Hollow Oaks Read online

  "And that means," Debbie said, "there's a whole lot the small folk aren't telling us. Important stuff. Although I suppose I don't blame them. I wouldn't tell us either."

  "But should we tell Gernaud and Tommy what really happened?"

  "It's up to you. If you trust them, do it. But I'm not sure I would. Not yet, anyway." She nodded to my plate. "Eat that before it gets cold. I'll go get the toast."

  She headed for the kitchen, with the slightest of limps, leaving me alone with the dog and the smell of sausages and burning turf.

  The dog raised his head, then hopped off the sofa. He trotted over and sat by my chair, looking optimistically up. I sliced the end off a sausage and dropped it into his mouth. He gulped it down and looked up for more, clearly convinced he'd found an easy mark.

  "Shoo," I said, with a wave. "Go on, git. Away with you."

  He stayed put, until he heard the kitchen door creak open, whereupon he scampered back to the sofa and lay down as if he'd been there the whole time.

  Debbie strode in with a tray on which sat two loaded plates and a full rack of toast. It had barely touched the table when the other door into the scullery opened and Gernaud strode through it. He slid into a chair beside me, shaking his head.

  "This house!" he enthused. "The furniture, the art!"

  Debbie shoved a plate to Gernaud, took one for herself and sat.

  "The art," she said, sadly. "There used to be more. A third more to be exact."

  Gernaud, buttering toast, said, "So where is it?" He put the knife down. "Ah. You mean it is sold."

  Debbie nodded. "To patch roofs or replace windows or fix pipes. It started even before Dermot's time. And one day I know I'll have to sell the whole place, as I just can't keep up. It's basically unavoidable, unless we strike oil out there. Or gold."

  "But what about the portal oak?" I said. "Won't that be affected if you sell?"

  "Of course. It's in a walled garden, stuck onto the back of the house. Too close to be really safe, so it'll need to go before there's any sale. Go, as in — cut down."

  We heard a door open somewhere, then shut with a thud. Gernaud slowed a little in his chewing, and tried not to stare towards the approaching footsteps. A few seconds later, Tommy stepped in. "Food!" he said, red-faced, rubbing his hands together. "Fuckin' lovely."

  He grabbed a plate from the kitchen and sat two seats down from Gernaud, even though there was a free seat across from him. He poured tea, staring fixedly at the toast.

  "Coffee!" Debbie said. She took another trip to the kitchen, returning this time with a glass jug of brew coffee. She set it down. Gernaud sniffed at it, shrugged, and filled his mug.

  I drained my tea and slid the mug across. "In there, please." I added milk, took a swig, then popped half a sausage into my mouth. I chewed then swallowed what tasted like warmed-up paste. I stared down at my food. I was hungry, or had been, but now food was the last thing I wanted. Weird. There was also a dull thump in my head, making things fuzzy.

  The painkillers. Or maybe an effect of having hosted Esmerelda, whatever she was. It didn't explain, though, why the sausages were so bland and tasteless.

  "Two cameras up and working," Tommy said. "Ran a power line from the gate. I'll get the rest up later on. Might have to run a few on batteries for a bit. Nice sausages, there."

  "Thanks," Debbie said. "That camera job's been on my list for a while."

  "You are scared somebody will break in?" Gernaud said.

  "Or burn it down," Debbie said, "like they did to Bren's house. It's stone, but the interiors aren't."

  "Cormac's house," I corrected her. I should probably call him, tell him what happened. Or maybe he'd already heard from the insurance company. He'd be angry as spit.

  "Anyway," Debbie said. "We should get started. We have things to discuss."

  "Your carvings," Gernaud said, butter knife in hand. "In a cave sized for humans, yes?"

  "That's how it looked," Debbie said. "We assumed people had been sneaking over to—-"

  "Sneaking over?" He shook his head. "Amazing. The truth sits there and you deny it."

  "What truth?" Debbie said.

  "The people of the mounds," he said. "Who else? The Sidhe."

  Debbie sat back. "Oh come on. Humans, living on the other side. That's just stories."

  "Clearly they are not. And the small people mention them sometimes, but as a swear, when we are not there to hear it. So I believe — I know — they were once real."

  "And how the fuck," Tommy said, "do you know what the fairies are saying when no-one's around?"

  "Gernaud's a … researcher," I said. "Of sorts. He's interested in the fairy culture—"

  "Researcher?" Tommy said with a sneer. "Spying on them, is he?"

  "Observing," Gernaud said. "Without being seen or noticed."

  "The small folk are already scared of us," Tommy said. "Wouldn't take much for them to decide we're not worth trading with, and close all the oaks."

  "They will not," Gernaud said. "Their society will suffer greatly if the trade with us is lost. And I cannot believe you all care so little about them. You just take their gold, in ignorance—"

  "Respect, is what I'd fucking call it," Tommy said. "Something we all don't have."

  A short silence followed, punctuated by the clink and scrape of forks.

  "So what have you found out," Debbie said, "with all this research?"

  "Enough to know the Sidhe were real. They ran the other Ireland for a long time. The fairies were slaves to them, and still talk of them with fear. I am sure they built that cave you found."

  "And that weird pit," I said. "I'm damn sure no fairy built that."

  "You say you have photos," Gernaud said. "Show me these."

  Debbie pulled out her phone and passed it to Gernaud. He stared, open-mouthed, at the screen, sliding back and forth. When he handed it back, Tommy stuck an arm in and grabbed it to look too.

  "You will mail me these photos," Gernaud said. "I must see them closer."

  "Sure," Debbie said. "But you're saying a whole race of humans lived over there, and just vanished? That pit's impressive, but people from here could have easily made it."

  Gernaud got up and strode into the hall. He returned with a sports bag that he set down on the empty half of the table. From it he pulled a cardboard box, and returned to his seat.

  "Look," he said, sliding the box across to Debbie. "See it for yourself."

  Debbie opened the box as we all leaned in. Inside lay something like a bird's nest made of wires, some flaking green, some silver, some black. Orange glassy shards were embedded around the edge, and a battered copper bowl sat in the middle. The whole thing was lopsided, as if sat on. I looked up. "What the hell is that? And where did you get it?"

  "To your first question," Gernaud said, "I do not know. Perhaps a charging frame. And I uncovered it, with a metal detector that I carried over. There are ruins, four hours from Tommy's tree. I discovered them with a tiny camera I sent up in a balloon."

  All three of us were staring at him. "Fucking hell," Tommy said. "If my lot hear about that, they'll be spitting blood." But he didn't sound so angry. He was staring at the wire-thing, tapping a finger. "You know, I've a couple of drones. Maybe I could take them over—"

  "No bloody drones!" I said. "And Gernaud, fucking hell, I'm amazed the small folk haven't caught you already. Plus this … bird-nesty thing isn't much proof of anything."

  "What? Of course it is," Gernaud said. "Look at it! Can the fairies make wire this fine? Or cut amber in a way so clean? No. They cannot. This was not made by them."

  Debbie turned the box for a better look. The amber shards glinted in the light of the sconces.

  "People from here could have made it," she said, "and traded it across. Right?"

  "You want proof," Gernaud said, "and I give you proof. What more do you want? A Sidhe in a photo, holding a newspaper with a date on it?"

  "Alright," Debbie said. "Let's say it's true. There on
ce was a breed of human over there, native or otherwise. And they died out. So what killed every single one of them?"

  Gernaud shrugged. "I admit I don't know. But they existed. There is no doubt of it."

  "Feck this," Tommy said. He'd devoured two slices of toast wrapped around a fried egg and was reaching for more. "History's fine, but we've stuff to fix in this world. People messing with the anam, trying to kill people. So what we know about them?"

  I told them what the fairy had told me in the scrying.

  "A square hole," Gernaud said, "and not a round well, as in that tomb?"

  "Definitely square. And a rope of beads is probably rosary beads, right? Must be. And there's no shortage of ladies with rosary beads in Ireland."

  "Dark lake," Tommy said. "Dublin's called Dubh Linn, isn't it?"

  I turned to him, surprised. "Shit. You're right, it is."

  "What is this?" Gernaud asked. "Dove what?"

  "Dubh Linn," I said. "It's where the word Dublin comes from. Means black pool in Irish. So maybe that wasn't about a particular lake, but the whole city. Which doesn't help much."

  "Nuns," Tommy blurted out. "Lady kneeling down, rosary beads, hoods. Has to be nuns."

  I gave him a slow nod. "I suppose nuns would work."

  "Good then!" Gernaud said. "We just find the nuns. How hard can it be?"

  I glared at him. "How hard? You know how many nuns there are in Dublin?"

  "It's a start," Debbie said. "We check convents, churches, schools. Nun places."

  "A shot in the dark, more like," I said. "But okay. And we talk to Seamus Cavan. There was a fella in the hotel I didn't like the look of. Think he was following me—"

  "Cavan," Tommy said. "Shady fecker, that one. My old man knew his father, Brian, and when Seamus showed up and took over, Brian just vanished. Said he went to Florida to retire. But my old man never believed it. Been suspicious of him even since."

  I stared at him. "You're saying Seamus knocked off his father and hid the body in a basement?"

  "Not sayin' that at all. Just sayin' he's a weird fish. So watch him."

  "So who is this man in the hotel who followed you?" Gernaud said.

  "I didn't see so well. He had sunglasses on, indoors, and I thought—"

  "Sunglasses?" Debbie spun to face me, eyes wide. "Describe him."

  "Uh, tall, youngish. A brown coat, like a trench coat, and … gloves, I think—"

  "I've seen him before, and I thought the same thing. Sunglasses, at night, weird."

  "You want to tell us where?" Tommy said.

  Debbie tapped a finger on her cheek. "I'm trying to remember. Maybe … three months ago. Ah! It was at Vesta McQuire's house."

  "Vesta?" I said. A sometimes customer of mine, who hadn't returned my calls in a while.

  Debbie nodded. "I was coming back from Shannon airport and passing Vesta's place, so I dropped in. I had a feeling she'd been avoiding me, and I wasn't sure why. I got there when the sun had just gone down, I remember that. And there he was, walking across the lawn towards the front door, carrying wood or something. He turned, and I saw the sunglasses."

  "Gloves too?" I said. "Brown coat?"

  "I'm not sure. But he didn't say anything, just hurried in. And when Vesta came out, she was … flustered. She said he was a nephew and everything was fine, but it felt forced. I got the feeling he was watching us. She promised to call, but she never did."

  Food sat cooling in front of me. I stared at it, to the rising buzz in my head.

  "He could have listened in on me and Seamus," I said. "He was close enough. Could have heard everything we talked about. Maybe heard Seamus say my name."

  "Oh God," Debbie said. "You don't think he's … dangerous?"

  "I don't know." But the buzz in my head was growing thicker and angrier.

  "Fuck this," Tommy said, standing. "Call Vesta. Fucking now."

  Phones were pulled out, and the dog sat up on the sofa, sensing the tension in the room. Debbie called first, and shook her head. I tried next, listening until the phone rang out. Tommy then, fingers tapping on the table. He put his phone down.

  "Don't like this," he said. "If Vesta's in trouble, we should go help."

  "He's right," Debbie stood. "I should have gone earlier. Gernaud, you're staying here to watch the house." She strode to the door. "I'm getting the Remington. Bren and Tommy, outside, five minutes."

  Tommy stood, stuffed a sausage into his mouth and wiped fatty hands on his jeans.

  "Fucking hope she's alright," he said. "Vesta's always been good to us. C'mon."

  I hurried after him, hoping the same, but for other reasons.

  Because Vesta might know the ones who'd tried to kill me, or at least one of them. She was officially our best lead. Which meant we were maybe a car ride away from grabbing Mister Sunglasses and slapping loose the info I needed to fix this thing.

  Or maybe we were about to step from one mess into a whole new one.

  The approach was a rutted track with a mohawk of stubbly grass, more chain-puddle than road. We parked when we couldn't drive any further, and Debbie led the way in a breathy jog past shaggy trees strangled by ivy, as the last light faded in a grey sky.

  Cows made a long low moo, somewhere far off. Debbie slowed. "Shh." Up ahead, the road entered an open area, where dark shapes sat. Debbie unslung her shotgun and we edged along the track behind her, picking our steps to make as little noise as possible.

  In the clearing up ahead, in dappled light, a bigger, darkened shape came into view, bent and sagging in the middle.

  "Fuck," Tommy said and took off, bolting past us, heading for the house. Debbie followed, and I followed her, stumbling into the clearing, where I came to a panting stop.

  Ahead of me lay a large opening in the trees, being slowly invaded by bushes and grass. There was a car track, two small sheds in need of repair, and a mound covered in a dirty green canvas. And, in the middle, the house. It wasn't big, with a low roof and dirty-white walls.

  But not white any longer. Because someone had burned it to fuck.

  The wall to the right of the front door was blackened, a window buckled and gaping. Dark stains reached up the wall, to a great hole one quarter of the house's length. Slates lay scattered around, and from the hole peeked blackened beams. Nothing moved.

  Tommy was making for the house, and Debbie hung back, shotgun unslung. I ran up to her as Tommy reached the front door. He hammered on it, calling for Vesta. No reply.

  "Come on," I said, giving Debbie a shove. "Tommy needs our help. Go."

  We trotted past a shed and the rusted remains of a bicycle. The smell of burning plastic mingled with another darker, sharper smell — like a toilet left too long in the sun.

  We reached the door just as Tommy, having tried the handle, stepped back to deliver a kick. Three attempts before it flew inwards, slamming against a wall. He charged inside, but me and Debbie didn't follow. She stood beside me, and we stared, dumbly immobile.

  "Tommy," Debbie said in a strangled voice. "Tommy? Is she in there—"

  He slipped back into view. Breath fast, eyes big. "Fucking hell," he said.

  Debbie dashed up to him, and barged her way past.

  "No, jaysus, don't go in … ah, fuck's sake." He hurried after her.

  I slipped through the door. I saw a hat shelf. Hanging coats. A linoleum floor, smeared with filth and ash. I moved up the hall to my right, through air sharp and stinking, past smashed roof slates and lumps of ceiling, with the occasional stretch of perfectly untouched wallpaper.

  I halted in what looked like a living room. Tommy and Debbie stood there, staring through the fading light at something on the floor. A dry croak emerged from me.

  It was a body, so thin I thought at first it was just clothes. But then I saw hands with nails painted green and hair all grey with threads of black, sprawled out.

  Debbie dropped to her knees. She checked the pulse on the neck, and snatched her hand away. She remained kneeling, her head
down, a tiny whine emerging.

  Tommy had barged off into another room, and I had a look around this one. It was a mess, with debris and broken slates everywhere, and one slanted beam that had smashed a bookshelf, scattering everything on it. Patterned wallpaper and a leather-topped desk, glistening from rain coming in through the hole above, and — wait, what was that?

  In the corner by the window, turned on its side, lay a copper thing. Like a deep wok, with tubes coming out. I picked a path to it, squatted down, sniffed. Was that … booze?

  Tommy came back in. I looked up, and he shook his head.

  I made my way over to him. "Could have started there," I said, nodding to the copper contraption. "She was distilling. Or making urges, but what kind of urge needs—"

  "This was no accident." Debbie stood, facing the body, her voice obsidian hard. "There's damage to the head. Blood. He killed her and set a fire to hide it."

  Tommy strode up to the body and nudged Debbie out of the way. He had a look, as I kept back, wondering what that man had wanted, and why Vesta had to die.

  "She's right," Tommy turned to me, his blue eyes like stones. "She was killed. This isn't fucking around anymore. This is murder. And we're going to make the fuckers pay.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  "In here," Debbie said. Darkness was congealing inside the house, but none of us dared to turn on a torch, or check if the lights worked. Which, to be honest, would be surprising.

  We stood in the bedroom. The air stank here too, but the roof was intact and things looked weirdly normal. A pair of slippers peeked out from under the bed, expecting feet to slip into them at any moment. And they'd keep sitting there, as their threads unravelled and their fluff was picked by mice and they rotted down to crinkled soles, still waiting.

  I hovered behind Debbie as she swung open a door in the corner to reveal a large closet, where clothes hung. Squatting, she opened a small door in the back wall of the closet, and I used my phone's screen to thrown light into the space revealed — no bigger than a pillow, with two small shelves, containing five tiny glass bottles.

  "Urges?" I said, angling the light in. Debbie nodded as she handed back the bottles. Brown glass, half an egg in volume, stoppered with a lump of beeswax, and a scrawled symbol on the bottom. All five of them went into my pocket.