‘I suppose if there’s something organised tomorrow we can all give a hand, right?’ Dan said paying in euros before heading out in the darkening evening.
It caught him up, the idea of such tragedy occurring in a place that seemed to be so far removed from the violence and crime of London life that he’d become accustomed to seeing on his news every night. Over here it was different; from the way the shopkeeper had taken the news; the loss of one of their own, it was personal. It turned out that they hardly even knew the boy, in the end.
It may have been dark and overcast, but there was no denying the drama of Ballycove. The coastline sat in a jagged crouch, leering out across the Atlantic. The cottage on the headland might be the centre middle seat, looking down on the most spectacular theatre imaginable – the living, breathing ocean. Dan knew it was just the weather that made the place feel as if a foreboding character was lurking somewhere just out of sight. He put it down to the missing boy. Something like that stirs a place up, filling even the emptiest of places with impending tragedy. It set Dan’s imagination on end, a bristling sense that there were ideas, if not always very happy stories lurking just beneath the surface.
Soon he was turning off the main road up the narrow track. When his headlights skirted across the rough patchy land, he spotted a dozen rabbits scattering away into their burrows in response to his unwelcome intrusion. The cottage was not big. Rather, it seemed like a bent geriatric, pinned to the hillside, facing off the Atlantic stoically. Dan pulled up at the front door. There was a small window either side of a deep porch and a whistling chorus of rattling shells hanging from the gate caught in the ferocious wind. There wasn’t a soul about for miles, and yet, it didn’t feel lonely here – an odd thing, since he’d felt tragically isolated so recently in the middle of London.
He walked about the property first, taking in the rattling wind, the sea air and the freezing drops of rain that fell in spikes on his shoulders and were cold enough to penetrate his jacket. A narrow paving led right around the house. There was no place here for livestock or any kind of farming venture. The owners had seen to it that this place was low on maintenance and uncomplicated. After walking all about the house and glancing through the windows, he knew he would have to go inside. Not that he was putting it off exactly, but probably, it was the idea that once he was in, that was it; he was tired after the journey. There would be no going out to get wet and blown away again. He would settle down with his cooked chicken, his bottle of burgundy and his thoughts.
Going back to the car again, he pulled out his groceries and key for the cottage. He slid it into the keyhole and the door opened easily. The rental agents had emailed a list of instructions to him and he remembered them once more. He already had a mental to-do list for when he got in the door: everything from turning on the central heating to checking that water was running clear before he filled the kettle for a cup of tea. There was a whole paragraph about how to manage the well should he find himself without clear running water. Apparently, there were pumps and electrics involved and if the worst happened, they had included a plumber’s mobile number with a good luck shamrock by its side.
Inside the door, he reached for a light switch. The bulb threw a weak glow about the porch and as he pushed past the next door. It opened into a warmer than expected room. The heat was not the only thing that surprised him.
The boy was half sitting on the hearth rug, his back against the couch. He smiled lazily, as if he wasn’t sure if he was seeing things or if Dan was actually there before him. Dan couldn’t take in much more than the gash that ran along the side of the boy’s head, but in his periphery vision, he caught the half bottle of vodka, the overturned chair, the empty pot noodles and the bloodstain on the rug. This apparition pulled Dan up short for a moment – perhaps he was in the wrong house? But then quickly, he went over the details of the key in his pocket, the description of the journey and the fact that everything about the cottage was exactly as he’d remembered. He knew that the mistake had not been his.
‘Hullo,’ the boy said and there was the unmistakable sound of drunkenness in his almost breaking voice.
‘Hello, yourself,’ Dan said, dropping his bag down on the floor and pushing out the door. ‘I suppose, you’re the welcoming committee?’ he asked, not entirely sure what else to say.
‘Yup, you’re welcome. Fancy a… drink?’ he managed between hiccups.
‘How many of those have you had exactly?’