A CRY FROM THE DEEP (17 page)

As she walked further down the road with only a chorus of crickets for company, she marveled at the view again. The town of Killybegs looked dreamlike in the twilight that covered it like a cozy blanket. It was magic hour; a time when everything looked like it had an inner glow. She could see Main Street with the Shamrock Inn lit up along with the other establishments that catered to the evening crowd. And beyond that, the midnight blue of the bay.

For the first time since she’d left New York, she reveled in being alone. She hadn’t had that concentrated time to herself since her last assignment, which was before Alex was born. Even her breath seemed different. She had the sensation she’d embarked on a journey to find something she didn’t even know she’d lost.

~~~

She spent the evening savoring a bowl of Irish stew and a Guinness at a local pub. Although alone, she didn’t feel lonely in the friendly atmosphere, where several fiddlers and a drummer with a bodhran had gathered to play. She didn’t stay long as her jet lag was starting to get to her. She also wanted to get up early in the morning to find Hennesey’s boat and snap more photos. But before heading back to the B & B, she stopped at the Shamrock Inn to get a guest pass for its pool. Between dives, it would keep her limber.

The slog back up the road was a chore. She’d only had one glass of beer, but traversing an unfamiliar area was hard at night so she walked slowly, mindful of the uneven ground. She was comforted somewhat by the aroma of peat burning in a fireplace somewhere in the dark. It reminded her of old stories she’d heard, ones of families around the hearth; the mother knitting, the father smoking his pipe, and the children laughing as a cat chased a ball of yarn. Suddenly, a black cocker spaniel appeared out of nowhere, startling her and causing her to stumble.

The dog was jumping around her legs when a man’s voice called out, “He’s not going to bite ya. He wants a pat.”

Catherine watched an elderly man with a hand-carved cane walk towards her. She wondered where he’d come from. She hadn’t seen anyone on the road.

“He’s only a pup.”

Catherine opened her palm to let the cocker spaniel sniff her hand.

The old man smiled. “Ah, ya couldn’t ask for a finer night. Have ya found your bearings yet?”

“Pardon?”

“Aye, it’s grand. Are ya planning to stay awhile?”

Another odd question, but she answered with little hesitation, “Not too long. A few weeks. Enough time to do my job and get home.”

“And what might that be?”

Again, his question was abrupt, and this time, she paused. He was now close enough for her to see his face. His face was badly wrinkled and he had a trimmed white beard. He wore a tweed jacket, well-worn corduroy pants, and one of those wool newsboy caps over his white hair. But what puzzled her even more was that there was something memorable about his eyes. She rummaged her brain, trying to recall where she’d seen his face before.

Seeing he was waiting for her to reply, she said, “I’m an underwater photographer. I’m here to take photos of some divers for a magazine.”

“Ya’ll be going under, then. There’s lots to see, I suspect. Many a boat has gone down in these parts. The sea is full of tales, but mostly sad ones.” His face abruptly changed, as if he’d recalled some tragic news.

“Are you all right?”

He blinked and said, “Ah, lassie, ya know how it is. There are many stories.” He nodded his head as if to confirm what he was saying.

“Have you lived in these parts long?”

“All me life.”

“Are you a fisherman then?”

“Aye, and me father before me, and his father before him. We O’Donnells have toiled in this fair land for centuries.”

“I suppose you’ve seen a lot of changes then.”

He laughed. “Lassie, when you get to my age, there’s not a t’ing that surprises me.”

She stuck out her hand. “I’m Catherine Fitzgerald.”

“You’re Irish.”

“Yes, on my father’s side.”

“Martin O’Donnell.” He shook her hand warmly, putting his other hand on top of hers. His skin was rough. She wondered if he was a farmer. “And that is Begley.” He pointed to the cocker spaniel, who’d gone off to explore the brush beside the road. “Well, I’d best be on me way, making sure Begley here gets a chance to chase anything worth chasing. I see y’are staying at Sea Breeze.”

“How did you know?”

“Why else would ya be walking this road so late in the evening?”

Catherine grinned. 

“Fine folk at Sea Breeze. If ya need anything, you can find me in the yellow cottage.”

Catherine looked in the direction he pointed but since it was dark, it was hard to make it out. He walked off, and with his back turned, waved his hand at her. It wasn’t until she got back to her room that she remembered where she’d seen his face before. He looked like the old man in her dreams.

EIGHTEEN

Catherine dreamt of riding a horse in the sky behind Alex who was galloping a few lengths ahead of her. At first, they both laughed as they rode over cities and lakes and farmland. Before long, they dropped to the ground to continue their ride. Tiring, Catherine yelled at Alex to slow down as she wanted to stop and rest, but Alex kept going, with her feet working the stirrups, urging her horse to go faster. Catherine then realized her daughter was hurtling towards an abyss. She tried to warn her of the danger, but she couldn’t make a sound. She had no voice.

She awoke with a start, and it took her a moment to realize it had only been a bad dream. Relieved, she glanced at the clock on the nightstand and then out the window. It was after seven, and the coastline was shrouded in mist.

Stretching, she tried to figure out her nightmare. She decided it had to do with not reaching Alex the day before. They’d never been apart like this. That had to be it. She was out of sight, over the cliff with Sybil. Catherine looked at the photo of Alex she’d put on the nightstand. Motherhood was fraught with peril. At least, this was one dream she could make sense of.

She forced herself out of bed. Walking by the desk, she spotted her ring and put it on. Ever since she’d last dreamt of the woman in the white dress, she’d slept without it. While she wasn’t convinced it had any power over her dreams, she wasn’t convinced it had none. She didn’t want to risk another terrifying episode at night with a drowning woman and an old man coming to the rescue, if that’s what he was doing.

Catherine found the dining room empty. She poured herself a cup of coffee from the carafe on the buffet and was barely seated when Doreen came out of the kitchen carrying a plate heaped with bacon, a basted fried egg, a sausage, some baked beans, sliced tomatoes, black pudding, hash browns, and two slices of homemade wheat toast with jam.

“What a feast!” said Catherine, placing her napkin on her lap.

“We call it a fry. Enjoy,” said Doreen, putting the plate down in front of Catherine. “Did you find everything alright in the village?”

“Yes.” Catherine swallowed some black pudding. “This is tasty.”

“It’s not for everyone, but what would an Irish breakfast be without it?”

Catherine peppered her egg, “I met one of your neighbours. Martin O’Donnell.”

“Martin O’Donnell?” Doreen looked confused.

“Yes, an old man with a dog.”

Doreen rested her back against the door frame. “I can’t say I know him. Where did you meet him?”

“On the road, when I was walking back to your place.”

“Did he say he was my neighbour?”

“No, but I assumed he was since he knew of you. He indicated he lived nearby.”

“The village is small, but I wonder…” Doreen’s voice petered out.

“He had a white beard and wore a tweed cap,” said Catherine, spreading jam on her toast. “He called his black cocker spaniel, Begley.”

Doreen shook her head again. “I’m sorry. I’ve lived here my whole life, and I don’t know any Martin O’Donnell. Are you sure that was his name?”

Catherine nodded but she was beginning to doubt it herself. Were her diving fears playing havoc with her reason? Wasn’t it enough she’d seen visions underwater and disturbing events in her dreams? Had she also now talked to a man who didn’t exist?

~~~

By the time Catherine climbed aboard the
Golden Eye
an hour later, she had put the stranger on the road out of her mind.

She found Hennesey in the wheelhouse, bent over his instruments. He glanced up and motioned her over. He had on his loud patterned Hawaiian shirt; it was clean but it was the same one he’d worn the last two times they’d met. Beside him was a man in his sixties—heavy-set, and sporting a grey beard that needed a trim. Everything about him looked grimy, from his t-shirt and fisherman’s cap to his nicotine stained fingernails. 

“Good morning,” said Catherine to Hennesey.

Hennesey mumbled something, then as an afterthought, turned to the man beside him. “Jerry McDougall, this is Catherine Fitzgerald.”

Jerry stuck out his calloused hand and gripped hers hard. She winced and when he let go, she massaged the area around her ring.

“Oh, God, I’ve done it again. I’m sorry. I keep forgetting when it comes to you ladies.”

Catherine couldn’t help rolling her eyes.

Hennesey looked amused. “Jerry’s our engineer and a diver. He’s part of the crew that came over with us.”

“Good,” she said, meeting Hennesey’s gaze. She looked out the wheelhouse windows. “This is some boat.”

“You’ve seen it before,” he said curtly.

“Not from this angle,” she replied in kind. There was no point in being pleasant.

Hennesey regarded her as if she had horns.

“I’d like to get some photos of you here.”

“Have a look around. I have to finish something with Jerry first, and then you can take your damn pictures.”

Jerry guffawed. “He’s a real charmer, isn’t he?”

Catherine smiled, despite her annoyance with Hennesey. Though Jerry’s handshake was rough, he was friendly, and a possible ally, but time would tell.

Touring the vessel on her own, she could see it was one of the larger live-aboard diving boats. It had to be at least sixty feet long and fully equipped with the latest in diving gear and instruments like a marine magnetometer sensor and a side sonar with 3D mapping technology. Down below, where Joy was making a fresh pot of coffee, there was one state room, four bunks outside of it, a well stocked kitchen with stove, fridge, and sink, two heads, two hot showers, and a long galley table that could seat eight and fold into beds if need be. For their group of twelve, it would do very well, since most of the crew, like herself, were sleeping elsewhere in Killybegs.

Catherine poured herself a cup of coffee and while she was adding milk, a young man came out of the head near the kitchen. He had a buzz cut, and was dressed in scruffy jeans and a black t-shirt with some band’s picture on it. He walked with his head bowed slightly and gave Catherine what she thought was a half-smile, before he moved past her and up the stairs.

Joy said, “Don’t mind Mark. He’s shy, always has been. He’s our deck hand.”

“Where are the others?”

“Raul and Alfredo are out gettin’ supplies. The Irish one hasn’t arrived yet from Dublin.” Joy took some onions out of a lower cupboard and began chopping.

Catherine went back up on deck, where she snapped a few close-ups of Hennesey and some medium shots. The last ones she took were of his scavenger craft, shrouded in fog. The image of his boat half-hidden by mist seemed fitting indeed.

~~~

After her workout at the Shamrock Inn—where she swam fifty feet underwater, treaded for fifteen minutes, and did enough lengths to convince herself she was ready—she went to the bistro for a late lunch. She sat by the window and watched the boats arriving and departing from the harbor. Some fishermen had already returned with an early catch. Dressed in heavy rubberized suits, they hoisted nets of mackerel and dumped them into giant grey bins on the dock.

It was while she was enjoying the sight that her mind drifted back to the mystery of Martin O’Donnell. She reviewed what’d taken place between them, and it was then she remembered something the old man had said. Something she hadn’t mentioned to Doreen. He’d told her he lived in a yellow cottage down the road. Maybe Doreen didn’t know everyone in the village. She was, after all, a busy woman. Catherine understood that. She herself didn’t know all her neighbors in Provence. It didn’t mean the man didn’t exist just because Doreen couldn’t place him.

~~~

Catherine drove back towards Sea Breeze, her eyes shifting from one side of the road to the other. She was almost at the McCall’s driveway, when she spotted over to her left—about six houses down a very narrow dirt road—a yellow cottage.

She turned left onto the dirt road, and drove to the cottage. It had a thatched roof and appeared considerably older than the houses nearby. As she pulled up beside it, she had the distinct impression she’d been by this way before. She shook her head, muttering, “For God’s sake, Catherine. Now, you
are
losing your mind. You’ve never even been to Ireland.”