CHAPTER 32
Orla McKeon’s father looked younger than last year when Minogue had bumped into him on O’Connell Bridge. Orla had come back from six months in Italy. She and Iseult were going to get a studio together at that stage.
The hair was his own, that Minogue was sure of, but was it tinted or dyed? Why so long at fifty-something anyway. Transplants, maybe. Iseult had said that Orla found out her father was having an affair. He had moved from insurance some years ago and had done well in pet food for some reason
“Great day for being out,” said Tom McKeon.
Minogue took a step toward him. His knee was just as stiff today, but the pain had gone down to an ache that he sometimes was able to ignore. The boat breasted the wake of a smaller craft making for Dun Laoghaire Harbour. Minogue had quickly learned to keep his knees bent. His hair whipped back again. He narrowed his eyes.
“Pardon?”
“Great day,” said McKeon. “Evening, I should say.”
Minogue nodded. He looked back at the churning water behind the engine. A hundred and fifty horsepower? Half as much again as his Citroen? The water seemed to stand still by the railing, drawn up in a jagged crest that cast off drops and streams at the edges. Spume, that was the word. The engine turned slightly and Minogue looked back. Tom McKeon had the bow directly on the rocks by Dalkey Island ahead. There were lights on by Bulloch Harbour, but Minogue was drawn again to the pink-and-mustard sky behind the Three Rock Mountain. He felt a cold cylinder against his knuckles.
“Go on,” said McKeon.
Budweiser. Would he get sick on it with the boat hopping on the waves?
“Thanks.”
He sat down next to McKeon.
“Cold are you?”
“Ah, I’m all right.”
“You look cold. Take that there.”
Minogue picked up a nylon jacket with a woolly inside. There was neon green somewhere in the middle of the back, a fancy logo with a little wave in the middle. Drown in style. McKeon held his can while Minogue got into the jacket. He missed threading the zip several times. He steadied himself against the railing.
Iseult arrived on deck in an enormous T-shirt and a pair of football shorts. The breeze took wisps of her hair away from the hair band. Orla closed the door behind her.
“Your towel,” he said. She had goose bumps already. There was an odd light in her eyes.
“What?”
“Your towel. You’ll catch your death of cold.”
“I’m going in the water, Da.”
Tom McKeon was looking up at him with a mischievous look. Minogue wanted to drag him out of his captain’s chair and pitch him into the sea.
“Here,” said McKeon. “Go on.”
Minogue didn’t open the can. He stepped down to where Orla and Iseult huddled.
“Where’s your life jacket then?”
“Do you want one?” Orla asked.
“Of course she does,” Minogue said. “She’ll go to the bottom like a stone. The size of her.”
“Ah, Da! If I thought you were going to start this, I could have brought Ma.”
“Here, Matt,” came McKeon’s voice above. “Come on up and take the helm.”
He didn’t want to take any bloody helm. Jack Tar, climb the rigging; pirates ahoy.
“Come on up! We’re headed through Dalkey Sound out into the bay.”
McKeon showed him the throttle, how to get to neutral, how not to mash the gears to porridge.
“Good man, yes, sit there. I have a few things to get.”
“What, martinis?”
“What?”
“Nothing.”
Minogue slowed the boat. It was all too easy, wasn’t it? The moving shore, the sky cast up again from the water out in the bay took over his thoughts. How often he had walked there in the woods and now he was out here looking back to shore for signs of life.
“Aim to that side of him, Matt.”
There was gray in the woods under Dalkey Hill already. The bay opened before him, silver and brown. He felt his chest easing, the glow, and then the rush of gladness. Fool I’ve been, he thought, never to have had a boat. Should have been a pet-food tycoon like Tom McKeon. He glanced over. McKeon smiled.
“Go on,” he said. “Open it. It’ll taste a lot better.”
It did. He drank half the can in one go. He could have finished it too. McKeon pointed to Bray Head.
“Aim for there.”
Not a bad fella at all, McKeon. So what if he was trick acting with someone, but — Iseult’s laugh had a hollow sound to it. Orla whispered something to her. Iseult nodded. Minogue eyed her.
“Suits you, Da,” she called out.
“Been to the States, er, Matt?” McKeon asked.
“No.”
“Your lad is there isn’t he?”
“He is.”
McKeon was about to say something but he frowned, then smiled and waved his arm.
“Where else in the world would you have this,” he said. “Isn’t it only gorgeous?”
Minogue nodded. McKeon finished his can. He studied it carefully before tossing it below. He covered a belch with the back of his hand and then pulled hard on the rail. A plane was coming in over the Irish Sea.
“But you can be in touch anywhere,” said McKeon. Minogue frowned. McKeon nodded toward a cell phone on the seat below.
“A fella in that plane there could phone me. Did you know that?”
Minogue nodded.
“Yous all have them now, don’t you?”
“We’ve come to rely on them.”
McKeon winked.
“All digital and all. So’s ye won’t be listened in on. It was in the paper the other day ”
He looked over at the inspector.
“Along with the whole ball of wax with O’Riordan and them. The manager, the whole Larry Smith thing. Well, Jases, talk about scandal. You’re a celebrity now, ha ha, along with herself.”
McKeon winked
“The Holy Family. Ha ha. Catchy though, isn’t it?”
“No.”
“Oh. Well tell me something — if you don’t mind me asking. Did the Guards know about this Little, the one who — well, you know what I’m saying.”
Minogue felt McKeon’s eyes on him but he kept his gaze on the waves.
“No.”
“Ah sure, what odds,” said McKeon “There’s no place like home.”
“Any way we can slip a life jacket on you know who there, Tom?”
McKeon looked over his shoulder at their daughters.
“Oh God, aye. Not sure it’d fit your one, but.”
“Can we try?”
“What are you worrying about? They’ll float. They’re witches, sure.”
McKeon stepped down to the lower deck and began opening hatches. He pulled out ropes, plastic boxes.
