Scully sat back with Billie and lurched around the book. He found yesterday and his heart sank at the mass of information. He thought of Billie’s flight and arrival into Shannon. Okay, about an hour’s flying time, say a nine-thirty flight out of London. The Qantas flight in was a six a.m. arrival. Now… Did she put Billie on the Irish flight herself? He simply had to believe that a mother would do that, whatever her state. Then she was still at Heathrow till… there it is, Aer Lingus 46… till 9.35. Now, where did she go from there? A cab into London, maybe, but if not?
Scully found a list of flights out of London close to 9.35.
Karachi, 9.40.
Kuala Lumpur, no.
Moscow — in December?
Miami.
New York.
Rome.
Paris. Maybe, yes, maybe. But why would she go back to the scene of her failure?
Barcelona.
Athens, 10.25. Yes. A Qantas flight, too. She was paranoid about air safety. Yes. Greece made sense. She knew it and loved it. The island would be a kind of sanctuary. Somewhere to sort herself out. If it hadn’t been for the pregnancy she’d have stayed on indefinitely, he knew. He felt more or less the same. If the shit hit the fan, where in Europe would he go to hole up? Greece. Yes. Yes.
Scully looked back at the Paris flight. British Airways — she hated them and she wouldn’t fly with them or anyone American. Hmm, they were quite the world travellers now, weren’t they. No, it was only Qantas, Singapore, Thai or KLM. The Athens flight, then, it had to be. How bloody easy it was, plonking down the magical, scary credit card and moving from place to place. As long as the card didn’t melt and the magic didn’t evaporate. A trickle of poison seeped into his chest. Had she told no one? Not even Alan and Annie? Didn’t she know Scully would call them first? He had to believe they didn’t know. Leaving no message — it seemed crazy, but wasn’t leaving no message a signal in itself? Hell, he needed some sleep. But didn’t she know he would figure this out, that if it wasn’t London it had to be Greece? He knew how her mind worked. It was private, a thing between them, like the baby. God, it was a message. She needed to talk, to meet, but somewhere safe, somewhere good, familiar. Like the island, where things had been best.
For a moment, it seemed, the fog of hurt and tiredness left him. He made a map in his head, a schedule. He did a bit of mental arithmetic and took out his American Express card. Even now he held it like a working-class man, as though it might go off in his hands at any second. He double-checked his figures. Yes, he had some credit left, maybe half a card’s worth. Enough anyway. He held his breath and placed the card carefully, almost reverently, on the counter. It was a relief, like a suddenly open window, the feeling of doing something, of making decisions and acting. Yes, it was a start.
• • •
SCULLY TRACKED PETER KENEALLY DOWN on the road from Roscrea. It had just finished raining and water stood in bronze sheets by the lane. He saw the little green van through a stand of bare ash and pulled over as far as he dared onto the soft shoulder until he saw the van reverse out onto the road.
‘He’s a friend of mine,’ said Scully, shaky with resolution. ‘See, he never looks in his mirrors, he’ll get skittled one day.’
The postie pulled out and swivelled his head. His eyes widened in surprise.
‘Well, I’ll be damned to hell if it isn’t the Desert Irish himself!’ said Pete as Scully pulled up beside him. Pete’s cheeks were aglow, his uniform askew and his hat was capsized on the seat beside him. In his lap was a sorry nest of envelopes.
‘G’day, Pete.’
‘Well, go on, man, tell me how it all went. Aw, Jaysus, I see someone up there beside you. I wonder who this could be now? Good day to ye! She’s a grand lass, Scully.’
‘Billie, this is Peter.’
Billie lowered her eyelids bleakly.
‘Aw, she’s shy, now. Look at that suntan on ye, looks like ye just came from Africa.’
Scully saw her observing Pete’s ears. They were like baler shells — he’d become used to them.
‘We’ll be gone a few days, Pete. Would you mind keeping an eye on the place? I’ll leave a key in the booth in the barn.’
Pete’s grin softened and disappeared. ‘Is everything alright?’
‘Just some business to sort out.’
Pete’s mouth failed to complete several movements. You could see him straining good naturedly to mind his own business. Scully thought: I hope to God he doesn’t think I’m doing a runner and leaving him with the bill.
‘Couple of days, Pete. Listen, gimme your home number again, just in case.’
Puzzled, Pete recited the number. Scully wrote it on the strap of Billie’s backpack, more as a show of stability than anything else. ‘Any mail for me?’ he said, feeling a last bubble of hope in the back of his throat. ‘A telegram?’
‘Not a thing.’
Scully closed his eyes a moment.
‘You want help?’
The postie licked his chapped lips, anxious now.
‘I’m fine, mate.’
‘You look shot and killed.’
‘See you in a coupla days.’
Scully put the Transit in gear and lurched away.
• • •
IN THE COOLING BOTHY, Scully made lamb sandwiches and sat down with Billie to eat dutifully, mechanically, the way he ate those too-early fishermen’s breakfasts hours before dawn in another life, chewing for his own abstract good and without pleasure. From the china jug he poured glasses of milk. At the mantelpiece he took down the photo Dominique had taken and he cut it down to fit inside his wallet. The sound of the scissors was surgical. Three faces, a tilted Breton headstone.
He laid their documents on the table, checked their visas, the state of their crowded passports. Map. Swiss army knife. Some aspirin. Cash. Into Billie’s tartan case he packed a change of clothes for each of them. He placed their documents in her fluorescent backpack with the Walkman, her Midnight Oil tapes, her comic and her colouring gear. She pulled the Darth Vader out and put it on the mantel.
‘Are you alright, love?’
She sat down and drank. The milk left a moony glow on her upper lip. She shrugged.
Scully found a brush on the sill and gently straightened her hair. It was so like his own. In a few years it would be exactly his, completely beyond redemption, the kind of clot you run your fingers through and shrug at.
‘I like this house,’ he murmured, packing a few toilet things. ‘Everything’ll be alright in this house, Bill. I promise you. Here, I polished your boots. You need a horse with boots like that. An Irish hunter. Yeah.’
He stood, feeling the stillness of the place, the look in her eyes.
A car heaved up the hill in low gear. Scully waited for it to pass, but it pulled in and he recognized it.
‘Scully,’ said Peter at the door.
‘Hi, Pete.’
‘You’re off then.’
‘To the train station, yeah.’
‘Dublin?’
‘Yep.’
‘Let me drive you.’ Pete pressed his hands together and leant from boot to boot, averting his eyes.
‘You needn’t worry, mate. We’ve got a flight to Athens in the morning.’
‘Athens, Greece? If you leave that van there at the station the friggin tinkers’ll have it up on blocks before dark. Let me take you.’
Scully stood there with his hand in Billie’s hair watching the postie think.
‘Fair enough. Thanks.’
‘Athens. Can we have a drink?’
‘It’s just two days, Pete. Don’t look so worried.’
‘Oh, it’s not worry, son, it’s just fresh out today.’
Smiling, Scully took the bottle of Bushmills off the mantel. ‘Here. Slainte.’