Page 1 of Heart of the Wren
Chapter 1
26TH NOVEMBER 1985
County Kerry, Ireland
LORCAN
KNUCKLES WHITE and skin prickling, I hesitated. A chill crept through my bedroom, arousing the hairs on the back of my neck. I finished tugging up my underwear and shivered. A creeping cold spread out through the room like a grasping hand, reaching past my body to the photo frame on my wall wherein a group of small boys in short trousers gazed outfrom beneath their straw masks. The glass fogged where the cold touched. A sharp crack appeared across one boy's face. Then another crack formed. And another. Several shards fell from the walnut frame, onto the chest of drawers below. My heart pounded. I slowly pulled on my trousers and boots, leaving my jumper until last, unwilling to cover my eyes unless necessary.
From beneath the broken glass, I retrieved the brooch. Ancient, golden, with dirt caked in the crevices of its Celtic knot design. A recent find, I wrapped it in a vest and slid it into a drawer. The glass, I carefully gathered up and carried downstairs to the kitchen bin.
Before I could boil the kettle for my breakfast, someone knocked on my kitchen window, then stuck their head in through the back door.
“Mornin’.” Lit cigarette dangling from his lips, Michael Joy stood in the little square hallway at the back of the kitchen so as not to track his muddy boots into the house. “The paddock gate was open all night, I think.”
I threw my hands in the air. “How the hell did that happen?”
“I don’t know,” said Michael. “I checked it myself before I left. I think it must have been the wind last night. I’ve got it tied shut now and Eddie’s out rounding up the sheep.”
As he spoke, my two sheepdogs slipped past him into the kitchen. They wagged their tails and licked their lips. I threw some of yesterday’s rasher rinds to them.
“Right, I’ll be out in a minute.”
Michael got back to work while I sighed heavily and mentally added another thing to my to-do list, along with fixing the tiles on the farmhouse roof, ringing the bank about a late payment, and checking on a couple of sicksheep.
The doorbell rang, setting the dogs off. I hushed them down and answered the door to find a man standing there. Squat, thick-necked, with a pleasant round face, and a stubbly ginger goatee. He ran a hand through his gelled-back, ginger quiff and grinned at me, revealing pearly white teeth with two prominent canines.
“Yes?” I held the dogs back, though they weren’t barking. Quite the opposite. Their tails wagged madly and they leapt around. They were friendly by nature but they wanted to greet this stranger like a long-lost friend.
“Good morning! I’m sorry to bother you but my van has broken down, right outside your front gate. I think I might be blocking you in?” the man said.
I took my coat from a hook in the hall. I walked with the man across the flat bridge over the slender stream that cuts the farmhouse off from the farm buildings. One of the soles of his boots was loose at the back and it flapped as he walked. His clothes were clean enough but shabby. He wore an untucked red and black checked shirt over a scruffy pair of jeans. His coat had worn thin at the elbows and had been splattered with mud and long-dried paint. He chatted away to my dogs as we walked, asking them how their day was going. We carried on along the pitted road, and out to the gate.
Sure enough, there sat a battered VW camper van. Lime green, it was, for the most part. Three small songbirds hopped around the cream roof and flew away as we approached. The sides of it were decorated. Loudly. On one side, a full moon sat pride of place with its fingernail phases blasting out from it in a line. The other side of the van featured a convincing forest scenewith a brown bear standing on a cliff, surrounded by trees, under a canopy of stars. Another moon shone down and caught its fur. He liked the moon, this fella.
“I don’t know what happened,” the man said. “She conked out on me.”
“It’s a bad aul spot to stop, right enough.” The hedge-lined laneway outside my farm was narrow and filled with twists and turns. A careless driver could easily come around the corner and slam into the van. “Hang on there a minute, and I’ll tow you in.”
I trudged back through the sheet of snow lying on the ground to fetch my tractor from the farmyard. A few minutes later, I was using a chain to attach it to the gaudy van. I poked at some rust on the bumper. “She’s seen some miles, boy. Are you sure she’ll be stand up to being towed? She looks ready to fall to pieces.”
The man grinned, flashing those sharp upper teeth. “She’ll be alright.” He rubbed the painted peace sign on the passenger side door. “Won’t you, girl? This is very good of you.” He held out his hand, revealing a flash of ink on his inner wrist and numerous unique silver rings on his fingers. “I’m Dara, by the way.”
I shook it. “Lorcan Fitzgerald.”
Dara hopped up into the tractor cab beside me, making sure to keep out of the way.
“Not your first time in one of these, from the looks of it,” I said.
“Far from it.” Dara slapped the cabin with his hand. His sleeve fell enough to reveal more of his tattoo. A circle with a pointed star inside. “I’vedriven all kinds of farm equipment. I was working with a combine harvester last year.”
I manoeuvred the tractor through the gate, making sure the van was coming as well. “What is it you do yourself?”
“Wh’ever needs doing,” Dara said.
“Did you saywhoever needs doing?”
“Whatever,” Dara said, laughing. “Whateverneeds doing.”
