Mr Lynch’s Holiday

15

‘Have you seen that fella over there?’

‘Which one?’

‘The big tom, there on the left in the shade.’

‘What about him?’

‘Well, look at him.’

‘I’m looking.’

They sat on the terrace watching the cats taking their evening paseo round the empty pool.

‘Does he not remind you of someone?’

Silence.

‘Tell me now if he isn’t the dead spit of Mr Socks.’

‘He isn’t the dead spit of Mr Socks. Mr Socks was a little thing, nimble.’

‘Never mind the size, I mean the markings, the white paws, and his face — don’t you think he has a look of him?’

‘Maybe. A little.’

‘I’d say he’s a long-lost relative. The Iberian branch of the Socks family.’

‘You used to tell me we were descended from Spaniards, do you remember?’

‘Well, maybe we were.’

‘No, not maybe, you relayed this information as fact. I distinctly remember you telling me that we had Spanish blood.’

‘The Armada was washed up on the west coast of Ireland. There was all kinds of intermingling. There’s a very good chance.’

‘Laura never stopped laughing when I told her. She seems to think it unlikely that I’ve any Mediterranean blood in my veins. She’s always amused by how easily I burn. There’s no compassion there at all.’

‘I don’t think poor Mr Socks would have lasted long with these boys.’

‘No, they’d have soon sniffed him out for the Little Lord Fauntleroy he was.’

‘I used to get into terrible trouble with your mother. She couldn’t stand the creature, didn’t want him anywhere in the house.’

‘I didn’t know that.’

‘Well, she didn’t like to hurt your feelings, so she’d put up with him when you were around, but when you were gone the poor cat got an awful shock. She’d be raging at him, shooing him out the back door with the brush.’

Eamonn was indignant. ‘But he didn’t like it outside. It made him sneeze.’

‘I know, you don’t have to tell me that. I made sure he was all right though. I made a nice little bed for him in the shed and I’d take him out treats of tinned salmon or whatever I could find.’

‘Didn’t Mom notice?’

‘Of course she did. She was always giving out about food going missing. I’d say I’d taken it to work for my lunch and she’d say, “Who takes double cream for their packed lunch?”’

‘I can’t believe she didn’t like Mr Socks.’

‘No, they didn’t get on at all.’

Later they took a footpath through the woods around the western edge of the development. They emerged from the pines towards the bottom of Lomaverde. They made their way slowly back up the middle of the road. Dermot was transfixed by the sky. He had never seen anything like it. Billowing trails of cloud in golds, pinks and purples were sliced through with shafts of the dying sun. A Hollywood Technicolor extravaganza above their heads. It was entirely fantastical to him, the sight of Charlton Heston’s face peeping from the clouds could not have astounded him more.

‘Will you look at that,’ he said, but when he dragged his eyes from the sky Eamonn was no longer beside him. He looked back down the road and saw him standing still, staring off to the side. He followed his gaze and noticed for the first time a children’s play area, set down in a hollow off to the right. It was a forlorn-looking place, untouched as far as he could see by any child, the primary colours of the swings and roundabout vivid in the setting sun. It reminded him of an advert for something, he wasn’t sure what. At first he saw only the motionless apparatus — the red swings, the yellow see-saw, the pirate-ship climbing frame — and then he looked again. Beneath the slide was a pool of dark liquid, slowly spreading.

They walked over together. He bent to dip his finger in the liquid and felt a drip upon his neck. It was only then they saw the chicken, strung up beneath the apex of the slide, blood draining slowly from the gash across its throat. They stood side by side taking in the scene. The only sound the buzzing of flies.

‘It’s OK.’ They both jumped at the voice. Dermot recognized the Swedish woman from the residents’ meeting. She was struggling down the hill, wearing rubber gloves, carrying a bin bag, brush and large bottle of soapy water. He went over to help her.

‘Thank you.’ She handed him the brush to carry. ‘It’s OK,’ she called to Eamonn, ‘I will clear it up.’

Eamonn looked at her. ‘Have you seen it?’

She sighed and pushed some hair from her face. ‘Yes, I’ve seen it. It’s Ottoline.’

‘Ottoline?’

‘My hen.’

Eamonn looked horrified. ‘Did you do this?’

‘No. Of course not. I had two hens. Ottoline and Sonja. They went missing earlier today. I assumed an animal had got them.’

While they spoke, Dermot cut the bird down and laid it carefully on the ground.

‘I was coming down the road, looking for any trace of them, and I heard a commotion — sounds of flapping and squawking. I knew her at once. She had a distinctive noise that she makes. I called her name and then I heard footsteps running. By the time I came round the corner it was too late to save her.’

‘What do you think it means?’ asked Eamonn.

Dermot looked at him. ‘I’d say it means someone fancied chicken for their dinner.’

‘But just leaving it here, like a macabre calling card.’

Inga spoke. ‘I suppose I disturbed them, I don’t suppose they intended to leave it.’

‘But still …’ Eamonn seemed intent on finding darker significance.

Dermot caught the eye of the woman. ‘Can we help you at all? Clean it up for you?’

‘That’s very kind, but I’ll be OK.’

‘Right.’ They carried on standing, awkwardly, not knowing what to do as she put the chicken in a plastic bag. She turned her head to look at them. ‘Please, it’s OK, you go.’

As they walked away she called after them. ‘Excuse me!’

They turned around. ‘Sorry,’ she was looking at Dermot, ‘I’ve forgotten your name.’

‘Dermot.’

‘Dermot, yes. I’m so sorry about this. What a holiday you are having!’ And she laughed.

They walked back up the road. Eamonn was unsettled. ‘Odd sense of humour.’

‘Did you think so?’

‘Well, she was all very jolly at the end, wasn’t she? As she wiped up the innards.’

‘Scandinavian did they say she was?’

‘Swedish.’

‘There you are, then.’

‘What?’

‘Viking blood. It’d take more than a few giblets to upset one of them, I’d bet.’

Eamonn said nothing.

‘Nice bit of halal chicken she has there now anyway. I hope she doesn’t let it go to waste.’

‘You’re joking, right?’

‘What? Why not? Slaughtered very cleanly.’

Eamonn pulled a face. ‘Did you kill chickens back in Ireland?’

Dermot turned to him and nodded solemnly. ‘Indeed I did. Chickens. Rabbits. Sheep. Cows.’

‘Cows? Jesus Christ.’

‘That’s how it was in the country. Up at dawn and out you were with a big knife cutting the throat of anything you could find.’

‘Oh, I see. This is humour.’

‘Leaving a trail of macabre calling cards behind us. Slaughtering and singing while we did it.’ He began to sing:

‘Last night as I lay dreaming of pleasant days gone by

My mind being bent on rambling to Ireland I did fly.’

He carried on walking, leaving Eamonn standing in the road. ‘It was a reasonable question.’