Moon Hook I - 4
Part I, Chapter 4 of an ongoing fiction series by Maura McHugh, published every Thursday, for subscribers of Splinister.
Part 1
Chapter 4
‘Breakfast’
Daria woke on the moss-green velvet couch, with two fleece throws piled on top of her. Above, the high slanted ceiling was painted a startling blue with scattered clouds. Sunlight poured into the space, indicating it was late morning. The migraine had retreated into a dull malingering ache at her temple. She kicked her bare feet out from under the coverings and glanced down at the large basin of water on the sheepskin rug beside her temporary bed. It had not been some fever dream: last night she’d rummaged through Niamh’s kitchen cabinets, aided only by dim lighting, and she’d plunged her feet into near-boiling water hoping to banish her brain miasma with Cathal’s YouTube cure.
It had worked.
She had collapsed, partially dressed, on the couch, desperate for sleep and restoration.
Sitting up out of the shadow of a bureau, the sunshine pummelled Daria via two sliding glass doors that led onto a wooden porch. Through the glare she glimpsed railings and greenery followed by an expanse of ocean, interrupted by jagged pillars of stone; the Hag’s Teeth, was the local name for them.
Her t-shirt stuck to her skin from sleep sweat, and her underwear elastic appeared to be trying to garotte her legs. Daria moaned, hating the sour taste in her mouth but more, the sense of dislocation. Once, waking up to unfamiliar sights put a bounce in her step, but recently its charm had diminished. Most surprising: adaptability was a skill that required practice.
Daria looked about, taking in the open plan sitting room and kitchen, with its numerous paintings and posters hanging on white walls. Every piece of furniture appeared to be hand tooled or bespoke. In front of her a massive spiral fossil was coated in see-through lacquer to form the top of a coffee table. The mantle of the stone fireplace was made from an ancient beam. Beside it was a high-backed chair designed to resemble multi-coloured coral, inlaid with hot pink upholstery.
For a while she blinked and breathed, until the deep hush of the house permeated her consciousness. She stood up and padded into the kitchen, happy to discover there was underfloor heating. A retro fridge murmured gracefully, breaking the eeriness of the complete silence. She drank water, and rooted around in the cupboards until she located a package of old coffee and an Espresso Moka Pot. Ten minutes later she leaned against the black marble countertop, inhaling a fresh brew, and trying to synch with the weird maximalist vibe.
There was something off about the artwork. They were oddly placed which created a sense of peculiar proportions. One round white piece had a frame constructed from huge industrial steel nails. In an otherwise realistic painting, the faces of servers in a fast-food restaurant were warped like a funhouse mirror, lending their smiles and eyes a manic quality. In a vast grassy landscape, a faraway cabin with a porch had a roof in flames. Slight strokes of paint suggested a person sitting patiently under the smoking veranda – waiting for help or content with the situation? Perhaps the arsonist? Placed on the tiled kitchen windowsill, in a glass dome display, a stuffed wren perched on what looked like a tiny human skeletal arm. Daria leaned close and tapped the glass, as if expecting the wee bird to sing. Its black dead eye reflected her in miniature.
The owner, Niamh Moore, was an important artist and curator in obscure avant-garde circles according to Daria’s quick Google search. As far as Daria could make out, she had deep pockets, because only wealth could buy privacy, and there were few photographs of Niamh online. In each of them she was stylishly confident and offbeat, and usually at charity events with art collectors. Best of all she was rarely in residence in her summer home, Moon Nook. She occasionally let out the property, but only to friends or their friends’ friends. She had a quiet reputation of being sympathetic to people down on their luck, and word had trickled back to her that Daria needed a refuge.
She wandered to the sliding doors, cup in hand, and enjoyed the rays on her skin. Outside, past the porch, a path meandered through resilient shrubs to what she assumed was a sheer drop. The edge of an outbuilding shone behind waving fronds. Mammoth sea gulls hung in a breeze with nonchalant ease and the sun sparkled over waves.
The black hag teeth grinned a welcome at her.
Daria raised her cup in salute. ‘Sláinte,’ she said.
An hour later, newly showered and dressed in an ancient Dead can Dance t-shirt and track suit bottoms, Daria had figured out the house. The front section was comprised of a 19th century faux Gothic gate lodge designed with weird angles to make a flower shape. The bedrooms and bathroom were located there, and at the back, the large modern extension with sitting room and kitchen, attached by a short glass tunnel. She imagined it cost a fortune and probably won awards for its sympathetic merging of styles.
All the bedroom doors were locked, which had stymied her the previous night, but she had the patience of a good night’s rest to match the keys and open the three spare rooms. Nothing granted her ingress to the master bedroom. Daria wheeled her large bag into the smallest bedroom which snagged the best natural light in the afternoon. It had a big porthole window, and she reckoned its sunset view would be spectacular. Behind the wrought iron head of the bed was a feature wall with scarlet wallpaper depicting a lush gold and black jungle scene. Except all the animal eyes were embroidered with shiny bright green beads.
She decided to work in the kitchen.
As she grabbed her laptop bag and her leather work satchel from the hallway a memory stopped her in her tracks: the large plastic expanding folder, on the passenger seat, and the lights of the line bridge pulsing over it. Then… her surprise guest.
She dropped the bags, grabbed her keys from the table, and dashed to her car.
Daria yanked open the car door and reeled back slightly from the smell. The car had turned into a hot house in the morning sun. The car seat was smeared with light white streaks, but no folder.
She shifted into cool, analytical mode. In her past career she’d been known as SOS Shawe for her ability to remain steady in a crisis. Daria methodically checked under every seat and nook and cranny in the car. It was gone.
She maintained a steely rationality and picked through all her hand luggage. No folder.
She checked her smart phone: only a couple of bars and no data signal. She walked outside to the front of the house, and noticed the mature trees lining the property, offering privacy and shelter. She rang Cathal.
‘Ah, Daria. How’s the head?’ A blast from a coffee machine. Cups clinked.
‘Better, thanks.’
‘You’ll be after your folder?’
‘Yes!’
‘You left it on a table when we did that quick clean-up job.’
‘I’ll be right over!’
‘I can send Muireann if you’re busy.’ The receiver muffled, and he shouted, ‘Right so, Ruairí. Slán!’
‘No, thanks, I need to buy supplies anyway.’
‘Ceart go leor. See you soon.’ He disconnected.
Daria allowed five-minutes for make-up and gloss, and threw on black jeans, her sturdy ankle boots, leather jacket and silk scarf with skulls.
She left the passenger side window partly open to air out the vehicle as she drove carefully along the winding roads sided with stone walls. Just before a cluster of houses a sign pointed to the right, declared it was the way to Trá Bolg. She could just make out a sliver of a curving sandy beach.
Her patchy grasp of Irish kicked in. ‘Belly Beach?’
In her mind’s eye the beach swarmed with ageing Irish males, white bellies hanging over their speedos with pride.
Daria laughed, and within minutes she pulled up near The Catch.
As she stepped out of her car, an older gentleman wearing glasses and a cap, with a sheepdog trotting beside him, walked towards her, and nodded. ‘Dia duit.’
She dipped her head in acknowledgement and mumbled ‘Good morning.’ She though she detected a faint wince of disappointment as the duo briskly passed her.
Daria remembered her first Irish class, which she started at age eight, mid-term, after seven years in England. How Mr. Walsh admonished her to drop her ‘pretend Brit accent’ and ‘start talking like a proper Irish girl.’ Her stubborn nature reared up and for the rest of the year she’d mangled her Irish vocabulary with an outrageously broad English pronunciation. Thereafter, she was rarely called on in class.
Now, any time she attempted to speak Irish a reflex stress cinched the words in her throat.
The fish chimes jangled as she opened the door, and a blast of heat and the smell of frying food set her stomach rumbling.
Cathal, behind the counter, raised a hand in welcome. ‘Daria, you’ll want breakfast?’
She pretended not to notice the locals eyeing her while supping tea and munching toast. A lone tourist in a green fleece tucked into a splendid fry-up, unaware of the Irish radar for newcomers.
She weaved between tables to reach his station. ‘Yes, I’m starving, but can I have the folder now?’
He waved at a table for two. ‘Sit down, and Muireann will fetch it.’
Daria took off her jacket, sat, and observed the way the young woman approached her, holding the large folder gingerly. She was wearing an apron over her jeans and a white shirt, rolled at the elbows.
Daria spotted the tattoo on the inside of her forearm. A mermaid, swimming through foam and seaweed, and rendered with a delicate touch. She had observed many terrible tattoos crimes, but this one was drawn by an artist.
‘Nice tattoo,’ Daria said, amiably.
‘Your folder stinks,’ Muireann stated, and placed it on the table, but her secret-loving smile was back.
Daria steadfastly ignored the folder as if it wasn’t important. ‘Can I get a menu?’
‘Of course,’ and Muireann stretched to reach a stack of them and pulled one out for her. She handed it to Daria, and stood, pad in hand, waiting.
Daria scanned the menu quickly.
‘Porridge with berries, please. And a large Americano.’
‘Anything else?’
Daria, brightly: ‘No, that’s all.’
Muireann sauntered to the counter and handed the docket to her father. He frowned and walked to her table.
‘This can’t be all you’re having? You didn’t eat last night?’
‘No.’
‘How about a mini-fry with it, get some protein in you.’ That intense scrutiny returned, the one where Daria felt like she was under a scanner that could somehow see through to her bones.
‘I’m a vegetarian.’ She expected the usual pushback but was surprised.
‘Who isn’t these days? We even cater to vegans. So, how about two eggs and toast?’
‘Okay, fried?’
‘Easily done.’
He departed, and Daria deigned to look at her errant package. Luckily, its plastic exterior was resistant to damage by bird shit. Not that she’d ever imagined that bizarre possibility, and she hadn’t picked the container. It had arrived like that a week earlier, via courier delivery.
Someone had wiped the cover clean. The snap that kept it closed was in place, but anyone could have read through its contents or photographed them with a phone.
Muireann was right, a pungent odour lingered.
She felt her aged phone buzzing in her jacket pocket, the one only her mother used. No doubt another mad forecast from the outer wilderness of her Mam’s imagination. It would have to wait.
The distorted faces of the people in Niamh’s painting appeared in her mind. This last year in seclusion, this past week or upending activity, and this strange island… it was too much, too fast, too destabilising. Would she wake up one day, unhinged by life’s blows, living in a disconnected reality like an ancient oracle, seeing glimpses of other worlds but only capable of communicating through garbled words?
Muireann dropped the dishes in front of Daria, and the smell of hearty food and coffee dispersed her introspection.
Her hunger roared into life, and she grinned down at the porridge, eggs, and butter melting over home-made brown bread.
‘Cheers,’ she said, and began cutting into an egg, which was cooked to the perfect consistency.
She ate a forkful of creamy yoke with butter-moist bread and for a moment she closed her eyes and relished its deliciousness and the grounding reminder of the value of ordinary needs.
The bullshit head stuff could wait until after breakfast.
When Daria opened her eyes Muireann was sitting opposite, her eyes gleaming.
‘I can help, you know.’
Life, apparently, did not want Daria to enjoy her meal. She forcefully speared chunks of food, aiming for oblivious. ‘You already have.’ She whirled her fork of morsels in a celebratory fashion.
Muireann leaned forward, glanced around, and dropped her voice to a conspiratorial whisper, ‘About Emerald Heart, I mean.’
Daria laid down her cutlery.
Fuck.