Jessie Keane: Ruthless

Orla was shaking her head, hard. Brandy? Desperation was making her eyes manic. ‘There’s no time for that. We have to go and find him. Fetch torches.’

‘But I-’

‘We haven’t time for this. For the love of God, fetch the torches and let’s go.’ But she was trembling so badly that she could no longer hold herself upright. She fell forward almost delicately, and found herself on her knees with her head humming so loudly she was sure she was about to pass out. The cottage lights seemed to flicker in and out of focus and suddenly everything was very far away, even their clucking anxious voices as they got her off her knees and on to a chair.

‘Get that brandy, Cissie,’ she dimly heard the old man say. ‘I’ll go out and check the shoreline.’

Orla refocused to see Cissie crouching in front of her, watching her with concern.

‘Yes, that’s the thing for a shock like this.’ Cissie hurried away and returned with a glass brimming with amber liquid. ‘Here, here,’ she said, putting the glass against Orla’s lips. Orla sipped, felt it warming her all the way down. She coughed, sipped again.

‘Don’t you worry,’ Cissie was chattering on, ‘Donny will find your brother if anyone can, he knows this stretch of coast inside out. Now, let’s sort you out some dry clothes…’

The old man was putting on wet-weather gear, picking up a heavy-duty torch from the dresser. ‘I’ll be away then,’ he said, and went out into the stormy night.

Donny never found Redmond. He scoured the headland, the beach, all around to the next bay, but there was nothing, no one. He was out for well over an hour. By the time he got back, Cissie had taken Orla’s wet clothes off her and dressed her in a winceyette nightie and a thick dressing gown. She had disinfected and covered the worst of the cuts on Orla’s feet, dried out and untangled Orla’s hair, forced a little soup down her, saying she must get warm and take some food.

The soup only made Orla gag. Her stomach was a knot of fear and dread. She could not yet comprehend the full enormity of this disaster. Could not even begin to believe that she was never going to see Redmond again. But when Donny came in, grave-faced, shaking his head at her pleading eyes, she knew that the worst had happened.

Redmond was gone.

She was never going to see him again.

It was as if the soul had been ripped out of her, right then and there.

‘You’ll sleep here tonight,’ said Cissie, while Donny removed his outdoor gear and carried it into the scullery to dry off. ‘Tomorrow, when the storm eases, Donny’ll take the bike into the village and telephone the Garda. They’ll alert the Coastguard.’

Orla shook her head. Much as she wanted the Coastguard searching for Redmond, she knew that it was hopeless. And she couldn’t afford to alert the Garda. If they came round asking questions, she would have a hard time coming up with answers.

‘It’s far too late for that,’ she said, and tears poured down her face as the sheer weight of it all struck home. He was gone from her: he truly was.

‘Still, we should do it,’ persisted Donny.

‘No. It’s no use,’ said Orla flatly, and refused to discuss it further.

The storm raged on, making it impossible for Donny to reach the village the next day. At dawn the following day, Orla got shakily out of bed and knelt on the window seat in the spare bedroom where she’d passed a sleepless night. She stared out of the window at the waves pounding the shore beneath an angry red and purple sky, wondering where Redmond was. Given the ferocity of the storm, the current would probably have swept his lifeless body miles away.

I should be dead too, she thought. I am a dead woman walking.

Her mind kept returning to the crash. Fergal tapping the dial. The propeller juddering to a halt. The heart-stopping plummet into the ocean, into the grip of ice-cold waters that should have claimed her life, not just the lives of Redmond and poor Fergal.

Cissie had kindly washed out her clothes the day before, and now Orla snatched them up. Throwing off the borrowed nightie and dressing gown, she dressed hurriedly then went to the door and listened. The house was quiet; the old couple weren’t awake yet. She crept downstairs and took a small amount of cash she found in the dresser drawer, then crammed her feet into a pair of Cissie’s shoes. They were a size too small, and chafed her sore feet, but she was too intent on getting away to notice.

Pulling on a coat, she silently unbolted the front door and stepped out into the blustery morning. She took up the bicycle, and started pedalling in the direction she had seen the lights of a village the night she arrived. From there, she could catch a bus to the nearest town. And then she would make her way home, to Limerick.

The Delaneys had started out in a modest house in Moyross. That was until Davey Delaney, tired of scraping a living on a factory floor, decided feck this and went to try his hand in London.

Old man Delaney had done pretty well there. After a spell as a bookie’s runner, he’d got into scrap dealing. And as soon as the money started to roll in, he’d set up a few sidelines – hijacking goods lorries, operating a couple of illegal gambling dens, and of course running prostitutes.

It hadn’t taken him long to carve out his niche among the London faces. And having established a little pocket of power for himself and his kin in Battersea, he defended it ferociously, coming down hard on anyone who tried to muscle in. He even managed to expand his territory, seizing control of a stretch of dockland across the river in Limehouse.

Life in the teeming dog-eat-dog city suited the brutal aspects of his nature. And the family thrived too. While in London, the wife dropped him some children: Tory first, then Patrick, then the twins – Orla and Redmond – then the baby of the family, Kieron. But they never forgot their roots. The proceeds of gambling, robbery and vice paid for a grand farmhouse a stone’s throw from the Shannon, and his wife was always nipping across, checking on the renovations and furnishing the place.

Eventually the old man admitted to his age, decided it was time to retire, let the boys take over. They leapt at the chance. And all went well, until the apple of his eye – Tory, his eldest, his most beloved son – was cut down in his prime.

Davey was never the same after Tory’s death. He withdrew to the farm, leaving the business to Pat, to Redmond and Orla. Kieron wasn’t interested, he fancied himself an artist. When the family came to visit, Davey would sit staring at the wall, making no attempt to join the conversation. Suspecting a nervous breakdown, his anxious wife steered him to the doctors. Within a year, they came back with a diagnosis: dementia. There was no question of Davey moving into a nursing home; he stayed on at the farm, the dream home declining with each year in fading grandeur, Davey losing his mind, his wife nursing him.

Now, Orla approached the farm. She paused outside to gaze around her. It was exactly as she remembered. Dad had been so proud of the place when he’d bought it, giving out about the thirty acres of land that came with it, and how old the place was.

Orla let her eyes drift over the stonework. It looked tired in places. But the house was still a fine big place, with panoramic views across open country towards the great grey sprawl of the river.

This was home, and she did have a few good memories of it. But oh, everything had happened here. For every good memory, there were ten bad ones.

She went to the big oak brass-studded door and pulled the bell chain. Far away in the house, she heard the thing echo and jangle.