Joanna sat on the Cork–Dublin express staring at the rivulets of water streaming down the other side of the glass. It had not stopped raining since last night. The pitter-patter of the raindrops had kept her awake, and – like some kind of hypnotic torture – the faint noise had grown inside her head to become pounding hailstones. Not that she’d been able to sleep anyway. She’d been far too tense, spending most of the night staring at the cracks in the ceiling, trying to work out where the new information would lead her.
The situation with this gentleman is highly delicate . . .
What did that mean? What does anything mean at the moment? Joanna thought wearily. She crossed her arms and closed her eyes to try and doze away the remaining hours.
‘Is this seat taken?’
The voice was male and American. She opened her eyes to see a tall, muscular man dressed in a checked shirt and jeans.
‘No.’
‘Great. It’s so unusual to find a smoking carriage on a train. We don’t have those any more back home.’
Joanna was faintly surprised that shehadsat in a smokers’ carriage. She wouldn’t have done normally. But then normally she wasn’t this tired or confused.
The man sat down across the table from her and lit up a cigarette. ‘Want one?’
‘No thanks, I don’t smoke,’ she replied, praying this man was not going to smoke endlessly and keep her talking for the next two and a half hours.
‘Want me to stub it out?’
‘No, you’re fine.’
He took another drag as he studied her. ‘You English?’
‘Yes.’
‘I was there myself before I came over here. I stayed in London. I loved it.’
‘Good,’ she said abruptly.
‘But I just love Ireland. You on vacation here?’
‘I suppose so. A working holiday.’
‘You a travel writer or something?’
‘No, a journalist, actually.’
The man studied the Ordnance Survey map of Rosscarbery on the table in front of her. ‘Thinkin’ of buying some property?’
It was asked in a casual drawl, but Joanna stiffened and regarded the man carefully. ‘No. I’m just investigating the history of a house I’m interested in.’
‘Family connections?’
‘Yes.’
The tea trolley came by next to them.
‘Jeez, I’m starving. Must be all this good ol’ fresh air. I’ll take a coffee, and one of those pastries, ma’am, and a packet of tuna sandwiches. Want anything . . . er . . . ?’
‘Lucy,’ she lied swiftly. ‘I’ll have a coffee, please,’ she said to the young woman in charge of the trolley. She reached into her rucksack to take out her purse, but the man waved it away.
‘Hey, I can just about run to a cup of coffee.’ He presented it to her and smiled. ‘Kurt Brosnan. No relation to “Pierce”, ma’am, before you ask.’
‘Thanks for the coffee, Kurt.’ She folded up the Ordnance Survey map, but he appeared to have lost interest anyway as he unwrapped the plastic from his tuna sandwich and took a large bite.
‘You’re welcome,’ he said. ‘So, you think you got some heritage over here in Ireland?’
