The Emerald Isle - Part 2

The comments on the last chapter made me rethink this, so I'm making it a three parter, instead! Who knows, maybe I'll come back to this and flesh it out a bit more if the interest is there!

Anyway, enjoy :) 

All characters are consenting adults (18+)

“Will you have a cup of tea?”

The words of a woman who’d been around long enough to know that for every hurdle life threw, a cup of tea would solve them all.

“Go on” Patrick said, and Cormac’s grandmother, Agnes, hobbled off into the kitchen to stick the kettle on.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” He asked Patrick, who continued to tremble from the cold. “It’s been weeks, Paddy. You could have told me”.

“It’s nothing” he replied, “you know what my mam’s like. Must be the menopause, or something. She’ll have me back in no time”.

“You could have stayed at my place” Cormac told him, and felt a strange sensation in the pit of his stomach when he said it.

“Don’t be worrying about me” he smiled, “anyway, what had you running around like a headless chicken this morning?”.

Agnes returned with a teacup balanced on a saucer. Her old, wrinkled hands shook as she shuffled across the living room, making the porcelain rattle until she set it down on the coffee table and mumbled something about strew, then turned around and hurried off.

Cormac took a deep breath. He didn’t want to tell Patrick, especially now. It felt like by talking about it, it became real. He watched as his best friend sipped his tea, and then sighed.

“I’m going away”.

By the time both men had been filled to the brim with stew and tea, Cormac had failed to be convinced that his new job wasn’t as awful as it sounded.

“Do you remember Jimmy Locke?” Patrick said, kicking a rock as they mindlessly, but intentionally walked the road toward the pub.

“The fella with the dodgy leg?”

Patrick nodded. “Didn’t he go off on a fishing boat with his uncle? He probably made a fortune”.

“I think he drowned” Cormac said, and despite the fact that he was quite certain of it, the two of them snorted with laughter until they reached the warmth of the old, wind-swept pub.

“The usual, lads?” Donal called, and set down two pints a few moments later.

“Has to be a gimmick” Patrick said, as the pair of them watched the Guinness slowly settle. “There’s no way that it wouldn’t taste the same if I just drank it now”.

“I hear it’s ten years bad luck” Cormac replied, his chin resting on the bar as the liquid turned the darkest shade of black, and the foamy white head appeared.

“Fuck that” Patrick scoffed, “I’ve had enough bad luck to last me ten years already”.

Like every Friday night, it took only the darkness that night brought with it before Joseph McCarthy, a man who may have actually been older than the pub, pulled out his fiddle, and the pub fell silent.

“Do you reckon he pulls out his fiddle much?” Patrick whispered, causing Cormac to snort into his pint once more, until a half dozen heads turned back and glared at them both.

As was customary, the patrons sat in silence and listened to the strangely melancholic ballads that Old McCarthy sang. The music was hauntingly beautiful, and broken only by the occasional clank of glass from behind the bar. The fire blazed and crackled, and Cormac looked around and wondered when he’d see the place again.

It took only six pints before the pair of them had morphed into versions of their own fathers. Patrick was beginning to slur, and Cormac was using his drunken courage to speak to the only young woman he’d seen all night, but when he called her Anne instead of Annie, she promptly left.

“I’m tellin’ you” Patrick hiccuped, “you won’t find a decent woman around here. We need to get ourselves to Dublin. They love a good country boy in Dublin”.

Cormac would have answered him if a wave of nausea hadn’t hit him first. He sat there for a moment, as the world around him began to spin, and slid off the bar stool before hurrying out the door.

The cold Atlantic breeze hit him like a bus. He sucked air into his lungs and felt the sweat turn icy on his forehead.

“What’s the matter with you?” Patrick asked, appearing with both of their jackets a moment later. “You’re not turning into a lightweight on me, are you?”

“I can’t do this” Cormac said, sniffling as he stared out into the darkness that he knew was soon to be his new home. “I can’t, Patrick. I just can’t”.

Neither of them spoke for a moment. The sound of singing poured out from behind them, but that only made things worse. Tears dripped down Cormac’s cold cheeks, but he wiped them away before Patrick noticed.

“Sure, isn’t it only for a month?” He eventually said, but Cormac shook his head.

“A month at a time” he explained, “sure, I’ll only be back and I’ll be gone again”.

“Well, at least I’ll get a bit of peace and quiet from you” Patrick joked, but even he couldn’t hold his smile for long. “You can’t stay here forever, Cormac” he said, and his voice was oddly serious. “You need to get out of here. Make some money for yourself and get over to America. You’ve always been the smart one. If anybody can do it, it’s you”.

The pair of them were walking now, but not back toward the town. They strolled in silence, tripping and slipping closer to the edge, where just yesterday, Cormac felt like he was on top of the world.

“Do you ever wonder what it would be like to jump?” He asked, as he stepped closer toward the cliff edge. “I’d say it’s like flying”.

“What?” Patrick replied.

It was ferociously dark down below. It reminded him of a huge black pit that led to somewhere, or maybe nowhere. The waves smashed against the rocks, and before he knew it, half of his feet were hanging over the side.

He hung his head back and closed his eyes. It was raining again, but it was always raining in Inishmore. It felt nice. It felt soothing. He stood there once again, with his arms by his side, as the rain washed away his tears, and suddenly he was falling.

“Are you fuckin’ mad?!” Patrick snapped, dragging Cormac backwards, and shoving him in the chest. “What the fuck was that all about?!”

It took Cormac a moment to realise what had happened. It felt like he’d been in a trance, and it was only now that he could make sense of it all.

“I… I was…”

“You think you have it bad, Cormac?” Patrick growled, driving his best friend further back into the trees. “Your mammy wants you to get a job and you’re trying to throw yourself off a fuckin’ cliff?!”

“It wasn’t… I was just…”

“You need to cop onto yourself, you big gobshite” he said, as the trees began to block the moonlight. “You’ll get on that boat on Sunday and you’ll go and live a fuckin’ happy life somewhere”.

“And what about you!?” Cormac eventually roared back, his voice cracking as the tears began again. “I’m just supposed to leave you here? Living in the fuckin’ forest, freezing your balls off?!”

“Don’t worry about me!” Patrick barked.

“I’ve always worried about you!”

Silence fell between them. Only the soft patter of the rain on the treetops could be heard, followed by laboured breaths from both of them.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Patrick eventually said, but Cormac didn’t dare elaborate. “Well? What are you trying to say, Cormac?” He pressed.

“I… I don’t know”.

Patrick’s cold eyes narrowed, but the two could barely see each other. They were soaked through. Cold, shivering and miserable, but there was something between them that warmed them both.

“Don’t make me say it, Paddy” Cormac eventually trembled.

“I want you to say it”.

“I’m not going on Sunday” he sniffled, “I’m not leaving this place, not without you”.

Patrick dropped his shoulders and stared up into the darkness. “You’ve always been a stubborn little shit, do you know that?”

“I’ve learned from the best’ Cormac half laughed, though the laugh was wet and teary.

“Your folks won’t be happy” he said, and took a step closer to Cormac, whose entire body began to tingle.

“Then we’ll leave together” he whispered, “fuck it, we’ll go to Dublin. I want to smell the hops outside the Guinness factory on a winter’s night. Remember you said that?”.

Patrick smiled. Their faces were inches from each other, and the warm scent of his body filled Cormac’s lungs.

“Sure, what would a little culchie like you know about Dublin?” Patrick asked, “we’ll go to America”.

Cormac felt his hands being captured in Patrick’s, and held his breath as their faces moved closer and closer, and closer.