Last Out From Roaring Water Bay (23 page)

For a moment I found myself staring at him vacantly before my mouth clicked into gear. “You’ve knowledge of such an incident?”

“It’s more second-hand knowledge, sir.”

He put his glass down on the table, removed his hat, revealing short cropped dark ginger hair, pulled in a chair and sat down opposite me. I didn’t protest that he’d invited himself, but I did notice his clay pipe wasn’t even lit. I suppose listening to a rambling old Irishman wouldn’t do me any harm, though I was perhaps being a little harsh on calling him old. He looked older than he probably was due to his weathered face and stubbly chin; neither did him any favours in the beauty department. He had deep set, grey blue eyes and bushy eyebrows. By the time he’d told me everything about his tale, we had drank a few beers.

“It’s an incredible story, Shamus. Can you verify any of this?”

The Irishman’s eyes narrowed. “Yer wouldn’t be thinking, Shamus O’Malley was to be telling yer lies, would yer, sir?”

“I’m sure you’re not, Shamus, because nobody could create a story quite like yours. And I’m sure you can prove it?”

“Indeed, sir,” he announced solidly. “Take yer to the graveyard where the body’s buried.”

“It’s a start. Now tell me the story again but leave out the intricate details.”

Shamus slurped down a mouthful of beer. Ran the back of his hand over his mouth and began, “As I said, sir. Me uncle told me that during the war this wee lad was strolling along the beach at Gollen, a place where I’ve lived all me life; a beautiful place, sir. So this wee lad had been collecting drift wood from the beach when he stumbled on the ghoulish thing washed up on the rocks. A real mess it was, sir; a badly sea battered body with squinty eyes, smashing against the rocks. That I’m as sure as being sat here holding me empty glass.”

I got the hint and reordered. I was going to suffer with a frigging bad head the following morning there was no doubt about that, but I thought this conversation was worth the pain. Go on!” I pushed. “You can clearly remember all what you were told?”

“Clear as a twinkle in me Mother’s glass eye. Isn’t the sort of memory yer can forget, sir, as a lad. I were scared stiff for weeks just thinking about it.”

“Did anyone know how the body became washed up on the rocks?”

“I’d heard a rumour much later that the body may have had something to do with the Americans sinking some Japanese submarine out in the Atlantic at the time, and the body had probably drifted towards Ireland on the currents.”

“I suppose the body could have carried that far. What happened to the body after it was retrieved from the water?”

“It was buried, sir.”

“What, straight away? No autopsy, no coroner’s inquest?”

“I wouldn’t know about the medical details, sir. But as the tale goes the body was buried within days, sir. It was beginning to rot a bit. There was no such thing as fridges around here at the time to be storing bodies.”

“Buried here in Ireland?”

“So my uncle assured me, sir.”

“Can you remember where the burial took place?”

Shamus raised his finger in the air. “Indeed I do, sir.”

“Will you take me there tomorrow?”

“Ah-well, sir...” He began slowly. “…I’m a very busy man, indeed.”

“I would be paying for your time handsomely, naturally.”

I had read him well because there was an immediate sparkle in the Irishman’s eyes, and he said, “Now the mere mention of those immortal words is enough to send a leprechaun running for his golden pot to be filled. Is there any particular time in the morning, sir?”

“Don’t make it too early, I’ve a feeling I’ll need some aspirins.”

“Yer disappoint me, sir. A few pots of the black magic and yer’ve a hangover before getting one. What yer need, sir, is to drink a glass of Irish water before yer go to bed, and yer’ll be as fresh as dew on the morning meadow.”

I rose and told him where I was staying, and to be early: eight AM, no later.

I left the bar and staggered back to my hotel. I ordered a pot of tea to be brought to my room on the way through reception. When I eventually turned off the light and lay down on the bed, the room began to spin and so did the thoughts in my head. I nodded off, sinking into a quagmire of nightmares from which I thought I would never return.

The spear of sunlight pieced the crack in the curtain and hit me directly between the eyes. I climbed out of bed laboriously, drowned my body under a cool shower to wake me up and went down to breakfast. I ate a full traditional Irish breakfast consisting of rashers, grilled tomatoes, sausage, black and white pudding slices and potato cake, all washed down with a refreshing pot of tea. I had just finished when Shamus O’Malley arrived.

“Top of the morning, sir!” he said cheerily. “It’s a fine day to wander the beautiful lands of Ireland, it is.”

“I hardly regard stomping about in a graveyard as a charming excursion.” I reminded him.

“O’ no, sir, I meant the views on the way. Yer did mention sightseeing to me last night. That I remember, sir?”

“I’m sure I did, Shamus. Shall we get going?”

Outside Shamus proudly showed me the battered remnants of his Land-Rover, that and the need for a trip through the car wash.

I said casually, “Is it roadworthy?”

Shamus was astonished with my mistrust of his vehicle. “O don’t be fooled by the looks, sir. She’s a fine, fine runner, indeed.”

“I’ll have to take your word for it. What about insurance?”

“She’s very safe, sir.”

“No-not assurance…a driver’s insurance?”

“What might that be, sir?”

I looked at him vacantly. I’d two options: go or stay. I said, “I’ve a little complaint before we set off.”

His eyes bulged in anticipation. “Yer’ve a complaint already, sir? And what might that be?”

“For goodness sake, please stop calling me ‘sir’ every five minutes. You can call me, Shacks, okay?”

“It’s a fine name, Shacks sir, a fine name indeed.”

This was one Irishman whose vocabulary I’d struggle to change in a million years.

Shamus O’Malley drove with the same perception as a learner driver with pace, as he took full advantage of the entire road width available when he decided to take his eyes off the road to point out relevant landmarks of interest. I shouldn’t moan, as it’s not often I have the privilege of being chauffeur driven even if it made me feel uncomfortable. But I overcame my fears the longer the journey went.

We made decent progress along the country roads and despite the country air flowing through the open window I still couldn’t relax because of two annoying factors: Shamus’s constant crunching of the gears combined equally with his crunching on pieces of dried pork morsels he rustled up from a bag beside him. I’ve seen a pregnant sow scoffing slops from a bucket eat more quietly.

From Baltimore we took the same scenic route I’d taken the day before until we reach Ballydehob, then onto to the R592, passing a mushroomed topped mountain as we headed for the village of Schull. Keeping right, as we went through Schull, Shamus veered the vehicle off the road and we headed down a narrow country lane until we approached a derelict church minus its roof. At first I thought Shamus was taking me on a sight-seeing trip after all to liven the day, but he hadn’t. This was the place.

“We’re here, Shacks sir.” He announced as if introducing me to something fantastically special.

I stepped from the vehicle unimpressed and stretched my legs. I followed Shamus through a broken oak gate hanging by one rusty hinge and along an overgrown grassy stone pathway to the rear of the ruins.

“So what’s the story of this sorrowful place?” I asked as we went along.

“O it is a shame, Shacks sir,” he said over his shoulder. “A violent storm in the twenties ripped the roof clean off, so I was told.”

Shamus stopped and swept his hand in an arc to show the area where I assumed the body was buried, but he refused to go any closer. I saw nothing but overgrown vegetation and total neglect. It was obvious nobody had been here for years.

Bewilderment on my face, I said: “This is the graveyard?”

Shamus nodded.

“Where are all the headstones?”

“O well, Shacks sir, this church was never actually used for Irish burials.”

“Then what are we doing here?”

“The authorities at the time, Shacks sir, made an exception and had the body from the shore buried here. It’s over there, Shacks sir, under the overgrown hedgerow.”

I followed his outstretched arm to the spot he was pointing to and said, disappointedly, “Hardly distinctive as a grave.”

“O believes me it is, Shacks sir. I swear on me Mother’s grave it is. If you flatten the long grass down you’ll find it. I’d do it meself, only I’m a rather superstitious kind of man, and the thought of leaning over another mans grave only heightens me fear of being taken before me time.”

“You’re scared, Shamus?”

Shamus blushed because it certainly wasn’t exertion. “Scared? Me?”

“You’re afraid of a ghoulish hand suddenly shooting from the ground to drag you down into Hell?”

Shamus owned up to his phobia. “That’s precisely what I’d be thinking, Shacks sir.” And he immediately made the sign of the cross over his chest.

Even I hesitated before crouching down in front of the supposed grave. I parted the grass and found the evidence that proved Shamus was right.

“There’s no headstone of any type,” I bellowed over my shoulder. “But there’s a wooden plaque. It’s a bit twisted and faded, but I can still read part of the inscription.”

“What does it say, Shacks sir?”

“Let your God-something-something-soul: rest-something-something; probably rest in peace.”

It was hardly an impressive piece of writing and proved nothing to confirm this was the last resting place of a Japanese sailor. I rose to my feet, contemplating the possibility of hiring a couple of gravediggers to exhume the body for verification, but there’s a law against doing that without the proper authorization and paperwork and to be accused of grave-robbing didn’t really appeal to me.

“Are you sure this is the grave?”

“As sure as me name is Shamus O’Malley,” he said seriously.

“Why did they decide to bury the body here at the ruins, some Irish custom?”

“O well, yer see, Shacks sir, the priest at the time, Father Brady, O he was a fine man indeed and a devout Roman Catholic, well he wouldn’t allow a non Catholic to be buried on sacred ground. I’m afraid Father Brady wasn’t quite prepared for the religions associated with the Far East, so it was decided that this forgotten church would be sufficient until the body was claimed.”

“Very thoughtful, only it seems nobody bothered to pass the information on.”

“O it’s an awful thing, Shacks sir,” again his fingers shifted across his chest as he made the sign of the cross, “time simply passed by. No one came looking. No one remembered, until now. Is it helping at all?”

“Not directly, but I should think the Japanese government will want to know the body exists.”

“Does that mean the forgotten soul will be going home?”

“No doubt the Japanese government will reclaim the body and would want its return immediately. They’re an honourable bunch when it comes to their hero’s. Send them a shoe and that’s sufficient for a full military honour.”

“It’s a fine, fine thing, Shacks sir, a fine thing indeed.”

“Yes, but we’ll not mention anything about it just yet, Shamus. Shall we move on to the part of the coast where the body was discovered? You do remember?”

“Indeed I do, Shacks sir.”

Back onto the main road, Shamus eased the Land-Rover through a sweeping bend that took us into Toormore Bay. We had small talk as we drove along, Shamus did all the talking and I just pretended to listen. My head was too full of
‘ifs, buts and why’s
.

We left the vehicle in the car park, made our way down to the beach and walked along the waters edge until we came to a piece of rocky beach. Shamus stopped and looked about as if he was lost, moved perhaps two steps back, muttered something, turned, took another two steps and stopped. He didn’t exactly fill me with confidence when he began scratching the back of his head and looking rather perturbed.

“Is there a problem?” I asked.

“Indeed there is, Shacks sir, I’m having a little trouble remembering on which side of the large rock the body was washed up.”

“I hardly think it matters, Shamus.” I assured him. “Can you recall being told the state of the body when it was found?”

Shamus gave me a strange look. “O dead, Shacks sir, very dead indeed.”

“No! I meant the condition of the body. How did it look?”

“I was told it was battered to a pulp as I said last night, Shacks sir.”

At that moment a huge wave smashed into a number of large rocks a few metres out and sprayed me with saltwater. It didn’t distract me. “No I meant was the body bloated, swelled like a balloon?”

“O no, I distinctly recall my uncle referring to a skinny little runt with squinty eyes and his skin white and wrinkly.”

Skinny little runt told me a great deal. It meant the body could never have travelled from mid-Atlantic without suffering such deformities as severe bloating and rotting flesh. It meant the body could have come from a closer source. The thought gave me a nip of inspiration.

Excitedly I said, “How deep is the water around Roaring Water Bay?”

“That would depend on your intentions, Shacks sir.”

“I’ve suddenly acquired the urge to go fishing, Shamus.”

Shamus broke into a short Irish jig. “I knew yer were a fisherman the minute I first cast eyes on yer. Is it the big fish that appeals, Shacks sir?”

“Sort of, Shamus. How big did you say your boat was?”

“The biggest in the harbour she is, Shacks sir, and ready at a special price to you.”

“Good because I hope you don’t mind fishing for submarines.”

Shamus ceased his jiggery dance gave me a long hard look. “Submarines yer say, Shacks, sir?”

“Yes Shamus. We are going hunting for a great big metallic Japanese submarine which I’m absolutely positive went missing while on a secret mission, here in Roaring Water bay. But keep it to yourself, if you don’t mind.”