The Hollow Heart Part 11

He touched her arm. "You okay?"

She smiled, relieved for some reason. "Absolutely fine."

"The little fella?"

"Over there with the rest of the menagerie." She indicated the pile of puppies and children on the floor in the corner, Monty in the midst of them, having the best of times.

"You take care," she told his back, as he left.

Father Gregory turned at the door.

"In the name of the Father, and of the Son and of the Holy Ghost, G.o.d bless us all. Amen."

"G.o.d Bless, Father. Amen," they murmured back at him, crossing themselves as the makes.h.i.+ft rescue team disappeared.

There was no let up. Even the oldest resident had never seen anything like it. The torrential rain coupled with gale force winds had not eased in nearly twenty-four hours. The roads in and out of Innishmahon were impa.s.sable. The new black tar of the European Union funded thoroughfares, awash, as the land alongside, unable to bear the force of the water, broke banks and gave way; rocks, trees and livestock were swept down towards the village, which clung precariously to the sea wall. A section of the new bridge, only two kilometres from the village centre, had cracked and split in the night and crashed, hardly discernible above the howling of the storm, into the bay below. The last non-residents leaving after the session at the pub, had driven over it, barely half an hour ahead of its collapse. It was a miracle no-one had been killed.

Ryan watched as Sinead made Mrs Molloy as comfortable as possible, but diagnosed the old lady had fractured both her hip and collarbone in the fall. How bad the breaks were, was impossible to tell, but the old woman was in excruciating pain, the merest movement, agony. Sinead spoke softly to her, administering a pain killer.

"This will ease things a little, Mrs Molloy. Try not to move." The old woman barely felt the needle. As Sinead withdrew it, she flashed a look at Padar. He nodded. The old lady started to cough, the very act unbearable. She whimpered, pitifully.

"It'll be alright Mrs Molloy, we'll get you to the hospital just as soon as we can," Padar said rea.s.suringly. The woman's eyes pleaded back at him.

"G.o.d love her," he said to Ryan, as he closed the bedroom door behind him.

The men set to work. Father Gregory was slos.h.i.+ng about downstairs, pa.s.sing items of furniture and bric-a-brac up to Ryan on the landing.

"She'll have to be moved; Sinead's concerned pneumonia will set in," Ryan said. Gregory looked up.

"This place won't hold much longer. We all need to get out." As he spoke, there was a loud groan and a beam at the gable end of the cottage eased away from the wall. "Let's go. Now!"

The 4x4 barely made it back down to the village. Two converging waves pushed it off course and at one point it stuck in a landslide of mud, wheels spinning.

"Keep it going, Padar. If it stops we've had it," roared Ryan over the storm. As he and Gregory heaved the vehicle over into a slipstream, it freed the backend and they were away again. The vehicle slid into the pub yard. Ryan and Gregory carried Mrs Molloy inside, while Padar chained the vehicle to the building.

"It could get worse," Padar told Sinead, as she pushed the precious bag of medicine under her coat and made for the sandbagged entrance.

Kathleen MacReady had managed to make contact with the Coastguard about Mrs Molloy. She was sipping out of a bottle of stout up at the bar. It was a trend she had noticed the youngsters favoured with foreign lagers, although lager was not to her liking, she could never miss out on a trend. Her spindly legs clad in laddered black stockings were crossed in wellington boots, a scarlet French beret was flattened on her russet curls. She wore dangling diamante earrings, her Friday earrings. Things must be bad. Today was Sat.u.r.day.

"We've a bit of break in it coming this afternoon. Not long. The air ambulance will try to get in then. She'd need to be down at the pier though." Miss MacReady addressed Padar. The pier to which she so grandly referred, was a fifty foot stretch of stone and wooden jetty tacked onto the bay at the edge of the village, just beyond where the road turned to a sandy track.

"It'll be under water." Padar glanced out of the window. The water was rising steadily in the yard. The street which had become a stream, was turning into a river. He and Father Gregory had the same thought. Not ten minutes later they were launching the boat into Main Street. Ryan went with Joan Redmond's husband, Paul, to commandeer his, and with three other men, they loaded the st.u.r.dy fis.h.i.+ng boats with lump hammers and pickaxes.

"What's the plan?" asked Miss MacReady, puffing on a cigarette, despite the ban.

"We reckon if we break a hole in the sea wall to release some of the water coming through the town, we'll at least be able to get down to the jetty with Mrs Molloy."

"And save half the village from following the bridge into the ocean," added Father Gregory.

"You have a couple of hours. Then it's back, maybe worse." Miss MacReady dropped the stub of her cigarette into the beer bottle. It hissed.

"Please Padar, she's only one old woman. You'll all be swept away," Oonagh pleaded. Mrs Molloy groaned in the corner.

"Has to be done," Padar answered. And the men left.

After about an hour and a half, the water which had been rising rapidly in the street, started to subside and drain away. The men had managed to make a hole at a pressure point. The water began to spill through the gap down the cliff face and, as the wind dropped back, the driving rain dissolved into a swirling, damp mist.

"Right, let's go," commanded Sinead, as Marianne and Oonagh lifted the frail old lady, strapped in a sleeping bag, onto the lightweight stretcher that Phileas had brought down from the pharmacy.

"I'll drive," said Oonagh, unchaining the 4x4. "I understand her temperament." She nodded at the car.

In minutes, they were at the pier; the rea.s.suring whir of the helicopter blades a little way out to sea. The men had moored the boats to the jetty, the waves cras.h.i.+ng them against the wall. Oonagh counted, to be sure they were all still there. She blessed herself. The women edged the vehicle as close to the sea wall as they could. The men hauled one of the boats, hanging onto the mooring chain, towards them. The women pa.s.sed the shrouded parcel across. The old lady was as light as a feather, her only bulk, the sleeping bag. Sinead had dosed her with morphine and although her eyes were open, she was out of it. Padar and Ryan took her into the boat, while Father Gregory and the others began hauling it back down the jetty, the outboard motor struggling against the tide to give any direction or support.

"Alright?" Oonagh called to Padar.

"Nearly there, love." The wind whipped the words back.

They did their best to keep it stable, pus.h.i.+ng it as far out into the bay as possible. The women huddled together at the wall, watching the scene as if it were in slow motion.

Then, in what was the briefest of movements, the sea rescue helicopter appeared, hovering hawk-like over the little vessel bouncing in the swell. A member of the crew in high visibility garb descended and the bundle that was Mrs Molloy was quickly strapped to the helicopter's stretcher. With a flick of his hand, she was lifted away. The man followed, and while those below held their breath, there was the merest swoop of acknowledgement, and the aircraft flew back towards the mainland. Even the sea seemed to breathe a sigh of relief, as momentarily, the waves flattened and the wind dropped. The men turned and headed back towards the sh.o.r.e, the threatening sky following close behind.

"We'll chain the boats up in the yard at the pub. There's probably still enough water to float them," Padar called over the wall to Oonagh.

"Will we need them again?"

Padar eyed the sky beneath his hood. She had her answer.

"We'll punt back up the lane," laughed Father Gregory, already making headway, pus.h.i.+ng the boat along with the oars.

"Last one back's a poof," challenged Ryan, standing up in the other boat. "Sorry Father."

"Sorry yourself," quipped Gregory. "You're the thespian!"

They raced, as best they could, punting back along the lane towards the village. The women looked at each other.

"Adrenaline or Testosterone, I don't know which?" sighed Sinead, climbing into the vehicle.

Oonagh grimaced as she pulled herself up behind the wheel, her face ashen.

"I'll drive back," Marianne offered, making for the door.

Oonagh gripped the wheel.

"No sure, I'm grand."

They too, raced all the way back to the pub.

Chapter Eleven .

The Yanks Are Coming

The first thing a visitor to Knock Airport will notice, even after the biggest terrorist attack the Western World has ever seen, is its relaxed, gentle intimacy. The sprawling airfield in one of Ireland's most westerly counties is only a few miles from Knock, the tiny village where the Virgin Mary miraculously appeared to a gathering of locals on 21st August 1879.

Pa.s.sengers, airport personnel and even security staff, of which there are scant few, communicate in a civilised and cheery tone, talking of whence they had come and where they were going. They sit around the bar in the centre of the general lounge, travellers together, chatting and laughing, drinking beer and taking tea. Knock Airport feels like the beginning or the end of a very pleasant adventure, the place has a tangible sense of wonderment, a most unusual atmosphere for an airport, miraculous even and, given its history, perhaps not surprising. Of course, it did not appear that way to everyone.

Larry Leeson strode out of the lavatory marked 'Fir' Gaelic for man - his fist taut around the handle of his holdall, his eyes smarting as they always did after he had spent more than five minutes on an aircraft. The flight from Shannon to Knock had been particularly harrowing, the little plane had been b.u.mped and buffeted during what the captain said was a welcome lull in a particularly severe weather front.

"A lull?" Larry had asked incredulously of the lone air stewardess, who having served coffee, hastily took her seat and strapped herself in.

Now safely on terra-firma, Larry took an inhaler from the pocket of his Donegal tweed overcoat, bought in a hurry especially for the trip. He had been concerned he would look conspicuous; the collection of cagoules, hoodies and fleeces modelled by his fellow pa.s.sengers did little to a.s.suage his fears. He returned the inhaler, sniffing to clear his head and, wiping horn-rimmed spectacles on his scarf, squinted at a large, roman-faced clock. Had he gone back in time? He was half expecting to find a horse and cart at the taxi rank.

A blond man, in a blue blazer and spotted handkerchief was leaning against the door of a battered people carrier. He wore jeans and cowboy boots and was seriously underdressed for the weather. On closer inspection, the ensemble had seen better days, frayed cuffs were revealed as he put a roll-up to his lips, trying to s.h.i.+eld the lighter from the wind.

"In-is-may-hon?" Larry asked, hoping the man could only speak Gaelic and he would fall at the first hurdle and have to return to the sanctuary of the airport, the next flight to Shannon, and home. The man clipped his cigarette, beamed at Larry and threw open the rear door; in the same movement, slinging Larry's holdall and briefcase into the boot. Larry had no choice but to follow his luggage into the vehicle. The man jumped into the driver's seat and, revving the engine as if it were Formula One, flung the car down the sweeping driveway and out of the airport.

"Where was it, sir?" he barked, fixing Larry with a bloodshot eye through the rear-view mirror. Larry looked blank.

"Is it the Shrine you're after, sir?" The words were spoken very quickly, sliding into each other in a slur.

"The Shrine, sir, is that it? Knock d'ya want?"

Larry realised the driver was asking him where he wanted to go. He was getting the hang of this Gaelic alright, he was sure he had understood a couple of words here and there. Larry fumbled in his inside pocket and pulled out a sheet of notepaper bearing the words: 'From the desk of Lena Leeson.' He could almost hear her adding, 'And don't you forget it." He handed it to the driver, who mercifully slowed down a fraction to read.

"Can you understand?" Larry said very slowly. "Do you know it?"

"I do, sir. It's a good way though, will cost a bit. Is that okay?" Larry did not answer. "Many dollars," said the driver.

"How far?"

"Nearly an hour."

"Okay." Larry gripped the door handle as the car bounced over another pothole.

"Is this the best road?" he asked, after half an hour of torture.

"Well, it sorta is."

"How come?"

"It's the only road," replied the driver, swerving to avoid a hefty boulder.

An hour later, Larry was nauseous and no amount of inhaler could ease his discomfort. The windscreen wipers were useless against the driving rain and Larry could not tell if the headlights were on.

"Is it much further?" He had long ago given up any attempt at conversation with the driver, who was listening to what sounded like an interminable and explosive diatribe on the radio. It was in fact, a hurling match commentary.

"Nearly there, sir," quipped the driver, as they veered around a bend, swerved a bit and then, with brakes screeching, came to a shuddering halt before a bank of flas.h.i.+ng blue lights, a red-and-white-striped barrier weighted with sandbags, and a couple of police cars parked nose to nose.

"Mother of G.o.d!" exclaimed the driver. He leapt from the car, almost into the arms of a large police sergeant who was wearing a high visibility vest and cover on his cap. Larry wound down the window. The wind carried their voices to him.

"Howaya Pa'?" The sergeant greeted his cousin, recognising the taxi immediately.

"Michael. What happened? What's wrong?" asked the driver.

"The bridge is down. Did you not hear it on the radio? Came down last night. Fierce damage. No access, I'm afraid. Innishmahon is out of bounds."

"Lord, G.o.d! Anyone hurt?"

"No. Thank G.o.d. No-one was on it at the time."

"And across the way? Anyone hurt over there?"

"We don't think so. But the lines are down, and you can never get a signal there unless you're half a mile out to sea or up on the cliffs."

"My sister Kathleen? Any word?"

"Ah, sure leave it to Kathleen MacReady, typical postmistress, she had the radio working in no time and got through to Inspector O'Brien when it was discovered at first light. Sean Grogan was heading across to check his sheep above in the field."

Larry Leeson groaned and sunk lower into the seat. The driver stuck his head through the window and started to explain the situation, spitting softly onto his chin through the gaps left by his missing front teeth. The policeman gently moved him aside.

"I'm sorry sir," he said to Larry. "The bridge is closed. What business have you over there?"

Larry blinked.

"Oh, no business." He sat upright. "Just looking someone up; an old friend."

The Garda eyed the s.h.i.+ny brogues, bought to go with the coat.

"We can't do anything till the storm dies down a bit and we can get the machinery in and inspect the damage. Have you come far, sir?"

"Not really," sighed the exasperated New Yorker.

By miraculous coincidence, Pat the taxi man had another sister close by, who was not a postmistress but a landlady, running a small bed and breakfast establishment.

"It's off-season, so shouldn't be a problem," Pat told him. He punched a number into his mobile. Not ten minutes later, they pulled up outside a small, but elegant, farmhouse, a little way down a drive off the main road. Larry was relieved to see lights on, curtains at windows, and a womanly figure at the door. He heaved himself out of the car. A portly lady with pinned-up hair and stout shoes ushered him in. He caught sight of himself in the hall mirror. He looked the way he felt; grey and shrivelled. The woman shook hands firmly, introducing herself as Joyce MacReady, Patrick's eldest sister.