Cast a cold eye, p.23
Cast A Cold Eye, page 23
“I . . . I don’t know. I might.”
“Do you sleep with her?”
That was too much. “Listen, Father, this isn’t a confessional!”
“Yes, it is,” the priest said steadily, not taking his eyes from Jack’s face. “Do you sleep with her?”
“No. Not yet.”
“But you will?”
“Yes.”
“If you were in trouble, or in pain, or in danger of death, could you count on her help and support?”
“Yes. I think so. Yes.”
“And she could count on yours?”
“Yes. Of course.”
The priest turned away and moved off a little distance. He stared out at the seething gray-green ocean for a minute, then moved back behind the shelter of the rock. He still did not look at Jack again.
“I will not, because I cannot, tell you what is going to happen here. Please hear me out. I cannot tell you, so don’t be asking me again. When the proper time comes, I’ll come for you. You’ll know then, but you cannot know before then. Now I want to ask you another question. Then I’m going to give you my blessing, and then we are going to leave this place and carry on with our lives as if this had not happened. You have no choice now, you do see that, but to continue on this road. You’ll learn nothing, and possibly be in great danger, if you do otherwise.”
Jack clenched his teeth together but said, “Go on.”
“If Grainne’s life were in danger, in immediate danger, is there anything you would not do to save her?”
“No. Nothing.”
“That horse we saw this morning at Willy Egan’s farm, the mare. If it meant saving Grainne’s life, could you drink that animal’s blood?”
“Drink its . . . ?”
“Could you drink its blood?”
Jack whispered his answer. “Yes.”
“Could you drink mine?”
“Yes.”
“Or hers?”
“Yes.”
A grave opened in the stone at his feet and a corpse with his own decaying face came toward him, blood dripping from its chin, and Grainne was beside it, holding one of its rotted hands.
“Or give your own for others to drink?”
“I—”
“Or give your own for others to drink?”
“Yes.”
“Think. And then answer again.”
He heard only the endless explosion of surf against the rocks, the crashing of seaspray, the blast of the wind, and the mad flapping of his collar near his ear.
“Yes.”
“Oh, Lord,” murmured the priest, “protect this thy servant in the hour of his direst need, which is almost upon him.” He turned to face Jack and raised his right hand, thumb and first finger joined together, to make the sign of the cross. “In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost.”
CHAPTER 15
Grainne arrived, all smiles and cartons of books and parcels of food, just before three on Friday afternoon.
Jack had made up his mind that he was not going to let his own worry and gloom cast a pall over her visit. He had also made up his mind that he was not going to let her stay anywhere near Doolin for more than a day or two, not here, not where she might be in danger. He’d tell her he had to be away, in London, in New York, in Los Angeles, somewhere, to sign contracts or something equally urgent. She’d have to go back to Dublin but he’d be flying back as soon as he could and he’d see her there. He’d make it convincing; didn’t he make his living by telling stories? At the same time, he didn’t think for a minute that she’d believe him.
He’d been looking forward so much to seeing her, being with her, even though the strange things he’d experienced had been filling his thoughts. Through all of it, she was always there, a presence in his mind, a presence in his life, even though he could still add up the meager number of hours they’d spent together, the number of conversations on the phone. It was true, they hardly knew each other, and yet he felt this closeness and thought she felt it too. No, of course she felt it. If she didn’t, she never would have come here in the first place and certainly would never have returned. He went back through the whole long list of factors he’d considered before—the fact that he was alone in a strange country, that there was no particular girlfriend at home in the States, all the rest of it—and wondered that he was no wiser at deciding if he was in love than he’d been at half this age.
But it was only when he came running out of the house into the bitingly cold air and saw her throwing open the car door and coming toward him—a flash of color: faded blue jeans, red windbreaker, white teeth in a happy smile—that he knew it all for sure. They’d spoken on the phone often since she’d left, usually every other night, and he’d treasured the sound of her voice, her inquiries about how his work was going, was he eating properly, was he dressing warmly, and he was always hungry to hear how she was herself and what she was doing, but no mechanically reproduced voice on a telephone could fill the place of her actual presence here, coming toward him, coming into his arms.
They came together as if they’d been separated for years. The joining took her breath away as well as his. Then everything was gone—wind, gray clouds, cold air, stony hillside, wet gravel underfoot—and there was only her body pressed tight against him, her breasts crushed hard against his chest, her lips full and warm against his own, her tongue seeking his. He wrapped her in his arms, would have wrapped himself around her, crushed her to him, feeling sudden alarm at the thinness of her body, the slightness of her, the fragility so easily damaged or broken. He held her with one arm around the small of her back and the other at her shoulders, his hand at the back of her head, fingers twined in her hair, pulling her close and hard against him.
Then they pulled apart at the same instant, hearts pounding, desperate for breath. She laid her cheek against his shoulder. He felt her hair against his face. Her arms were around his waist.
When at last they moved back and studied each other more calmly, neither one of them was smiling.
“Grainne,” he said, and touched the silky skin of her face with the tips of his fingers.
“Jack,” she said, and grasped his wrist with both her hands, held the palm of his hand against her cheek.
“It’s so good to see you.”
“I should have come sooner,” she said. “I should have, I can see that. I’m so sorry, Jack. Whatever it is that’s been troubling you, it’s been bad, hasn’t it? But it’ll be all right now, I promise. I’ll help you with whatever it is.”
They stood for a moment, the wind pressing her hair against the back of his hand.
Then Jack said, “Let’s get your things,” and they moved apart and headed toward the car.
He couldn’t tell her.
He certainly couldn’t tell her, not this afternoon, not this evening, with the sight and the scent of her still so rich and fresh before him.
They moved about the house together, happily, easily, getting her settled in and her things put away. He’d emptied a drawer for her and made room in the closet. He’d even emptied a bookshelf for her to use. She kissed him again for that, but it only made him feel guilty, knowing he’d have to make her go away so soon, and that he’d have to tell her an elaborate lie instead of the truth.
He could not tell her the truth, as much as he wanted to. If he told her that, she’d either think he was crazy—he doubted she’d react like that, but she might, she might—or she’d insist on staying and seeing for herself what was going on. And Jack could only tell her the little he knew—if that was even the right word for it—and Father Henning’s frightening . . . what? Promise? Warning? No, he had to send her away, that was clear. And he also had to stay here himself.
He hated the gap of silence the secret set up between them. He did his best to act normal, casual—he did not have to act to show his joy at her really being here at last—but she knew something was wrong and, sooner or later, they would have to talk about it.
And there was another thing.
He wanted, with a hunger that almost frightened him with its intensity, to sleep with her, to hold her, touch her, taste her, be inside the comfort and warmth of her body.
But he could not. As terribly as he wanted that, he could not. Father Henning had asked if they slept together and implied very definitely that that link between them would establish a closeness, a union, that would irretrievably join their fates as one in whatever the hell was going on. He could not have that. If he could protect her in that way, even a bit, then he would not sleep with her. But what possible reason could he give her tonight? What could he say, short of telling her the whole ugly thing?
And yet, without all of this, they would have made love right there on the living room floor, before the car was unpacked, might not even have spent the time necessary to close the door of the house, might have let the heat of their bodies fend off the icy wind and the grayness of daylight.
He felt he was walking a tightrope, balancing between desire and selfishness on one side, and a need to protect her on the other. The battle made him restless, stolid rather than easy, polite rather than warm.
But his body ached for her. He was almost short of breath with the pain in his groin. Once, while she was unpacking her bag, he came and stood in the doorway, watching her. She was spreading out a blouse on the bed. He crossed the room, stood behind her, and put his arms around her waist. His hands felt the warmth of her stomach and she held them tight, pressed them tight against her. He slid his hands upward and made a sound deep in his throat when he felt the weight and warmth of her breasts against the palms of his hands. She covered his hands with her own and held him there, her head turned to the side, her face against his chest. Her nipples were erect, stiff against the pressure of his hands. She pressed her buttocks back hard against him. Neither of them said a word and, after a while, he eased away from her, kissed the back of her neck, and went out of the room. Afterward, neither of them referred to it.
The afternoon passed.
They made tea and sat talking in the living room. Jack spoke about his book, but he had to be careful of what he said because he’d actually been doing very little work. He let Grainne do most of the talking, about the shop and her girlfriend and a restaurant they’d enjoyed in Dundrum and the couple of films she’d seen recently.
It was Jack who grew sick of the pretending first.
A pause had developed in the conversation and, except for the unspoken tension that hung in the room, they would have been sitting in cozy silence, simply comfortable to be in each other’s presence, without the need to talk. But it was not like that, this pretending, this waiting each other out. The things unsaid—Jack’s secret knowledge and his plan to send her away, Grainne’s obvious worry about him and her equally obvious intention to speak about it if he didn’t do it first—were like a pall of sooty smoke hanging in the air, soon to cover everything beneath.
“Grainne, you can’t stay here,” he said. And instantly added, “Oh, shit, I don’t mean it that way. I don’t mean it as harshly as that sounded. Listen, I know you’re worried about me and you think something’s terribly wrong, but . . . Well, look, I . . . I just can’t tell you the whole thing right now. Believe me, I wish I could, but I can’t. It’s . . . It’s just not the sort of thing I can tell you. Okay, okay! Yes, there’s something wrong. If that’s the right word, and I’m not even sure it is. But there’s . . . well . . . something going on, something . . . strange. And, no, it’s not another girl and it has nothing, absolutely nothing, to do with you. But it worries me and just possibly there might be some danger. I simply can’t let you be here now. I can’t, and that’s all there is to it. As soon as it’s settled, just as soon as it’s settled, I’ll see you, we’ll be together then, and I’ll tell you the whole thing, the whole thing, I promise.”
He’d stood up in the middle of that speech and was standing now halfway between the couch, where Grainne sat watching him, and the windows. The clouds above the ocean were turning from gray to threatening black.
“Grainne, please, just tell me you understand. I swear, it has nothing to do with you.”
“Are you in danger?”
He studied her face, her dark eyes, her perfect white skin, her black hair, her fragile build combined with a full ripe body.
“Maybe,” he said, “I’m not sure.”
“When will you know . . . what’s going on?”
“I don’t know.”
“Is it the rest of your life you expect to spend in fear?”
He already knew that tone in her voice, velvet masking a razor’s edge, and the definite Irish rhythms that were always more pronounced in her speech when she was angry or excited.
“Is it?” she said again, the two clear words pointing up the confusion of what he’d been saying.
“All right, listen,” he said. He was still standing. “There is something wrong here, here in Doolin, this whole area around here. Something secret. The people here, or at least some of them, know what it is, or they’re responsible for it, or they take part in it, or something of the sort. That priest, Father Henning, is in on it. And at least half a dozen others that I know of for sure. Maybe the whole village, for all I know. And somehow or other, it has something to do with me.”
He stood watching her.
“Go on.”
“And it has something to do with blood.”
She said nothing.
“And with death.”
She reacted to that, opening her lips in a gasp that she instantly stifled.
“I talked with Father Henning about it. He asked me if you were coming here again. He seemed . . . concerned that you’d be here. And there’s something else, as long as you’re dragging this much out of me. He wanted to know if we were lovers. From what he implied, I gathered that would make it worse. Whatever the hell it is.”
They were silent for a minute, watching each other a little warily.
“Do you really not know what it is, what’s going on or what it is that’s going to happen?” Grainne asked at last.
“No,” Jack said, then added, “Not really.”
“Tell me,” she said.
He turned away and leaned on the windowsill, looking out toward the darkening shore.
“The night we came back from the pub,” he said slowly, “the night Father Henning came in and told that story. Do you remember?”
“I do.”
“Do you remember the music the old fellow played on the pipes, one tune in particular that was very . . . excuse the expression, but it was very haunting. Do you remember that?”
“Yes,” Grainne said softly.
When he heard the strange note in her voice, Jack turned away from the window to face her.
“You remember it.”
“I do,” she said. She was looking at her hands joined tightly together in her lap. “It followed us home across the hills and all the way to the door of this house.”
He stared at her, seeing that everything was suddenly changed. “You heard it too. On the road just up the hill.”
“I did.” She nodded but did not look up.
He had to catch his breath before he could speak again. “There’s no way, is there, it could have been real, no way the sound could have carried through the hills?”
“No,” she said, “but I know it followed us home to our very door.”
“Grainne . . .” He was almost whispering. “Grainne, Father Henning asked me about something else too. He asked me if you had . . . seen anything. Anything odd.”
“The children at the house in the headlights of the car,” she whispered: “The dead man in the road.”
In an instant, he was kneeling on the floor in front of her, his arms wrapped tightly around her and hers wrapped around him. They clutched each other for warmth, and didn’t speak, didn’t move.
Jack’s anger came a little later, anger at himself, and he stalked around the living room like a caged beast.
“I’ve been sitting here, waiting,” he said loudly. “Just letting this stuff happen, all this crazy stuff. I thought at first I was going loony, you know, crackers, crazy!”
“You should have told me.”
“You should have told me!”
“All right, we should have told each other. Jack, I’m sorry, but I was thinking a little the way you were.”
He stopped his pacing. “A little?”
She turned her face away and looked confused.
“What do you mean?” he asked, making his voice more gentle this time. “What are you talking about?”
“There are such strange things that happen,” she said. “Things no one really understands.”
“Grainne, do you believe in”—he could not bring himself to use the word—“things like this, like the things we’ve been seeing?”
“No,” she said. “And, yes, in a way. Oh, I don’t know.”
He closed his eyes for a second, sighed helplessly, and again looked out the windows at the still, dark wall of night.
“Jack,” she said, “will you tell me why you stayed here? Why you just stayed and let it happen, without telling anyone, not me or a doctor or anyone? Why have you only stayed right here and waited to see what else would come?”
It was a long while before he answered.
“I stayed because . . . because it’s what I came here to do. I came here to see the country, learn about it, learn about the people, the way they live, the way they think. I’ve written down most of these things I’ve seen, described them as best I could. I don’t know, a lot of reasons, I guess. Suicidal curiosity, maybe. A fascination with mysterious things. A determination to see it through. And, Grainne, the things were so real. I mean they were so goddamned real! Grainne, I touched that dead man in the road. I rolled him over, right out there in the road. And that little girl on Monday. I picked her up, for Christ’s sake, I put her in the car, I covered her with my jacket. She was real! As real as you and me!”
“I wish I’d seen her too,” Grainne said, almost whispering the words. “Then I’d know as much as you know.”
