A Carra King (57 page)

Minogue felt McKeon's eyes on him, but he kept his gaze on the waves.

“No.”

“Ah sure, what odds,” said McKeon. “There's no place like home.”

“Any way we can slip a life jacket on you-know-who there, Tom?”

McKeon looked over his shoulder at their daughters.

“Oh God, aye. Not sure it'd fit your one, but.”

“Can we try?”

“What are you worrying about? They'll float. They're witches, sure.”

McKeon stepped down to the lower deck and began opening hatches. He pulled out ropes, plastic boxes. Minogue looked up over Shankill. There were people on the crest of Katty Gallagher. The mountains had gone dark. He looked at his watch. Twenty minutes to here. How long did they plan to be in the water?

He looked back at McKeon. Gone. His head reappeared, turned up to look at Minogue.

“Slow it down, we're there.”

“There where?”

McKeon was beside him then.

“Thanks. Nice going there. Are you warmed-up now?”

Minogue eyed the two shivering women. Orla belly-laughed about something.

“What do we do now?”

“I drop anchor, they jump in and I play Jeeves with the gargle. For them, like.”

“Gargle, for Iseult?”

“Oh God no — under very strict orders there. It's nonalcoholic stuff. Pretend champagne.”

He watched McKeon let an anchor over the side of the bow.

“Is Orla a good swimmer?”

“The best entirely.”

“Yourself, too?”

“Middling to good.” McKeon looked up and winked.

He searched McKeon's face. The eyes on him. He'd had a few jars before getting into the boat in the first place. The rope was slack. McKeon pulled it tight and tied it.

“Now. We're going nowhere.”

The boat gently wheeling, the rub of the rope as the anchor drew hard took Minogue's attention. Iseult shrieked with laughter. There were figures on the shore by Killiney, a dog running along the beach.

“Well, girls,” McKeon called out. “Like they say, ‘This is your life.'”

Iseult's smile faded. She looked out at the pale, oily water. Minogue took another mouthful of beer. Kathleen had persuaded Iseult that there was bacteria and rubbish by the beach that could give her an infection. Neither Kathleen nor Matt Minogue had expected Iseult to come up with fifty thousand quid's worth of boat as a solution, however. No pollution away from the beach, was Iseult's contention.

“This should be good,” said McKeon.

Orla had turned serious, too. She cupped water in her hand and rubbed her face. The boat rocked gently.

“Lezzers,” said McKeon behind his hand. “What do you think?”

He looked over when Minogue didn't answer.

“Only joking.”

Iseult looked up at her father. She nodded toward the cabin.

“Go ahead there, Matt,” said McKeon.

He perched on the edge of a seat. Iseult loomed large in the doorway.

“Da. I want you to do something. I couldn't ask you back in Dun Laoghaire.”

“I won't do it.”

“Won't do what?”

“Whatever it is. All I want is a bit of a jaunt and go home. You're cracked.”

“Come on. Don't let me down.”

Minogue stared out at the horizon falling and rising in the window.

“Tell Orla's father to come in here. Cover up the windows for five or ten minutes. That's all.”

“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 Céline — ”

“Céline 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 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 colour 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 colours 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
lúdramán
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 gamógs 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 colours.”

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.”

He popped another can and drank from it.

“About the singing, is it?”

“Christ, no! Orla hates me, man. I'm a pig. A bollocks. A male chauvinist pig bollocks. A
patriarchal
male chauvinist pig bollocks.”

The boat yawed. Minogue cocked an ear.

“What are you thinking. Sharks is it?”

“They're in long enough.”

“Ah, sit down. There's a ladder. They can climb out.”

Minogue weighed his can.

“Aren't you a bit hard on yourself there?” he tried.

“Not a bit of it,” said McKeon. “She hates me.”

“Is she gay?”

“No, she fucking isn't. It's the times we're living in. Everybody hates fifty-one-year-old successful males. You listen to GOD, don't you? The one about families. ‘Do You Believe'?”

“I think so. Maybe.”

“Well, okay. This is what it's all about. It's about me not being the modern sensitive chap, that's what I think. I love her, you know? She's me daughter like, but she drives me around the fucking twist. So I just ignore her. ‘Da, bring me out in the boat. Today, half-seven.' ‘Yes, love. Whatever you say, love.' That's how I've learned to operate.”

Minogue drained the can. He could tell Kilmartin that he had a lost sibling in McKeon. A millionaire, Iseult had said.

“What would you suggest, then?”

“I don't know,” said Minogue.

“Well, you're the bloody detective, aren't you? A Clareman too, aren't you?”

“Well, I was, I am I suppose.”

McKeon tapped his temple.

“The second sight and all that, your crowd in Clare?”

“So they say.”

“Come on. I should be the cop, shouldn't I?”

McKeon had a can out, opened and next to Minogue's hand before the Inspector could say anything. He accepted it and nodded his thanks.

Minogue watched McKeon wipe a trickle of beer from the corner of his mouth.

“Did you ever wonder if yours hated you?”

“Well, when she wasn't so pleased with some of the edicts, when she was younger like.”

“Really. I heard you were a pushover. The tough guy stops at the front door?”

“Was that in some review of the art thing as well?”

“No. Orla threw it at me in a row. ‘Well Iseult's da doesn't be' . . . et cetera.”

Minogue slid out from the bench. McKeon grabbed his arm. Minogue stared at him. He thought of Johnny Leyne.