nobody missed them. Rosemary with her Angela Merkel smile was nodding at something old Finbarr was saying. The Hashimoto couple were sitting primly opposite Cathal who had a spare seat beside him on the sofa.

She moved further into the room and threw him a look of inquiry. Even though she’d been sharing a seat with him on the bus for two days now, it was hard to know where she stood with him. He was one of the strangest men she’d ever met, equal parts welcoming and distant.

“Sit here, Avery,” Cathal said, making even more room on the sofa. “Yoko and Hitoshi here were telling me all about Japan.”

She sat. But she sank much deeper than expected, causing Cathal to press against her side, warm and heavy. She didn’t move away. If he wasn’t uncomfortable with this then she wasn’t either.

“Oh, how lovely,” she said. “That’s one of the places I’d like to visit next.”

“Avery’s been to Cambodia,” he said.

She slid him a look. “What’s that got to do with Japan?”

“It’s far east.”

“Yes, well, I’ve been there, and Laos and Vietnam, too. But, like I say, never Japan.” She was babbling. This felt good. Wonderful really. Engulfed by him, but not threatened, just snug and protected and warm. She’d never really considered men his size before, preferring them lean and wiry. Or at least she’d thought she did, until now.

The Hashimotos nodded. “We have never been to America. We should love to go someday.”

“Me too,” Cathal said wistfully, as if they were talking about Mars.

“It’s only, what? A six-hour fight from Shannon to New York?” she asked.

“Would be, yeah.”

“So why don’t you go?”

He shifted. “I—no, it wouldn’t fit in with the work schedule.”

The Japanese couple nodded knowingly.

But what was there to know? “You’re a farmer. You could go during off season.”

“I’m not a farmer. Well, I am that too, but I work for Morrissey & Scanlan in Monaghan Mondays to Fridays. I do the farm in the mornings and evenings and weekends.”

“What’s Morrissey & Scanlan?” she asked, surprised.

“Management consultancy specializing in medium-sized enterprises in the agricultural sector.”

She frowned at him. “So, you have a normal office job with timesheets and quotas and a business title?”

“I’m head accountant.”

She fought to keep the squeak out of her voice. “Head accountant?”

Delicate lines of mirth appeared at his eyes. The silence elongated to the point that the Hashimotos were looking anxious. She needed to save them from the torture of social awkwardness. “I just can’t picture you at a desk, typing in numbers,” she offered finally.

“Then picture me doing something else,” his voice came, low and mellow. “I won’t mind at all.”

She turned to gape at him. Are you flirting?

His compressed smile gave nothing away.

The Hashimotos looked startled at this turn in the conversation but there was nothing she could do about it. He was definitely flirting. Irish-style.

“Fine then, I will,” she said. “But I’ll wait until bedtime.” LA-style.

He let out a satisfied hum, sending vibrations along her arm. “Do that,” he whispered so only she could hear.

She gave a polite cough and looked over to the Hashimotos. “Did you hear what’s on for tomorrow’s tour?”

“Caherdaniel stone fort,” they said in perfect unison.

“I’m going to enjoy that,” she enthused.

Unless I get that seat to Skellig Michael.

Should she tell Cathal? No, the guy—Mad Graham—had mentioned one place only. She didn’t want to muck this chance up, because it could be her only one.

Cathal rose from the sofa suddenly, making her body sag into the empty space. “Excuse me, it’s getting late.”

“Is it?” she asked. Jetlag had obliterated all sense of time. It felt like an early afternoon coffee break.

“I need to go say my prayers.” He was using that same deadpan voice that he’d used when joking before. She was starting to get used to his subtle ways.

“Well, say one for me too.” Because I may just need it tomorrow.