John Brady - A Carra ring

“Why?”

“I want to go in the water in me birthday suit.”

Minogue covered his face with his left hand.

“Da! Da — please! Look up there. You can see the trees by Tully. And the mountains…”

“You crackpot,” he muttered. “I knew each and every one of those places long before you were even born.”

“Yes, I know. So?”

“Who’s going to be out there keeping an eye on you and dragging you out of the water then?”

“You will. I don’t mind you.”

“Orla? Is she in on this — Wiccan thing too?”

“It’s not Wiccan — ”

“Her father has ye as lesbians. ”

“Ah, he’s a fucking waster. Orla could hit him with a bloody two-by-four as soon as look at him. She hates him. Come on. Orla says she doesn’t mind you.”

“What if I mind?”

“But you’ve seen lots of… well, whatever. She says it’s okay. That’s the main thing.”

Minogue sat back and rubbed at his eyes. The beer had already started clawing at his bladder.

“See?” she went on. “All the stories you told me, that’s part of it.”

“What are you talking about.”

“Tully, a sanctuary, for people sort of on the run?”

“Well there’s a bit more to it than that, now.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“I was just trying to make those hikes a bit interesting for you and Daithi.”

“The druids looking out from under the trees at us?”

“A definite whopper. Never saw even the one. Sorry.”

“But this gets to be true, Da — you know what I mean, now Come on.”

“What does this have to do with us out here in the middle of the Irish Sea? Your mother is worried that you’re gone mental, you know. A family thing — ah, I shouldn’t be telling you.”

“Did he give you a drink yet?”

“Yes.”

“Ask him for another one.”

“I don’t want one. Off him anyway. He’s a nice enough fella, but.”

“Ah, he’s a prick. He has money off in the Bahamas or somewhere, Orla says. Pays for his bit’s apartment in Rathgar. Everybody knows. Orla’s ma shops all the time and goes to spas in Germany. I’ll bet you he brings his bit out in the boat here. Go on, get another drink. Let him blather away. He likes to talk. He thinks you’re cool, you know. Dying to ask you questions — the job, you know?”

“You know I don’t want the job at home Iseult, come on now.”

“Just make sure the curtain things are pulled.”

“Look — ”

“Bring him down here and talk the face off him, Da — please! It’s for Celine — ”

“Celine who?”

“The baby. If it’s a girl like. Even if it’s a boy, sure…”

“You never told me this.”

“Bring him down, Da. Please!”

She was out the door before Minogue could marshal his arguments. He forgot the low door. He stepped out with his jaw set, the pain over his forehead half-blinding him.

“Tom. Are you there?”

“I am.”

He had opened another can of beer. Minogue kept rubbing at his head. The two women watched him. Lock him in the toilet — the head — maybe; mutiny.

“Tom, can you come down for a word, please?”

McKeon’s smile told the inspector he knew something was up.

“Tom. Could you maybe show me the cabin and how things work in there?”

“Ah, go way. The jacks is up the front It’s called the head. Go on with you and look around yourself.”

Minogue fixed him with a stare. Orla sniggered and turned away.

“The names of the different things, Tom? Maps and that..? I’ve never…”

“Is this about the two mermaids wanting to do their ceremony in the nip?”

Minogue glared at Iseult. She shrugged. It could have been Orla.

“Not to put too fine a point on it, yes.”

“You want me to show you how to draw the curtains is it?”

“I think I can manage that part.”

“Another one of those Buds, Matt?”

Minogue crouched this time. McKeon Velcroed the curtains carefully. The yellow light overhead was weak. Minogue listened to the feet outside, felt the boat rock with the steps.

“As if I gave a shite, Matt. You know what I’m saying?”

Minogue nodded. The pain in his forehead was taking a long time to ease.

“Come on now. You’d have to see the funny side of it wouldn’t you?”

McKeon took his can and popped it.

“Come on now, Matt, relax. Let them do what they want. Sure they’re only observing their religion. That’s in the constitution, isn’t it?”

Minogue liked this second can of beer more than the first. McKeon eyed him.

“Gas, isn’t it? Two oul geezers locked inside the cabin.”

“It better not be locked ”

“Only joking. But look at us, out in Killiney Bay, with their two so-called grown-up daughters — ”

The yelp and the sudden tug on the boat had Minogue up even before he heard the two splashes. He was on the deck in time to see Iseult surface. Her hair was all over the water. He tried not to look at the huge white belly glowing, the enormous nipples. A whale, is right.

“God, it’s bloody cold!!”

“Are you okay?”

“Go on back, Da! I’m fine.”

He looked at the water for shark fins, and turned to the sky. Every pastel color was there, depthless, a seamless move to the sky, lilac, lemon -

“Go on, Da! We’re fine!”

He backed down into the cabin. McKeon beamed, and raised his can.

“A toast!”

Minogue slid in under the tabletop. The colors would be changed completely in another minute. He’d search for the first star out toward Wales.

“To our mad families, Matt! To the mad country that made us!”

Minogue studied the maudlin intensity in McKeon’s face. Banish misfortune and all that? Everything counts and nothing matters, yes. What if this ludraman was right. The Irish, he thought: for all our proprieties, our pragmatism, our loyalties here, we cheer the rebel hand.

“Come on now,” McKeon said. “The world’s gone mad — you have to admit. There’s two highly educated girls, all right, women — out there — both of them the blackest, bloody pagans. One of them won’t listen to anything except GOD — here, do you know them?”

“ ‘Daddy’s Girl’?”

McKeon cackled.

“My God, you do! Here we are, two gamogs up in dirty Dublin, doing our bit for some pagan ceremony or other! Madness…! Come on now — put up your glass, your tin, there! Get rid of that long face there ”

Minogue heard laughter outside, splashes. So there were mermaids after all. He’d look out from his perch at Tully Cross some evening searching for them in the water. He took a longer swig from the can.

“Mad,” McKeon whispered. His eyes had gone moist in the dim light.

Minogue didn’t want to feel sorry for him. He pulled the curtain aside. “I want to see the water there,” he said “The colors.”

McKeon’s voice startled him.

“ There was a wild Colonial Boy

Jack Duggan was his name ”

Holy Jesus, Minogue thought. McKeon banged his can off Minogue’s.

“Come on there Matt, you know this one‘”

It was Orla’s laugh he heard.

“ He was born and raised in I-er-land

In a — h- a place called Ca-ha-s-el-maine

“- arra, Jases, now, is the captain of the ship the only one singing? What? Sure we’re home free now, Matt! It’s the law of the sea, me bucko: sing!”

“I don’t want either of the women to drown trying to get away from the sound of me singing The Wild Colonial Boy!”

McKeon slapped him on the back.

“Ah God, you couldn’t be that bad. Sure listen to me, man — I haven’t a note in me head.”

Minogue gave him the eye. McKeon laughed.

“Those two out there have us written off anyway,” McKeon said with a yawn. “Well mine has, I mean. Orla thinks she has me codded. But she hasn’t.”