A Place Called Here Read online

  “Brother…” Jack’s voice cracked and he knew he couldn’t go on. He needed to stop now; he needed to move on like the rest of his family. He was stupid to think that an insomniac from the phone book with too much time on her hands could succeed where an entire garda search hadn’t. “I’m sorry, I’m very, very sorry. This phone call was a mistake,” he forced out. “I’m sorry for wasting your time.” He quickly hung up the phone and fell back on the couch, embarrassed and exhausted, knocking against his files and sending pictures of a smiling Donal floating to the ground.

  Moments later his mobile rang. He dived for it, not wanting the ring tone to waken Gloria.

  “Donal?” he breathed, jumping to his feet.

  “Jack, it’s Sandy Shortt.”

  Silence.

  “Is that how you usually answer the phone?” she asked gently.

  He was lost for words.

  “Because if it is and you’re still expecting your brother to call, I don’t think your phone call to me was a mistake, do you?”

  His heart was hammering in his chest. “How did you get my number?”

  “Caller ID.”

  “My number is blocked.”

  “I find people, Jack. That’s what I do. And there’s a chance that I can find Donal for you.”

  He glanced at all the photographs scattered around him, the cheeky smile of his younger brother staring up at him, silently daring him to seek him out as he had when he was a child.

  “Are you back in?” she asked.

  “I’m in,” he replied, and he headed to the kitchen for a cup of coffee in preparation of the long night ahead.

  The following night at two A.M., as Gloria lay asleep in bed, Jack lay on the couch, on the phone to Sandy, his hundreds of pages of garda reports scattered around him.

  “You’ve spoken to Donal’s friends, I see,” Sandy said, and he could hear her leafing through the pages he’d faxed to her earlier in the day.

  “Over and over again,” he said wearily. “In fact, I’m going to call in to one of his friends again on Saturday while I’m in Tralee. I’ve got a dental appointment,” he added casually and then wondered why.

  “The dentist, yuck, I’d rather have my eyes gouged out,” she murmured.

  Jack laughed.

  “Don’t they have dentists in Foynes?”

  “I have to see a specialist.”

  He could hear the smile in her voice. “Don’t they have specialists in Limerick?”

  “OK, OK,” he said, laughing. “So I wanted to ask Donal’s friend a few more questions.”

  “Tralee, Tralee,” she repeated, rustling through paper. “A-ha.” The paper rustling stopped. “Andrew in Tralee, friend from college, works as a Web designer.”

  “That’s him.”

  “I don’t think Andrew knows anything more, Jack.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Judging by his answers during questioning.”

  “I didn’t give you that file.” Jack sat upright.

  “I used to be a garda. Conveniently for me, it’s about the only place I managed to make friends.”

  “I need to see those files.” Jack’s heart raced. There was something new, something more for him to stay awake at night analyzing.

  “We can meet up soon,” she dismissed him politely. “I suppose talking to Andrew again wouldn’t hurt.” There was a sound of her leafing through more pages and she was silent for a long time.

  “What are you looking at?”

  “Donal’s photograph.”

  Jack picked it up from his pile and stared at it too. It was becoming too familiar to him; it was looking more like just a photograph and less like his brother every day.

  “Good-looking guy,” Sandy complimented. “Nice eyes. Do you two look alike?”

  Jack laughed. “I feel inclined to say yes after that.”

  They continued studying the pages.

  “You don’t sleep?” Sandy asked.

  “No, not since Donal went missing. What about you?”

  “I’ve just never been a great sleeper.”

  He laughed.

  “What?” she asked defensively.

  “Nothing. You being a light sleeper is a great answer,” he said playfully, dropping the pages onto his lap. In the deathly silence of the cottage he listened to the sound of Sandy’s breathing and her voice and tried to imagine what she looked like, where she was, and what she was thinking.

  After a long silence her voice was gentler. “I’ve a lot of missing people on my mind. There’s too much to think about, too many places to look to allow sleep to come. You can’t find anyone or anything in dreams.”

  Jack looked toward the closed bedroom door and agreed.

  “But why I told you that, I have no idea,” she grumbled to the sound of more paper being shifted.

  “Tell me honestly, Sandy, what’s your success rate?”

  Paper rustling stopped. “It depends of the level of the missing case. I’ll be honest with you, cases like Donal’s are difficult. There has already been a large-scale search and it’s rare that I have found someone under these circumstances. But with general missing cases I find people around forty percent of the time. You should know that not all the people I find return to their families. You have to be prepared for that.”

  “I am prepared. If Donal’s lying in a ditch somewhere I want him back here so we can bury him and give him a proper funeral.”

  “That’s not what I mean. Sometimes people go missing deliberately.”

  “Donal wouldn’t do that,” Jack said dismissively.

  “Perhaps not. But there have been situations, just like this, that I’ve learned that people, just like Donal, from families, just like yours, voluntarily move on from their lives without a word to anyone close to them.”

  Jack digested this. It hadn’t occurred to him that Donal would take off of his own free will and he found this scenario hugely improbable. “Would you tell me where he was if you found him?”

  “If he didn’t want to be found? No, I couldn’t tell you that.”

  “Would you tell me if you found him?”

  “It depends on how prepared you are to accept being unable to know where he is.”

  “All I would want to know is that wherever he is, he’s safe and happy.”

  “Well, then I would tell you.”

  After a long silence, Jack asked, “Is there much work for you? On the rare occasions that people go missing, don’t their families turn to the Gardaí to deal with it?”

  “That’s true. There aren’t many severe cases for me like Donal’s, but there’s always something or someone to find. There are categories of missing people that the Gardaí can’t and won’t investigate.”

  “Like what?”

  “You really want to know this?”

  “I want to know everything about it.” Jack looked at the clock: two thirty A.M. “And besides, I’ve nothing better to do at this time of night.”

  “Well, sometimes I find people that others have merely lost contact with, long-lost relatives, old school friends, or adopted children trying to find their biological parents, that kind of thing. I work quite a lot alongside the Salvation Army, trying to trace people. Then there are the more serious cases such as people who have disappeared, many of them of their own volition, and families just want to know where they are.”

  “But how would the Gardaí know it was their choice?”

  “Some people leave messages behind saying they don’t want to return.” He could hear her unwrapping something in the background. “Sometimes they take their personal effects with them or sometimes people have previously expressed dissatisfaction with their situation.”

  “What are you eating?”

  “A chocolate muffin,” she replied with her mouth full. She swallowed. “Sorry, did you hear me properly?”

  “Yeah, you’re eating a chocolate muffin.”

  “No, not that.” She laughed.

  Jack s
miled. “So the families come to you for cases the Gardaí can’t deal with.”

  “Exactly. A lot of my work, using the help of other missing-persons agencies in Ireland, is in specifically tracking cases that aren’t classed as high risk. If a person has left home of their own accord they won’t be accepted as missing but it doesn’t ease the worries of their families and friends.”

  “So they’re just forgotten about?”

  “No, a record will be made at the station but the extent of the enquiries is left to the discretion of the garda in charge of the station.”

  “What if somebody who was incredibly unhappy with his life packed his bags to be alone for a while, but then went missing? Nobody would look for him because he previously expressed a dislike of his life. And haven’t we all done that at some point?”

  Sandy was silent.

  “Am I wrong in thinking that? Wouldn’t you want to be found?”

  “Jack, I can only assume that there’s only one thing more frustrating than not being able to find someone, and that’s not being found. I would want someone to find me, more than anything,” she said firmly.

  They both thought it over.

  “I’d better go now.” Jack yawned. “I’ve to be up for work in a few hours. Will you sleep now?”

  “After I go through all these files again.”

  He shook his head in wonder. “Just so you know, if you’d told me you’d never found anyone, I’d still be on this phone.”

  She was quiet for a moment. “And if I’d never found anyone, I would be too.”

  15

  Jack woke up earlier than Gloria, as usual. Her head rested on his chest, her long brown hair spread across his skin, tickling where it fell down alongside his ribs. He silently and very slowly moved his body from under hers and slipped out of bed. Gloria moaned sleepily and settled back down with a peaceful look on her face. He showered and dressed and left the bungalow before she had even stirred.

  Every morning he left their home before she did to be at work at eight A.M. Gloria didn’t start work as a guide in Foynes Flying Boat Museum until ten o’clock. The museum was Foynes’ number-one tourist attraction, celebrating the era between 1939 and 1945 when Foynes was the center of the aviation world, with air traffic between the U.S. and Europe. Gloria, always more than willing and happy to talk and help people, worked as a multilingual guide in the museum from March until October.

  Apart from the museum, Foynes was famous for one other thing: the invention of Irish coffee. During cold and rainy weather, people waiting at the air terminal needed something stronger than coffee to keep them warm. Thus Irish coffee was born.

  In a matter of days from now, Foynes would be overrun by bands playing music on the festival stage; the farmers’ market in museum square; the regatta; and the children’s street art would decorate the town for the Irish Coffee Summer Festival. As usual the celebratory fireworks would be sponsored by Shannon Foynes Port Company, which was exactly where Jack was headed that morning.

  After greeting and consulting his colleagues, Jack took his place in the gigantic metal crane and got to work loading cargo. He enjoyed his job and felt a sense of satisfaction knowing that someone just like him, somewhere on foreign soil, would unload the gift he had helped wrap. He enjoyed placing things where they belonged. He knew everything and everyone had a place in life: every piece of cargo that lay stocked up on the docks and every man and woman who worked alongside him had a space to slot into and a part to play. Every day he had the same goal: moving things and putting them where they belonged.

  He could hear Sandy’s voice in his head, repeating the same sentence over and over again: I can only assume that there’s only one thing more frustrating than not being able to find someone, and that’s not being found. I would want someone to find me, more than anything.

  He carefully placed the cargo onto the ship, lowered himself to the ground, to the surprise of his watching colleagues, took off his helmet, threw it to the ground, and ran. Some watched in confusion, some in anger, but those closest to him viewed his exit with sympathy, for they guessed that even a year on, Jack could no longer sit in his perch high above the ground, so high he felt he could see the entire county and all that was in it, except his brother.

  For Jack, running down to his car, all he could think about was finding Sandy, so she could bring Donal back to where he belonged.

  Jack’s continuous questions about Sandy Shortt to the hotels, inns, and bed and breakfasts in Glin were beginning to raise eyebrows. Impatience was entering the voices of the once-friendly staff, and his phone calls to duty managers were becoming more frequent. Now, with still no clues as to where Sandy was, Jack found himself taking deep breaths of fresh air down by the Shannon Estuary. The River Shannon was a special place to Jack. He had always felt a connection with the river and wanted to be a part of helping all it carried.

  His mother and father had brought the family to Leitrim on a summer holiday one year, the holiday that remained more vivid in Jack’s mind than any other. It was before Donal’s birth, when Jack was barely ten years old. It was on that holiday he learned where and how the great river began, slowly and quietly at first in County Cavan before it picked up speed, gathering the secrets and spirit of each county, with each part of soil it eroded. Each tributary was like an artery being pumped from the heart of the country, whispering its secrets silently in hushed and excited babbles until it eventually carried them to the Atlantic where they were lost with the rest of the world’s whispered hopes and regrets. It was like Chinese whispers, starting out small but eventually growing and becoming exaggerated, from the freshly painted wooden boats that bobbed on the surface in Carrick-on-Shannon to finally carrying steel and metal ships alongside cranes and warehouses that was the grand excitement of Shannon Foynes Port.

  Jack rambled aimlessly down a quiet road along Shannon Estuary, grateful for the peace and quiet. Glin Castle disappeared behind the trees as he walked farther down the track. A splash of bright red glowed from behind the greenery in an area that had long ago been used as a parking lot but was now overgrown and merely used as a walk-through area for ramblers and birdwatchers. The gravel was uneven, the white lines had faded, and weeds grew from between every crack. There sat an old red Fiesta, battered and dented, its gleam long ago rubbed away. Jack stopped in his tracks. He knew this car. It was the Venus flytrap that had captured the long-legged beauty from the garage the previous morning.

  His heart quickened as he looked around to find her but there was no sight or sound of any other presence. A coffee-filled Styrofoam cup sat on the dashboard, newspapers piled up on the passenger seat alongside a towel, which led his already overactive imagination to believe she was jogging nearby. He moved away from the car in fear she would return to find him peering through the windows. The coincidence of them meeting once again in another deserted area filled him with far too much curiosity for him to walk away. And saying hello to her again would be a welcome joy to a day lacking in results.

  After forty-five minutes of waiting around, Jack began to feel bored and foolish. The car looked as though it had been abandoned years ago in the forgotten area yet he knew for sure that he had seen it being driven yesterday morning. He moved closer to the car and pressed his face against the glass.

  His heart almost stopped. Goose bumps rose on his skin as a shiver ran through his body. There on the dashboard, beside the cup of coffee and a cell phone with missed calls, was a thick brown file with DONAL RUTTLE written in neat handwriting across the front.

  16

  I tapped my shoe against the plate that once held the chocolate digestives, causing a loud tinkling to echo through the clearing. Around me the four sleeping bodies were lazily stretched out on the forest floor, and Bernard’s snores seemed to be getting louder with every minute that passed. I sighed loudly, feeling like a pesky hormonal teenager who couldn’t get her way. Helena, whom I hadn’t spoken to for an hour, raised her eyebrows at me, trying to s
how her lack of amusement, although I knew well that she was enjoying every second of my torture. Over the past hour I had “accidentally” knocked over the china, dropped a packet of biscuits on Joan, and had a rather loud bout of coughing. Still, they slept and Helena refused to lead or even direct me out of the woods to the other life she had spoken of.

  Hearing laughter, I had attempted to make my own way out but, finding my way blocked by thousands of identical leering pines, I decided that getting lost once was enough, to get lost a second time in already unusual circumstances would be just plain stupid.

  “How long do they usually sleep for?” I asked loudly in a bored tone, hoping my voice would disturb them.

  “They like to get a good eight hours.”

  “Do they eat?”

  “Three times a day; usually solids. I walk them twice a day. Bernard in particular loves the leash.” She smiled into the distance as though remembering. “And then they partake in the occasional personal grooming.”

  “I meant, do they eat here?” I looked around the clearing in disgust, no longer caring if I insulted their annual camping resort. I couldn’t help my agitation but I hated to be pinned down. Usually I came and went in my life as I pleased, in and out of others’. I never even succeeded in staying in my own parents’ house for very long, usually grabbing my bag and running out the door. But here, I had no place to go.

  Laughter echoed in the distance once again.

  “What is that noise?”

  “People call it laughter, I think.” Helena settled down in her sleeping bag looking snug and smug at the same time.

  “Have you always had an attitude problem?” I asked.

  “Have you?”

  “Yes,” I said firmly and she laughed. I let go of my frown and smiled. “It’s just that I’ve been sitting in these woods for two entire days now.”

  “Is that an apology?”

  “I don’t apologize. Not unless I really need to.”

  “You remind me of me when I was young. Younger. I’m still young. What has you so irritable at such a young age?”