The small peninsular island was dotted with large granite boulders that eventually merged into a cluster of craggy rock pools before dipping into the cold clear waters lapping around its edges. The tiny outcrop was covered in gorse and heather, and jutted into the Irish Sea at the far end of a long, arching spine of alabaster-coloured sand.
At the opposite end of the beach sat the village of Cushendun, built round the mouth of the River Dun. Two granite-block quays faced each other on either side of a small inlet that harboured a number of fishing boats, pleasure craft and dinghies. Sail ropes snapped against their metal masts and gulls floated and hovered overhead, squawking as the boats swayed back and forth – clunking together in the gentle offshore breeze. The south bank of the quayside was lined with a terrace of white houses once used for fishermen, but now largely owned or rented by holidaymakers.
There was a two-storey hotel near the high street with a seaward view from the second floor that – on a clear day – stretched all the way over to the Mull of Kintyre in Scotland. The hotel also overlooked the north-bank quayside which was triangular in shape and used mostly as a visitors’ car park. It had a two-foot-high stone wall that framed its circumference and separated the car park from the sandy beach beyond.
The holiday season wasn’t yet under way, so the car park was empty, apart from a few vehicles belonging to the locals. The village had a post office that doubled as a convenience store, a pub, a café and a tourist information bureau that stocked Celtic souvenirs. There were no roadblocks, or army patrols or sectarian graffiti on any of the village’s walls. The Troubles affecting the rest of Northern Ireland had left Cushendun to its own devices. Even the local police officer – despite having the authority to carry a firearm – left his weapon locked in the station’s gun cabinet when he went out on patrol.
Many years ago this was where Órlaith and Sean had spent their honeymoon.
*
It was early. The only sign of habitation was the two distant figures picking their way through granite boulders and gorse at the northernmost point of the bay. The rising sun cast their shadows long over the dewy tufts of grass.
Órlaith jumped the final few feet onto the sandy beach and stood waiting for Kathleen McGuire to join her.
She regretted coming here to hide. The carefree memories of her past were being pushed to one side and replaced with less happy ones. It had been five days since Órlaith and Mrs McGuire had checked into the hotel. There was still no word from Danny, and no news of what had happened to Niamh.
Órlaith looked pale and drawn. Her skin was as dry as the sand she was standing on and almost the same colour. Even the thin lines around her eyes and mouth seemed to have deepened in the last few days.
Kathleen McGuire on the other hand had lived with the consequences of the Troubles for so long that, for her, little had changed. Since the death of her husband, followed by her son’s murder, pain and anguish had become so familiar to her that they were now part of who she was. Every day was the same battle: a struggle to keep herself sane.
She had given up all hope of ever finding peace, but she was no longer at war.
Kathleen had always liked Órlaith. She had been good for Sean. She had watched her son mellow and mature under Órlaith’s influence. Órlaith had her head screwed on and she could play Sean like a fiddle.
Intellectually she was more than his match. She’d studied politics and Irish history at Queen’s University in Belfast and could put across a convincing argument in favour of a political settlement to the Troubles as opposed to an armed struggle.
Sean and Órlaith would argue long into the night about the best approach to take. Philosophically they were in agreement, but the means each of them would employ to reach the goal were at opposite ends of the spectrum. At the heart of their relationship was their ability to see each other’s point of view. They respected each other’s opinion and that’s why they had worked so well as a couple.
Over the last few days Kathleen had found herself opening up to Órlaith in a way that she hadn’t done with anyone since Sean had been murdered. Perversely the situation they now found themselves in had been good for their relationship. It had brought them closer together. They shared a common tragedy: Órlaith had lost her husband, Kathleen her son.
Both of them prayed that Niamh’s name would not also be added to the list.
The two women made their way across the sand in silence. They had spent every night since their arrival talking over the events of the past week‚ trying to piece a narrative together out of what little information they had.
The conclusion they had come to at the end of every evening was the same: none of it made any sense and there was almost no point in trying to explain what happened.
Suddenly Órlaith reached out and grabbed Kathleen by the hand‚ pulling her to a stop.
The unexpected movement startled her. She turned quickly and saw the look of apprehension on Órlaith’s face.
‘Are you all right?’ she asked.
Órlaith gripped her hand even more tightly and stared straight ahead of her. ‘Look,’ she replied.
Her voice was so quiet against the noise of waves breaking along the shoreline that Kathleen strained to hear what she said. ‘What’s wrong?’ she asked again.
Órlaith nodded in the direction of the car park and repeated herself.
‘Look.’
Kathleen followed Órlaith’s gaze along the beach.
Two men were walking towards them.
Without saying another word, Órlaith let go of Kathleen’s hand and started running across the sand towards the men.
Kathleen stood watching in confusion: rooted to the spot.
One of the men was limping quite badly and was using the other’s shoulder to support him as he struggled over the loose sand. His head was bowed forward as though he was ashamed to show his face. The other man was holding a young girl in his arms and was walking slowly to provide a steady prop for his injured companion. Kathleen watched the young girl wriggle free from the man’s arms and run to meet Órlaith‚ who scooped her up and held her in a tight embrace.
It was only then she realised that the young girl was her granddaughter Niamh and the man carrying Niamh was her son Danny. She had barely recognised him at first. He looked so much older than when she’d last seen him: life had scarred his face, the boyish looks gone for ever. She watched as Órlaith exchanged words with Danny and the other man, their conversation swallowed up by the wind.
Suddenly Órlaith collapsed to her knees and had to be helped back to her feet. Kathleen looked on as the other man reached out and held Órlaith to him‚ her head buried in his shoulder.
Eventually Kathleen saw Órlaith lift her head and turn, the expression on her face imploring Kathleen to join the small group.
But Kathleen didn’t move. She knew instinctively that it was for them to come to her; not the other way round.
A few moments later Danny and the other man left Órlaith – with Niamh standing by her side – and continued along the beach.
As they drew closer the man leaning on Danny’s shoulder raised his eyes and stared at her, seemingly uncertain what to do next. His face was pale and drawn, and full of sadness.
‘I’m so sorry, Ma . . . ’ he said as he reached her.
But Kathleen held her finger to her lips.
‘Shh. You don’t have to say it, son. I’ve always known.’
She slowly struck her clenched fist against the middle of her chest and continued, ‘In here . . . I’ve always known.’
In her dreams she knew exactly what to say: she had lived this moment many times, but never dared to hope that one day it might come true. But standing there now, with her son Sean in front of her, Kathleen found that she could no longer speak: the words were choked back by her quiet, gentle sobs.
The tears she’d held locked in her heart for eight years tumbled freely down her face.
Sean took the final few steps towards his mother and accepted her embrace. The long journey home was finally at an end.