Page 19 of Heart of the Wren (Haunted Hearts: Season of the Witch #2)

DARA

LORCAN BENT over by the open boot of his car and pulled off his baggy jeans to reveal a pair of small white shorts underneath. They hugged him in all the right places. He also wore a scruffy Munster team jersey with a hole in the armpit.

“Nice legs.” I grinned at him and made sure no one could hear.

Lorcan hopped from one foot to the other, trying to warm up. “Give over, you. Last thing I need before I go out there is to be gettin’ hard.”

Lorcan had no shorts big enough for me so I resolved to playing in a pair of jogging bottoms I kept in the van.

They could have done with a wash but I didn’t think it would matter.

They’d end up getting mud on them, anyway.

He had a bunch of spare hurley sticks so I rolled up the sleeves of my shirt and picked what was clearly the best one.

The tape around the grip had worn away in places and started to flake, and the bulbous end had started to splinter, but it would do.

I swung it around, getting the heft of it.

I hadn’t played a game of hurling in years.

The last time I’d been on a pitch, I’d taken a sliotar to the nose.

It swelled up and turned purple but luckily it didn’t break.

Injuries weren’t uncommon in the game, and I’d sooner take a ball to the face than a hurley.

I crouched to stretch my legs. The sole of my boot flopped and I wondered if it would last for the whole game.

A number of cars lined one side of the pitch, each with a man in various stages of preparedness. The men wore a variety of jersey colours with a couple of them opting for thin jumpers instead. Supporters gathered, bundled in warm coats and hats, ready to cheer and boo, as needed.

Bullseye pulled up in his brown Datsun Sunny and parked close to us.

He was already dressed in the closest thing to a professional kit we were likely to see.

A green and gold County Kerry team jersey with socks to match, and bone white shorts, showing off his toned thighs.

I knew he was wiry but I hadn’t realised how in shape he actually was.

Every muscle on show was taut as a drum.

Another man with bushy hair and large ears got out of the car. He wore a similar kit.

“We’ll not be needing you after all, Dara.” Bullseye didn’t look at me when he spoke. “Aine’s brother is filling in.”

Aine’s brother scowled at him so I took it to mean he’d been coerced. “Donal,” he said, by way of introduction.

I can’t say I felt disappointed, exactly, but it would have been nice to know in advance.

Lorcan gripped his hurley tightly with both hands. “What are you doing?”

Bullseye stood close to him. “I found someone else to play, so we don’t need him anymore. That’s all.”

Lorcan’s eyes narrowed. “You can be our substitute, Dara,” he said. “You don’t mind, do you?”

I assured him it didn’t matter. “Go on, they’re waiting for you.”

Big Tom Casey and his counterpart, Cillian O’Driscoll, met on the pitch to discuss terms and rile each other up. Cillian gave Big Tom’s massive belly a playful wobble, and the game was on.

The only player under thirty years of age was Eddie, who despite his protestations was drafted onto Big Tom’s team from the day he arrived.

He’d had a year to learn the rules and get some practice in but from the look on his face, he was far from confident.

He got some slagging for being the only player to wear a helmet.

“Some of us have looks to protect,” Eddie shouted back.

Each team had only five members, instead of the usual fifteen.

This was an old tradition, dating back to the first pub match, when only five men from each pub offered to play.

As such, the pitch had been shortened, thanks to a pair of movable H-shaped goalposts.

Finding a neutral referee had always been an impossible task, and so each pub took it in turns to nominate someone to officiate.

That year had been the Long Bridle Lounge’s turn and so Cillian’s own son had been selected.

This elicited a fair amount of swearing and shouting from Big Tom’s team, but all agreed to play by the rules and the referee promised to be as impartial as possible.

Lorcan trotted out to the playing field. A light snow flurry from early morning clung valiantly to the ground but would soon melt under the boots of the men.

The two goalkeepers took their positions.

The Long Bridle Lounge had a fella they called Tayto, a mountain of a man renowned for his love of crisps.

He was wide and thick-limbed, with a bushy black beard and wild eyes.

He wore a pair of grey joggers and his balls bounced very noticeably when he walked.

Casey’s pub had chosen the local guard, Cormac MacShane. He was lithe and quick on his feet, darting from one end of the goal to the other.

I closed the boot of Lorcan’s car and clapped my hands together for warmth when Carol approached.

“I wasn’t sure you’d be here,” I said.

Carol wore a woolly cap with a large pompom on top. “I assume Daddy will be too busy out there to shout at me.”

Bullseye was jogging alongside Lorcan and having a much better time of it. Carol told me he played hurling and Gaelic regularly. Dressed in her warmest coat, she shouted encouragement to Eddie and wolf-whistled at him, making her father stop dead in his tracks.

I wasn’t sure antagonising Bullseye was the right thing to do but I wasn’t going to stick my nose into family business.

It had been two days since the incident with the phouka and Carol hadn’t been back to the farm.

I concentrated, trying to read her aura.

It flashed apple green, suggesting conflicted emotions.

“I can feel it when you do that,” she said.

“Can you?”

She wiggled her fingers at the side of her head. “It’s like… television static in my ears.”

I crossed my arms. “You’re getting more perceptive by the day.”

Clouds of vapour followed the men as they huffed and puffed their way around the pitch.

Cillian’s team took an early lead, scoring a handy goal.

I wondered at the wisdom of Big Tom picking his goalkeeper for size instead of speed.

Tayto shouted when the sliotar shot past him and he threw his hurley to the ground.

Big Tom yelled a number of colourful swears at him.

Pat Lynch fixed his manicured white moustache as he walked along the sidelines.

He caught my eye and acted as though he hadn’t already seen me.

He tipped his flat cap and joined us by Lorcan’s car.

Dressed in his usual V-neck jumper, shirt, and striped tie, he kept his hands firmly in his coat pockets.

“It’s great to see, isn’t it? A bit of life about the place.

” He eyed me up from head to toe. “Are you all set for Christmas up at the farm?”

“I think so,” I said. “Lorcan doesn’t do much decorating for it.”

“I hear you’re up there now as well, Carol.”

Carol shrugged.

Pat turned his attention back to the field where Lorcan narrowly missed out on getting the ball, drawing some jeers for the opposing crowd. “I’m glad he’ll have some company this year, in any case.”

“Does he usually spend Christmas alone?” I asked .

“Daddy always invites him for dinner,” Carol said. “But he never comes.”

“Ever since his parents passed, he spends the day on his own,” Pat said. “I’ve told him he’s always welcome to come with me to my sister’s for dinner. I call up to him in the evening to have a drink but I can always tell he doesn’t really want me there.”

Lorcan yelled as he smacked the sliotar, sending it across the field.

“Good man, Lorcan!” Pat clapped loudly.

Some ways down the pitch, Father McDonagh stood with a small number of his parishioners. They each nattered to each other, looking in my direction out of the corners of their eyes. If they were trying to be subtle, they failed miserably.

And perhaps that’s what prompted Father McDonagh to stride over to me. “You’re the blow-in, aren’t you?”

“I hear you’re something of a newcomer yourself.” I held out my hand but Father McDonagh kept his behind his back.

“I haven’t seen you at mass yet.”

“And you probably never will,” I said. “I much prefer the outside of churches to the inside.”

“If you’re planning to stay here in the village, it won’t do you any favours to go against the grain.”

I grinned. “Don’t worry yourself, Father. I won’t be here for long enough to upset the apple cart.”

“Good,” said Father McDonagh. “I’m glad to hear it. We don’t need more of your sort around— Oh, good man yourself, Jon-Joe!” He clapped and shouted at the player as he returned to his flock.

Carol glared at him. “I don’t like him.”

“No,” I said. “Neither do I.”

“It won’t do you any good to get on his bad side,” Pat said. “He has the ear of everyone in the village.” He made prolonged eye contact with me, and I could swear I spotted the faintest hint of a smile on his handsome face. “He can make life very difficult for you. And for Lorcan.”

A cry from the crowd broke the moment. Donal was on the ground, holding his elbow. One of the opposing team had caught it with the end of his hurley.

Lorcan shouted over at me. “Dara! You’re up!”