Ruthless - [6]

to see, was another form lying here – Redmond, her twin, her life.

There was no one.

Away in the distance, inland, she could see lights. A house. People who might help. But she was alone on the beach and for the first time she realized in panic that from here on she would be alone in life too.

She broke down and cried then, unable to believe that he was gone, that he was lost to her. How would she go on without him? Sodden, shivering, bleeding from many small cuts, she pushed herself to her feet and stood there, taking in the thundering sea, the ghostly moonlit sand and glossy wet pebbles, the sheer vast emptiness of it all.

‘Redmond!’ she screamed.

But no one answered.

No one came.

6

Walking away from the beach felt like a betrayal, but Orla knew that if she was to survive, she would have to get out of the chilling wind that was flattening her wet clothes against her skin. And she might yet find him alive. She clung to that hope as she stumbled through the dark, trembling and falling and crying, towards the lights of the house. Her shivering had intensified, and she knew that hypothermia was setting in, it was all she could do to resist the overwhelming desire to simply lie down and surrender to the cold, to sleep and never wake again.

The massive roar of the sea sounded a counterpoint to her frenzied heartbeat as she forced herself to walk on, to survive this. She passed a stack of lobster pots, a pile of nets and old chains, ropes and weights. Tripping over something in the sand, she sprawled head-first on to a narrow walkway beside an upturned rowing boat, its paint peeling off. Using the boat for support, she pulled herself upright and staggered painfully on. Her shoes must have fallen off in the sea; when she glanced down her feet were bloodied and her tights were in shreds. Her feet were so numb she couldn’t even feel the pain of the gravel biting into the soles.

Redmond.

She was at the cottage now, gulping, trying to compose herself. An old bike was propped against the wall. There was no sign of a car. Instead of a doorbell there was a miniature brass bell suspended on a bracket, a brass gnome crouched beneath it, holding a chain. She yanked at the chain, and the bell rang.

Nothing happened. She yanked it again.

Jesus, please, please, will you open the fecking door?

It seemed like an age before she heard movement. Bolts being thrown back. Then all at once a small man was standing there. He was sixtyish, with a thick mop of springy grey hair. His face was as gnarled and weathered as driftwood. Bright hazel eyes stared out at her in surprise from under dark brows. He wore a white shirt, pulled up to his elbows to show sinewy workman’s arms, red braces, and black trousers shiny from wear.

‘Can you help?’ said Orla in a cracked voice that was high with strain. She knew the one thing she couldn’t afford to tell anyone was that she’d been in a plane crash. The flight hadn’t been authorized for take-off. It wouldn’t take the Garda long to realize that something was amiss, and they would be on to the English police before you could say knife. ‘My brother and I were out in a dinghy. It capsized. Can you help me look for him please?’

The man stared for a long moment. Then he stepped back and said, ‘Come along in.’

Orla entered the warm cottage interior. It felt unreal, this cosy normality, like a dream. A woman was watching TV at the kitchen table. The newsman was saying that British troops had sealed off the Catholic Bogside area in Londonderry after clashes with rioters. The woman looked up in wonder at this half-drowned young woman standing there dripping all over her clean floor.

‘What…?’ she breathed, coming to her feet.

‘There’s been a boating accident,’ said the man. ‘Cissie, get the brandy out.’

Orla was shaking her head, hard. Brandy? Desperation was making her eyes manic. ‘There’s no time for that. We have to go and find him. Fetch torches.’

‘But I-’

‘We haven’t time for this. For the love of God, fetch the torches and let’s go.’ But she was trembling so badly that she could no longer hold herself upright. She fell forward almost delicately, and found herself on her knees with her head humming so loudly she was sure she was about to pass out. The cottage lights seemed to flicker in and out of focus and suddenly everything was very far away, even their clucking anxious voices as they got her off her knees and on to a chair.

‘Get that brandy, Cissie,’ she dimly heard the old man say. ‘I’ll go out and check the shoreline.’

Orla refocused to see Cissie crouching in front of her, watching her with concern.

‘Yes, that’s the thing for a shock like this.’ Cissie hurried away and returned with a glass brimming with amber liquid. ‘Here, here,’ she said, putting the glass against Orla’s lips. Orla sipped, felt it warming her all the way down. She coughed, sipped again.

‘Don’t you worry,’ Cissie was chattering on, ‘Donny will find your brother if anyone can, he knows this stretch of coast inside out. Now, let’s sort you out some dry clothes…’