Page 91 of The Elements

A man named Cian ó ’Droighne á in picks us up from Galway Harbour in a small boat and tells us that it won’t take more than an hour to reach the island.

I see Emmet visibly spring to life, like a wilting flower, when he’s close to water again.

Somehow, the waves of the Atlantic Ocean look and smell different to those that lap toward Bondi, Manly, Coogee, or any of the other beaches I’m familiar with from Sydney.

Even as the spray splashes across my face, it tastes different on my tongue.

Darker, more threatening, offering a warning that travelers pass through its current at their own risk.

I wonder how many souls it has claimed over the centuries in revenge for intrusion.

For Emmet, however, who lets his right hand to rest within it, it’s a return to his comfort zone after the lengthy plane and train journeys, as if he has reverted to the warmth and sanctuary of the womb.

The Bish. Half boy, half fish.

Before leaving Sydney, I located a small cottage online and booked it for three nights.

A taxi driver waiting by the port drives us up a winding road toward it, depositing us with little ceremony by the front door.

The owner of the lodging, one Peader Dooley, has emailed to say that I will find a key beneath a plant pot by the front door, and he is true to his word.

Stepping inside, I’m struck by the musty smell and I suspect it hasn’t been occupied in some time.

Opening the windows, I turn the light on—a single bare bulb hanging from the ceiling—and look around, surveying the room, which is either a kitchen that houses a living room or a living room that houses a kitchen.

It’s hard to tell. Emmet, frowning, is focused entirely on his phone.

“There’s no Wi-Fi,” he says, his tone one of utter disbelief. “Dad, there’s no Wi-Fi,” he repeats, louder now.

“Should I call the police?” I ask and he stares at me for a moment, as if he thinks I’m genuinely suggesting this, before rolling his eyes. “We’re in a fairly isolated place, Emmet,” I tell him. “It’s possible there won’t be any Wi-Fi on the island at all.”

“None?”

“I mean, it’s possible.”

“How do they survive?”

It does seem a little disconcerting to be so removed from the outside world—even I’m willing to admit that—but it wasn’t as if I had many options.

There were no hotels, and this was the only cottage available.

I leave him to make his peace with digital isolation and take a look in the bedroom, where I’m greeted by a single bed.

Before Emmet can notice it and start screaming like a banshee, I tell him that I’ll sleep on the sofa and allow him his privacy.

“Do people actually live here?” he asks, sounding amazed, as if he’s just walked onto the set of a historical movie.

“Well, it’s a rental,” I tell him. “So probably not all year-round.”

“But what about the other houses?”

“I don’t know,” I say with a shrug. “They’re probably a bit more up-to-date.”

He starts taking photos on his phone, and I know he wants to send them to Damian or one of his other friends with some sarcastic comment attached but then realizes that, without Wi-Fi, to do so would cost him a small fortune.

“Look, we’ll make the most of it,” I say cheerfully. “Communing with nature and all that.”

He opens his mouth to protest but recognizes that this is exactly the sort of sentiment that he would generally endorse, so remains silent.

“Right,” I add, assuming that we’re done with the complaints for now. “Do you want to wash up or shall we just head straight out?”

“Where are we meeting her?” he asks.

“Who?”

“Mum.”

“Ah,” I reply, realizing that I can’t delay this revelation any longer. I’ve been putting off telling him, but it really can’t wait. “You might want to take a seat.”

He does as instructed, collapsing into a threadbare armchair that, even from where I’m standing, has a faint feline scent to it, looking a little anxious.

“Go on,” he says.

“The thing is, I probably should have mentioned this before, but your mother doesn’t actually know we’re coming.”

There’s a lengthy pause while he takes this in.

“I’m sorry,” he asks, shaking his head as if he can’t quite make sense of my words. “What?”

“She doesn’t… I didn’t tell her.”

“What do you mean you didn’t tell her?”

“I don’t really know how else to put it.”

“But how could you… why not?”

“Well, it’s not as if we talk that often.”

“No but…” He raises his voice and throws his arms in the air. “She invited us, didn’t she?”

“Not in so many words. When she phoned to tell me the news, she simply said that she was coming here for the funeral and to let you know that your grandmother had died. She didn’t actually say that we should travel over for it.”

Emmet’s eyes open wide.

“Dad,” he says, trying to control his emotions. “We’ve flown halfway across the world! What if she’s not even here?”

“Of course she’ll be here,” I tell him. “The funeral is tomorrow, after all. Where else would she be?”

He shakes his head, trying to make sense of this.

“So she didn’t want us to come?” he asks, more of a whisper now.

“It’s not so much that she didn’t want us to come,” I explain. “It’s more that she didn’t specifically say that we should.”

“What if she’s angry?”

“She won’t be.”

He shakes his head, unconvinced, and looks around in despair.

“This is insane,” he says, as much to himself as to me. “I should have been taken into care years ago. You’re both nuts. You’re both completely fucking nuts.”

I stifle a laugh. He doesn’t sound so much angry as perplexed, and to my relief, he’s not responding to the news as badly as I feared he would.

I make my way over to the sink and turn the tap on.

The water runs a hideous brown for the best part of a minute before turning clear.

I pour a glass and sip it cautiously. It’s cold, fresh, and delicious.

“So how do we find her?” he asks, his tone exhausted but resigned.

“Well, as far as I understand it, there’s only about four hundred people on the island.

And a single village at the heart of it.

So I don’t imagine it will be all that difficult.

We could check the local pubs, and if we can’t find her there, then someone will probably be able to point us in the right direction. ”

“Fine,” he says. “Either way, this will make a great story for my therapist in years to come.”

“I can probably recommend some good names if you like.”

He walks past me without even acknowledging this remark and goes into the bathroom, while I unpack our cases and leave some clean clothes out for him on his bed. I hear the shower running and decide to go outside until he’s ready and look around.

It’s beautiful here. Green, hilly, natural.

In the distance, I hear the sound of sheep, although looking around I can’t see any.

There’s a good view of the ocean and a well-worn path leading down toward it.

I could imagine a person sitting outside in the sunshine, reading a book, leaving the world behind them.

It’s an attractive idea. Glancing to my right, I notice a raised farm on the hill next to the cottage, where a man around my age, tall and blond, is leaning on a fence, smoking a cigarette.

He raises a hand in greeting and I raise mine too, considering whether I should wander over to say hello, but before I can decide he turns and disappears out of sight.

“You ready?” says a voice from behind me, and I turn to see my son, who looks refreshed, having changed into the jeans and T-shirt I laid out for him.

“Sure,” I say.

“And remember, if this goes wrong, it’s on you.”

I nod, and we make our way along the path that, I assume, will lead us toward the village at the heart of the island.

He turns to look in the direction of the beach and asks whether he can go swimming later, and I tell him that it might be dangerous at night, but there’s no reason why he can’t go down there in the morning before the funeral, and he seems satisfied by this.

“What was she like anyway?” he asks as we walk along.

“What was who like?”

“Your mother-in-law.”

“You mean your grandmother.”

“I didn’t have enough of a relationship with her to call her that.”

“Nor did I. Maybe we should just call her Vanessa.”

“OK.”

“I only met her a couple of times,” I tell him. “We went for dinner a few nights before your mum and I got married. And then we saw a little of her during that week. After that, our paths never crossed again.”

“Why not?”

I shrug. “Things were complicated between them. You know that.”

“Yeah, but no one’s ever explained to me why. Is it just a family thing with us? Mothers who aren’t interested in their kids, I mean?”

I take a breath. Perhaps now, on this brisk but sunny afternoon, in such a peaceful place, it’s time to explain to him the darker aspects of Rebecca’s childhood and teenage years, because God knows it’s unlikely she’ll ever do so herself.

Maybe it will give him a better understanding of her and allow him to forgive her neglect.

“What?” he asks, when I stop for a moment and press my thumb and index finger to the corners of my eyes, trying to decide.

“If you want the answer to that question,” I tell him, “then I’ll give it to you. But it’s not pretty.”

He hesitates only briefly, before nodding his head.

“I want it,” he says.

And so, as we continue to walk, I tell him the terrible story of his grandfather, Brendan Carvin, and the effect his actions had, not just on the eight little girls who he raped, but on his wife and daughters too.

It takes some time and I’m surprised that he listens without interruption.

When I reach the end of my narrative, however, the part that sees Vanessa arrive on this island many years earlier, he stops and sways a little, like a drunken man.

“Are you all right?” I ask him.

“I need to sit down for a minute.”