Chapter One
A bracing blast of sea air hits me head on. It’s clean, fresh and smells of salt. I’m standing on the steps of the Garda station. Mind you, it’s more of a shabby Portakabin than a police station, really. The wind blows my hair and I hold my face up to it, letting any tears that may have escaped mingle with the damp air. With my eyes shut and my face in the wind I realise two things. One, I’m in a place called Dooleybridge; and two, I am absolutely stranded wearing the only dress I have – the one I’d just got married in.
I open my eyes and shiver, pulling my arms tightly around me, trying to warm myself up and protect myself from the nightmare I’m in. Only forty-eight hours ago I was saying the words ‘I do’ and thought I had everything I wanted in life: a job, a home and a husband. It was all mapped out. Now I have no husband, not even a fiancé. I’ve left my job, my home and my life, in a stolen camper van that I’m apparently under caution for stealing, parking illegally and driving recklessly.
In a state of shock I walk back to where I’d last seen the camper. Well, where it’d come to a crunching halt after crashing into the harbour wall. Looking at the wall now, I don’t know how I didn’t see it. But I was very distracted at the time, to say the least. I remember the road getting bumpier and hitting some big pot holes. I could hardly see through the tears. I remember the final bend, not knowing whether to swing left or right. It all happened so fast. My heart was racing and suddenly the van was as out of control as the rest of my life. I couldn’t stop. Today was supposed to be the first day of my married life. Now it couldn’t be further from how I’d imagined.
I roll my shoulders back and rub my neck. A doctor visited me in the Garda station but said my injuries were nothing a hot bath and some TLC wouldn’t cure. Maybe he’s right, but I’m a long way from either of those things right now. A very long way indeed. And now the camper van has been reclaimed by the hire company and towed away, I have no idea what I’m going to do.
There are some scuff marks on the harbour wall and the remains of one of the headlights, but other than that I can’t see any trace that the camper was there at all. I bend down to pick up the light and look around to see if anyone’s watching me, but no one’s there. Not like earlier when I had been escorted to the Garda station by a uniformed officer. With blue lights flashing we’d travelled all of 200 metres from the crashed camper to the station. You’d think he’d caught one of Ireland’s most wanted criminals. I could feel eyes on me from everywhere – the doorway of the pub and the windows of the houses – as the sirens sang out and the lights lit up the buildings either side of the road. My cheeks had burned and my stomach twisted as I was escorted, in my wedding dress, from ‘the scene of the crime’.
Oh, that’s the other thing I realise as I look at the abandoned headlight in my hand: there’s absolutely no way I can go home, no way at all.
I turn round and walk back towards the road; when I say walk, it’s more of a hobble. My shoes are killing me and they’re splashing water up the back of my feet and calves. But then it isn’t really gold mule weather. It’s cold and wet and I couldn’t feel any more miserable than I already do. I head back up the hill, across the road just below the Garda station, and stand outside the pub. I pull a piece of paper from my pocket and look at my shaky handwriting. I must be mad even thinking about this. I’d jotted down the details of a job advertised in the paper I’d been looking through as I tried to distract myself from the wreckage of my life while the Garda filled in his report. I have no idea what made me copy it down. Maybe it’s just my survival instinct kicking in, sink or swim.
I take a deep breath that hurts my chest and makes me cough. I look at the paper again. I have no other choice. I put my head down and step into a tiled doorway, touching the cold brass panel on the door, and with all the determination I can muster, I push it open.
The door crashes against the wall as I fall in, makingme and everyone else jump. As I land I realise it’s not the throng I was expecting but a handful of people. All eyes are on me. A hot rash travels up my chest and into my cheeks, making them burn, and inside I cringe. I feel as though I’ve walked on to the set of a spaghetti western and the piano player has stopped playing.
‘Sorry,’ I mouth, and shut the door very gently behind me. My stomach’s churning like a washing machine on spin cycle. I look round the open-plan pub. At one end is a small fireplace and, despite it supposedly being summer, there’s a fire in the grate giving out a brave, cheery, orange glow in contrast to the chilly atmosphere. There’s an unfamiliar smell in the air, earthy yet sweet. In the grate there are lumps of what look like burning earth. Back home I’d just flick on the central heating, but home is a very long way away right now. There’s wood panelling all across the front of the bar, above it, below it and round the walls. When I say wood panelling, it’s tongue and groove pine that’s been stained dark. It’s the sort of place you’d expect to be full of cigarette smoke but isn’t. In the corner by the fire there’s a small group of people, all of them as old as Betty from Betty’s Buns. Or The Coffee House as it’s now known.
Betty’s my employer – or should that be my ex-employer? She refuses to take retirement and sits on a stall at the end of the counter, looking like Buddha. She’s never been able to give up the reins on the till. She did once ask me to take over as manager but I turned it down. I’m not one for the limelight. I’m happy back in the kitchen. Kimberly, who works the counter, tried for the job, but Sandra from TGI Friday’s got it and Kimberly took up jogging and eating fruit.
The group by the fire is still staring at me, just like Betty keeping her beady eye on her till. There are two drinkers at the bar, one in an old tweed cap and jacket with holes in the elbows, the other in a thin zip-up shell suit and a baseball cap. They’ve turned tostare at me too. With burning cheeks and the rash still creeping up my chest, I take a step forward and then another. It feels like a game of grandmother’s footsteps as their eyes follow me too. The barmaid’s wiping glasses and smiles at me. I feel ridiculously grateful to see a friendly face. It’s not her short spiky hair that makes her stand out, nor her big plastic Dayglo earrings. It’s the fact she’s probably in her early twenties, I’d say, unlike any of her customers.
A couple of dogs come barking at me from behind the bar. I step back. One is black with stubby legs, a long body and a white stripe down its front. The other is fat and looks a bit like a husky crossed with a pot-bellied pig. I’m not what you’d call brave really. I’ve always thought it was better to try and skirt conflict rather than face it head on. I look for someone or something to hide behind but the barmaid steps in.
‘Hey, settle down,’ she snaps. She might be small but she’s got a mighty bark. Unsurprisingly the dogs return behind the bar, tails between their legs. I think I’d’ve done the same if she’d told me to.
‘Now then, what can I get you?’ She wipes her hands on a tea towel and smiles again.
‘Um …’ I go to speak but nothing comes out. I clear my dry throat and try again. ‘I’m looking for …’ I look down at the piece of paper in my hand, the back of the parking ticket I was handed for parking a camper van illegally. It was the only paper I had. I still can’t believe I’m even contemplating this, but I’m just not sure what else I can do. I look back at the barmaid, feeling as confused as she seems. ‘… Sean Thornton?’ I say as firmly as I can. ‘I’m looking for Sean Thornton.’
The barmaid cocks her head to one side and frowns. She reaches up on tip-toes and leans over the bar. Unashamedly her eyes travel upwards, taking in my shoes and the torn hem of my dress. I tug at it. Bits of hanging cotton, like tassels, catch round my fingers. Some come away and I shake my hand to flick them off. The rash starts to creep up my chest again.
Finally the barmaid nods over to the opposite side ofthe bar from where everyone else is sitting. There’s a man on his own. He looks up at me.
‘Over there,’ she nods again, keeping her eyes on me, as if I’ve got two heads which may start spinning in opposite directions at any minute.
‘Thank you.’ I turn to look at the man in the worn wax jacket. He looks terrifying. He’s got a table to himself and I’m not surprised. He’s scowling, tapping a pen on a notebook and making the white cup and saucer next to him rattle. He looks up at me and raises an eyebrow then beckons me with a single flick of the wrist. I’m rooted to the spot as he impatiently calls me over again. What I should do is leave very quickly. But my feet won’t move. He does not look like the sort of person you’d pull up a chair with for a friendly chat.
‘Oh, looks like someone’s beaten you to it,’ says the barmaid as we watch the younger of the two men from the bar, the one in the shell suit, go over and speak to Sean Thornton. ‘Can I get you something while you wait?’ she says a little more cheerily. I feel my spirits plummet even lower, and I hadn’t thought that was remotely possible, as I look over at the man in the shell suit, sitting on a small green velour-covered stool opposite Sean Thornton.
‘Do you do tea?’ I sigh rather more loudly than I’d intended to. The group in the corner is still watching me.
‘Tea? Sure.’ The barmaid picks up a pen and pad. ‘Anything to eat?’
I shake my head, thinking about the few euros I’ve got left after paying the damages at the Garda station. ‘For reckless driving,’ he’d said. He was probably right too. My stomach suddenly rumbles loudly, like a lion’s roar. My hand shoots up to cover both it and my blushes at the same time.
‘Soup and a sandwich,’ the barmaid tells me rather than asks, with a raised eyebrow.
‘Fine,’ I quickly agree.
The barmaid flicks on the kettle with a flourish. I can’t help but feel she’s still keeping an eye on me. Now that she’s moved to the back of the bar, I can see she’s wearing purple leather-look shorts with tights underneath and a red T-shirt saying ‘Drama Queen’ in sparkles. In contrast I look down at my big grey sweatshirt and nude-coloured tattydress.
‘On holiday, are you?’ she shouts over the noisy kettle, cutting into my thoughts.
‘Um, well, not exactly. Well, sort of.’ I can’t answer this without going into a long explanation and that’s the last thing I want to do right now. ‘Excuse me,’ I try and change the subject quickly. ‘Could you tell me where the loo is?’ To my surprise she put her hands on her hips and shakes her head. The kettle is still warming up noisily.
