A Carra King (58 page)

“What's your hurry there, Matt? Here would you like a smathán?”

“No thanks. It's gone quiet out there.”

“Ah, sit down, can't you.”

“I'm going out and see about Iseult.”

“They're in the nip now.”

“I know.”

“But you won't be looking?”

“I won't be looking, that's it.”

“Hard to miss Iseult. Jases, she's the size of a, well . . .”

Minogue was suddenly sorry for him. McKeon had the bluster, but he was openhanded too. And he wasn't afraid to look at something straight on. Maybe his daughter did hate him. Minogue wanted to tell him that she'd get over it. He wanted to let McKeon ask him questions about gruesome murders and evil masterminds. He wanted to smile back at him and ask him tips for betting he didn't care about, about his boat and his adventures, about his tiled driveway or golf or whatever the hell people talked about these days. The damn beer must have some maudlin ingredient. He found himself winking back at the florid smiling face.

“A whale, Tom. It's whale-watching I'm about.”

The guffaws gave way to a song.

“Are ye right there Michael are ye right,
Do ye think that we'll get home before the night?”

Minogue waved him away when he tried to rise.

“I'm under instructions to keep you confined to quarters.”

“Mutiny,” said McKeon. “We can't have that.”

“Until they're under wraps anyway.”

The evening sky blinded Minogue for several moments. The water was lemon and gold to the shore side. He heard murmurs from the other side of the boat, a laugh.

“Iseult. It's Captain Cook here. Come in now can't you.”

“All right.”

Teeth chattering, he heard.

“I'm coming over your side. Are you hanging on to some rope there?”

“Yes. Orla's just heading out a bit. I'm going to pull myself up the best I can.”

“No! Don't be straining yourself there. I'll do the pulling.”

Lines spread from Orla's drift through the water. Dimly he glimpsed her body as she turned and treaded water. Iseult was red.

“Great God,” he said. “You look perished. Come on now.”

He felt the boat give a little to his side. The rope ladder was off the back. He kneeled down and braced himself.

“That'll be a boll— that'll be difficult now to get on, love.”

She grunted and pulled at the rope.

“I have me feet . . . but it keeps on going under the boat.”

“Give me your hand there, yes. I'll take hold of your wrist now and you take hold of mine . . . use the other one to get a hold of that whatchamacallit.”

He was reaching for her oxter with his free hand when he heard the cabin door open. He turned.

“Hi, Tom,” he managed before Iseult lost her footing. For a moment he knew he could let go of her but also that he couldn't. His good knee hit the edge as he tumbled. Iseult let go. He brushed by her as the water closed over him.

He kicked but the coat was like cement. Keys, wallet, shoes, coat, change — all dragging him under: mustn't panic. His hand glanced off some part of Iseult. Bubbling, voices, a shout, bumping sounds. She grabbed his collar. Another hand grabbed his arm. His head was in the air. He opened his eyes. Orla had swum in. The water wasn't cold. He began to sink again. Should he try to get out of his shoes or this bloody jacket? Something slapped the water beside him. McKeon was shouting and laughing. He grabbed the tube. Styrofoam, more neon colours. He elbowed onto it and looked around.

“It's nice isn't it?” said Iseult.

The salt hurt his eyes. He reached down and felt for his wallet and keys. He tried to get further up the Styrofoam tube. It didn't surprise him that he didn't much care anymore.

“It is,” he spluttered. “It's not bad at all.”