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Chapter 4 - Chapter 4

If there was one thing I learned about the place my mother called home, it was that Molly McCreedy's was the heartbeat of Derrydun.

Stepping across the threshold, I glanced around with curious interest. I'd never seen anything like it.

The walls were full of framed photographs and paintings, the tables were all mismatched, the bar was made from a dark mahogany, and the golden beer taps glistened in the murky light. An open fireplace, covered with a wrought iron grate, was at one end, and over the mantle hung a painted portrait of a woman. The plaque set into the bottom of the gilded frame read 'Molly McCreedy — 1655–1687.'

Behind the bar were shelves packed full of bottles, most of them whiskey, and below were modern fridges full of craft beers and cans of larger. Beyond was a door that led through to the kitchen, which was in full swing given the assembled crowd.

The scent of wood smoke, stale beer, and cooking filled the entire place along with the riotous sound of a sing-a- long. Someone had brought a guitar and a tambourine, and it seemed cause for celebration. Whatever song it was, everyone knew the words and were shouting in unison, having the times of their lives.

Everyone clapped at the right moments during the chorus—four, two, then shouted hey!—and sung along with something close to reckless abandon. Nobody gave two hoots what they looked like. This must be the craic Boone was telling me about.

"Do you know this song, Skye?" a man I recognized from the funeral asked.

I shook my head.

"It's called Whiskey in the Jar," he explained. "It's about a man who steals some money from a ship's captain and is betrayed by a woman."

"Stop tryin' to talk her up, Sean," Boone declared behind me. "Give the girl a moment to catch her breath."

"I was only bein' friendly," the man named Sean grumbled. The entire way here, Boone had followed me, keeping his distance. I wasn't sure what was more creepy—him following me up the hill in the first place or lurking behind me all the way down.

Ignoring the two men, I weaved through the packed room and found the bar. The moment I slid onto a free stool, a woman appeared before me. The first thing I noticed about her was her chestnut-colored ringlet curls and freckled nose. She would have to be around the same age I was, mid to late twenties. I wondered what she was doing here because the more people I met in this village, the more I realized the ratio of young to old in Derrydun swung a great deal more in one direction than the other.

"You must be the famous Skye," she said, leaning against the bar.

"Uh, that's me, but I'm not famous or anything."

"I didn't get a chance to offer me condolences today," she said. "I'm Maggie Ashlyn. Me da owns the next farm over from Roy's farm."

"Oh," I said, straightening up. "Someone told me about your dad. I think. Honestly, I can't keep up with all the names and places. Then there's the accent." I moaned dramatically.

"Tell me about it. Me da moved here from the UK when he married me mam. So I'm half and half, though I grew up here in County Sligo. People tell me my accent slips into one or the other from time to time. Just to confuse you." She winked. "Anyway, I'm sorry about your mam passin'. She was a lovely lady."

"So I hear." Jealousy was becoming my default setting the longer I was in Derrydun.

"Can I get you anythin' to eat or drink?"

"No, I don't really have much of an appetite."

Maggie smiled, then held up a finger. Turning, she

selected a bottle from the shelf behind her and flipped a glass over in her hand. Pouring a few fingers of the brown liquid, she slapped the glass down in front of me. "Here, have a dram of whiskey. It'll warm you right up."

Knowing I was a complete lightweight, I sipped tentatively as the strong woody scent burned my nostrils. The alcohol went down my throat in much the same way as fire blazed along a line of gasoline. Coughing, I set the glass down and waved a hand at my watering eyes.

"Bloody hell," I cursed, then sipped again.

Maggie leaned against the bar with a smirk. "I see you came with Boone."

I glanced over my shoulder. He was standing with a group of men, laughing, his entire face lighting up. I was beginning to suspect he was the epitome of the Irish. Cheeky as hell.

"He followed me," I said. "I found my own way."

"I can see why he's interested in you," Maggie said. "He was very close with Aileen."

"So I hear." I straightened up. "Hey, what's his story, anyway? I was talking to Mairead at the shop, and she said he just turned up one day."

"That's about the gist of it." Maggie shrugged. "You can usually tell where someone is from due to their accent, and I hear a lot of them workin' behind this bar. Not just from the tourists who come through, either," she said. "At first, I thought he was from Galway. Then, the next day, his accent changed, and I thought he might be from Cork instead. Then he took on Sligo with a little bit of Dublin. So, no, I don't know where he's from. It seems our Boone is from everywhere."

Looking back over my shoulder again, I peered at him. The man from everywhere with his thousand and one jobs, his cheeky lit, and his roguish exterior. I hadn't felt this hot under the collar about a guy since...well, ever. I'd just looked at him and was all like hello sailor.

"Cute, ain't he?"

Jumping a mile, I grimaced. "I suppose."

Maggie laughed. "So what about you? What do you do back in Australia?"

My shoulders sank, and I rolled my eyes, but she was the first person to ask me about my life and not gush about Aileen and her impeccable standing in the community. It was just my life was in tatters right now.

"That good, eh?" she asked, raising an eyebrow.

"I was working for a big bank in Melbourne, but a month ago, they handed my entire department redundancies. Then they shipped our jobs to a cheaper workforce overseas. I'm an unemployed drain on society." I fist pumped the air with as much enthusiasm as I could manage. Which wasn't much at all. "I'm currently drifting."

"I'll never understand big business," Maggie said, shaking her head. "It's all cuttin' costs and budget this, bottom line that. That's why I like Derrydun so much. We look out for one another. It's about the folk right here, right now. I'm sorry to hear about your troubles."

"What about you? You've never wanted to go to the city?"

"Nah. I went to study in Dublin when I was nineteen, then to London for a year, but I ended up comin' home. There's just somethin' about this place..." She stared dreamily into the distance before squaring her shoulders. "Ah, that's another story for another time. I'm meant to be workin'. I'd better get back to it. Enjoy your night, Skye."

As she moved back down the bar to serve some locals, I swiveled around on the barstool. Nursing my whiskey, I surveyed the pub. People were laughing in groups, clinking glasses, eating hearty meals being ferried out by the kitchen staff, and the low strumming of guitar music could be heard over the din. If this was a wake, then it wasn't like any I'd seen before. There were no tears in sight.

Everyone knew each other and gravitated around the familiar in their lives, and here I was, the stranger. Taking another sip of my whiskey, I began to struggle with the odd sensation of being alone in a crowd. I couldn't even see Robert, and I wondered when the lawyer had left. Probably while I was up the hill with Boone.

At the thought of the hot Irishman, my gaze fell on him for the tenth time since I'd walked into the pub. There was something about him I couldn't quite put my finger on, and it wasn't to do with his general hotness. Something else radiated around him almost like an aura. I'd always been a good judge of character to the point it had been like a sixth sense, but Boone...I couldn't figure him out.

Disregarding him, I turned my attention to the people standing around him, attempting to put faces to the names I'd learned that afternoon. Sean McKinnon, Mark Ashlyn, Roy, Mary, and Mairead's parents, Beth and Gregory. There were a ton more, but I'd already forgotten who they were.

Behind the group by the fireplace, a man was leaning against the wall, watching the room just like I was. Curious, I watched as the villagers milled around him but never once acknowledged his presence. Another loner like me.

Realizing he was being watched, the man raised his head and zeroed in on me. He stared back, his face shimmering as if he were some kind of freaky mirage. I blinked, and his skin darkened to a bluish gray, and his teeth elongated into sharp points before the whole image snapped back. Stiffening, I was frozen to the spot, unable to look away.

Something wasn't right. Wasn't this how psychosis started? Boone appeared next to me, drawing my attention back to reality.

"Are you okay?" he asked, sitting beside me.

"I, uh... I'm just tired. I haven't had much time to rest." Looking across the pub, the strange man had disappeared. Boone frowned. "Would you like me to walk you home?"

Craning my neck, I searched for the stranger but couldn't see him among the press of people.

"Lost somethin'?"

Shaking my head, I turned my attention back to Boone. "No, I... I'd better go home."

"Home, eh?" He grinned.

"It's a figure of speech," I retorted, springing off the stool.

"Maybe."

Rolling my eyes, I made a break for the door.

"Goodnight to you, Skye," he called out after me. "Be

seen' you!"

It wasn't a long walk back to the cottage, but I couldn't shake the image of the weird man at Molly McCreedy's. If he'd been real at all.

Outside, the main street was lit, but behind Irish Moon, the garden was dark, and long shadowy fingers stretched across the vegetable patch. Shivering, I sank into my jacket and tried not to look back. The sensation of a hundred pairs of eyes watching my every move was freaking me out even though I knew I was alone. I suppose that was the problem. Anything could be lurking in the darkness where I couldn't see. My boots crunched loudly on the gravel path as I hurried through the night. Fumbling for my keys, I stood under the eave and wrestled with the lock. The moment the door opened, a dark streak darted through my legs and disappeared into the house. Letting out a yelp, my heart twisted, and I fell back against the doorjamb. Was that a cat? It had better be a bloody cat because I had no patience left to wrangle any wild beasts tonight. Were there any dangerous animals in Ireland? Did squirrels sneak into people's houses and attack their faces while they slept at night? Who knew. I was on foreign soil.

"Hey!" I exclaimed running inside and slamming the door closed behind me.

Bumping into the kitchen door, I turned on the light and spied a big tabby cat sitting on the table. It was watching me with its big green eyes, its tail flicking back and forth.

"Just make yourself at home, cat," I said with a pout. It yawned, showing its teeth and bristly tongue. "Well?"

It licked its whiskers and continued to stare at me. "What do you want, hey?"

It blinked slowly and rose to its feet like it was going to pounce. Standing beside the table, I looked it over. It was quite a pretty thing. Large for a house cat, but its coat shimmered with a rich tabby color, and it even had a tinge of ginger.

"So, are you a boy or a girl?" Holding up its tail, I made a face. "Yep. You're a big boy all right. Are you Father O'Donegal's cat? If you are, then you made quite the scene at the funeral today." The cat headbutted me, nuzzling up for a pat. Placing my hand on his head, I scratched behind his ears. "You don't have a collar, though..." I glanced at the fridge. "Are you hungry? I've got chicken casserole."

The cat mewled and jumped off the table, making a run for the hall.

"Oh, no you don't!"

Chasing after it, I groaned as I saw it leap up the stairs. "You had better come back down here!" I shouted, knowing full well cats were right little so-and-so's and never listened to anyone but themselves. It wasn't coming back down anytime soon. Glancing up into the darkness of the second floor, I grasped onto the balustrade. Who knew what lingered up there. Memories, smells, personal belongings, clothes, and knickknacks. All the things I didn't want to face.

I placed my foot on the first step, and it creaked. This was how horror movies began. Get a grip, Skye. Thundering up the stairs, I flung open the first door I found and saw it was a bathroom. The next door along revealed a bedroom—which, by the lived-in feeling, must've been Aileen's room. Tiptoeing across the room, I found the lamp beside the bed and turned it on. The room was illuminated with a warm glow, revealing the cat had found his way to the most comfortable place in the house. Aileen's bed.

"Typical," I said, running my hand over his head. "Where have you led me, buddy?"

Turning my attention to the room, I began to add to the things I knew about my mother. A handmade quilt lay across the foot of the bed, the gold panels shimmering in the lamplight. The vibrant sun and moon design was kitsch and reminded me of a quilt cover I had as a child. I'd been obsessed with stars, and whenever Dad and I went to the beach house, we would sit out on the deck, and he would point out all the constellations he knew. Then I would spend hours staring at the moon, trying to make out all the craters through his battered pair of binoculars. Maybe Aileen had done the same thing before she left us, and this quilt was a reminder. It was a comforting thought.

Turning to the dresser, I ran my fingertips over a little tray of jewelry, studied a bottle of perfume, and peered inside a silver box. Opening the lid, my heart skipped a beat as I saw a familiar image. Picking up the photograph, my hands began to shake. The edges were worn, which meant it had been handled a lot. I knew because I had one exactly the same.

I stared at the candid snap of my dad, Aileen, and me and wasn't sure what to think. I was a baby in the image, barely old enough to open my eyes, but my parents were smiling at the camera with the beach I knew like the back of my own hand in the background. Boone seemed to think she loved me. He'd said as much that afternoon on the hill. Maybe the photo was proof she thought of us at least some of the time. Sliding the photo back into the silver box, I turned. Staring at the bed, I sighed. Dare I? It would be better than another night on the couch. The cat began to purr happily and kneaded his claws on the bedspread.

"This is such a weird place," I said to the cat. "I'm either still jet lagged, or..." I shrugged. "I'm talking to a cat." I snorted and rubbed my eyes. "This is my mum's room, huh? Do you think she and Robert were, you know?" I snorted and shook my head. "No, I don't think so. Actually, I was beginning to think Robert's strangeness was just an Irish thing, but the more I get to know him, the more I think it's just because he is strange. Everyone here has their own quirk. What's mine? What was Aileen's? She had a crystal shop in an out-of-the-way Irish village. It's not exactly the same as the traditional handicraft store next door." The cat had opened his eyes and was watching me. "I mean, am I supposed to call her Mum, or what? It feels better to call her Aileen. For now at least."

Lying back on the bed, I stared at my new buddy, who'd closed his eyes.

"Do you believe in monsters?" I asked, stroking his back. "I think I saw one at the pub. A man with bluish-gray skin and pointy teeth." The cat meowed and curled up into a ball. "I know, right? I'm so tired I'm starting to hallucinate. It'll be better tomorrow. Are you going to hang out here tonight?" The cat didn't move, so I assumed he'd decided to stay over. "All right, but don't hog the bed, okay?"

The cat didn't even twitch.

Kicking off my boots, I shimmied out of my jeans and crawled underneath the covers. Burrowing into the sheets, I studied the stripes running through the mysterious cat's back before switching off the lamp.

There was no such thing as monsters. Hallucinations brought on by exhaustion, however...