The Crocknanalt Cartel

We had assembled in the solicitor's office in Cloughbann on the second Friday in July, ninety-four, six months after the funeral; me and the older brother, Cathal, and his Pill of a wife, Carolyn. The will was read, we signed some papers, and the deed to poor Uncle Seamy's house was handed over.

It was the height of summer, and the sea had that crisp, refreshing smell that livens the soul. Cathal and Pill had driven up from Dublin, and I'd taken the hangover flight from London, so I was happy to recline in the back while the wild coast and Pill's excited voice washed past me.

"You know boys, the market is acting strange right now, this could be a really sound investment if-"

Cathal and I spoke Irish to each other while she looked waspishly on, trying to remember her junior-certificate Gaeilge. We had been half-raised in the region by an army of relatives, so were nearly locals, or thought we were.

"What are you two boys grunting about?"

"I was saying to Dónal, the place we're going has a pretty odd name." said my brother, in that prim way that Pill’s eyebrows demanded.

"What about it, Cally?"

She called him 'Cally' in a soapy voice when addressing him, that gives you some measure of the woman.

"Crocknanalt, do you know what that means?"

"Hill of the...?"

My brother's eyes widened like a pantomime baddy,

"Hill of the LUNATICS"

She swatted him coquettishly as he gave a villainous cackle.

The village of Crocknanalt was a wee place, built on a rise over the sea, with a harbour, a pub, a shop, a payphone, a church, and a view of the reckless, foam-fringed Atlantic. Cathal nipped into the pub to get directions, then we drove up out of the village to the hills behind it.

The farm itself had its own little place-name, Sheenanalt, and consisted of a low house at the peak of a steep drive, some boggy, boulder-pocked fields, a morose clutch of sheep, a small vegetable patch, a stack of turf and a tumbledown stone barn. The house stood quite alone, and the only sounds to be heard were the hushing of the wind, the mocking of a few gulls, and the gentle whistle of the heather as the sea-breeze played through it.

And the Pill's voice, putting the gulls to shame as she ‘wow’ed and ‘fixer-upper’ed and ‘holiday home’d, and lamented that she hadn’t brought a camera.

I could only remember being here once, as a very small child. I’d never really known Seamy, my mother’s brother, at all, though. The grandparents always said he ‘kept to himself’ and ‘had his ways’, and by the time I was grown enough to be curious, I was doing exams, then at university, then in England for work and now he was dead. I looked to Cathal, to ask him what he could remember of Seamy, and he had that same bewildered, sad look, so instead we nodded gruffly, which is what us local farmer types do instead of having emotions.

The house was modest. A living room, a kitchen, an avocado bathroom, a Proclamation of Independence, a portrait of Jesus, and two small bedrooms. Seamy had liked to read, judging by the books, and his chair by the wireless showed he listened to the radio of an evening. His stick and boots spoke of outdoor work. The house had a bachelor perfume of turf smoke, undercut with tobacco.

“We’ll need a refurb, but it has potential!” squealed Pill.

That evening we walked to the village pub.

“We can really get the lay of the land.”

It wasn’t far to the village, and the air held a serenity that matched the lambent shimmer of the sea and the swoop of the early bats. I felt life returning to me. It had been rough in London, with failed romance, failed ambition and sense of cold drudgery every morning as I travelled from my bedsit to work. I wallowed in the dream conjured by the evening stroll. Pill for once was quiet as she walked ahead with Cathal. This would be a lovely place to bring kids if they had any.

Johnjoe’s Bar was a single-room affair, in what would have been the parlour of a large two-storey house. Inside, some local specimens drank and chatted, and a small trad band played in the corner. Johnjoe himself greeted us with a gummy smile and I claimed a table, right beside the inexplicable fire.

The others in the parlour saluted us as we settled. A Smithwick’s sitting opposite a Gin and Tonic nodded over. A priest, Fr Whiskey-Soda, chatting to his buddy, Fr Small Chianti, gave us a cheery wave. At the bar, a couple of young lagers turned to say, ‘how do?’

As the night wore on, and the musicians worked their magic, the atmosphere rose, and we ended up sharing our table. I chatted for a good while to a pretty, young Vodka-Coke who, having graduated recently from university, was preparing for a girls’ night out with her mates in the hotel club in Cloughbann. Cathal, meanwhile, was deep in conversation with a rather dapper little Sherry, who, according to himself, was something of a local historian.

“Fascinating history up around Sheenanalt, absolutely fascinating.” I could see Pill archiving his words in her databanks.

We had a lock-in that night, flat-out on the porter and doing the traditional Irish brothers’ catch-up of drinking steadily until the only words we could say were heart-felt. All the while Fr Small Chianti kept his little eyes on me and Cathal.

Vodka-Coke’s friends bailed, so I was happy to console her, and we had a rather clumsy kiss outside as we smoked. She really was very pretty, and I shudder to think that I might have tried to say something romantic, but she agreed to meet again the following night.

Much later, Cathal, Pill and I tottered up the steep road, arm in arm in arm. As we crested the hill out of the village. Sherry hiccuped a farewell after us.

“I’ll call up tomorrow if I might, to see if Old Seamy left anything for me.”

The stars dusted the eternal sky, the beams of the nearby lighthouses swung at each other, and we three stumbled home with the perfect air drawing us towards sleep.

Waking up after a night on the porter is a sour affair. I vapoured upward like a ghoul from a crypt and scrundled my way to a cup of coffee. Pill had already done her morning exercises and Cathal had already gone in for a dip, his swimming shorts drying on the line, the healthy bastards.

“You up yet?” Cathal called.

I took my coffee out onto the drive and saw him struggling the door to the little barn open.

“Come take a look.”

It had been used for keeping livestock at some point, perhaps pigs. There was a slurry chute for dung to slop out into vats and it had that indefinable smell of ancient, earthy excrement. Seamy seemed to have used it like a garage or a workshop, though. There were tools, fishing rods, lobster pots, an old Kawasaki moped and a curragh hanging from a beam.

“This would make an excellent guest-lodge.” came the Pill-shrill.

I winced and clutched my head.

“What’s that?” I said, pointing to a workbench. There was a steamer trunk on it.

“Treasure?” said Cathal.

I opened it. There was a pile of thick envelopes. I fingered one open, emptied it. My stomach churned.

"Is that what I think it is?"

" Holy hell, I think it is."

"Jesus fucking wept."

"Oh my god, Cally, that's disgusting!"

"Close it up, lad, I don't want to look at it."

"I need a drink."

We sat on the ground outside, staring at each other, oblivious to the sunshine, the sigh of the wind, the song of the lark. Cathal found a bottle of Powers in a kitchen cabinet, and we passed it around.

“Do you think Mammy knew?” I asked.

“Shut up.” said Cathal.

It was a while before the sound of the engine became apparent. Soon, a little hatchback rounded the headland. We stared, aghast, as the Sherry hopped out.

“Hello again, lovely day. I was wondering if perhaps Old Seamy had left something for me?” He jerked his head at the barn. “In there?”

Cathal stared at me, I stared at Cathal. Neither of us moved.

Pill saved us.

“Let’s go have a look,” she beamed. “Boys, fetch a glass for our guest.”

May the gods bless and keep you, Carolyn. Though ye be a Pill, ye be true of heart.

I returned with a hastily rinsed tumbler, but the Sherry was walking to the car with an envelope under his arm. He gave a happy wave and beetled off.

“Th’fuck is going on?” croaked Cathal.

Carolyn, my new patron saint, fanned a little clutch of banknotes under his nose.

Later that day came the Smithwick’s, one of the lagers, a local Guard in his uniform. They all followed Carolyn into the barn and then left. The Guard touched his cap before climbing back into his squad car. Then, the postman came, then the lady from the newsagents, then a caravanning couple who stayed near the beach, their little blonde kids in the back licking ice-creams.

“Is this illegal?” I asked.

“I don’t think it is,” said Cathal. He was a bit drunk, but his voice steadied “but I never ever want anyone to find out about this.”

Carolyn prepared a light evening meal, which I barely touched.

Another car came along; a dark, neat little car. Fr Whiskey-Soda and Fr Small Chianti stepped out.

“God be with you.” said Chianti. I resisted the urge to bless myself automatically

Bless me father for I am currently sinning, it has been fourteen years since my last confession.

“Blooming, thanks Father.” trilled Carolyn.

Chianti identified her as the brains of the operation and came and spoke to her in hushed tones. Under the eaves of the barn, money changed hands. Fr Whiskey-Soda shuffled over to us and wheezed in greeting.

“Your uncle Seamus was a fine man, boys.” he said. We gave reverential nods.

“Shall we put you down for a re-supply next month at the usual rate? My contact in Stuttgart is getting some good new stuff in.”

The wind died away and the only sound was the distant crash of waves beyond the headland.

“That would be excellent Father, thank you.” beamed Carolyn.

Fr Chianti made a little note in his pocketbook, and tugged Whiskey-Soda away. He turned to look at us before he got in.

“God keep you.”

We decided the pub was a good idea. ‘Brand presence’ is how Carolyn described it. If we made money like that each month then perhaps I could stay, do the place up. We needed to discuss this away from the barn, though. Away from…that.

I was changing when I heard a bicycle bell sound outside.

“Oh crap, not another one.”

It was Vodka-Coke.

“Hi, howareya?” I tried to sound suave and failed. “I thought we were meeting later in the pub, I didn’t get it wrong, did I?”

She smiled. Gods, her eyes were startling.

“Nothing like that, I just thought I’d see how you’re settled.”

“That’s decent of you.” I smiled, and took her hand, her fingers entwining in mine.

“Well, I live across the field, so it’s natural that I’d see how my friendly new neighbours were doing.” Her hand traced up my arm, touching my chest lightly.

“Maybe you could show me around.” I said, and I saw Cathal grin over at me.

She took my arm and led me down the path. The evening was serene and beautiful, and life seemed filled with warm, rosy possibility.

“Oh, there is one thing, Dónal.”

“What’s that?”

“I forgot to ask, did your uncle Seamy leave anything for me?”