Past the slip road that led to the pub, the ruined priory, on to the dual carriageway and eventually left, down a tree-shaded road. To her right and left, grand merchants’ houses shaded by sycamore and mountain ash. The car park by the beach was almost full. A dog barking, thin nervy yaps, in the car beside hers. The tide was rising. She crossed the bank; the marram grasses were paling already, bleached by the summer she had missed. The sand sucked her feet down as she walked to the edge of the shore. The water was coming in fast. A wave rushed over her shoes, filling them with the brutal cold of the lough.

She went back towards the car park into a wind from the north that seasoned her lips with salt. Behind the beach, a wood. At its edge, a couple of teenagers lying in the grass. The boy’s coat was spread beneath them, his mouth at the girl’s ear. Her face was turned up to the sun, his hand working under her jumper. As Cushla passed, the girl’s eyes rolled upwards. It filled her with longing.

She took the path through the trees to the old viaduct, ivy snaking up its stone arches, following the pattering sound of the waterfall. It was only a few feet high, a gentle flood. She turned back. A man was walking towards her. She knew his face, perhaps from the bar, perhaps she taught one of his kids. Maybe he was following her. What if he was? They might as well come for her.

29

29

A beer delivery had been left in front of the anchor, five kegs. A couple of months earlier there would have been twenty. The front door was propped open with a stool.

Come in and talk to him. It’s killing me that youse aren’t speaking, said Gina.

No, said Cushla.

He’s not as angry as he was, Gina said. As she prepared to leave the car, Eamonn came out. He glowered at Cushla and turned a keg on its side, rolling it across the tarmac with his toe.

He looks pretty furious to me, to be honest, said Cushla.

Gina sighed and got out, a housecoat and bundle of orange dusters and a chamois cloth tucked under her arm.