Read Online The Death of an Irish Sea Wolf by Bartholomew Gill - Free Book Online
Authors: Bartholomew Gill
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the throttle levers, the man cut the speed of the boat that pitched and heaved yet moreviolently as it lost momentum. The captain’s eyes were hazel and angry. “Hear me—I couldn’t care less who you are or why you’ve come, you’ll bring me no bother. Now, I’ll have me forty-five pound or it’s back to the mainland with you.” He tapped the flat top of the control console.
McGarr did not move. He could imagine the flap if this “captain” returned to the island without him. McGarr had been summoned by the superintendent of the Louisburgh barracks because of “a homicide and maybe some others. Whatever happened, we got one dead, three people missin’, and there’s blood and…mayhem everywhere.” To McGarr’s knowledge there had not been a capital crime on Clare Island in recent times, and its forty or so families would need the reassurance of an official presence.
“The only time we see seoinini , like you, is when there’s trouble!” the man now went on. “All you ever give us is grief!”
And the odd forty-five pounds, thought McGarr, though he imagined life could be hard here on the rocky edge of the continent. In Irish Maigh Eo meant “the Place of the Yew Trees.” It had been sacred to the ancient Celts, and certainly the terrain with its many mountains and formidable cliffs was dramatically beautiful.
But Mayo had long been thought of as the most remote of the counties of Connacht, and its people had fiercely resisted every foreign incursion from Christianity, through Cromwell, to the English language. For some, Dublin was now the enemy. Seoinin meant aper of foreign ways or jackeen or city slicker, which in many ways McGarr most definitely was. And he’d now give up the forty-five quid when good and ready. If then.
Finally the man wrenched his eyes away and jerked back the sticks, “Ye’re hoors and gobshites, all of yiz. Louts, bowsies, and gurriers.”
The boat surged into an oncoming wave that burst over the foredeck and thundered against the windscreen. “All piss and cess like a tinker’s mule,” he went on, having tried and failed to put a bit of wind up the chief superintendent of the Serious Crimes Unit of the Garda Siochana, the national police.
But with no witnesses save the mate, at worst he was out the price of the ride.
By the time the boat reached the island, the blinding sunlight had become another medium altogether, and McGarr wished he had brought a hat with a wider brim. Roiling sparkles now appeared in the periphery of his vision, as he glanced from the well-preserved O’Malley Castle that dominated the harbor entrance to the crowd on the jetty. There perhaps a hundred people had gathered in two groups—by a cottage and car and by a two-wheeled cart a few feet off. Which had to be most of the island’s population, McGarr judged.
He did not wait for the boat to tie up. What was good enough for Roonagh Point, he decided, was even better for here, and he jumped off when they were three feet from the jetty wall. The captain howled to the mate, then called out. But McGarr did not look back.
“’Tis the only two corpses we can find,” said Superintendent Rice from the Louisburgh barracks, pointing to the young donkey that had been shot point-blank in the side of the head and was now heaped in its traces.
His finger then moved to the boot of the battered car, the lid of which was open but covered by a blanket. Standing there was a middle-aged woman with her head bent and rosary beads in her hands. Grouped tightly around her were seven children of various ages. Other adults were keeping themselves at a respectful remove.
McGarr glanced down at the donkey. The muzzle blast had burned a black aureole around the entrance wound, and the outer lens of the visible eye was milky blue.
“It’s Clement Ford’s beast, I’m told,” Rice said in an undertone. “He’s one of them that’s missing.”
The animal’s mouth was open, and the stiff breeze, bucking
McGarr did not move. He could imagine the flap if this “captain” returned to the island without him. McGarr had been summoned by the superintendent of the Louisburgh barracks because of “a homicide and maybe some others. Whatever happened, we got one dead, three people missin’, and there’s blood and…mayhem everywhere.” To McGarr’s knowledge there had not been a capital crime on Clare Island in recent times, and its forty or so families would need the reassurance of an official presence.
“The only time we see seoinini , like you, is when there’s trouble!” the man now went on. “All you ever give us is grief!”
And the odd forty-five pounds, thought McGarr, though he imagined life could be hard here on the rocky edge of the continent. In Irish Maigh Eo meant “the Place of the Yew Trees.” It had been sacred to the ancient Celts, and certainly the terrain with its many mountains and formidable cliffs was dramatically beautiful.
But Mayo had long been thought of as the most remote of the counties of Connacht, and its people had fiercely resisted every foreign incursion from Christianity, through Cromwell, to the English language. For some, Dublin was now the enemy. Seoinin meant aper of foreign ways or jackeen or city slicker, which in many ways McGarr most definitely was. And he’d now give up the forty-five quid when good and ready. If then.
Finally the man wrenched his eyes away and jerked back the sticks, “Ye’re hoors and gobshites, all of yiz. Louts, bowsies, and gurriers.”
The boat surged into an oncoming wave that burst over the foredeck and thundered against the windscreen. “All piss and cess like a tinker’s mule,” he went on, having tried and failed to put a bit of wind up the chief superintendent of the Serious Crimes Unit of the Garda Siochana, the national police.
But with no witnesses save the mate, at worst he was out the price of the ride.
By the time the boat reached the island, the blinding sunlight had become another medium altogether, and McGarr wished he had brought a hat with a wider brim. Roiling sparkles now appeared in the periphery of his vision, as he glanced from the well-preserved O’Malley Castle that dominated the harbor entrance to the crowd on the jetty. There perhaps a hundred people had gathered in two groups—by a cottage and car and by a two-wheeled cart a few feet off. Which had to be most of the island’s population, McGarr judged.
He did not wait for the boat to tie up. What was good enough for Roonagh Point, he decided, was even better for here, and he jumped off when they were three feet from the jetty wall. The captain howled to the mate, then called out. But McGarr did not look back.
“’Tis the only two corpses we can find,” said Superintendent Rice from the Louisburgh barracks, pointing to the young donkey that had been shot point-blank in the side of the head and was now heaped in its traces.
His finger then moved to the boot of the battered car, the lid of which was open but covered by a blanket. Standing there was a middle-aged woman with her head bent and rosary beads in her hands. Grouped tightly around her were seven children of various ages. Other adults were keeping themselves at a respectful remove.
McGarr glanced down at the donkey. The muzzle blast had burned a black aureole around the entrance wound, and the outer lens of the visible eye was milky blue.
“It’s Clement Ford’s beast, I’m told,” Rice said in an undertone. “He’s one of them that’s missing.”
The animal’s mouth was open, and the stiff breeze, bucking
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