The Hollow Heart Part 29

Marianne watched Innishmahon slide into the distance. She leaned across and squeezed Oonagh's knee. Oonagh looked odd, makeup streaked with tears she had shed uncontrollably on leaving Bridget and Miss MacReady, and now she seemed both excited and anxious.

"Right, me hearties," called Ryan from below deck. "Let's have a drink."

"Thank G.o.d for that," whispered Oonagh, "I'm terrified of the water."

"Bulls.h.i.+t!" laughed Padar. "The only water you're terrified of, is if there's too much in your whiskey."

"Let's hoist sail, then we'll have a drink." Father Gregory strode the deck, taking charge of the mast. "Ryan, grab that foresheet, let's get out there and see what this baby can do."

There is no experience so sublime as creaming through the water, wind billowing the sail with a fragrant breeze kissing your face, as you turn to watch sparkling waves part in your wake, Marianne considered, as she stretched out on the deck, basking in the bubble of tranquillity that accompanies a blistering sail on a hot summer's day.

She could hear the soft murmur of the men discussing charts and equipment behind her in the c.o.c.kpit, Oonagh snoozing with Monty in her arms, the shrouds at the mast clanking a tuneless lullaby as gulls called overhead, swirling through the cloudless sky. For all the movement and sounds about her, she recalled it was sailing with her parents that she loved more than anything else. The moment the sail took the wind and the boat with it, only then would she become perfectly still and in one of the quietest, safest places she had ever found.

Oonagh's sleep, combined with the salt air, had revived her and she refused to sail back on such a fabulous afternoon.

"Let's drop anchor and have our little dinner party. It's perfect Padar," she rea.s.sured her Captain.

And so they did, taking in the sails and lighting lamps along the deck as Marianne and Ryan set to work in the galley, preparing c.o.c.ktails and food; laying the chart table with olives and stuffed peppers and then the grand table in the salon with silverware, crystal and the candelabra. The women giggled together as they donned jewellery and lipstick to join the men for drinks, Marianne having pinned Oonagh into a party dress, now at least two sizes too big. She said it was Padar's favourite.

After Ryan's horrendously strong c.o.c.ktails, taken on deck as the sun slipped slowly beneath the horizon, the five nestled comfortably around the table while Monty slept, happily ensconced in a sail cover beneath the c.o.c.kpit. The meal could not have been more eagerly relished and once replete, port and brandy were produced with cheese, and the obligatory tales of heroic sea adventures ensued. Visibly tiring, Oonagh insisted they all hush up as she begged Ryan to regale them with blow-by-blow accounts of his film making and Hollywood hobn.o.bbing.

"And what about Serene La Blanc, is she absolutely fabulous in the flesh?"

Ryan glanced at Marianne who knew full well he had never met the starlet. "Indeed."

"And Rocky Vegas, how tall is he in real life?"

"So big," Ryan demonstrated.

"And Vienna Ventura, how does she look these days?"

"Ah, much better."

And on she went, barely able to keep her eyes open, her husky voice no more than a harsh whisper as the candles burned and the night wore on.

Father Gregory was the first to leave the table, weary and slurring but able to kiss them all goodnight before he headed to his bunk.

"Terrible waste of a good looking man," Oonagh told him as he left.

"I've had my moments." His eyes twinkled.

"I don't think G.o.d expects us to be celebrate at all," she said, and they laughed at her misnomer.

"Looking at the human race, G.o.d's expectations must be pretty well shattered at this stage anyway," Gregory told her.

"But not to have s.e.x. Not to fall in love."

"Who said anything about not falling in love? Sure that's the easy bit, it's relations.h.i.+ps that are the problem. I couldn't do that and my job. I leave stuff like that to you guys." He kissed her again and she blushed, closing her eyes until he had gone.

"Now," she said, hauling herself upright at the table. "You two, what's the story?"

"Ah, Oonagh..."

"Padar quiet, I need to know."

"I could say mind your own business." Marianne placed her hand over her friend's.

"We love each other, Oonagh, we'll work it out," Ryan interjected.

"When? Time's moving on. Neither of you are spring chickens. You don't want a life wasted with regrets and 'maybe ifs'. You have responsibilities; you have a young son, a G.o.dchild, each other. You'll all need each other, that's all I'm saying." She struggled on the last words. Padar pa.s.sed her some water.

"C'mon to bed love, you'll have a lovely rest in that big bed, the sea rocking you to sleep."

Oonagh did not argue. She pulled herself up and, after kissing both Ryan and Marianne as hard as she could, Padar helped her down the corridor and into bed.

Once they had cleared away, Marianne and Ryan moved the table and made their bed up in the salon. Exhausted, they curled up together and let the movement of the big boat slide them to slumber.

Dawn was breaking when Marianne, turning in Ryan's arms, thought she heard footsteps on the deck above. He stirred and all went quiet. She did not hear the barefooted shuffle of two pairs of feet heading towards the bow, or the anchor stealthily lifted. The key to the engine was waiting to be turned, to purr into life and push them away. If she had followed her instinct, she would have crept to the c.o.c.kpit and, looking out along the deck, would have seen two people embracing and then, one helping the other crouch down onto the side, lowering them gently into the water. But she was warm and comfortable, so she stayed where she was.

The engine started, the boat was moving, swinging about, turning back to face the land, away from the swimmer; the person in the water. But the person in the water was not swimming. Instead she was quite still, bobbing calmly up and down. She lifted her arm and waved at the man standing at the bow, his face wet with tears, his heart breaking behind his eyes. She lifted her arm once more, a silver christening bangle glinted in her hand and then, completely still, she slid softly beneath the surface, a halo of bubbles bursting on the water as she disappeared from view.

Now fully turned about, the boat with the engine at full throttle, sliced through the waves heading back to sh.o.r.e. The man at the helm quickly blessed himself as the dog, aware of someone in the water, starting running the length of the boat, barking a frantic warning back into the black sea. Ryan was awake and up in an instant, taking the steps in two strides and, as Monty neared the edge of the boat in a frenzy of panic, Ryan lunged and lifted him up and back to safety. The sky was brightening. He looked from one end of the boat to the other. Padar was standing at the bow, gripping the handrail, rigid. Father Gregory's face set grim at the helm, concentrating on getting them all back as quickly as the engine would allow.

Marianne surfaced, and climbing on deck, took Monty from Ryan. Still groggy with sleep, she was unable to take it all in at first. Then an icy realisation began to creep along her spine, the hairs on her skin lifting in horror. Her voice trapped at the top of her throat, came out as a strangled squeak.

"What is it? Is it Oonagh?"

Ryan grasped her shoulders and turned her round, guiding her back to the lower deck. She stopped, refusing to move.

"Padar, Padar, is it Oonagh?" she shouted, the wind whipping her words away. She looked from one to the other. "Where's Oonagh?"

The man standing at the bow of the boat did not hear, or if he did, did not answer. He just looked down at the water; the water that had taken his wife. Marianne turned to Ryan. He turned away, staring straight ahead at the island. She sought out Father Gregory at the wheel. He too was stony-faced, his gaze fixed on their destination.

"Will you not even tell me what happened?" she screeched at them. "Any of you, tell me what happened, tell me the truth!"

"She's gone Marie, her way, her choice," Ryan answered.

"Oh G.o.d." Marianne pushed her hand into her mouth to stop the scream.

The village closed ranks following Oonagh's disappearance. Official reports had been fudged, few questions asked. There was a small memorial service in the church, conducted by the priest who had been at the helm when it happened. A tragic accident, a blessing in some ways, the poor girl was terminally ill anyway, the husband devastated.

Marianne and Ryan returned to Weathervane after the service. Bereft, they had eaten in silence, there was so much to talk through and yet they had nothing to say. The air was filled with the slightly chemical smell of softly burning peat it mingled with the smoke from the single French cigarette Ryan still allowed himself after dinner.

Marianne had just settled Monty in his basket for the night. Making her way back to the sitting room, her pumps shuffled across the quarry tiles, until the sound was m.u.f.fled by the hearth rug and she sank to the floor at Ryan's knees. He struck at the peat with the poker, pa.s.sing a squat gla.s.s of amber to her over her shoulder. 'Lover Man' played achingly in the other room. Monty stretched and made a little puppy sound which belied his years.

Ryan put the poker down and twirled a strand of Marianne's hair idly through his fingers, watching the lazy flames from the fire soothe the highlights of coppery brown. She turned a page of the magazine on the floor, not really reading. The page brushed his foot. She followed the stroke of the page with her hand along his bare brown skin, tanned by far sunnier climes than this. His toes were long and straight, the nails white, hard and s.h.i.+ny, the feet of a young boy. She put her fingers to her lips and then pressed them against his toes in a kiss.

The telephone shrilled. The peace shattered like gla.s.s. Monty lifted his head, and growled. It shrilled again, an old-fas.h.i.+oned ring, urgent, demanding. Marianne grunted, pulling herself up.

"Who the..?" Ryan asked uselessly, as she padded out to the hallway, where, despite all the modernisation, the black Bakelite link to the outside world lay rattling in its lair.

"h.e.l.lo, Miss MacReady, what can I do for you? I see. Wait. I'll fetch him." Marianne was terse. It was cold out in the hallway away from the fire. The wind threw a handful of hard raindrops against the solitary pane in the hall door. He was standing when she went back to the room, head tilted, listening.

"It's for you. Long distance," Marianne glared at him. He frowned, touched her hand as he pa.s.sed.

"Be careful, Miss MacReady will be listening on the line." She hissed, in warning.

"Yes, thank you Miss MacReady. Angelique, hi, yeah fine. What's wrong?" Ryan sounded angry.

Marianne moved away from the doorway. Her stomach caught in a clamp. She picked up the magazine, threw another briquette on the fire, plumped up the cus.h.i.+ons, put their whiskey gla.s.ses side by side on the mantel. Ryan's leather jacket slipped off the arm of the chair. She picked it up, something dropped onto the flagstone. His wallet. It lay face down, open. She picked it up and, turning it towards her, a beautifully fragile young face gazed back at her. The clamp tightened.

She snapped the wallet shut and rammed it back in his pocket. She took a deep breath. It was not as if she had not seen him before. It was not as if she did not know about him. She moved back towards the door. Monty was listening too.

"I know," Ryan was saying, "but I have things to do here. I will be back next week. We'll sort things out then. No, don't do that..."

A pause and then the obvious softening of the voice. The kinder, loving, missing you tone of a long distance father to child. A plea to the heart.

"h.e.l.lo my love, are you having a nice visit with your mother? Is Larry there? Good. Nanny? Good. I'll be home soon. Be a good boy. Goodnight now." She had never heard that tone before, that love and pain and longing. "Oh G.o.d," she thought, "I've lost him."

The phone clumped in its cradle. He moved back into the room, the former haven destroyed by tidiness, the atmosphere dissipated, left clinging to the four corners.

She banged in the kitchen, drowning the dishes in the sink. He picked up a tea towel. Annoyed at his attempt at normality, she whipped it out of his hand.

"What does she want? How did she find you?" She held the tremor out of her voice, her eyes burning.

"To discuss things. Sort things out. I've asked for a divorce, she won't listen, so Larry said he'd go and see her, tell her I'm going for custody. He gave her the number. Marie, I need to go and sort this..."

She scrunched the tea towel in her hands.

"Again, you need to go again...and you'll always need to go again. Wherever we are, whatever we are doing, the phone will ring. She will call, and then the child or Larry or G.o.d knows who else, and you will need to go, and sort this or that and I will be left, again."

He moved towards her, pleading. She drew back, glaring.

"Marie, help me."

"Ah, help yourself Ryan," she blazed, "you're not in a b.l.o.o.d.y movie now, you spoiled, selfish brat. I was not put on this planet for your b.l.o.o.d.y convenience, to dance attendance on you when you can spare me the time or inclination. Enough! You're not the only pebble on the beach, fish in the sea or flea on the dog's back!"

Monty lifted an eyebrow. He had not heard a full blown rant for ages. But Marianne had been building up to this, rehea.r.s.ed it in her head many times. She had just not expected it to be now, but here it was, and out it tumbled, for better or worse.

"I've had it. I'm calling it quits, calling it off, calling time, hasta la vista, auf wiedersehen pet, and goodnight, Vienna." The tirade was accompanied by various pokes in the ribs, thumps to the shoulder and, finally, a sharp kick on the s.h.i.+n. Ryan hopped, clutching his painful limb.

"Now, Marie." He was half smiling, half wincing. "Calm yourself. We've had a few drinks, you're grieving. We both are. You don't mean it."

She drew herself up to her full five foot three.

"How dare you?" she bellowed. "How dare you even suggest I am drunk, you no-good, two-timing, hairy-a.r.s.ed b.a.s.t.a.r.d." She charged towards him, arms flailing, fists clenched. He ducked expertly but caught his much admired cheekbone on the door jam. "Ouch!"

She smacked him on the other side of his face for good measure. She was on a roll now, her gander up, but she had pushed him too far. Slow to anger, he was one of those brooding Celts who could really lose it on or off screen. He lunged at her, pinning her arms by her sides and then he shook her, hard.

"You're beating me up, for G.o.d's sake. Stop it!" He said.

She pulled an arm free and smacked him again. He released her.

"I don't believe this. I don't know why I ever had anything to do with a self-obsessed, screeching, banshee of a harridan like you! Yes it's over, well and truly over, and b.l.o.o.d.y good riddance." He whirled into the hallway, slamming the hall door behind him and stood, nostrils flaring, in the filthy black night. Cold driving rain lashed into his face.

"s.h.i.+t!" He swore, as he squished in bare feet and t-s.h.i.+rt to the car. Thank G.o.d the keys were in it, he rejoiced begrudgingly. He turned the ignition. The old truck drawled to life. Flinging the steering wheel through his hands, he streaked away.

He drove like a madman for about half a mile, screeching down the main thoroughfare away from Innishmahon. Then, slamming brakes on, he twisted the wheel again, b.u.mping the front of the car off the bank as he struggled to complete a U turn and head back to the cottage. He crashed to a halt, slammed the car door, nearly took the garden gate off its hinges, and banged so hard on the knocker, if it was not for the howling wind and driving rain, it would have been heard by the radar-eared Miss MacReady at the Post Office on the other side of the village.

The door opened a sliver. He kicked it open the rest of the way and stood in the pouring rain, staring at her. She had dragged on the comfort of his jacket, he noticed. Her face was striped with mascara, her mouth turned down at the edges, hair standing on end from running desperate fingers through it. He thought her the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.

He grabbed her shoulders and pulled her out to him in the rain. He pressed his mouth, hard and fierce, against her lips, a kiss of pa.s.sion and possession, no room for argument or discussion. They fell back into the hallway together. He drew the jacket and her top off her shoulders, pulling it down to reveal her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, and pushed his wet face into her bosom, gnawing gently at her skin.

"I love your b.r.e.a.s.t.s," he whispered, then pressed his mouth to her shoulders. Scars from the bomb attack stretched snail-like to her collarbone. "I love every inch of your flesh, every inch of you." She stood motionless against the wall as he pushed her jog pants to the floor and fell to his knees. He kissed her, again and again, soft, delicate kisses all over her thighs, her groin, her hips. He kissed her belly and held his cheek against her stomach, warming her through.

"I love every scar and every inch of you, and you are, whatever you are, the love of my life." He looked up into her face with so much adoration she began to tremble. She buried her fingers in his sodden hair and sank to the floor beside him. They wrapped their arms around each other and lay there clasped together for a long time. Finally, they climbed the stairs, hand in hand. Monty had long since removed himself from this scene of raw emotion, having put himself quietly to bed in the basket located snugly beneath the stairwell.

Ryan was pus.h.i.+ng his toilet bag into his holdall as she handed him a coffee. They had barely said a word to each other since they had woken.

"You off then?" she asked, trying to keep the sarcasm out of her voice.

"I have to sort things out once and for all."

"I have heard that before you know." She handed him his s.h.i.+rt.

"I know, no empty promises this time, I promise."

She took his hand in hers, preventing him from zipping the bag.

"This is the last time, Ryan. If this is goodbye, it's goodbye, but this really is the last time. Go for good, or come back for good, no in between, not anymore. I'm worth more than this. We both are." She released him and zipped the bag, handing it to him. He went to kiss her. She blocked him with hands. He went to speak. She put a finger to her lips. He grabbed his jacket and his keys and was gone.

Chapter Twenty Eight .

An Act Of Betrayal