"And anyway, I don't want her to get hurt," I heard Rob say. "It's just a vacation kind of relationship, admit it."
I turned my attention back to what he was saying. If he thought in my weakened condition I was going to agree with everything he said, he was sorely mistaken. "And you, I suppose, are setting a good example for her in that regard? Alex may be the soul of discretion where his roommate's comings and goings are concerned, but Jennifer knows perfectly well you've been creeping out very late and returning very early in the morning. And she doesn't believe the police business excuse, either!"
"I wish you hadn't said that," he sighed. "You didn't have to. I know. You're saying I'm a jerk and a poor excuse for a father." He sounded dreadful there in the dark.
"I'm sorry," I said. "I shouldn't have said that. And no, I don't think you're a poor excuse for a father, or a jerk. I mean, look at Jennifer. She's a lovely young woman, and very sensible. You should take credit for that. As for Maeve, she also seems very competent, and pleasant." Faint praise, I know, but it was the best I could do. "I gather the relationship is pretty serious," I added.
"Don't think so," he said quietly. I waited. "Two reasons: She's not really a widow. Her husband is still breathing. There's been no divorce in Ireland until very recently, so she bills herself as a widow for the sake of convention. He lives in Belfast."
"So maybe now she'll get a divorce."
"I think she's a little conflicted-is that the word?- on the subject, either because she doesn't entirely approve of divorce, or because she still has some feelings for him."
Oh dear, I thought. We both digested that for a moment.
"And the second reason?" I asked.
He sighed. "The second reason is that I'm not entirely sure that is where my heart lies. I'm not sure where it does lie, but I don't think it's there."
I wasn't sure I understood the details of that statement, but I did understand the sentiments expressed.
"And that fancy pants lawyer?" Rob said into the darkness.
"Don't think so, either," I replied.
"Reasons?" he said.
"One, I don't think I'm his type somehow, and two, I'm not sure that's where my heart lies."
"Mmm," he said. We sat in silence for a few moments.
"I've been meaning to ask you something for a while," he said, suddenly. "You can say no. But I was wondering if you would consider being Jennifer's legal guardian should anything happen to me. Her grandparents are getting a little frail for the job. You are the only person I know I would really entrust her to. She's eighteen, so she's almost beyond the need, but I think she could use some guidance for a while yet. You can think about it. I'm a policeman, remember, so the chances of being called upon to do this are higher than average."
"I don't have to think about it," I said. "If I had a daughter, and I confess lately I've wished more than once that I did, I'd be pleased if she turned out like Jennifer. So yes, I'll do it. You do realize, though, that if I'm your fallback, as it were, then you'll have to stop following me into these dicey situations."
"You're right, I will," he chuckled.
"What do you think will happen, here, I mean, and now? Be honest," I said.
"Are you sure you really want to know?"
"Yes."
"I expect whoever it is will either leave us here to rot, or come back to dispose of us."
"Wonderful," I said. "I'm sorry I asked." We both sat contemplating that lovely thought for a while.
"Where are we, do you think?" he asked. "Still in the Dingle?"
"Yes," I replied.
"North? West?"
"South-ish, I think."
"What makes you think so?"
"Because we're in a clochan," I replied. "And that's where most of them are."
"A what?"
"A clochan. A beehive hut. There are hundreds of them around here, on the slopes of Mount Eagle, most of them ruins, but some in good condition. I saw them when Malachy, Kevin, Jennifer, and I went looking for clues. Turn on the light, and look: Think of yourself on the inside of a beehive. See how the stones are placed to curve up to the top. It's called corbelling. A work of art, really. These beehive huts were little houses, dating back to the early days of Christianity and maybe even earlier. Monks lived alone in them, as hermits, to study and pray. Sometimes, they were built in clusters around a church. Or when they were used by ordinary folk rather than priests, around, or in, a fort for protection. This one is larger and higher than most. I think I've read that they were usually only about four feet high, but this one is much higher than that, so perhaps it was a house, rather than a monk's cell."
"Very interesting, I'm sure," Rob said. "Now can we think of any way of getting out of this clochan thing?"
"Not really," I replied. I thought for a moment. "Give me that lighter!" I said. I swept the tiny light over the surface of the walls, looking for what I desperately wanted to find. The walls were made of rows of stones placed on top of each other in rather tidy rows, tiny little stones filling in the spaces between them as necessary. For the first few feet, the walls angled in barely perceptibly, but as they got higher, you could see how each row of stones overhung the one below it just a bit, so that the wall curved up to the top, where an opening of about six inches had been left open.
"I'm thinking souterrain," I said at last.
"Sue who?" he said.
"It's not sue who, it's sou what," I replied. "Souterrain. Literally under the ground. If this was used as a house, there might be a souterrain."
"Dare I say, so what?" Rob said, just a touch irritably.
"So-sometimes the souterrain was just a place to store food where it would keep cool in the ground. But sometimes it was an escape route. These shores were often plagued by Viking raids, and people needed an alternate way out of their homes should the Vikings, or pirates, or whatever arrive suddenly. The Viking raiders were particularly interested in church treasures, if I remember correctly, the jewel-encrusted manuscripts and such. So people built low, narrow and curved underground tunnels, the easier to defend themselves from anyone following them, that led several feet or yards outside their houses. If some marauder came toward the front door, they'd go into the tunnel and out the back way.
"Look here," I said moving the light toward one side. "See where the stone pattern changes. Some of the stones are vertical rather than horizontal here, like a lintel over a doorway. And see, the stones are not as regularly placed. Perhaps this souterrain was filled in at a later date!"
Rob looked impressed. "Dry mortar," he said, "no cement or anything. Just the stones themselves. It should be easy to take apart, relatively speaking. Let's get to it! Here, you hold the light, and I'll start."
It was difficult at first, with the stones so closely packed, but in a matter of minutes, Rob had created a small hole in the wall. He reached back for the lighter, and carefully placed it into the hole, and peered in. I held my breath. It could easily just be a storage chamber, I thought, in fact it was more likely to be. I hardly dared to hope.
"I think it's a tunnel," he said at last. "Who'd have thought all that history of yours would be so useful." I almost sobbed with relief.
Within minutes, we'd pulled out enough stones so that we could slip into the tunnel.
"You go first," Rob said. "I'll protect the rear, in case someone comes in before we get away."
I pushed myself feet first into the tunnel. It was dank and cold, and I could see nothing in front of me. Rob passed me the lighter and I moved into the tunnel. After a few feet I was able to stand, although bent over at the waist. The tunnel jogged slightly, then narrowed, and after another few yards, I had to get down on my knees and crawl again. By the time I reached the end of it, I was lying on my stomach and pulling myself along with my elbows.