The Hollow Heart (The Heartfelt Series) (18 page)

The Garda eyed the shiny brogues, bought to go with the
coat.

“We can’t do anything till the storm dies down a bit and we
can get the machinery in and inspect the damage. Have you come far, sir?”

“Not really,” sighed the exasperated New Yorker.

By miraculous coincidence, Pat the taxi man had another
sister close by, who was not a postmistress but a landlady, running a small bed
and breakfast establishment.

“It’s off-season, so shouldn’t be a problem,” Pat told him.
He punched a number into his mobile. Not ten minutes later, they pulled up
outside a small, but elegant, farmhouse, a little way down a drive off the main
road. Larry was relieved to see lights on, curtains at windows, and a womanly
figure at the door. He heaved himself out of the car. A portly lady with
pinned-up hair and stout shoes ushered him in. He caught sight of himself in
the hall mirror. He looked the way he felt; grey and shrivelled. The woman
shook hands firmly, introducing herself as Joyce MacReady, Patrick’s eldest
sister.

“Well,” she said, matter-of-factly. “It’s a terrible
business the bridge being down. Hasn’t happened since the Emergency, it was
blown-up back then. Some say the islanders did it, so if the Germans invaded
they couldn’t get to them.” She looked wistful and then, smiling, tutted for
forgetting her manners.

“Forgive me, Mr Leeson.” Larry was impressed; she had
remembered his name straight off. “Come into the drawing room and let me fetch
you a drink and a seat by the fire. You look half-frozen and dead with the
tiredness.”

She took his coat and led him through a large door off the
hall into a stylishly-furnished room. Two sofas faced each other, as a huge
turf fire blazed in the grate. A tall, slim man with a boyish air stood
admiring an oil painting above the mantle. He wore designer jeans and a pale
blue cashmere sweater, his sandy hair was well cut and gelled to lift it from
his skull, in the way that was fashionable.

“Mr Leeson, may I introduce my other house guest, Mr
Osborne. Only arrived half an hour before you, so you can have a bite of supper
together if you wish. Mr Osborne was heading for Innishmahon too. Going to look
up an old friend, I believe.”

The young man turned and strode easily across the room to
greet the American.

“Hi, I’m Paul. Nice to meet you. What a night. Come far?”

“Nah, only New York.” Larry managed a weary grin. They shook
hands.

“Don’t tell me you’re looking up an old friend too?” Paul
took a large swig of Joyce MacReady’s extremely robust gin and tonic.

“Yes, I am.” Larry nearly smiled; relieved the other man’s
accent seemed easier to understand.

“Bet you’re ready for one of these then.” Paul indicated his
drink.

“Yes I am,” Larry repeated, twitching his nose. His nasal
passages must be clearing, he could smell the peat. The colour was returning to
his lips.

“Hope she’s worth it,” said Paul, raising his glass.

“It’s a
he
.”

“As you like.” Paul smiled without innuendo. This was lost
on Larry, who had just taken a huge gulp of the drink Joyce MacReady had
prepared and was starting to gag as the neat alcohol hit the back of his
throat.

 “That’ll perk you up a bit,” Paul advised.

In less than twenty minutes, Larry was unconscious, fast
asleep on one of the sofas by the fire. Joyce MacReady put a small velvet
cushion under his head and tucked an eiderdown around him.

“He’ll wake later and find his way to his bed. I’ll leave a
light on and the door open.” She put the guard against the fire.

When she came down the
next morning to begin breakfast, the human-shaped heap under the eiderdown in
the drawing room had not moved an inch.

The little community gathered in
Maguire’s, breathed a communal sigh of relief at the news of Mrs Molloy’s
airlift and the safe return of the rescue team.

As the second front of the storm moved in, Marianne watched
those assembled make themselves comfortable and settle in for the night. She
helped cover up the children as they curled together on benches, her heart
wrenching as the little ones held up their faces for a goodnight kiss. Some of
the men sipped beer as a few of the women chatted over a glass of wine. A card
game was in progress in a corner. Joan sang a lullaby to the baby. People were
trying to behave as normally as possible, trying to stay calm, trying not to
let the terror of the night take hold.

 Marianne worked alongside Oonagh to feed them; Sinead and
Phileas served drinks. They were all dead on their feet but quietly pleased
with their efforts, as the storm lashed mercilessly around the building.

“Time to batten down the hatches,” Padar announced, as he
strode over to let Monty in, before he threw the bolt on the door. Opening it a
half inch, a wet nose poked in. “Come in little fella, will ya? That’s no night
to be out in.”

Monty straggled over the sandbags, trotting around ankles,
sniffing for his mistress. Ryan spotted him and swept him up; the dog’s bright
black eyes searching the bar until he found Marianne, piling plates with stew.
He yapped at her.

“Hello monster!” she called. Monty’s tail started to wag.

“Me or him?” asked Ryan.

“If the cap fits.” She handed Ryan a dish of food. The
colour was returning to his cheeks.

“You’re turning into a very bad omen, Marianne. Every time
we meet it’s near-disaster, natural, or otherwise. I bet you’re sorry you
followed me from Dublin,” he said, half-jokingly.

“Come again?”

“In Dublin, I saw you in the pub pretending to read the
paper. I didn’t think you’d bother tracking me down all the way out here. I
mean, what kind of story were you after?”

She laid down the ladle, fearing if she understood what he
was intimating, she would club him with it.

“You saw me, in Dublin?”

“Indeed.”

“And you think I followed you all the way here for a story?”
“Can’t be my charismatic charm can it?”

“No, it bloody well can’t. It can be a simple coincidence
though. For your information I’ve been drinking in that pub since I was legally
old enough and I always call in when I’m in my home town. You vain,
up-your-own-arse, gobshite.”

 She did not change her tone, or even raise her voice a
fraction, but she meant every word, amazed how the vocabulary returned, when
riled. He held the plate of food aloft, eyes widening at her in shock.

“I was waiting for my uncle Michael to take me to lunch,
which has been his habit every time I return since I left many years ago. So,
no, I didn’t notice you. The fact that we are both here is, I assure you, pure
coincidence and that, ‘Mr World Revolves Around Me’, is the truth. I came here
for a break, not a compound fracture.”

She pushed out from behind the bar, flustered and furious,
only to stand on Monty, who yelped, making her jump. She accidently elbowed
Ryan, upending his plate of stew, which landed on the stone flags, with a
clatter.

“Serves you right!” she snapped, turning on her heel to
follow a slightly wobbly Oonagh who was heading for the stairs.

Miss MacReady looked from one to the other.

“That told you,” she said, good-naturedly.

“Well, I only thought,” Ryan offered, “as a journalist, and
me being a bit of a celebrity, only…”

Miss MacReady interrupted, “Is that right? You’re a
celebrity? What did you do, win the Lotto or something?”

Ryan gazed into her shrewd blue eyes, checking if she was
teasing. He turned for her to view his stunning profile, then gave her his
biggest Hollywood smile.

“I’m an actor.”

“Really? I’ve done quite a bit of drama myself.”

“I seem to have upset her.” He watched Marianne disappear.

“Yes, I’d say that’s a definite. Marianne’s a serious
journalist, a campaigner, rights wrongs, names the bad guys. Celebrity
tittle-tattle’s not her style and you did more or less accuse her of stalking
you.” Miss MacReady ferreted in a packet of crisps. “And of causing any amount
of disaster every time you meet,” she emptied the dregs of the bag into her
mouth, “I didn’t hear you say thank you for the food she’s been slaving over
either. No, I’d say you’re well in there, alright.”

Ryan glared at the gooey splodge on the floor. He felt how
it looked.

Marianne’s anger
dissipated immediately, when she found Oonagh leaning against the banister,
beads of perspiration on her forehead, top lip drawn tight over her teeth.

“Oonagh, what is it?”

Oonagh groaned, clutching her abdomen, as she crumbled
slowly downwards to the step, a dark stain spreading from her groin through her
jeans.

“Fetch Sinead,” she hissed.

In no time, they were in the bathroom. Marianne had pulled
off Oonagh’s sodden clothes. Sinead had given her smelling salts.

“I’m not sure what we are dealing with here,” she told
Marianne, under her breath.

Oonagh was crouched on the lavatory, groaning. She doubled
up in a spasm of pain.

“Oh no.” She reached for Marianne’s hand. “I’m losing the
baby.”

Sinead dampened a facecloth to wipe her forehead.

“Take deep breaths, there’s a good girl. Take it steady
now.”

Oonagh groaned again, then whimpered piteously. Marianne
looked across at Sinead over Oonagh’s bent head. The midwife frowned.

“Let’s clean you up love, and get you into your bed. It’s a
good night’s rest you’re needing.”

Oonagh lifted her chin, her whole face fallen and hollow.

“Don’t tell Padar,” she pleaded, looking from one to the
other as they helped her up.

“Don’t tell Padar what?” asked Padar, in a tight voice from
the doorway.

The whir of the bar pumps
coming alive was the first sign that electricity had been restored to
Innishmahon. A flicker of lights and Maguire’s was back in business, saving the
fact it was only six thirty on Sunday morning – but that would not be a first
either, Padar considered, remembering his father’s heyday. The gathered souls
began to murmur and stir.

Father Gregory was up first.

“I think it’s best we split, go with a household at a time
and see what damage has been done and what emergency repairs are needed.”

Ryan and the other self-appointed members of the rescue team
agreed. Sergeant Brady arrived with a couple of young Gardaí. The Coastguard
had brought them, managing to land a dingy and put them ashore. Garda O’Riordan
was stationed at the entrance to the now-derelict bridge, but the only vehicle
he had turned back, had been Pat MacReady’s taxi, with an American in it,
dressed like an Englishman in an old film. Kathleen MacReady had the radio back
on though, so he had a fair idea of what was happening across on the island. 

Pat told his sister Kathleen, the flooding had been even
worse in Newtownard. A couple of vehicles had been swept away with people in
them. The new roof was ripped off the school only minutes after the children
had been evacuated, and the rescue services were stretched to breaking point. A
fire officer had been seriously injured when a hotel balcony had given way, and
his colleague below had suffered a broken arm. It had been a terrible night.

Garda O’Riordan was sucking a mint, listening intently to
Miss MacReady’s account of Mrs Molloy’s airlift to safety, when the television
crew hoved into view.

“Ah, here we go,” he informed his listener. “Fecking Kate
Adie’s arrived.”

The news editor was only marginally happy. The report from
the edge of the derelict bridge was okay, but it was not what he really wanted.
Not edgy enough – he smiled wryly at his own pun – no real drama, and Garda
O’Riordan was a lousy interview. He made everything sound like a routine
traffic report, not a word of it remotely life-threatening.

The reporter hurried back to the officer, who was opening a
fresh pack of mints.

“Any way we can get in among it?” she asked. “The boss wants
it a bit more out there.” She pushed a blonde curl behind her ear, gazing at
him intently through designer spectacles.

Miss MacReady overheard.

“There’s a journalist on the island and a webcam up at the
marine research unit,” she said. “Will that do him?”

Garda O’Riordan looked from the radio to the reporter; he
had no idea what they were talking about.

“I’ll check if we can hook-up through the OB unit. Can you
line it up?” It was the first time the girl had sounded enthusiastic, but it
was all still double Dutch to the Garda.

“I’m the postmistress for God’s sake. Isn’t communication my
job?”

In less than half an hour, Marianne was interviewing Padar
about the whole episode, with Ryan on webcam, panning in and out to get the
full effect of the dereliction.

“And were there any fatalities, Mr Quinn?”

“No. Thank God. We got Mrs Molloy away, and I believe she’s
in a stable condition in Newtownard Hospital.”

“So, no loss of life then?” Marianne bit her lip.

“We’ve all been very lucky.” Padar looked steely-eyed, straight
into camera.

“This is Marianne Coltrane live from Innishmahon.”

“And cut!” Ryan could not help himself. He smiled at
Marianne who ignored him, now her professional persona was no longer required.
They turned to witness a clatter of heels coming down the main street. Miss
MacReady was running towards them, stylishly turned out in a tartan kilt, with
a large diamante brooch in place of the traditional pin. She wore a matching
tam o’shanter, tilted over the left eye, her trench coat flapping wildly, as
she raced towards them.

“Excellent, excellent, the producer said that was perfect;
it will go out on the lunchtime news and bulletins throughout the day,” Miss
MacReady said. The producer had relayed his approval via Garda O’Riordan’s
radio.