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I was right. Later, at the quaint Tin Pub, a tiny bar made completely out of tin, Drago’s performance stood out among all the others. Pressed against the wall, I nursed a pint of Murphy’s, the Cork equivalent of Guinness, and listened to possibly the best Irish music session in the country.
And then, Drago. The performance of that young boy silenced the packed pub. A voice like that of an angel, accompanied by the tin whistle and the fiddle, stopped all conversation. In the ensuing silence, Drago sang his heart out, and soon there wasn’t a dry eye in the pub. He went through a long repertoire of classic Irish ballads, ending with a beautiful rendition of Danny Boy, the song that always brought me out in goosebumps. This was no exception.
When the last note hung in the air, there was a long silence, broken eventually by applause, whistles and shouting. Drago bowed with the grace and modesty of a seasoned performer, and then the fiddle player struck up a toe-tapping jig.
Someone touched my shoulder. I turned and saw Johnny. “What did you think?”
“Outstanding,” I said.
He nodded and smiled. “I know. Can I get you a drink?”
I lifted my glass. “Thanks, but I think I’ll just finish this and then head for bed. It’s late and I’ve had a long day.”
“Okay. We won’t stay long either. We’ll be going home as soon as we’ve pulled Drago away from his fans. But we need to talk.”
“Yes, we do,” I agreed. “How about we meet for coffee tomorrow? Isn’t there a little coffee shop near the garden centre?”
“Yes. I’ll meet you there at around eleven. Drago and Madlena are going on a boat trip, so it’ll be just me.”
“That’s fine. Maybe better if it’s just the two of us.”
“Could be. Goodnight, Finola. See you tomorrow.” Johnny disappeared back into the throng.
After a short conversation with two Dubliners on a walking holiday, I finished my pint and walked up the hill to my lodgings, that bed with cool sheets the only thing on my mind. As I walked up the hill, I could still hear the music mingling with the soft whisper of the breeze and the sudden screech of an owl. A full moon was reflected in the black waters of the bay, like a large eye looking down from heaven. I’m not religious, but I sometimes feel a spiritual presence, and that was such a moment. I stopped, just to let myself take in the beauty of the night, the faint smell of salt and seaweed, and the cool air against my hot face.
My phone pinged. I looked at the text. It was from Colin. Where r u? Thought we could go for a drink?
I turned on sleep mode without replying. I didn’t need that kind of distraction.
***
I woke up the next morning to discover a soft mist enveloping the bay, accompanied by a fine drizzle that made everything damp, turning my hair into frizzy purple wire. But that was the least of my worries. I was about to find out what had happened to make Johnny flee from Cloughmichael.
My belly full of award-winning Irish breakfast, I made my way down the hill to the little coffee shop beside the gardening centre.
Johnny was already sitting at a round table by the old sash window, a big cup of coffee and a scone slathered with cream and jam in front of him.
I pulled out the other chair. “Good morning.”
He didn’t look up from his phone. “Morning,” he grunted. “Sorry. Just looking up the papers. It’s an obsession I have.”
“Once a journalist, always a journalist.” I lifted a hand to attract the attention of the girl at the counter. “Could you bring me a cappuccino, please?”
“Right away,” she replied with a cheery smile. “Anything to eat? The scones are just out of the oven.”
“No, just the coffee, thanks.”
“You sure?” Johnny asked after the waitress had left.
I sighed and touched my stomach. “I can’t eat anything. I just had a gargantuan breakfast at the B and B. Couldn’t resist the smell.”
“I know what you mean,” Johnny said. “Their breakfast is famous. Did you have the home-made sausages?”
“Yes,” I groaned. “And the black pudding, the eggs from their own hens, the rashers, the...oh God, I don’t want to think about it. What is it about a full Irish that’s so tempting?”
Johnny cut a bit off his scone. “Something to do with childhood memories. You know, the seaside holidays, staying in guest houses with your family and stuffing yourself with fried sausages and eggs and porridge before you braved the Irish summer weather.”
I laughed. “Oh yeah. The wind and rain and then going to the beach whatever the weather because we were on holiday.” I sighed. In those early days of childhood, my parents were still happy, and my dad hadn’t come up against the nasties of this world which, in time, turned him into one of them.
Johnny ate half his scone before either of us spoke. I didn’t want to start pushing him. I thought it better to let him tell his story his own way. So I waited and sipped my coffee and looked out across the bay.
“Nice soft day,” I said to break the silence.
Johnny turned his attention from the scone. “True. That mist makes everything look soft.” He took a deep breath and squared his shoulders as if bracing a strong wind. “So,” he started. “I’d better fill you in on what happened.”
“Only if you feel like it.”
“I don’t. But Madlena’s right. The truth has to come out. I just don’t want Drago hurt again.”
“Of course you don’t. And he won’t be,” I assured him. “There’s no need to involve him. I just need to know the facts and who we’re up against.”
Johnny looked puzzled. “What are you planning to do?”
“You first. Tell me what happened.”
Johnny pushed away his plate. “It’s rather a long story. I’ll try to make it as short as possible.”
“Okay. Go on,” I said, my impatience mounting to a crescendo.
Johnny nodded. “As you know, Madlena and Drago are originally from Croatia. Dalmatia, to be exact. We met when I was on holiday there and spent a week on an island called Hvar about eight years ago. Gorgeous place. Madlena and I met at a bar in the harbour of the small village where she lived. She was a widow with a little boy. She was out with a group of friends, and somehow we got chatting. She asked me where I was from and all that. She was interested in Ireland and wanted to go and see it. Then we fell in love, and she came to Cloughmichael a few months after that. We were married the following spring, and Drago went to the little primary school next door to the church. You know where it is?”
I nodded. “Yes. Quite near the office.”
“Nice little school.” Johnny paused for breath. “All was well the first few years. Madlena got a job and took a course in horticulture. She loves gardening. Drago was getting on well, too, and was looking forward to secondary school when he was twelve. He’s a good student and took everything in his stride, even Irish.”
“The trouble started when he changed school?” I cut in.
“That’s right. Not in school as such, but some of the students were involved in the attacks after school hours. That’s why the school wouldn’t help. It didn’t happen on the premises. Nothing to do with them, they said.”
“So how did it all start?”
“With the music. You heard Drago sing last night. He’s very talented.”
“That’s putting it mildly,” I said with feeling. “He’ll be famous one day.”
“I’m sure he will, if his voice holds after puberty. Anyway,” Johnny continued, “as I said, it was Drago’s singing that triggered the creeps to attack him. He won a talent competition and beat some of the top talents in the school, including the son of one of the local politicians.”
“Let me guess,” I interrupted. “Oliver O’Keefe’s son?”
Johnny looked startled. “How did you guess?”
“Never mind. Go on.”
“Okay. Well, after the competition, Drago was attacked by a gang of youths on his way home. In the park behind the supermarket. They didn’t hurt him badly that time, just pushed him so he fell, and kicked him. But then someone came down the path, so they ran off.”
“Did he see who they were?”
Johnny shook his head. “No. They wore hoodies and it was getting dark. He was pretty shaken, but we thought it was a one-off and it was probably some of the Travellers’ kids having fun. We’d heard they did that sometimes for no reason. But we were wrong. It had nothing to do with the Travellers. It was a lot more serious than that.”
“Did you report this to the Guards?”
Johnny sighed. “Yes. But they just took down some notes and we heard nothing. No evidence apart from Drago’s bruises.”
“And it happened again?”
Johnny’s eyes hardened. “Yes. And there was stuff going on in school too. Drago’s books were taken out of his locker and some of his homework that was in a folder. He got into trouble with the teachers, who accused him of lying when he said he couldn’t find the work he’d done. Then the texts started arriving on his phone. Hateful things I wouldn’t want anyone to see, names I wouldn’t call anyone. We changed his number, but the attacks spread to Facebook and Instagram. Drago stopped using any social media. But we got slips of papers in the letter box. Then the final straw...Drago was attacked again.”
“In the park?”
“No. At the bus stop one morning. He was on his way to a hurling match in Kilkenny, where the school was playing an away game. I’ve no idea how they knew he’d be there at that hour, all alone. But he was. They knocked him down so hard his arm was broken. They were wearing balaclavas, so he couldn’t see their faces. But this time, he recognised a few of their voices. Two especially.”
“Let me guess. One of them was the O’Keefe boy.”
Johnny nodded. “And the other one is the son of an ex-Guard but now working in the county council. Says he’s an independent like O’Keefe. But they’re both very chummy with members of the Irish Democrats.”
“I didn’t know they had a contingent in Cloughmichael.”
“They don’t. But some quite prominent local people are members of the party. Don’t laugh when I say this, but the Tidy Towns Committee is full of ID supporters.”
I shook my head in disbelief. “Oh come on, Johnny. That’s a little far-fetched.”
“I swear. It makes me sad to be honest. Especially as it involves a friend of mine.”
I stared at him. “A friend? Who? Not Fergal?”
“No. Not him.”
“Who, then?” I said, willing him not to say the name that popped into my mind.
But he did.