Can I contact them?”
“I'd say you where jumping the gun a little there, Sir. You see, they haven’t been there five years come November. They didn't want to leave, to be honest. They'd taken up with the drug smuggling you see, Sir, and the guards and the navy raided the island one dark night. Caught the whole lot of em, the mummy, daddy and the three sons. Caught red handed and jailed for twenty-five years. Who'd have thought it? Such a devoted family, never missed a Mass.”
“Look, I need to get to that island today. Is there anyone who can take me across? It's vital I get there today.”
‘The guards don't like anyone going to that island. They dug at it for months, people tell of buried drugs but the guards only found what was in the house and on the boat. They don't like people going there, Sir, they keep watch, everybody stays away.”
The stranger reached into his pocket and pulled out enough money to buy a boat, let alone hire one.
He looked directly into the old man's eyes, “Doesn't anyone have a boat to take me across? I'll pay anything to get over today, but it has to be today, I don't care about the guards.”
The old man shuffled on his feet, removed his cap and held it with both hands to his chest as he directed his words straight at that huge building in the distance.
“Michael Mulready is known to have a boat nearby, Sir, but he'd want paying.”
The stranger sensed a result as the thumb of his other hand flicked up, drawing the old man's eyes ever closer.
“If Michael Mulready will take me to that island today, wait ten minutes, then bring me back, there'll be one thousand English pounds for him, in cash.”
“I'll go and get me boat,” said Michael Mulready, turning and scurrying away as fast as his old legs would move. All thought of catching his supper, as well as drug smugglers and guards, gone from his head.
“Don't be gone long, Michael, I'm in a hurry. What about the guards?”
“I'll only be ten minutes, Sir. We've got to go before it gets dark, and them guards would be looking for a needle in a haystack,” he shouted back, nearly tripping over his own feet.
The stranger went back to his car, sat in the driver's seat, and lit a cigarette. As he flicked the ash through the car's open window, he gave thought to the rest of his journey. The only drawback now, as far as he could see, would be the guards. He had to finish today and time was running out - he would only worry about the guards if and when they appeared - he had no option but to trust the mercenary old sod.
Old Michael had now been gone for half an hour, which made me wonder what was wrong? He'd
offered a thousand pounds but would the old fool think there might be an even bigger reward? Would he return with his boat or with the guards? The stranger's state of agitation was once again apparent. He decided to try farther along the coast and was about to drive away when he heard the sound of a boat's engine. It was a full two minutes before the boat sailed into view.
Michael Mulready was alone, sitting in the stern - holding the tiller with one hand, and fiddling with the engine with the other. It wasn't much of a boat, but the stranger was in no position to complain. He almost jumped and punched the air, but he was in no mood to celebrate, he had a job to do, and time was of the essence.
He pulled up the zip on his jacket because the wind that had cleared the fog was now bringing in the clouds and finding its way down his back. Collecting a rucksack from the boot, and holding it firmly in his arms, he walked to the end of the old pier.
“Sorry for the delay, Sir, but I'm here now with old Shirley, she'll get you there, Sir, no problem, jump in. About that fifteen hundred pound fare, Sir?”
“I said a thousand you old pest, here's five hundred, the rest on the way back. I thought you'd gone for the bloody guards?”
“Me Sir? No way. They've been after talking to me about some cod that keep going missing, but what would I know about missing cod? Maybe I'll pop in and have a chat with ‘em some day, when I've got more time on me hands,” said Michael, before he began to whistle away as he steered Shirley towards the island.
The stranger's head was constantly moving; scanning for the guards or anything else that could foil his plan. He felt so alone and so exposed in that open boat on that open sea, consequently making it seem that the closer he got to his goal, then the greater this risk of failure.
“If it's the worry of the guards that's making that head of yours so jumpy, don't worry, they'll all be sitting around a nice fire having a nice cup of coco. I've been dodging them for years, they couldn't catch a fly,”' claimed Michael from the back of the boat.
“They managed to catch the smugglers with all those drugs,” the stranger pointed out shouting back, without taking his eyes off of the horizon or his arms from around the holdall.
“How many times do I have to tell you? They have trouble finding a bun in the bakers.'
“Michael, to be quite honest, right now they'd have no trouble at all when it comes to finding me. Believe me you.”
Some fifteen, trouble free minutes later they arrived at the island's old wooden jetty where a rotting sign said, “Welcome to Kilkenny.”
“Tie-up Michael, I'll only be ten minutes,” yelled the stranger as he
leapt on to the jetty nearly losing his balance as a result.
Must be full of golden eggs the way he's holding that bag, Michael thought to himself.
The stranger walked onto the land at the far end of the jetty, he looked around and then turned to face the jetty to check his position. He moved a few paces to the side and then paced out a couple of dozen strides away from the jetty, where he made a mark in the earth with his foot. He retraced his steps and placed the holdall onto the jetty's ancient green decking.
Crouching, he pulled back the zip and reached inside with both hands, they reappeared cradling a beautifully decorated spice jar. He then returned to his marker, carrying the jar as if it were the most precious thing in his life.
When on the correct spot he slowly lifted the lid whilst the sea breeze drew grains of white powder from within. He'd been so focused on the jar that he'd failed to notice Michael had followed him, and was now looking around his shoulder and into the lidless pot.
“By heck. I knew it was the drugs. It had to be,” shouted Michael, “I just knew it. Look at that powder, it must be worth a fortune? Burying it here - brilliant, just brilliant, the guards have dug at this place till their hearts consent which is why they'll never look again. Pure genius, the safest place in all of Ireland. This'll cost you more than a grand for the fare, though.”
The stranger turned to confront Michael with tears and anger flooding his eyes, “Michael, these are the ashes of my wife. She was born on this island. She left when she was twelve, and never returned. I promised her on her deathbed that I would return her to the spot where she used to play as a child. I promised that I would sow her ashes in this very place on her birthday. That's why it has to be today. Today she is fifty years old, and she's come home - forever.”
Michael's jaw dropped, closely followed by his cap, muttering to himself before going into a phase of saying Hail Mary's and Our Father's over and over.
The stranger turned once again. At arm's length he lifted the urn, and ever so slowly tipped out its precious contents.
Every granule of that priceless white dust was welcomed and embraced by the very same breeze that some years ago had been her constant companion in this isolated place. He watched through loving eyes as she danced and played, wild and excited.
He could now see once again those happy times, when just as wild she had danced him off of his feet with her beaming face laughing as she tried to force his unwilling body just once more around the dance floor, just a distant memory.
When she'd settled into her eternal home he replaced the lid and stood the empty urn upon her cherished ground. “Goodbye, you're home now,” he sobbed, “I’ll be back someday for my own turn around this dance-floor, you'd better be waiting, Girl.”
Then, with drowning eyes but head raised, he turned and marched away. “Come on Michael, I hope to God you know a place where a man can get a good old drink, and be left well alone with his thoughts and his memories.”
