A CRY FROM THE DEEP Read online

She found Hennesey in the wheelhouse, bent over his instruments. He glanced up and motioned her over. He had on his loud patterned Hawaiian shirt; it was clean but it was the same one he’d worn the last two times they’d met. Beside him was a man in his sixties—heavy-set, and sporting a grey beard that needed a trim. Everything about him looked grimy, from his t-shirt and fisherman’s cap to his nicotine stained fingernails.

  “Good morning,” said Catherine to Hennesey.

  Hennesey mumbled something, then as an afterthought, turned to the man beside him. “Jerry McDougall, this is Catherine Fitzgerald.”

  Jerry stuck out his calloused hand and gripped hers hard. She winced and when he let go, she massaged the area around her ring.

  “Oh, God, I’ve done it again. I’m sorry. I keep forgetting when it comes to you ladies.”

  Catherine couldn’t help rolling her eyes.

  Hennesey looked amused. “Jerry’s our engineer and a diver. He’s part of the crew that came over with us.”

  “Good,” she said, meeting Hennesey’s gaze. She looked out the wheelhouse windows. “This is some boat.”

  “You’ve seen it before,” he said curtly.

  “Not from this angle,” she replied in kind. There was no point in being pleasant.

  Hennesey regarded her as if she had horns.

  “I’d like to get some photos of you here.”

  “Have a look around. I have to finish something with Jerry first, and then you can take your damn pictures.”

  Jerry guffawed. “He’s a real charmer, isn’t he?”

  Catherine smiled, despite her annoyance with Hennesey. Though Jerry’s handshake was rough, he was friendly, and a possible ally, but time would tell.

  Touring the vessel on her own, she could see it was one of the larger live-aboard diving boats. It had to be at least sixty feet long and fully equipped with the latest in diving gear and instruments like a marine magnetometer sensor and a side sonar with 3D mapping technology. Down below, where Joy was making a fresh pot of coffee, there was one state room, four bunks outside of it, a well stocked kitchen with stove, fridge, and sink, two heads, two hot showers, and a long galley table that could seat eight and fold into beds if need be. For their group of twelve, it would do very well, since most of the crew, like herself, were sleeping elsewhere in Killybegs.

  Catherine poured herself a cup of coffee and while she was adding milk, a young man came out of the head near the kitchen. He had a buzz cut, and was dressed in scruffy jeans and a black t-shirt with some band’s picture on it. He walked with his head bowed slightly and gave Catherine what she thought was a half-smile, before he moved past her and up the stairs.

  Joy said, “Don’t mind Mark. He’s shy, always has been. He’s our deck hand.”

  “Where are the others?”

  “Raul and Alfredo are out gettin’ supplies. The Irish one hasn’t arrived yet from Dublin.” Joy took some onions out of a lower cupboard and began chopping.

  Catherine went back up on deck, where she snapped a few close-ups of Hennesey and some medium shots. The last ones she took were of his scavenger craft, shrouded in fog. The image of his boat half-hidden by mist seemed fitting indeed.

  ~~~

  After her workout at the Shamrock Inn—where she swam fifty feet underwater, treaded for fifteen minutes, and did enough lengths to convince herself she was ready—she went to the bistro for a late lunch. She sat by the window and watched the boats arriving and departing from the harbor. Some fishermen had already returned with an early catch. Dressed in heavy rubberized suits, they hoisted nets of mackerel and dumped them into giant grey bins on the dock.

  It was while she was enjoying the sight that her mind drifted back to the mystery of Martin O’Donnell. She reviewed what’d taken place between them, and it was then she remembered something the old man had said. Something she hadn’t mentioned to Doreen. He’d told her he lived in a yellow cottage down the road. Maybe Doreen didn’t know everyone in the village. She was, after all, a busy woman. Catherine understood that. She herself didn’t know all her neighbors in Provence. It didn’t mean the man didn’t exist just because Doreen couldn’t place him.

  ~~~

  Catherine drove back towards Sea Breeze, her eyes shifting from one side of the road to the other. She was almost at the McCall’s driveway, when she spotted over to her left—about six houses down a very narrow dirt road—a yellow cottage.

  She turned left onto the dirt road, and drove to the cottage. It had a thatched roof and appeared considerably older than the houses nearby. As she pulled up beside it, she had the distinct impression she’d been by this way before. She shook her head, muttering, “For God’s sake, Catherine. Now, you are losing your mind. You’ve never even been to Ireland.”

  She sat in the car staring at the cottage. She took several deep breaths, trying to compose herself. It was then she noticed a small red-haired girl standing near the corner of the place, staring at her through the windshield.

  Catherine grabbed her bag and got out of the car. “Hello.”

  The girl came closer. “Have you come to see the baby?’

  Catherine smiled. “No, I haven’t.”

  “You’re not a nurse, then?”

  “No. Were you expecting a nurse?”

  “Aye.” The girl frowned. “My wee brother is sick.”

  “I hope it’s not serious.”

  The girl kicked a stone on the road. “My mum’s home. Do you want to see her?”

  “I do.” Catherine approached the roughly hewn oak door with a brass knocker mottled with age. She hesitated. Something told her she’d walked through this door before. She gripped her hands together to keep them still.

  The girl opened the door and yelled, “Mum! There’s a lady here to see you.” The girl stepped back outside, leaving the door ajar.

  In a matter of seconds, a tired looking woman in jeans and a loose flowered shirt appeared in the doorway. “You’ve come to see Bobby?”

  “I’m sorry, I’m not the nurse. Your little girl told me your son is sick.”

  “It’s the flu. It’ll run its course, I suspect,” she said in a matter-of-fact tone.

  “I know this isn’t a good time, but I’m looking for Martin O’Donnell.”

  “You won’t find him here, that’s for sure.”

  Catherine brightened. “He’s gone out?”

  “No. He doesn’t live here.”

  “Oh, I was sure he said yellow cottage. Is there another nearby?”

  “Not that I know of. The only O’Donnells I know live in Belfast, and there’s no Martin among them. But I’m sure you’ll find many more in these parts. Ireland is full of O’Donnells.”

  “So, he’s never lived here?”

  “I’ve been here twenty-five years meself, and my parents before me. As I’ve told you, don’t know of any O’Donnells.”

  Catherine wrinkled her brow. “Have you by any chance seen an old man with a black cocker spaniel around here?”

  “Can’t say I have.” The mother glanced at her daughter, who’d been standing just behind Catherine listening. “Have you, Mary Rose?”

  “No, Mum.” The little girl then darted into the house, brushing against her mother as she whipped past.

  “Slow down, child!” she yelled, before turning back to Catherine. “Children today. But who’s to blame them? The whole world’s rushing.”

  Catherine nodded. “Thank you for your time.”

  “I hope you find him.”

  As she walked back to her car, she took stock of every dwelling she passed, as if another yellow cottage was hiding amongst them. The way things were going, Martin O’Donnell was looking more and more like a figment of her imagination. By the time she got back to her car, her mind was whirling with questions, ones she’d be afraid to ask anyone for fear of being considered a lunatic. But what if he was the man in her dreams? How could he show up on the road? Was he real then or imagined?

  The more she thought about
it, the more confused she became. She had no reason to imagine the old man. It wasn’t like she was a kid and needed an imaginary friend. But what if he was a dead person? Years back, there’d been that popular film, Sixth Sense, about a little boy who saw dead people. She didn’t think much of it at the time, but what if there was such a thing? What if some people could communicate with the dead? She’d seen enough mediums on TV who professed to do just that. She’d always thought that was impossible, but now that she’d had her nightmares and visions underwater, she was having second thoughts.

  On the other hand, maybe she was going mad from the pressure of what she was trying to do. People snapped all the time. There wasn’t any insanity in her family tree, at least none that she knew of. If only she had a better relationship with her parents, she could ask them.

  Then again, maybe the man on the road wasn’t the man in her dreams. Maybe it was just an old man, someone she’d met in the dark. Old men with white beards tended to look the same.

  But if he was the man she dreamt about in New York, why had he shown up in Killybegs?

  ~~~

  Catherine was lured to the kitchen by the smell of baked apples with cinnamon. She stood in the doorway to the dining room and watched Adam pull two muffin tins out of the oven. “Smells good.”

  “Would you like an apple muffin?”

  “No thanks, but I’ll be glad to indulge in the morning.”

  He removed his oven mitts and turned off the oven.

  “I was wondering if you know where I can find a record of the people who’ve lived in this area?”

  “Are you searching for anyone in particular?”

  Catherine hesitated. There was no point asking Adam about Martin. He’d only tell Doreen and they’d both think she was mad. “I thought I’d look up some family names. Maybe find some kin from way back. This area is so familiar. I might`ve seen it in some old family photos and forgotten the connection.”

  “I know. My mind’s like a sieve, too. At least, that’s what Doreen tells me when I forget something.” He ran a knife around each muffin in the tin. “You could try the churches. The dioceses keep records. How far back do you want to go?”

  How far back did she want to go? She looked at him with a blank face, and said, “I have no idea.” She hoped he hadn’t noticed her confusion. Even if she’d wanted any information about her family tree, it wouldn’t be in this part of the country. The Fitzgeralds had come from farther up north, the part that was now Northern Ireland. No, what she wanted to discover was the identity of her ghost. She hadn’t accepted completely he was one, but she was starting to entertain the possibility.

  ~~~

  When Catherine called Alex, Sybil answered. Her ex-mother-in-law was her usual cool self, only too anxious to carp about Alex’s manners. “You know, Catherine, Alex is too lippy for my liking.” She went on; Catherine listened, wishing she was there to deal with it.

  When Sybil paused in her complaining, Catherine said, “Yes, Alex does have a mind of her own. I always thought that was a good thing.”

  “It is,” said Sybil, “but she also needs to know when to keep quiet.”

  Catherine was going to ask Sybil to give her an example but thought it’d be better to let Richard handle it, that is, if his mother told him anything. She sighed and said, “Is Alex there?”

  “I’ll get her.” Sybil called out, “Alex, it’s your mother.”

  Sybil could be so arrogant. She was the type of woman who thought she was the only one who had the answers to child rearing, even though Catherine thought she’d done a poor job raising Richard and his brother. The two men were too much like their mother. They had an opinion on everything and little patience for anyone else’s. Richard had changed, though. She wondered if he was in therapy.

  Alex’s loud footsteps on the hardwood floor signaled her arrival at the phone. “Hi, Mama.”

  “Hi, sweetheart.”

  “Mama, you sound like you’re right here.’

  “So do you.”

  “I have a new friend. Her name is Kaitlin. She’s seven like me.” Alex proceeded to talk non-stop about Kaitlin and what she looked like and the fact she was going to go to the same riding camp. And then she said, “Oh, I almost forgot, Mama. I dreamt about the ring.”

  “What?”

  “Your ring. I dreamt I was carrying it on a giant white pillow, and I was being very careful not to drop it, because the pillow was so plump and so high I could hardly see the ring. And then this crow came along and snatched the ring and hung it on a branch way up high, but this kind old man climbed up and got it for me. He said I should have it. He said it used to be his daughter’s.”

  A chill ran through Catherine. “What did this man look like?”

  “He was wearing a black suit and he was quite old. Very wrinkly. His hair was all white and he had a white beard.”

  Catherine’s throat went dry and she swallowed. “What did you think of the dream?”

  “I thought it was so nice he wanted to give me the ring. I also liked that it was your ring, and it made me feel closer to you.”

  “That’s nice.” Catherine gulped and said, “How are things going with grandma?”

  “Okay.” Then Alex whispered, “I can’t say much ‘cause grandma’s not too far away. But don’t worry, she hasn’t hit me or anything.”

  “Alex, grandma would never hit you.”

  “Maybe she would, you don’t know.”

  “Oh, Alex. When is Papa coming back?”

  “In a few hours and he’s going to take me to the fair.” Alex chattered on, but Catherine’s attention kept wavering. She couldn’t stop thinking about the ring.

  After they’d said their good-byes, she took the band off and examined the stamp inside. It was hard to make out as the ring was so worn. She’d need a magnifying glass to see if there was anything legible there.

  Her daughter’s dream had shaken her up. She took a shower to sort out her thoughts. Why had Alex dreamt about the old man? She must’ve overheard the conversations Catherine had had with Richard and somehow put it together in her dream. That had to be it.

  Even though Catherine convinced herself that her daughter’s dream wasn’t that extraordinary, she still couldn’t explain her strange encounter with the old man. Maybe Lindsey’s suggestion to see a psychic wasn’t so far out after all. She hadn’t had time to see one in New York, but maybe she could find the time to see one here.

  NINETEEN

  The Shamrock Inn pub—a typical Irish one with wood walls and worn floor—was packed with locals and tourists, standing room only. Catherine scanned the crowd and found Hennesey, Joy, Jerry, and Mark seated at a table across the room. Seated across from Hennesey, was Daniel. All she could see was his back and his raven hair, but it was unmistakably him.

  She squeezed through the crowd, only to find herself blocked by a waitress with a tray full of beer trying to do the same thing. It was then that an older man, wearing a wool vest over a shirt, stood behind her and began to sing Danny Boy. Everyone turned to look at the singer, and by chance, Daniel’s eyes met Catherine’s. He waved and smiled, his dimples prominent. She couldn’t resist beaming back.

  When she finally got to the table, Daniel stood, and as they exchanged greetings, he gave her an unexpected hug. His body was warm and his unshaven chin brushed against hers. She found his roughness and smell of sage and soap seductive. Feeling vulnerable, she quickly sat down on the chair Daniel had placed beside his. The table was so crowded their thighs touched and she was sure her cheeks flushed with yearning. So much for keeping her emotions under control, she thought. Because of her discomfort, she stared straight ahead at Hennesey and Joy.

  Hennesey growled, “We thought with your jet lag, you’d be in bed at this hour.”

  “If we were smart,” piped up Joy, “we’d all be under the sheets by now.”

  “Is that an invite?” asked Hennesey, chuckling. “I tell you, I can’t keep this woman off me.” He snort
ed and poked Jerry in the ribs.

  Joy shook her head and said to Catherine. “He thinks he’s such a stud.”

  Hennesey guffawed, showing pleasure with her comment. He then introduced Catherine to Alfredo and Raul—two men at the other end of the table.

  Alfredo, the older one with a moustache, winked at her and said, “Mujer bella. Why you don’t tell me, Hennesey, about this beautiful senorita?”

  “Muchas gracias,” said Catherine, warming to Alfredo instantly.

  Hennesey rolled his eyes. “Latin lovers yet.”

  Raul said, “You watch my brother. He likes a beautiful woman.” His tight short-sleeved t-shirt revealed tattoos of a cross, a skull and several women in states of undress. The skin art ran the length of both arms.

  Alfredo smiled broadly, adding more lines to his weathered and deeply tanned face. “I think you will need to watch both of us.”

  Catherine laughed and shared a look with Joy.

  Joy leaned across the table. “They’re harmless flirts. Alfredo and Raul immigrated from Cuba to America three years ago. They’ve worked with us on a couple of dives.”

  The Cubans were still grinning, as Catherine turned to Daniel. “Did you have a good flight?”

  “Yes. I was looking forward to -.”

  Hennesey interrupted by bellowing, “For those of you who don’t know my first officer, this is Olaf.” He put his hand on the shoulder of the sturdy bald-headed man beside him. “And there at the end of the table,” he said, indicating, “are our deck hands, Mark, and local boy, Patrick.”

  Patrick, a tall slender young man with thick red hair, stood and said “Welcome to Ireland. I’d like to propose a toast.” He raised his glass of beer. “May we get what we want, may we get what we need, but may we never get what we deserve!” Everyone roared and raised their glasses.

  Hennesey chuckled, “Well said, Patrick. I’ll drink to that.”

  “Sláinte,” said Patrick, clinking his glass with Mark.

  “Here, here!” exclaimed Jerry.