The Death of an Irish Sea Wolf (18 page)

NOT MANY YEARS ago, a large new ferry had been brought to Clare Island by the owner of the Bayview Hotel. She was a spacious craft of about fifty feet and able to ride out the sudden, intense storms of Clew Bay. Painted red and white, she had a flat deck that could carry several vehicles or, say, a flock of sheep.

But in a blow one morning shortly after she was commissioned, her engines failed. The new boat had just left the shelter of the Clare Island breakwater, and she drifted onto a rocky beach, breaking up into two large pieces that could be seen there to this day. The owner escaped uninjured.

Now, ferrying to and from Clare Island was performed by a variety of boats large and able enough to make the sixteen-mile round trip profitably and safely. During the three-day “O’Malley Rally,” every sort of craft was pressed into service, most for profit, some others for the convenience of celebrating relatives.

One such boat was curious. She was about forty feet long with a planing, sportfisher-type hull, a small enclosed foredeck, and only a doghouse with a canvas top shielding the control console. Today with warm and sunny weather, the canvas was rolled forward, and a tall broad young woman with white-blond hair and a deep tan was at the wheel.

Deftly, she cut the largely open boat past the massive bulwark of the Roonagh Point breakwater that carved a small sheltered harbor from Clew Bay. Wearing only a mango orange spandex bikini, she immediately collected the eyes of the young male O’Malleys waiting at the harbor. They were already deeply involved in “spotting form”—as the phrase had it—of their felicitously distant relations of the opposite sex.

As she spun the wheel and played one engine off against the other, the stern of the boat swung round and the name on the transom could be read plainly—
Grainne Uaile
. She then cut the engines and drifted toward the wall.

Hands on the pleasant curves of her hips, she cocked her head up at the throng that had gathered on the edge to look down at her. “Any O’Malley
women
care for a free lift over to
Cliara
?” It was the Irish word for Clare and meant Island of the Clergy.

Several of the girls swapped glances, scarcely able to believe their luck. “But what do we do with our tickets? They cost sixteen quid return.”

“Flog them to some of the others. I’ll wait. I can take twenty of yiz tops,” she said in the pancake accent of a Dubliner. “And ’specially any women with a yen to do some divin’.” She swept a hand at the suits, flippers, tanks of air, and diving buoys that lay in the stern of the boat.

Some one of the men muttered, “At which she’s a champ, I’d hazzard.” The male laughter was quick, deep, but diffident. And not one of them challenged her until an older man stepped out of the crowd with a towel draped over his head, like a shawl. He was visibly drunk, and had something bulky stuffed under his jumper to simulate breasts.

“Hold on, luveen,” he said in a high falsetto voice. “Don’t shove off without me. I’m just the diver for you.” Scuttling down the concrete stairs, he threw his kit on board, but the woman threw it back.

He then attempted to climb on board, but she easily pushed him away with a smile, saying, “Funny—I don’t quite believe you’re for real.” She even squeezed his “breasts,” which brought shouts from the men.

Finally, he attempted to jump on board, but she caught
most of him, which she deposited gently over the rail and back onto the stairs. “I’d ask if you’ve had enough, but it’s plain from the smell of you you have.”

“Fair play to her,” said one of the other O’Malley lads. “She could have dropped him in the drink.”

“I’ve had me tumble with Grainne. Now I can die happy.”

“And should have too, yah sot,” said another woman. “Great girl yah are!” And she gave the young woman a thumbs-up.

“I’ll buy ye’ a pint on the island,” the man went on, picking himself up and pulling the towel from his head. “McCabe’s Bar. It’s right there in the harbor.”

“You will not.” The young woman was helping her passengers aboard the lurching boat. “You’ll buy me a gallon or nothing,” which got laughs.

“Only if you promise to be gentle.” Which got more.

Crossing from Roonagh Point to Clare Island harbor in a converted fishing boat takes about twenty-five minutes under the best of conditions. And at least another ten when burdened with as many passengers as can safely be carried.

Noreen McGarr with Maddie by her side watched the faster
Grainne Uaile
power past the corner of the breakwater and plane off across the bright turquoise water toward Clare Island. She only hoped that Ruth Bresnahan and Hugh Ward, who had arrived on a Garda launch during the night, were there to greet the boatload of young women when they arrived.

Noreen’s responsibility was the several “ferries” that were plying the bay on this, the first day of the O’Malley Rally. Her husband had so arranged the scheduling of the boats that there would be only one going and coming each hour. It would mean that a number of the O’Malleys might have to wait a while on the mainland, but at least some of the boat traffic over to the island would be monitored.

McGarr had taken himself up to the south slope of Croaghmore, where he could keep an eye on two of the other possible launching sites. They were in and near Portnakilly. The fourth site near the northeastern corner of the island was being watched by Paul O’Malley from his “quad’s quad” on the
top of Capnagower. And finally, Bernie McKeon had a clear view the Gottschalk buildings, the Ford cottage, and the cliffs as far as Croaghmore. McGarr was in contact with all via handheld VHF radios that he’d had Bresnahan and Ward bring from Dublin the night before. Noreen kept hers in the camera bag that was strapped over her shoulder.

“Excuse me,” she now said to the person closest to her. The ferry had left the dock at Roonagh Point for Clare Island and she would have to work fast. “I’m from the O’Malley Rally Committee”—she pointed to the name tag that was pinned to her jumper—“Are you an O’Malley?”

The older man nodded and allowed his eyes to run down Noreen’s figure. Her trim and angular body was wrapped today in a red tartan body suit and a short black suede A-line skirt. Her stockings were black, her flats were brilliant red. With her bright copper-colored hair and turquoise eyes, she knew she looked perfect for the part.

“Where are you from?”

“Biloxi, Mississippi, babe.” And sounded it. “And you, where you all from?” The man winked at Maddie.

“Down home.” Noreen jerked a thumb at the island. “We’re attempting to put out a yearbook with the names and photographs of every O’Malley who attends this year’s rally. We’re hoping to make it free of charge because of donations and adverts. Would you care to be in it?”

“For you, darlin’. Anything.”

“What did he call you, Mammy?” Maddie asked.

Noreen ignored her. “Then let me snap your picture. You have the rare good fortune of being number one.”

“Wouldn’t be satisfied any other way. What kind of camera is that?”

“It’s electronic, a digital camera—no developing, no processing, it works like a video recorder, but the images are still and can be stored on the disk. And, of course, you can get prints, if you have a color printer.”

“My, my”—the man shook his head—“and all I ever heard was how backward this place was.”

Noreen swallowed an acid reply and wrote the man’s name and address on her clipboard, before moving to the next passenger. All the names and addresses would be sent immedi
ately to Garda headquarters to make certain Irish persons of those names existed and to Customs & Immigration authorities to check them against the computerized list of foreign nationals in the country. McGarr would show the portraits to the barman and the two patrons at McCabe’s Bar who had seen and spoken to the crewman of the
Mah Jong
the night of the murder.

And so it went throughout the day. There were O’Malleys from Sweden, Argentina, Uruguay, Brittany, South Africa, Canada, Malaysia, Anguilla, Chile, Djbouti even, with a small army from the States. But the only actual “Irish” O’Malleys seemed to be young people who had “come to party with the blood,” said one gawky young fellow with pimples. “Incest Is Best” was the hopeful pronouncement on the front of his voluminous T-shirt. He was dressed in “grunge,” so he told Noreen.

“Names and faces, faces and names,” said Maddie, tiring of the duty during only their second “crossing” of the morning. “When can we go swimming?” Every time they passed the fine sandy beach that ringed the north side of Clare Island harbor the six-year-old peered wistfully at the other children splashing in the sunny water. Unlike the frigid Irish Sea south of Dublin where they usually tried to bathe, the water here—heated by the Gulf Stream—was warm, as they knew from their earlier visit to Clare Island.

“After lunch, kid,” Noreen replied, repeating one of the many endearments she had been called by the various and high-spirited O’Malleys.

The best was yet to come, “Hai, chick—aye-n’t yah gonna tike my pict-yah?” asked a young man with a shaven head and a brace of gold rings pierced through the lobe of one ear. Wearing a muscle shirt, he had tattoos on both immense biceps, made more obvious because of the whiteness of the skin on his upper arms—a death’s head with “K2” beneath it on the right and a Celtic cross on the left. There was a blue bat in flight on his deeply tanned neck.

“A thousand pardons. I wanted to make sure I’d snapped everybody else before attempting yours,” Noreen replied, off put by the appellation.

Sitting on the cap rail of the transom of the boat, he craned
back his head and laughed. “Red hair. It’s fire for sure. Chick is a compliment where I come from.”

“And where is that?”

“Aus-tryl-ia, a’ course. Where else?” He was wearing leather climbing shoes with a thick wrap of hard rubber around the leather uppers. In front of him was a rucksack with a long-handled climbing ax protruding from the flap.

“He called my mother a chicken,” Maddie said to the only other person whose picture they had not taken: an elderly man with wire-rimmed spectacles who seemed uncomfortable in the presence of the—was he?—skinhead.

“What’s that maike you then?” The Australian ruffled Maddie’s brilliant, red curls.

“An egg?”

“Nai, you’re way beyond the egg staige, luv. You’re a pull-it.” He gently tweaked her nose. “That’s what you are—a pull-it.” He reached for her again, but she scurried behind Noreen.

“I didn’t get your name,” Noreen said, raising the camera.

“That’s because I didn’t give it.” Placing his hands beneath his biceps, he flexed his muscles like bodybuilders of old and tried to look stern. The neck of the muscle shirt had opened more completely to reveal a large wheel of purple bruising with a bright red center. “It’s Brando O’Malley,” he growled through his teeth.

Noreen lowered the camera slightly. “Brendan.”

“Brando.”

“You’re having me on.”

“With any luck at all. Me parents were big fans. They bought a projector and showed
On the Waterfront
to everybody on the ranch, the aborigines included, until there wasn’t a man jack within fifty miles who couldn’t recite the script from heart. It’s said I got my start during the love scene.” He pulsed his eyebrows. “I only hope I can avoid Brando’s curse.”

Noreen snapped the picture and waited.

Brando O’Malley puffed out his cheeks and extended his arms at his sides, as though pretending to be fat. “Boffo-lo-itis.”

Noreen couldn’t help herself he looked so comical; she started to laugh.

“Hubby around?” he added. “I’ll buy you a beer.”

Noreen gave him a look, as though to say now he really was overstepping himself.

“Don’t let me looks fool you. I’ve got more degrees than a summer afternoon and a tux in me tuck.” He pointed to the sack.

Noreen turned to the final man with the wire-rimmed glasses, who said, “Don’t bother. I’m not an O’Malley.”

“Really? And you’re coming out to the island? I hope you have lodgings booked.”

He nodded. “I haf’ a place to stay.” He was an older man who was wearing a tan windbreaker and cap to match. Gloved hands were folded on the leg of twill trousers, and the stout walking shoes on his feet were mahogany in color. Like the young Australian, there was a sack in front of him, contents bulging.

“German, are you?”

“Swiss. Schweibert’s the name, Doctor Ernst Schweibert.”

“And you’ve been to Clare before?”

“Several times. I spent the summer of 1990 here.”

“As part of the study?” Noreen meant the follow-up to the study that had been conducted by the Royal Irish Academy in 1909–1911. Employing teams of scholars and naturalists, the Dublin group had examined every aspect of island life from flora to fauna to the underlying causes of emigration, which was then also a problem.

The sixty-seven reports were bound under one cover and detailed everything from small species of fungi and algae that had never before been examined in Ireland, through “the razorbills that breed up to a thousand feet on the great cliff of Clare Island” in colonies too numerous to count, to the history, archaeology, place-names, family names, Gaelic plant and animal names, and agriculture.

One of Noreen’s great buys was a well-preserved copy of the massive tome for a fiver which she found at a bookstall on the Dublin quays. “I priced that yoke by the pound, and there’s no hagglin’, missus. I’ve spent half me life humpin’ it in and out o’ the van.”

Because of the comprehensiveness of the effort, there were continual calls throughout the rest of the century for follow-up studies. By the 1980s not only had scientific knowledge advanced but also investigative methods had improved so markedly that there was some suspicion that Praeger and his cohorts might have missed something. Which proved to be the case.

“What’s your field?” Noreen asked the man.

“Palynology. Actually, I’m a paleobotanist.”

Now Noreen’s interest was piqued. Having closely followed the reports of the symposia that were given in 1989, 1990, and 1991, she knew how successful the recent study had been. In both archaeology and paleobotany, it had been something akin to hitting a mother lode or winning the World Cup. And dramatic, since the earlier study had claimed that, whereas Achill Island to the immediate north abounded with identifiable Mesolithic structures, there was none on Clare Island.