To the south of him lay Chimney Rock Mountain and to the north he could just make out the small coastal town of Newcastle mirrored on the shimmering waters of Dundrum Bay. If he was right, he was on Kilkeel Road, some way north of Bloody Bridge: An Area of Outstanding Natural Beauty.
His lips cracked a thin smile.
It was small consolation, but at least he knew where he was.
Danny had barely enough strength left to stay upright. Each faltering step left him struggling to balance and several times his legs buckled underneath him: like a drunk, but without any of the fun. The exertion of reaching the main road had used up the last of his reserves.
He knew of a safe-house nearby: a cottage used by volunteers to lie low after carrying out what were referred to as ‘military operations’. The cottage was only a few miles north from where he was standing: a thirty-minute walk if he was fit. But in his present condition, he’d never make it that far. It had taken almost half an hour to travel less than fifty yards. At this pace it would take him nearly three days to reach the cottage. If he didn’t find shelter soon he’d be lucky to survive three more minutes. There was no option but to keep walking in the direction of the nearest town . . . and pray.
The sound of a car engine in the distance made Danny turn sharply, his hand already in the air in a pitiful attempt to wave it down, even though the car was still hidden from view by the bend in the road. The sudden exertion made him lose his balance and he stumbled backwards against the sea wall. By the time Danny had scrambled back to his feet it was too late. The car sped past and continued on into the dim, grey mist rolling down off the hills. Danny thought he glimpsed the driver’s eyes in the rear-view mirror staring back at him, but he could hardly blame the guy for not stopping. If he’d been behind the wheel he wouldn’t have stopped. Picking up strangers in these parts wasn’t recommended at the best of times. No one with any sense would pull over for a half-naked guy covered in blood and stumbling around like a drunkard.
The possibility of rescue had lifted his spirits momentarily and galvanised him against the sharp-toothed breeze that had started to blow in off the Irish Sea. However, the sense of elation quickly turned to disappointment, then from disappointment to an overwhelming feeling of desolation, as he tried once again to move forward.
Danny was in real danger of dying and there was nothing he could do to stop it.
After three more steps he collapsed heavily to his knees.
Being surrounded by death from an early age was one thing‚ but Danny had never once imagined how his own life would end.
Certainly not like this.
A strange noise – a loud, distressed screech, like the sound of a baby crying – echoed off the hills. Danny twisted round and scanned the surrounding countryside. There was nothing to see but the shadows of gorse bushes jostling each other as they set themselves against the stiff breeze. The sound came again, this time much closer. Danny’s eyes strained for signs of movement, but still nothing. Suddenly there was a commotion of rushing wind above Danny’s head, followed by another harrowing squeal. Danny threw his arms up instinctively to protect himself from the invisible attacker and felt a series of blows smacking off his raised forearms. A moment later a large black crow landed in a flurry of beating wings on the verge just a few yards ahead.
‘You fucker!’ cursed Danny breathlessly. ‘What the hell are you doing? You scared the shit out of me.’ Danny stared at the bird: his mind scrabbling to make sense of what he was seeing. ‘What the hell d’you want with me, Morrigan? Tired of “guarding my death”?’
The bird’s nicotine-yellow beak opened wide and let out a loud squawk as if it were answering him back.
Danny had been fascinated by the story of the Morrigan ever since he’d read about it in school. In Irish mythology the Morrigan was the goddess of slaughter who took the earthly form of a crow. She was a harbinger of death: when she appeared on the battlefield she was said to be waiting to devour the souls of the dead.
‘If you think I’m going to just lie here and let you watch me die, you’re wrong,’ said Danny. He pressed his knuckles onto the ground and pushed himself into a squat. From there – after a lung-searing effort – he raised himself up to a standing position and faced the crow. With arms spread wide open in a grand gesture of defiance, Danny summoned every ounce of energy he had left.
‘Come ahead, ya bastard, c’mon. I am Danny McGuire and I’ll have the fuckin lot of ye. Those that killed my brother are going to die. I’ll kill every goddamn one of them, Sean, then stand beside you. I am Danny McGuire and I have not yet fallen.’ In his delirious state he imagined that all Ireland had turned to listen as his words echoed from Black Hill to Knockdore and Carnabanagh to Carncormick and off the peak of Trostan out across the Atlantic Ocean.
When he had finished he lunged towards the crow, screaming at the top of his voice, ‘C’mon ya bastard, do your worst.’
But the crow was gone.
Standing in its place was a young woman with dark eyes and raven-coloured hair.
‘You all right there, mister?’ she asked.
Danny was certain now that he was hallucinating. ‘You look good in human form,’ he said.
‘Thank you,’ replied the girl, looking confused. ‘Are you all right?’
Danny was staring straight at her, frightened to close his eyes in case she disappeared.
‘Do I look all right?’ he replied, his voice little more than a whisper.
‘I was being polite: you look like shite. I was wondering if you needed a lift somewhere?’ she continued.
It was Danny’s turn to look confused. The line between what was real and what was the product of his imagination had become too blurred. Eventually he replied, ‘You going anywhere near a bus stop?’
The girl suddenly smiled. ‘I was thinking more like a hospital or something.’
‘I’ll mess up your car,’ said Danny.
‘Well don’t be worrying about that,’ she replied. ‘It isn’t exactly a limo.’
Danny swayed unsteadily as he glanced across the road at the old Ford Escort parked on the verge.
‘Well? You after a written invitation?’ asked the young woman.
‘Are you the Morrigan?’
‘The what?’
‘The Phantom Queen . . . the Terror?’
‘Sure, I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ replied the woman.
‘What’s your name?’ asked Danny.
‘Is that going to make your mind up whether to accept a lift or not?’
‘My ma told me never to accept lifts from strangers.’
The girl smiled again. ‘My name’s Angela.’
‘Aren’t you scared?’
‘Of you?’ Angela shook her head. ‘If I sneezed right now I could knock you over. Now why don’t you get in the car before I lose one of my legs to frostbite.’
Danny wanted to move towards her, but the darkness was closing in around him.
*
When he opened his eyes again he was sitting in the passenger seat of Angela’s car with her warm coat laid over the top of him. He had no idea how he’d got there.
‘Are you from heaven or hell?’ mumbled Danny quietly.
‘Newry,’ replied the girl.
Danny’s eyes struggled to focus on her, ‘Near enough,’ he said. ‘If I die will you tell Órlaith . . . I forgot to get Easter eggs?’
‘If I knew who Órlaith was then I would, but it’s probably better if you live long enough to tell her yourself. You don’t want “I forgot the Easter eggs” to be your epitaph.’
Danny smiled faintly as the gentle motion of the car cruising along the twisting country roads lulled him back to sleep.
*
Someone was standing over him.
He could feel hot water stinging the cuts in his feet and arms, then a deep, rich, warmth enveloped his body.
Did he ask the angel if she knew Órlaith, or had he only thought about asking?
Cool cotton sheets pressed against his face and the musky scent of his mother’s hair filled his nostrils.
The pain was gone, but he could feel himself sinking deeper and deeper into the darkness.
*
The air around Danny was still. No sound penetrated the delicate membrane surrounding the vision playing itself out before his unfocused gaze. Nothing existed in his present but the past: a memory.
Cailleach Berra’s Lough stretched out frozen before him. It was covered in a sheet of burnished ice that creaked and groaned under the weight of the young boy lying in the middle, his face shrouded and obscured by the white clouds of breath billowing from between his chattering teeth.
Danny couldn’t see the boy’s face clearly, but he knew he was staring at his younger self.
‘He’s passed out,’ said a voice in the darkness.
Danny’s mind was filling in the blanks, presenting him with a perspective he couldn’t possibly have seen for himself.
Sean was trying to lift Danny off the ice, but the area surrounding the two boys started to crack and give way. The more Sean struggled, the more they were in danger of crashing through to the freezing waters below. Lep MacFarlane shouted words of encouragement from the far shore, but did little else to help his friends. Eventually – heaving with the exertion – Sean managed to drag Danny to safety. He made it to the embankment and collapsed in a heap on the crisp gorse.
*
Danny opened his eyes.
His brother Sean was standing at the foot of the bed. ‘You’ll be all right, our lad, don’t you worry now.’
Danny scowled. ‘I never thanked you for saving my life.’
Sean raised his finger to his lip. ‘Shh!’
*
Danny tried to focus. He didn’t know where he was. He tried sitting upright, but found the effort too much. Sharp, debilitating pains stabbed and hacked at the inside of his skull and made him moan out loud.
The room was dark but for a few chinks of daylight at the edge of the curtains. Slowly the objects surrounding him became more familiar. He was in his flat . . . but had no idea how he’d got there.
Danny freed his right hand from underneath the covers and held it up in front of his face. How had it come to be bandaged? He turned his head slowly, wondering if Órlaith had been in the room. He tried to call her name, but the best he could manage was a hoarse whisper.
There was a noise outside the bedroom door: a loud creak that sparked a surge of adrenalin as he instantly recalled the events of the previous night. Danny pressed his head deeper into the pillow and realised his Glock wasn’t there. He’d left it at Órlaith’s.
The handle on the bedroom door turned slowly anticlockwise and clicked open. A young woman was standing in the doorway.
‘You’ve got me for about another half an hour, then I have to be getting back to work, I just thought I’d check you were okay an see if there’s anything else you needed.’ She walked over and placed a glass of water and some painkillers on the table beside the bed.
Danny stared at her for a few moments, ‘Órlaith?’
‘No. Nor Sean, nor the Morrigan nor your ma neither,’ she replied. ‘You were mumbling all sorts of nonsense in your sleep. How’re you feeling?’
It was only when the girl smiled that Danny remembered. ‘Have you ever had a hedgehog shoved down your throat and pulled out your arse?’
‘Not that I remember,’ replied Angela.
‘How did we end up here?’
‘You told me the address.’
It was clear from the look on Danny’s face that he couldn’t remember anything.
‘You were pretty adamant you didn’t want to go to the hospital,’ continued Angela, ‘so I brought you here.’
‘How did we get in?’
‘A key . . . and before you ask: it was under the doormat. You’re not in great shape‚ you should really see a doctor. If I was you I’d take up another sport – rambling’s too dangerous.’
Danny smiled weakly. ‘I was sightseeing,’ he said, not wanting to have to explain the real reason for the state he was in. ‘Visiting old haunts. My brother and I used to play on the beach in Newcastle when we were lads.’
‘Naked?’ she asked.
‘Always,’ he replied. ‘You’re the angel‚ aren’t ye?’
‘Sort of,’ she replied. ‘It’s Angela.’
Danny gave a slight nod. It was starting to come back to him.
‘You’re Danny McGuire,’ she said quietly‚ as if someone might be listening.
Danny took his time answering.
‘Bits of me.’
‘I’ve seen you before.’
Danny turned his head to get a better look at her.
‘I used to live in Clanrye Avenue.’ Angela paused for a moment. ‘My da was Joe Fitzpatrick, he knew your da‚ I think.’
‘Aye, that’s right,’ said Danny. ‘I think I remember your da. He was a RA man, is that right? So‚ you’re a girl from the Meadah?’
Angela nodded. ‘I watched you from my living-room window once, carrying your brother’s coffin up the road.’
‘I didn’t carry it‚’ interrupted Danny, ‘I dragged it.’
‘Why?’
‘It was too heavy to carry.’
‘No, I mean, did you not consider using a hearse?’
‘There wasn’t enough of my brother left to bury. I was trying to make a point.’
‘What was in the coffin?’
‘Blood . . . from the abattoir. I dragged it past every RUC officer and soldier I could find on my way to the cemetery.’
‘The story became a bit of a legend on the estate,’ continued Angela in the same quiet tone. ‘My da said you were off your head. He heard you refused to let the RA give your brother a proper send-off.’
Danny interrupted her again. ‘He heard wrong. My ma . . . she wouldn’t have them anywhere near the funeral. I don’t mean to be rude, but what the hell does this have to do with anything, Angel?’ asked Danny with a little edge creeping into his voice.
There was silence in the room.
Danny’s head was throbbing. Even the smallest of movements caused pain in some part of his body. He was aware that he’d been short with her, but right now he didn’t care: everything was hurting.
Eventually Angela leant over, picked up a glass of water and held it to Danny’s lips. ‘If you drink some water, you’ll feel a lot better a lot quicker.’
‘Is there nothing stronger?’ asked Danny.
‘PG Tips,’ she replied.
‘I’m sorry, Angel. I feel like I was run over by a truck and got my sleeve caught on the bumper. You know what I mean?’
Angela pursed her lips. ‘It’s all right,’ she said. ‘I don’t know when to keep my mouth shut.’
‘Will you help me get dressed, Angel?’ Angela wasn’t sure if he was deliberately calling her Angel or if he had made a genuine mistake. She thought about correcting him, but if she was being honest, she liked it.
‘Not if you’re thinking of getting up,’ she replied.
‘Where d’you live now? Are you still in Clanrye Avenue?’ asked Danny.
‘Why d’you want to know?’
‘Send you a thank-you card.’
‘You were well brought up.’
‘I like to say thanks.’
‘Just say it then. You don’t need to be sending me anything.’
‘Fair enough,’ said Danny. ‘Thank you for helping me out.’
‘Are you going to drink this or will I use it on the plants?’
Danny raised his head as far as he could and took a sip of water. The cold, flat liquid tasted good.
‘See if you look out the window, is there a white Transit van across the street?’ he asked.
Angela put the glass down and crossed to the window. She pulled the curtain aside and looked out. There was nothing parked directly opposite the house, but about a hundred yards to the left she could see a white van. Angela turned as she heard Danny painfully manoeuvring himself into a more upright position: his battered body was a pitiful sight, sitting there slumped on the edge of the bed.
‘There’s a white van a little way up the road, doesn’t look like there’s anyone in it,’ she said.
‘I need you to do me one more favour before you go, Angel,’ said Danny. ‘Have you time to go buy me some Easter eggs?’