Moon Hook I - 3
Part I, Chapter 3 of an ongoing fiction series by Maura McHugh, published every Thursday, for subscribers of Splinister.
Part I
Chapter 3
‘Keys’
By the time Daria and Cathal completed their awkward stroll back to The Catch, the am-dram crowd had cleared out, leaving a musty hangover of vintage clothing and thwarted nosiness.
When the chimes announced their return Daria was able to notice the premises properly. The large, high-ceilinged room was fully lined in timber, giving the illusion of the interior of a galleon, with four fake square windows with backlit stained glass depicting scenes at sea. In each a creature cavorted: a sharp-toothed mermaid lounged on rocks, a giant kraken squeezed sailors with its tentacles, a grinning god drove a chariot over waves, and a crone with seaweed hair threw rocks into the ocean.
About twenty assorted tables occupied the space before the kitchen counter, of varying sizes and all appeared to be vintage. Two ancient black metal chandeliers hung from the ceiling, their faux candles dialled down to a muted glow. The room was decked out in nautical memorabilia, including a massive harpoon and the skeleton of a giant fish which hung over a stone fireplace. The crown glass panes in the bow windows lent the outside world a distorted visage.
Daria paused and glanced at Cathal. ‘I’m sensing a theme…’
He shook his head with a smile, closed the door behind them, and flipped the sign over so it read Dúnta to potential customers.
Cathal gestured Daria to a high stool by the counter. ‘Most of it is reclaimed wood from the Spanish Armada shipwrecks back in the 16th century. Islanders don’t let anything go to waste.’
Daria sat and regarded the restaurant with disbelief. ‘Sounds like an old fishwife’s tale to me, but I’m sure the tourists gobble it up.’
He pointed out the window. ‘Hundreds of sailors drowned right out there and no one could help them. A single person walked away from that storm. That’s not something people who make their livelihood from the sea forget, that’s their greatest horror. Thousands more were wrecked up and down the coast of the mainland and most of them were butchered on orders of the Crown.’ He paused as if sensing he’d veered too far into educational mode. ‘There’s a 2000 lb rusting anchor down at the slipway that you can check out tomorrow. Or visit Salacia up on the cliffs. I’m sure she’ll explain.’
Daria’s migraine pulsed, and the faint smell of coffee with an undertone of fish mingled in a weird way. She pressed her forehead again. ‘Who, what?’
Cathal reached over the counter and grabbed a jug of water and a glass. He poured water into the glass and pushed it towards her. ‘Salacia is the Roman goddess of the sea, and Neptune’s consort. One of the ships had her figurehead on the prow. When she washed up on the shore, it was thought only right to offer her a permanent view of her domain, and as a mark of respect for her dead shipmates.’
Daria sipped the water gladly, aware of a slight woozy quality, as if she was aboard the ancient creaking ship, cresting dangerous swells. Outside, seagulls and the wind wailed greetings to each other. The door pressed in slightly, as if holding back an unseen visitor.
‘Fascinating,’ she said without conviction.
He assessed her, and stated, ‘I’ll get the keys to Niamh’s house. I should drive you.’
‘No,’ she aimed for flat refusal, but it sounded weak. It had been a long time since someone genuinely offered help; or she considered taking it. That sapping yearning… how she hated it.
Her resolve returned. ‘Thanks, but no.’
‘I’ll bring her.’
‘Mother of…’ Daria yelped, jerking the rest of the water on her legs.
A tall figure floated from the shadowed kitchen entrance. Black hair wet to her skull
‘Muireann!’ Cathal, surprised. ‘You didn’t say you were coming home.’
The woman smiled as if secrets were her treasure. Her young face was dewed with rain, but her dramatic black eyeliner remained fabulously intact. ‘I wouldn’t miss the parade.’
Daria could see the resemblance in the way they held themselves separate.
‘Of course.’
They don’t fight in front of others.
Daria replaced the empty glass on the counter. It scraped loudly. They turned to her, both eyebrows furrowing in a similar way, with the same intense scrutiny.
‘I’m Daria,’ she said as friendly as she could manage. ‘Nice to meet you Muireann, but I must get a move on before the birds arrive to exact their revenge or my head splits open. Can I get those keys, Cathal?’
Muireann moved around the counter like a sylph, her Doc Martens making no noise. Her oversized black rain poncho dripped water.
‘Niamh’s never rented her place before.’ She leaned an elbow on the counter and smiled with no warmth.
‘I’m lucky, I guess,’ Daria replied.
‘Are you staying long?’
‘It depends.’
Cathal moved to his daughter’s side. ‘Niamh phoned me. She rarely stays for the winter. This way I won’t have to keep an eye on the place.’
Muireann glared at her father. ‘She told me I could stay there!’
‘When?’
She couldn’t hold his gaze. ‘Before.’ A sulkiness swept through her, and Daria realised this fledgling was barely weaned.
Daria stood, ignoring the uncertain ground she stepped upon. ‘I should go.’
Cathal nodded, ‘Of course,’ and walked into the kitchen, clicking on the overhead lights.
Muireann studied Daria with a faint, superior smile. ‘You’re a journalist, right? Writing a story on the whacky island, digging into old scandals and mysteries.’ They regarded each other in silence and Muireann tilted back her head slightly. ‘Or is it our beloved benefactor who’s brought you here?’
Daria shrugged. ‘I like islands.’
Something flickered across Muireann’s features, a cratered pain, before it vanished again. ‘Be careful. This one eats people.’
Daria, nonchalant: ‘I’m told I cause indigestion.’
Muireann laughed as if it was the funniest joke ever cracked on a kindergarten playground.
Cathal walked back in, jangling a key ring, and looked between the two women, waiting to be let in on the joke.
Daria sat forward in her car seat, the wipers thumping against the rain, the headlights keeping up with the taillights of Cathal’s ancient Jeep. He’d insisted on helping her clean out the worst of the bird mess before driving before her to Niamh’s house. She kept the bird’s feather on her dashboard, hoping it might work as a good luck charm; she could use it. Her arguments against his guidance simply rolled off Cathal, and Daria didn’t have the energy to overwhelm him with her self-reliance.
Cathal said it was one of the best roads on the island, but it barely had room for two cars to pass, and stubborn briars whipped out at her car from the unruly hedgerows. They bumped along in darkness for six kilometres, passing the occasional cottage, until the road truly widened and they drove past a tiny residential area, followed by a long series of modern houses, all square lines and massive windows. Shortly after, the indicator winked orange, and the Jeep rumbled up an inclined gravel driveway studded with dim solar-fed lights. She got a sense of a large, well-planted garden.
Daria parked her car beside Cathal’s making sure he had enough room to turn and leave.
A motion sensor light blasted on, revealing a stone façade with gothic windows. Cathal waited for her at the front door, sheltering under a peaked awning. He pointed out the camera hiding in the eave and showed her the various keys.
‘Once inside, you’ll have thirty seconds to input the code. Otherwise, the security company will contact Niamh, and she’ll call me in a panic.’
The beeping began as soon as he pushed the door open, and Cathal snapped on a light switch before opening a small panel. Daria watched carefully as he pressed the sequence of numbers.
‘Got it?’
‘Yes, thanks.’
There was a slim antique table in the hallway with a large gold-framed mirror above it with glass so distressed it was mostly milky. A shoe rack sat underneath with a couple of pairs of garish fluffy slippers. A freestanding wooden coat stand beside it had arms carved to look like insect arms. A large vinyl raincoat, with blue and white stripes and a large red middle band hung from it. Cathal pulled out the desk drawer and picked up a hand-stitched leather notebook covered in embroidery, buttons and charms.
Niamh Moore’s Moon Nook Almanac was sewn into the side.
Daria raised an eyebrow at its bespoke weirdness as Cathal handed it to her.
‘Get used to that,’ he said. ‘All you need to know about the house is here. In between the sketches, pressed flowers, recipes and to-do lists.’
‘Okaaaaay,’ she drawled out, sensing a forthcoming voyage of discovery.
The deep chill of an empty house sidled up to her. She glanced down the hallway at an arched entrance into darkness. She shuddered.
‘Do you want me to show you around?’
That disconcerting kindness again. It was beginning to irritate her.
‘No, you’ve done far too much already.’
‘I’ll help you with your bags at least.’
He was out the door before she could protest, and by the time she caught up with him, the notebook still in her hand, he had opened the back door and was hauling out her monster suitcase.
Cathal let out a whoosh of surprise at its weight. He gave her a reappraising look but made no comment as he heaved it into the house, not bothering to wheel it over the gravel.
She pulled her other bags out of the boot of the car, piled them all on, and stumbled through the door to prove she wasn’t an invalid. She dropped them in the hallway with relief.
Cathal stood at the threshold and handed her the keys. ‘Any questions?’
‘Always. But not for you at present.’
He looked at her like she was a puzzle. ‘Not to state the obvious, but this is an island. By tomorrow, everyone will know you’re here.’
She waited, sensing a piece of advice winding its way towards her.
‘And they’ll be looking out for you.’
‘That sounds kind of disturbing.’
For a moment he said nothing but stared outside the circle of illumination from the hallway. His tufts of thick hair stirred in the gusts, and Daria noticed the grey at his temples.
A bat skirted the edge of the light arc with skittery speed.
‘Moon Hook exists at the edge,’ Cathal said, finally. ‘Beyond…’ a low deep boom, as a wave crashed in the distance, ‘is all we fear in our darkest hearts.’
She glanced at him, surprised by the poetic streak.
‘Oh, and soak your feet in water as hot as you can bear. I saw it on YouTube. It’s supposed to cure a migraine.’
‘I’ll try it.’
‘Good night,’ and Cathal strode towards his car.
Daria closed the door and turned to look at the pile of her belongings in the hallway.
A pit of despair opened beneath her feet. That’s all she owned. She was forty-four years old and starting again from nothing.
In her jacket pocket the ancient Nokia phone vibrated.
She dug it out. The contact was labelled, Mam.
The text message read. ‘Do not worry about the gale. A bigger tempest is coming.’