HOLYHEAD
Niamh left the ensuite door ajar as Kieran washed, pleased at his make-believe monologue. Letting him bathe himself unsupervised had been a necessary, terrifying transition - one of many, lately - but his burbling soliloquy was a comforting reassurance. Travelling with two medium-weight dogs had forced a bit of slumming it for accommodations, but as far as the boy was concerned, novelty was as good as luxury. An Egan through and through.
A memory crept in as she lounged on the lumpy, cheaply-appointed bed, in the forgiving dim light of their twin room. Ambrose, all those years ago, singing into the showerhead as they playfully debated potential baby names. He was as lost to her now as that pregnancy; she supposed she would go to her own grave believing both their deaths to be her own fault. No amount of reason could break through it.
She often wondered these days if she was ever really meant to be a wife. Motherhood, she had almost bungled entirely, but eventually she'd redeemed herself - though her promise to Imelda, to give Kieran siblings, was well enough forfeit now. Marriage, meanwhile...she had failed at it twice, now. Rich of me to say Sean's was the "unreasonable behaviour!" And she couldn't even remarry in the church this time. Only the prenuptial to be grateful for. Daddy had insisted.
All the rest... A waste.
A wash.
She perked up her ears to make sure her son's head was still above the water. Singing, now, about the hotel soap. Plodding, repetitive, surely driving the next room mad.
How like the father he couldn't remember. Whom he should still have.
No. I'm only missing him to make myself feel better about leaving Sean. It wasn't working. She heard the plughole sucking water away now. She swung her legs off the bed and rose to help Kieran dry off, wondering when he would become too shy for motherly assistance altogether.
No father. No grandfather. No stepfather. And now not even a priest.
Kieran stood in the doorway, white towel round his entire midsection like a strapless minidress.
"Did you get all the shampoo out?"
He nodded solemnly.
Reaching into the smallest suitcase, Niamh retrieved his maroon-striped pyjamas, and dutifully turned away as he put them on.
"Do I have to go to sleep right away?"
"Yes, we have to be ready very early in the morning to get on our ferry."
"I thought you said it was a boat."
"It is a boat."
"Oh."
There was a lull for a moment, punctuated by a few determined breaths. She tried to remember that feeling: fingers too stubby, sleeves too long.
"Okay. I'm all dressed for bed now."
She turned to face him. He was off by one button all the way down his front. "Good job," she yawned.
"Mummy? Can the dogs sleep in my bed with me?"
She looked to the mock-sheepskin cushion in the corner, where the two loyal beasts were snoring together. "Kieran, they're already asleep."
"Can I wake them?"
"You will anyway if you don't quiet down. Let them be." She smiled, turning down the linens for him. "C'mon now. I'll tuck you in."
BALLYKISSANGEL
No sooner was Michael home than the flickering light of his answerphone caught his eye. At this point, someone wanting a dose of medicinal THC would be a welcome change of pace. He'd heard from Kevin, and then Niamh, and then Assumpta; wasn't three blasts-from-the-past quite enough?
It wasn't. The recorded message was Ambrose, giving the number for a landline to reach him.
In Manchester.
Michael dialled it and waited.
The voice on the other end was long-lost, but no surprise. "Hello?"
"Father Clifford?"
"Still Father for now, anyway."
Michael smiled sadly, wondering inwardly if the English priest could ever absolve him of this.
Assumpta had overestimated her efficiency somewhat, arriving at the pub just as they were about to call last orders. Steeling herself with another nip from the flask, she pushed her ill-suited prop eyeglasses up on her nose, ran a hand through her carefully-straightened hair, then opened the once-familiar accommodation door.
The scent of the place was mostly as she remembered, but not enough; it was less smoky, and the new owners were using different cleaning products. The sheets wouldn't be as soft; the flatware would have spots; the wood would wear more quickly.
The decor had changed, but too little. Mark your bloody territory, she wanted to cry out. Paint. Get a new "Cead Mile Failte" sign. Change the wattage in the light bulbs. Anything.
She glanced into the pub and then quickly away, too tempted to seek familiar faces.
She was unprepared for the one that came up to admit her.
Sean Dooley?! Over my dead body!
Oh, fair enough then.
Please don't recognise me. Please don't...
She wanted to hide. Scream. Cry for the home of her first twenty-five years, for what she'd surrendered too easily. Laugh hysterically that Quigley's old rival had managed what Brian never could. Run for cover at the curate's house and tell Peter everything, beg his forgiveness...
None of that seemed particularly sensible.
So she settled for staring at her feet to obscure her face. It made the damned specs slide down her nose and onto the floor. She left them where they fell.
"Can I help you?" Dooley asked, stepping behind the desk.
She tried to disguise her voice as well, tried to give it a County Antrim flavour. "My friend booked a room for me. Maire Mellon."
"Right. I'm Paul Dooley. M'wife Oonagh and I run the place."
Paul? What, Sean had a twin? Or just a new alias?
She nodded, signing the ledger with her carefully-practised alter ego's autograph. (Not that theatregoers up north ever asked for it.) Out of habit, she reached for her credit card; then, realising where she was - and whose name was still on that card - she put it back and pulled a few notes from her wallet.
Dooley pulled a brass keyring off its hook. "Upstairs, third on the left."
As she stifled a laugh, she thought she might actually make it upstairs, escaping the notice of any of the old regulars.
It wasn't to be. When she looked up, she caught the eye of none other than Brendan Kearney, lingering in the doorway.
"Did Doc Ryan slip me something?" he joked, too soberly.
Dooley (whatever his real first name was!) turned quizzically toward the schoolteacher. Assumpta grabbed her duffle and bolted upstairs.
Dooley called after her: "And toilets are at the end of the hall!"
Brendan could be heard to reply, "I wouldn't worry, 'Paul.' She knows her way."
It's taking some time to line up the reunions just right, but rest assured they're forthcoming. Writing just-after-series-6 means a little extra research, since I normally constrain myself to the first three.
I really appreciate anyone who's still with me, and all of you who are working on your own right now as well. I know I update quickly but I progress slowly, so thanks for your patience!