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  “I’ve a turf fire back at mine,” she said.

  Diarmuid raised an eyebrow. “Madam, I will have you know I won’t be won over so easily.”

  “You want to go on that wander then?”

  “Good point. Lead the way.”

  “So now you know a truth about me. Will you give me one?” Shade asked as they walked back to her temporary home.

  Diarmuid stopped on the side of the road, forcing her to stop too. His hands still tucked beneath his armpits, he looked away from her seemingly lost in thought. He leaned in and kissed her so quickly it almost felt like he had to trick himself into doing it. His lips were cold against hers. Her stomach fluttered, her whole body was taken by surprise. She relaxed and he kissed her smile.

  “Well at least that’s brought some colour back to you,” Shade said, biting her tongue to hold back more.

  Diarmuid walked on. “Are you smiling?” he asked without looking back.

  “You’re a sap, do you know that?” Shade said, jogging to catch up.

  “Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “I never said I was complaining. I ask you for a truth and you kiss me? Ugh, that’s so cute. That was so cheesy, my arteries are hardening.”

  Diarmuid was starting to sweat. Shade laughed and kissed his cheek and took hold of his hand.

  She pinched his cheek and took her hand away, hissing. “So warm.”

  “Okay enough. Any more and I’m likely to combust from the friction caused by cringing so much.”

  CHAPTER 8: A LIE

  “You’ve got to be joking,” Shade said as Diarmuid opened the gate to his rented house. “You’re staying right beside the pub? Why didn’t you say your place was nearer?”

  “You said you have a fire, we have a space heater in ours and it’s cramped,” Diarmuid said and excused himself to go inside.

  The ‘we’ was not lost on Shade.

  The pub was a few doors down. On a quiet night she reckoned you could hear the tips of cigarettes burning from the front of Diarmuid’s house. She could not help but smile at the thought of him walking her home without any expectation. Come on, it wasn’t that cold out last night. If it was below freezing then it would merit praise. Then again his house is right here, he could have offered me another drink. I would have refused of course, but he could have offered. He came out bundled in a padded jacked and warm clothes. “You’re a – is gobshite the right term?” She asked.

  “Picking up the lingo quick enough I see. It’s all in the tone though. You could call somebody a prick affectionately with the right tone.”

  “I always try and know a bit of slang and a few important phrases in a language before coming to a new place.” What am I doing?

  Diarmuid handed her a bottle of wine. “A house-warming present.”

  Shade was conscious of how empty her stomach was. “I don’t feel up to drinking ever again, especially after last night. I’m pretty sure I’m still a little bit drunk.”

  “The island does seem a lot quieter after the bit of music yesterday. There are plenty of sore heads around today. I can imagine the priest up in the church this morning held a brief service. ‘The Mass is ended, go in peace.’ ‘Ah thanks be to fuck, Father.’”

  “Are you religious?” Shade asked.

  “I’m an atheist, thanks be to God,” Diarmuid snorted. “My dad tells that joke a lot. No, I’ve no religion, no time for it, but I appreciate that people find comfort where they can. My mam is religious by habit. She used to take us to Mass every Sunday but it’s a small parish, so all my friends would be there. When I was younger I couldn’t stand it, listening to some eejit dressed in a white robe singing songs in Latin. We signed our priest up for every song competition there was, he was a good sport, went to every local one. Pity his head was so full of the word of God that there wasn’t space left in there to hold a tune or have the good sense to hold his tongue. Now that I know about the work he did with the elderly in our community I appreciate his humanitarian efforts. I see it as people helping people. I’m on board with that. What about you?”

  “I believed in some magic once but when that gets taken away you tend to throw everything that requires some suspension of disbelief out with it.”

  “Yeah those mythical beings must hate the Easter Bunny. He ruins it for the lot of them. Oh, and if I keep the wine in the house I’ll end up drinking it …”

  “Is that not the point?”

  “… alone. Have you any interest in going to the play in the dún tonight?”

  “What’s it about?”

  “We can find out together. Already have the tickets. I’ll need most of this bottle to get through it.”

  “You already have a spare ticket? What is it you were on about last night? Something about presumptions. Is this a honeymoon or something and your partner ran off, but you couldn’t refund the trip so you’re going to make the most of it anyway?” Shade reached for his other hand and turned it over.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Looking for the mark of a wedding ring. You never know, you could be one of those sneaky fellas that takes it off when familial eyes aren’t watching.”

  Diarmuid pulled a face. “It will be a while yet before that happens.”

  “Marriage or the infidelity?”

  “Feck off. Marriage. What about you? How far off are the wedding bells?”

  “I was the pallbearer at my sister’s wedding. That’s as close as I ever fancy getting to the altar. Okay that’s a bit extreme, I’m not that against it. There are some good tax incentives. How is it I came upon you way out there yesterday by yourself? The drink, the emotional music, the cliff. Are you okay? Was I close with the partner-running-away guess?” Shade nudged him.

  “You’re using suicide to not talk about marriage? I was out there to listen to music. I was in Synge’s Chair but I worried about some tourist jumping over the wall and landing on me. It’s as good a reason as any to stop in so beautiful a place and be present.”

  “That’s why I took up photography: an excuse to take the time to stop and look at things, without looking like too much of a creep. Have you got any more songs like those you played yesterday?”

  “Don’t encourage me or we’ll spend the rest of the day listening to music, drinking wine and chatting.”

  “A good reason to keep you around a little bit longer. Thank you for offering me the ticket. I’ve already bought my own. But if we run into each other there I’ll not begrudge the chance.”

  Nip yapped and jumped at Diarmuid the moment he entered the house. His initial reaction to the dog was quite different to Shade’s own. He knelt and started scratching Nip until the dog fell on his side with a grunt. Hairs flew as he petted him. Afterwards Diarmuid excused himself to wash up.

  What the hell am I doing? The kettle steamed and a newspaper curled in on itself like the sped up desiccation of a leaf as the fire took.

  “This is cosy, are you here in this place all week?”

  “Afraid not. I’m off to a bed and breakfast on the other side of the island tomorrow. Then for my last few days I’ll be in the Connemara Suite of the Inis Meáin Restaurant and Suites. Then back on a plane to London.” The last part did not seem to put him off. If it did he hid it well.

  “How long have you been travelling for?”

  “I’m on the road going on three years now. No stopping in sight.”

  “That sounds …”

  “Amazing?”

  “Lonely,” Diarmuid said.

  “It’s not. The laptop is open there if you want to put a song on. Impress me. I didn’t pour your tea because before coming to Ireland I read a few articles about customs and by the sound of it tea preparation is a near sacred ritual.”

  “Is your phone broken?” Diarmuid said while he stirred milk into his mug. He was looking right at the screen. Shade had left it next to the kettle. The screen flashed on and off but before he could get a good look at the content, Shade rushed to
it and snatched it away.

  “It’s work related.” The title of her blog zoomed past on the screen; another one of her posts had gone live. “You didn’t manage to read the title, did you?”

  “How could I? That looked like a digital panic attack. I thought there was something wrong with it. I wasn’t reading your messages. ‘Shades World’?”

  “That’s a horrible guess and a shit blog title. If anything I’d call it A World of Shade, but it gives off the wrong aura.”

  “The only time my phone ever lit up like that was when I was much younger and stayed out past my bedtime and the mam kept calling and texting. To this day there’s nothing that curdles my bowels as much as seeing more than two missed calls from the mother. Are you afraid that I will look you up?”

  Shade held out her little finger. “I want a solemn pinky promise that you won’t.”

  He hugged her small finger with his, a grave expression on his face.

  “Yes, I’m worried that you will look me up. You suggested this game and I quite like it. I don’t want you going on and reading my articles. When I meet somebody and we add each other on social media, straight away they’ve my biography to read. I feel like they know me intimately, whereas they’re strangers to me for a long time. I’d rather you got to know me the old fashioned way. Besides, a lot of the information on my blog is old.”

  “That’s fair.”

  Diarmuid put on a slow piano piece.

  “Do you have any songs I could put on a running playlist?” Shade asked.

  “Not much running done here on this island, not without the locals asking ‘what divil is chasing after them?’”

  “Stereotypes about Irish people are often perpetuated by Irish people, aren’t they?”

  Diarmuid sat as far away from her as he could get on the couch. He was nearly leaning out over the armrest.

  “There are a few songs that I’ve listened to for years,” he said. “They remind me of people and experiences, which is good and bad. Now I have beautiful songs that I seldom if ever listen to, not without my stomach dropping out. What about yourself? What do you listen to?”

  “Filthy dubstep beats,” Shade said without hesitation, but unable to keep a straight face for long. “If it’s good I’ll listen to it. That song you played in the pub, what does it remind you of?”

  “Ha. Well, you, now. That may well be the slickest thing I ever do in my entire life.”

  “You’ve ruined it now. You do know that, right? At least you have a few more days left to try and top it.”

  “It’s not ruined for me. In the future the people at my retirement home will be sick of that story. Tell me about your travel.” He sipped his tea.

  “I left the Chantham Islands six years ago now. Worked a bunch of different jobs in New Zealand after school, saved, travelled and blogged. Repeated the last two parts until after a while the blog started paying for itself. Then it started paying for plane tickets. Once I knew I could make money from it I put all my effort into it. I couldn’t tell you how many times I’ve overdosed on caffeine to write a ‘Best coffee spots in such and such a city’ post.”

  “You couldn’t have gone with decaff, no?”

  “I have my integrity.”

  “Where were you last?”

  “North America. I cycled across the country. It took me three months. I now use motor oil as moisturiser for my calves.” Shade lifted up the leg of her trousers then stood on her toes as she let out an exaggerated flexing grunt.

  “Yeah, I think I saw friction sparks there,” Diarmuid said.

  Shade became a little awkward, “I don’t normally show off, but it’s the first time I’ve had proper muscles.”

  “No need to apologise, I know the feeling. When I turned twenty-six I stopped shaving, out of sheer laziness I suppose. It kept growing though, me there half way through my twenties going to the parents almost in tears shouting I’ve finally hit puberty.”

  “You’re a dote.”

  “Your phrase guidebook is fairly comprehensive. Sex appeal scales don’t usually have ‘dote’ on them, do they?”

  “Not at all. Sexiness-wise they are close behind that of a ticket inspector who’s having a bad day. I want to pinch your cheeks.”

  “None of that now or they’ll be swinging down by my knees before I’m forty. Did I see a tattoo on your leg?”

  Shade sat back down and draped her legs across his lap. He tensed right up. She enjoyed having such an effect on him.

  “You did.” Shade pulled up her trouser leg. The tattoo started in earnest above her knee. She expected his face to go red but he was too interested in her tattoo: a vine of white rimmed, blue flowers in different stages of bloom, each one rendered in different art styles.

  Shade lifted her shirt up to show it continued up her back then her sleeve as it rounded her shoulder. It stopped above the elbow.

  “I’ve had a few artists add to it over the years but I mostly get my friend Hayley in London to make new additions.”

  “What is it?”

  “The Chantham Island Forget-Me-Not.”

  “Beautiful … it’s … I mean it’s beautifully done.” He started tracing around the flowers with his finger. “What was the inspiration behind it?”

  Shade pulled down her sleeve and trouser leg. The fire gurgled away, the turf finally catching.

  “Each flower is a memory.”

  “Like a child-friendly version of the film Memento?”

  “Do you make everything a joke?”

  “It’s the only way that I know how to deal with the world.”

  Shade brought their empty tea cups to the kitchen and the conversation to an end. When she returned she had two wine glasses. She uncorked the bottle that Diarmuid brought and already knew the bottle in her bedroom had only hours left before it followed. Diarmuid had relaxed a bit in her absence. When she returned he tried to maintain that façade. She set the glasses before him and poured liberally.

  “I invoke the rules of our game,” she said.

  His eyes narrowed as he tried to think back. “Were we not too hammered last night to be making rules?”

  “We said no histories. We would only know the person for their present and not their past. This tattoo is a big part of me so I won’t answer your question. For you, Diarmuid, they are just flowers.”

  “That’s okay. So what happened to never drinking again?” He asked while focusing on not moving too much out of fear of spilling his wine. Though that was not a problem as Shade moved one cushion closer to him and he barely moved a muscle. Shade watched him tense back up with playful satisfaction.

  “So why did you kiss me?” She hid her smile behind the wine glass.

  Like a chameleon, Diarmuid’s skin changed colour, trying to match the deep rouge of the drink. He turned, surprising her by keeping her gaze. She felt her own colour rising.

  “I couldn’t think of a good enough reason not to.”

  Shade cursed herself for sitting in such a position. To lean in and kiss him would be too awkward and the wine would likely spill everywhere too. They both turned to look at the fire, sensing the moment had lapsed and they had lost another chance. From the corner of her eye she caught him suppress a smile. He’s aware of the game and playing it too.

  “I’ll tell you a little bit of my history,” Diarmuid said. “Part of the reason I’m down here is to go to a concert in Galway. This song playing now is by the artist that I’m here for. Would you like to join me?”

  Shade listened to the music, which improved the proposition. “Why?”

  “Yesterday you asked me to write down some of the places I thought worth experiencing. What you’re doing is cool. You meet new people, experience new places. I offer because it will be a nice memory to keep Galway and me in yours. It’s something you would not have experienced had I not suggested it.”

  “How much are the tickets? When is it on?”

  Diarmuid waved off the questions. “Let me plan it, I lov
e making little plans.”

  “I’ll agree but only if you join me for dinner in the Suites on Friday.”

  “How much is …?”

  Shade waved him off.

  “All right. Deal.”

  They took out their phones to make the necessary arrangements, both glad of the reprieve from the tension in the room.

  “I’m too hung-over for our wander. If you have no other plans then join me for dinner,” Shade said.

  “If I’m intruding, don’t be afraid to tell me to feck off. I don’t want to take all your time. Well I do, but I want to at least seem like I don’t.”

  “Shut up. You’re chopping the onions.”

  Nip’s head rested on the seat, his gaze a metronome that shared a pleading look between the both of them. Diarmuid lost most of his chicken to him.

  The regular glug and plop of wine left the bottle empty and only a few mouthfuls left to savour.

  “Do you fancy another bottle?” Diarmuid asked.

  “Yeah-nah-yeah.”

  Diarmuid blinked. “That a yes or a no? I’ve never experienced verbal whiplash before.”

  Shade rolled her eyes. “Yes.”

  Before the door had even closed behind Diarmuid, Shade rushed to her phone. She opened her personal email account to message Oliva. Hayley was not yet up to speed and this was not the time to start that conversation with her. Shade paused when she noticed a new email from the American photographer. Without even opening it, its very presence soured her mood. She did her utmost to ignore it.

  ‘Hey Oliva, that chap I was telling you about earlier, he’s invited me to a concert in Galway. I checked his hand for signs of wear and no hint of a wedding band.’

  Within minutes Oliva responded.

  ‘That’s so cute but what do you know about him? I need a name and within the hour I’ll have family records and bank statements. Aren’t you leaving soon? Anyway have fun and play safe now.’ She ended her message with a winky face.

  Diarmuid was taking his time and Shade could not help herself; she checked the photographer’s social media page. She stared at herself in a second image. ‘What a time,’ the caption read beneath it.