The soup only made Orla gag. Her stomach was a knot of fear and dread. She could not yet comprehend the full enormity of this disaster. Could not even begin to believe that she was never going to see Redmond again. But when Donny came in, grave-faced, shaking his head at her pleading eyes, she knew that the worst had happened.
Redmond was gone.
She was never going to see him again.
It was as if the soul had been ripped out of her, right then and there.
‘You’ll sleep here tonight,’ said Cissie, while Donny removed his outdoor gear and carried it into the scullery to dry off. ‘Tomorrow, when the storm eases, Donny’ll take the bike into the village and telephone the Garda. They’ll alert the Coastguard.’
Orla shook her head. Much as she wanted the Coastguard searching for Redmond, she knew that it was hopeless. And she couldn’t afford to alert the Garda. If they came round asking questions, she would have a hard time coming up with answers.
‘It’s far too late for that,’ she said, and tears poured down her face as the sheer weight of it all struck home. He was gone from her: he truly was.
‘Still, we should do it,’ persisted Donny.
‘No. It’s no use,’ said Orla flatly, and refused to discuss it further.
The storm raged on, making it impossible for Donny to reach the village the next day. At dawn the following day, Orla got shakily out of bed and knelt on the window seat in the spare bedroom where she’d passed a sleepless night. She stared out of the window at the waves pounding the shore beneath an angry red and purple sky, wondering where Redmond was. Given the ferocity of the storm, the current would probably have swept his lifeless body miles away.
I should be dead too, she thought. I am a dead woman walking.
Her mind kept returning to the crash. Fergal tapping the dial. The propeller juddering to a halt. The heart-stopping plummet into the ocean, into the grip of ice-cold waters that should have claimed her life, not just the lives of Redmond and poor Fergal.
Cissie had kindly washed out her clothes the day before, and now Orla snatched them up. Throwing off the borrowed nightie and dressing gown, she dressed hurriedly then went to the door and listened. The house was quiet; the old couple weren’t awake yet. She crept downstairs and took a small amount of cash she found in the dresser drawer, then crammed her feet into a pair of Cissie’s shoes. They were a size too small, and chafed her sore feet, but she was too intent on getting away to notice.
Pulling on a coat, she silently unbolted the front door and stepped out into the blustery morning. She took up the bicycle, and started pedalling in the direction she had seen the lights of a village the night she arrived. From there, she could catch a bus to the nearest town. And then she would make her way home, to Limerick.