Page 24 of Heart of the Wren (Haunted Hearts: Season of the Witch #2)

LORCAN

I STOOD naked in my bedroom bending my leg, squatting and stretching, tenderly turning this way and that.

All without so much as a twinge of discomfort.

I paused in front of my full length mirror but found no sign of any scars or bruising.

I cupped my dick and balls in my hand and squeezed them.

The room was chilly and I wasn’t looking my best, so I wanted to be ready in case Dara came in.

I hadn’t seen him since our row on Saturday.

He’d gotten so red-faced and upset, and I didn’t know why.

It can’t have been over the fairy ring, can it?

I understood how all the stuff about bad luck and fairies was more real to him than to most people but to get so worked up he couldn’t face me for a day and a half?

My heart sank. Maybe he wasn’t the man I thought he was.

He’d made me feel like a silly child for digging up the fairy ring. And the truth was I honestly didn’t realise what I’d done until I’d gotten more than halfway through. And even then, I’d convinced myself they were just some flowers in a vague, meaningless shape.

Once I’d found the gold brooch, I probably should have realised that the spot I’d been digging in was special.

But then I’d never been a deep thinker. Whenever I tried to think too much, whenever I took the time to ruminate on my life, on my situation, it depressed me so much I immediately regretted it.

My life consisted of waking up, working on the farm, drinking in the pub, and going to bed.

And sometimes, to be wild and exciting, I skipped going to the pub and read one of my history books instead.

And okay, fine, once in a blue moon I’d ride Pat Walsh but even that wasn’t as exciting as it used to be.

Maybe that’s why we hadn’t done in it in a good long while.

Dara talked about ghosts following patterns and I wondered about what would happen when I die. I pictured my ghost pottering around the house and the farm forever.

There I was, thinking about Dara, thinking about why he’d gotten so upset, and there I was getting depressed about it. Proving my point. No good came from thinking. My usual tactic was to distract myself with work, with the pub, with my plants, with sport… Anything to occupy my mind.

I didn’t know what I was going to do. Dara wouldn’t be around much longer.

Once he’d sorted out this bad luck, or evil spirit, or whatever it turned out to be, he’d be gone.

Back in his van and back on the road. For good.

My mickey stiffened at the thought of him.

I really hoped we could make up before he left.

I dressed in warm clothes and went downstairs to the kitchen.

The blue tarpaulin, which hung where the window used to, rippled lightly.

Despite our best efforts at sealing it tight, a draught still blew through the kitchen and out into the hall.

I could swear the beer mat-sized patch of mould in the corner of the kitchen ceiling had gotten darker overnight.

I needed to check the sheep again and decide whether or not to call the vet.

More expense, there. And what if the gold brooch wasn’t to blame for everything going wrong?

Christ knows I’d had a hard time of it for the past few years.

A farm like this wasn’t meant to be run by one man.

It was meant to be a family affair. Which was how my parents had done it.

And my grandparents. They’d worked their whole lives to build it, to pass it down the generations.

And I was struggling to keep it going. I stopped and closed my eyes.

I was doing it again. Thinking . Always a mistake.

The phone rang its trill, unpleasant bell. In the hall, I lifted the heavy black receiver. “Hello?” No one responded. A slight crackle of static made me concentrate harder. “Hello?”

Someone murmured on the other end of the line. The voice was young, mumbling at first, then whispering, fading in and out. “… up with … tles and… fall, and brought… ere… ow you all .”

“Who is this?” I asked.

The line went dead. I slammed down the receiver. “Feckin’ kids.”

?? ?

I had to lug a stepladder in from the shed and carry it upstairs.

Twice it knocked into the wall, almost dislodging a photo of Mam, Dad, and Mairead at a sheep auction.

With the ladder in place on the landing, I could reach the attic door in the ceiling.

I gave it a shove and it slid into the darkness.

With a torch held in my mouth, I hooshed myself up through the opening.

I flicked the torch around until I spotted a rumpled cardboard box.

Not wanting to walk on the joists, I stretched over and grabbed it when something scuttled past and flicked my ear.

In my surprise, I dropped the torch from my mouth.

It tumbled down onto my legs, then out of the attic door and smashed on the floor.

Not wanting to know what had touched me, I grabbed the box, stuffed it under my arm, and climbed out.

The ladder wobbled beneath me, as though someone were shaking it.

I had to use my feet to steady it and once I was stable, I was able to check the landing but found it empty.

I put the box on the floor, closed the attic hatch, and quickly collapsed the stepladder.

Given everything, I was lucky I didn’t end up at the bottom of the stairs in a heap.

I hope Dara appreciated the effort I was going through.

???

I drove into the village and parked outside the shop. With any luck, Mrs Murphy wouldn’t be serving today.

“Good afternoon, Lorcan.” She hovered behind her counter, ready to watch every move I made.

My heart sank. I gave serious thought to driving to one of the shops in Castleisland or even Tralee. Instead I searched among the jumbled shelves of washing powder and jars of toffee pennies.

“Anything I can help you with, Lorcan?”

I clenched my teeth. “No, thank you, Mrs Murphy.” I picked up a few packets of shiny plastic discs, some tinsel, and a string of lights.

Taking my items to the counter, she picked through each one. “It’s a bit late to be decorating for Christmas, isn’t it?”

I pointed behind her. “I’ll have one of those garlands as well, please.”

She stepped backwards as though afraid to turn her back on me. Ecce Homo , the painting of Jesus which had always hung on the door into the post office, now took pride of place on the shelving unit behind her. Right in the eyeline of every customer.

“Where’s Mr Murphy today?” I gestured to the empty stool in the corner. He wasn’t too bad and sometimes he minded the counter. He had an encyclopedic knowledge of GAA and was only too keen to share it with anyone who’d listen.

She started ringing up on her till. “He’s up with his sister. She’s absolutely beside herself. She’s after finding out her nephew from England has been courting Carol Dolan.”

“Sure where’s the harm in it?”

She stopped pressing buttons. “Where’s the harm? You know what them boys from England are like. Sure didn’t Michael Joy’s own sister run off with a Black man from England after getting pregnant?”

I wasn’t sure which part was the worst crime in her eyes and I didn’t ask .

“The boy’s parents sent him here to keep him out of trouble and now he’s…”

“He’s what?”

She sniffed. “Well, we don’t know what. And there’s the problem. He could be getting up to anything. You know what his sort are like.”

I slammed my money on the counter with more force than I intended. I took my purchases and left.