lay and which way the sea. At any moment he might lose his grip and go spinning into deep water, at the mercy of cold currents, battered on dark rocks, pulled down into darkness.
He slipped on kelp and pitched forward into a freezing pool. A voice came to him out of the maelstrom, thin and anguished. The wind drove away all semblance of meaning. There was no way of knowing whether the words had been a threat or a cry for help. Out here, there was nothing but the wind and the sea.
Another rock, the rough edges of barnacles, rain and spray mingled in a single sheet of water, a wind like barbed wire against the skin. He saw a shadow darker than the rest, something crouching at the edge of the rocks, where they joined the sea. Scarcely balanced himself, he lunged forward and made a grab for the man.
They fell backwards onto a broad wrack-covered rock. He heard his opponent gasp as the breath was forced from his lungs.
Who are you?’ he shouted, anger forcing his voice above the storm. The man remained silent, struggling in his grasp.
Overhead, lightning tore the darkness away like a thin veil. Patrick saw a white face, the eyes opened in terror, and a hand across the face, as though to ward him off. A clap of thunder burst the sky open.
Suddenly, his opponent pushed him back, slipping out of his grip on the wet rock. He flopped down into a gap, twisted, and tried to stand. As he got to one foot, a huge wave crashed into him, throwing him off balance. He lost his footing completely. There was a loud cry, inhuman, passionate, past articulation. Patrick reached out. But there was nothing. Another bolt of lightning crossed the sky. The rock ahead was empty.
The tide was still rushing in. There was nothing Patrick could do for the stranger, not in a sea like that. He turned and started crawling back along the rocks. There were no lights on the shore to guide him. In the madness, he could have been moving away from the land, out to sea and certain death. He lost count of the number of times he slipped, crashing heavily onto the rocks. It would be so easy to break a leg and be trapped until the sea took possession of everything and dragged him out into its depths.
Lightning again. The world stark, insane. He got his bearings and dropped into the water, desperate for balance. Even here, the undertow was fierce, like ropes that tried to pull his legs from under him. The water rose up to his chest now. He felt tired suddenly, as though the sea had sapped him of all strength.
Aching, he gave himself to it, half swimming, half drowning. Salt water poured into his mouth, filling his stomach, weighing him down. His arms and legs moved sluggishly, as though he was swimming in another substance, in quicksand or mercury, thick and deadly, pulling him down.
Suddenly, he felt land beneath his feet. Coughing and spluttering, he threw himself forward. His head went under, then rose again. He fought to regain his balance. His feet found purchase on the sloping beach. Spewing up water, he staggered through the last few yards of angry waves, coming at last to rain-drenched sand. A few feet more and he threw himself to the ground.
All around him, the world was bedlam. But he scarcely noticed. All he could think of, all he could see polished on the darkness of the night was the white oval of the watcher’s face and his hand raised, pushing him away. And on the man’s inner wrist a tiny circle tattooed in black, and inside the circle a seven-branched candlestick crowned with a cross.
It was impossible, he thought. A nightmare from the past, a nightmare that could not possibly have followed him here, to this place, to this moment.
Behind him, in the darkness, the sea moved, rank and heavy with drowning men and the bodies of great fish sinking to its rotten bed. They were devouring one another down there, men and fish and all manner of swimming and crawling things.
SIX
He lost track of time, lying wet and out of breath at the foot of the sea wall, as though cast up there by nauseated waves. Slowly the rain subsided and the thunder became a distant rumbling as the storm passed on into the Wicklow Hills. Aching to his bones, he picked himself up and clambered back over the wall onto the road.
The car was still where he had left it, against the wall. Its engine had stalled. He had supposed someone would have heard the crash and come out to investigate or phoned for the Gardai, but the road was deserted. If any sleepers had been awakened, they must have imagined the crash a clap of thunder and gone back to sleep. He pulled the door open and slipped into the driver’s seat.
He knew he should rush back to the house for a hot shower and a change of clothes, but first he had to search the car. His mind was in turmoil. He had seen the symbol on the watcher’s wrist twice before. Once on the pendant round Francesca’s neck, the pendant she had thrown angrily into the sea, almost as a portent of tonight’s events.
The second time had been several years ago, during a mission in Egypt. To see it again here in Ireland filled him with the deepest foreboding. He had thought that episode buried forever: he should have known that sands shift and the buried past returns to life.
He switched on the interior lights and looked round. The car was a small Citroen hatchback, tidy and quite new-looking, probably rented. There was nothing on the rear seat or the shelf behind it.
Leaning across the passenger seat, he opened the glove compartment.
Inside, he found a map and a small book bound in black leather. The book was a copy of the New Testament in Greek with an interlinear English translation based on the Revised Version. Its pages were well thumbed, and here and there in the margins someone had made textual notes in pencil. He put the volume down and turned to the map. It was a standard Geographia map of Dublin, from Ballymun and Santry in the north to Tallaght and Glenageary in the south.
His own street, situated in the extreme bottom right-hand corner, had been ringed several times in red ink. There was a second set of rings round a spot in the Liberties, centred on Francis Street, about St Malachy’s parish church.
He felt his heart go cold. The connection between the two circles was unambiguous.
Taking the map and book, he got out into the rain. It was only a drizzle now, the storm’s rich anger spent or gone elsewhere. He only paused to check the boot, finding it empty as he had expected, then set off home.
Ruth was waiting up for him. She was crouched over the table in the kitchen, cradling a mug of tea, more for the comfort of it than from a need to drink. He sat down facing her, wordless, shivering, afraid of her gentleness more than anything.
‘The storm woke me,’ she said. ‘You were gone again. I thought you might be in the study. I looked everywhere for you.’
She did not ask where he had been, merely told her story and fell silent. In the half-light her shaded face seemed perhaps lovelier than a woman’s face had ever appeared to him. For that moment, in that place. He wanted to sit with her, hold her, talk with her. He thought he loved her after all: it was, at least, what he wanted. To love her, to be here with her. But there was no time tonight. The circles round St Malachy’s, like the circle on the stranger’s wrist, could mean only one thing: a man was in terrible danger. Patrick had no choice.
‘I have to go out again,’ he said.
She looked at him intently, understanding beginning to dawn.
What’s going on, Patrick? Whatever it is, it doesn’t concern you. You’re finished with that stuff.’
‘Come upstairs,’ he said, ‘I have to change.’
She followed him, clutching her dressing-gown about her as though it could ward off the sudden terrors of the night. The world pressed against her, heavy and cold, its saturated breath dank in her nostrils.
He made straight for the bedroom and picked up the telephone from the table by the bed. Ruth stood in the doorway, watching. It was bitterly cold.
The phone in St Malachy’s presbytery began to ring. De Faoite’s hearing was poor, and he would be asleep, unless wakened by the storm. Patrick felt his heart beating, keeping time with the burring of the telephone. He waited two minutes, then hung up.
‘Okay, Patrick - so, suppose you cut this out and tell me exactly what’s going on here?’
He tried to ignore her, starting to take off his wet clothes, but she grabbed him by the arm and forced him to look directly at her.
‘Don’t fuck about with me, Patrick! I have a right to know what’s happening. For Christ’s sake, you’re not even in the trade any longer.’
‘It has nothing to do with that.’
