The Moon Is Watching Read online

  The Moon Is Watching

  Adam Cloake

  www.adamcloake.com

  Copyright © 2018 by Adam Cloake

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof

  may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever

  without the express written permission of the publisher

  except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  First Printing, 2018

  www.adamcloake.com

  https://www.facebook.com/adam.cloake

  https://twitter.com/adamcloake

  CONTENTS

  Black Hellebore

  Conall

  A Brother of The Light of Truth

  Shore

  And Watch The Living

  Peter The Hero

  Creatures

  Don’t Do This!

  Grey Cat

  Black Hellebore

  Although many people hated and feared Derek Hill, killing him was obviously not an option. As an officer of the court and, he hoped, a good human being, Sean Stynes had sworn himself to this basic belief.

  So, it was with some surprise that he found himself being offered an alternative solution.

  And on a first date, no less!

  Sean had been thinking about two people that Friday evening last September as his train rumbled its way towards Howth DART station in north Dublin. Each of these people stoked up a different emotion within him. One was Derek Hill, his client, who made Sean feel like his stomach was filling up with sour water every time he met him, or even thought about him. The other, Miranda, whom Sean still hadn’t even met, gave him a feeling of true warmth and wellbeing. At the beginning of the evening, these two people occupied their separate spaces of Sean’s world. Later that night, as he dropped off into a satisfied – but troubled – sleep, they would be intricately linked.

  Sean was running late for his first date with Miranda. He had repeatedly texted and dialled her phone all evening, but it appeared to be switched off.

  Although the fault for this lateness lay with his Team Leader, John Manning, Sean found himself blaming Derek Hill instead. He seemed to blame that man for most things these days. Hill was due to be released from prison the following Monday morning, and Sean was the Probation Officer charged with the task of resettling him. Manning, a man becoming increasingly anxious about the imminent release, had called Sean into his office that evening, just as he was about to leave. It was 5.00, the customary time to finish, and Sean’s date was set for 6.00. When Manning had called to him from his office door, Sean had involuntarily frozen, one arm jacketed, the other not. The Team Leader had noticed this pause, and seemed displeased with it. He put on his “This-is-your-job” expression.

  Manning had wanted to go over, yet again, all the important details regarding Hill’s release. He reiterated the importance of Sean arriving at the prison early in the morning, to reduce the possibility of a heavy media presence. He also reviewed the route that Sean would travel to the village in Wicklow where Hill would be living, and everything that needed to be done once they arrived there.

  Sean knew all of this already, and the minute hand on Manning’s wall clock kept interfering with his concentration.

  Of course, he had not told Manning, or any of his colleagues, about Miranda. Feeling the need for privacy, he had chosen to keep their contacts to himself for the moment.

  Sean was 42; Miranda was 28. He needed to first convince himself of the wisdom of this endeavour before he could comfortably share it with anyone else.

  He had been widowed for six years. Cathy’s leukaemia, and her slow death, had made him certain that, from then on, he would be alone for good. Joining the dating site had been almost a whim. Even now, he could barely explain why he was still a member. Although he had received half a dozen offers of introduction, he was not surprised to find himself rejecting every one of them. In fact, after just a couple of weeks, he was ready to delete the account altogether. He had been logging on specially to do that the day he saw the first message from Miranda. That first contact had eventually led him to this DART journey, and his first first date in twenty years.

  In his hand, Sean held his old, battered copy of Build My Gallows High, one of the many detective novels he used to read as a younger man. He found himself ignoring the book, however, anticipating his date with Miranda. Instead, He chose to gaze out the window of the train as it zipped between stations. Normally, he would have chosen the 31 bus to bring him to Howth – one of his favourite places in the world – because the seafront and the Summit are not visible from the DART. Tonight, though, he needed the faster mode of transport so, instead, he tried to imagine the view of the oncoming peninsula as he felt it drawing nearer.

  No matter how much he attempted to focus on Miranda, however, he found his thoughts filled with the image of Hill’s face, and the sardonic sound of the man’s voice. The cold sweat of Sean’s palm dampened the edge of the book as he recalled the series of meetings the two of them had held in Arbour Hill Prison over the previous few months. Hill was 42, the same age as Sean. He had served three years of a four-year sentence for attempted rape. This was considerably less time than most people felt he should have served. Sean was not alone in the belief that Hill was, in fact, a serial killer. The complete lack of any proof to corroborate this was one of the most bizarre and discomfiting aspects of Hill’s case.

  During his two decades in the job, as well as his earlier spell as a social worker, Sean had never doubted his ability to provide impartial assistance to those seeking to begin a new life. Being in the same room as Hill, however, had shaken his belief in that impartiality.

  There were certainly pragmatic reasons for these feelings. The women who were believed to have been Hill’s earlier victims had been around the same age as Sean’s younger sisters, and they themselves had adorable little daughters.

  These were not the only reasons, however.

  No! The truth was that Sean’s feelings of disgust regarding Hill were born out of the man himself. Derek Hill exuded a sensation which could be called, simply, Evil! This was a word Sean expected to encounter only in the novels he read, or in the religion he once practiced. Being near Hill, Sean realised how it was possible to feel real loathing for another person. For the first time in his career, he felt the desire to see someone slowly rot in a lonely prison cell. Hill’s poisonous presence in his life had made Sean doubt his own ability to do his job properly. He had tried to push away the shame of this revelation, this slight to his sense of duty, but he couldn't. Hill made him feel like a failure.

  As the train whispered up to the platform of Howth DART station, Sean was relieved at the temporary escape from these sensations.

  He hurried out of the station and into the salty maritime air of the coastal village, hearing instantly the familiar, welcoming cry of the seagulls down by the harbour. Like the day itself, the fish merchants and other vendors were closing, and he passed several smiling couples carrying bags of seafood and handmade crafts. Normally, such couples made him feel alone but, tonight, he felt like a normal man. He gave a little smile of his own, thinking entirely now of Miranda.

  The restaurant was more than five minutes from the station, but he tried to make it in three. The effort of walking so quickly reminded him of how unfit he had become, not a bit like the cops and gumshoes in his favourite books.

  Already feeling hot and sweaty, Sean approached the familiar sea-blue door of his stone-cladded destination. Harbour View Restaurant and Hotel sits beside the East Pier of Howth. He had asked Miranda to choose a place to meet and, to his surprise and delight, the one she had plumped for was Sean’s own favourite in all of Dublin.

  He took a few final calming breaths, and
entered the building.

  * * *

  She was seated in the far corner of the restaurant. Through the window behind her, the sun was setting, off to her right, so it seemed like she had chosen the darkest part of the room in which to sit. Even the candle on the table had a subdued purple glow which barely illuminated the area around it. Sean remarked that it was different from all the other candles in the room.

  She stood up as he approached, and reached out her hand. “Hello, Sean,” she said. “I'm Miranda Kean.”

  The unusual formality of this introduction almost made him lean forward to plant a respectful, Victorian kiss on her narrow fingers. He quickly stopped himself, however, and shook the proffered hand instead.

  “Pleased to meet you, I’m Sean Stynes”, he replied, lapsing into the same formality himself. “I’m really sorry I’m late. I had a…”

  “I know!” she interrupted, smiling. “Don’t worry about it.”

  They sat down. Through the window, Sean could look down on the dozens of moored boats in the harbour, their white masts pointing upwards, like protective lances. Beyond them was the land mass of Ireland’s Eye, which would shortly fade into the twilight.

  After a pause, Miranda said, “I imagine it must be daunting for a Probation Officer when he goes out on a date.” Sean found this an odd way to open the conversation. She added, “Don't women become uncomfortable when they hear that you spend all your time in the company of such dangerous people?”

  He tried to make a joke of it. “Do you mean my clients, or my colleagues?” They both chuckled at this. Sean could hear the nervous catch in his light laughter, wishing it had sounded more natural. He poured himself some water from the jug, and took a long swig, realising that he was still sweating into his shirt. In the corners of his glasses, on either side of his nose, two grey circles of steam were spreading. He thought about Philip Marlowe and Sam Spade, and how their natural coolness would have shielded them from such tight, awkward stickiness.

  Suddenly, he realised what she had just said, and a tingle of nervousness crept up his body. “Wait a minute! I never told you I was a Probation Officer!” he said, unable to keep the suspicion out of his voice. “We've spoken twice in the chat room, but we haven’t said much about ourselves. I assumed that was the way you wanted it.”

  “You told me you worked within the Department of Justice. I considered the word ‘within’ an unusual one to use, so I simply took a guess.”

  “But that could have meant anything.” He tried to keep the edge out of his voice. “That was more than just a guess. How did you know?”

  “Perhaps I can read your mind,” she smiled, as she leaned her shoulders forward, looking impishly at him from under her eyebrows. Then, casually, she sat back again, and said, “I decided to order the wine while I was waiting. I hope you don’t mind.” She took the bottle from the ice bucket, and poured him a glass. As she did so, Sean recognised the yellow collar around the bottle’s neck. He was about to say that she had ordered the same white Burgundy he always chose when he came here, but dismissed it as just another coincidence. He reminded himself that dates were supposed to begin with idle chitchat, rather than suspicious questions. Nevertheless, he still felt compelled to ask, “So you can read my mind, can you?”

  “Perhaps I can. Anyway, I’m sure you'll tell me everything as the evening progresses.” Her tone was breezy, seeming to brush the subject aside, as if this wasn’t the correct time for it. Then she lowered her eyes to study the menu.

  Sean took this opportunity to have a good look at her. Despite the darkness of their corner – a darkness made deeper by the unusual candle flame – he could still make out the pallid tone of her skin. This was accentuated by the intense blackness of her hair, which was styled like that of Louise Brooks in Pandora’s Box. She seemed to be wearing a darker shade of lipstick than he was accustomed to; it was red, but tended towards blue. The frames of her glasses were a similar shade, bluey-purple, making him self-conscious about the conservative grey wire of his own. Her clothes appeared to be all black. There was jewellery on all her fingers, each item different from the others. One piece ran the length of her right index finger. It began as a green-eyed dragon’s head at the top knuckle, and tapered into a silver tail over her fingernail. As she held her menu, the dragon’s back arched towards Sean, as if hibernating, or tricking him into thinking it was. She wore perhaps half a dozen bracelets on each wrist, and there were two amulets around her neck. One of these was a combination of white moon and stars within a dark green stone. The other looked – to Sean’s surprise – like a vagina.

  Miranda appeared to make her food choice the instant the waiter arrived at the table. Looking up, she ordered the sea bass, using the same tone of friendly confidence she had just been using on Sean. He suspected that Miranda could charm people into giving her anything she wanted.

  He hadn’t looked at the menu himself, so he chose to order the salmon, as he usually did when dining here with friends and family.

  The waiter thanked them, and left.

  The conversation was quite general for the next few minutes. They spoke about other restaurants they had visited. They spoke about recipes they had tried out. Miranda told Sean a little bit about herself. She told him that she ran her own independent pharmacy in her home town, about thirty miles west of Howth. He had assumed that she chose this restaurant because it was convenient for her, so he was surprised to discover that she lived so far away, and that her choice had been entirely random. His surprise did not last long, of course, since this fitted perfectly with the bizarre prescience she had already shown earlier in the evening.

  She spoke about the many countries she had visited, and the unusual people she had met. Indian swamis. Tribal leaders. Even some royalty. At one point, she mentioned an actual sorcerer that she had once known.

  A sorcerer!

  During these tales, she referred several times to her mother, her voice betraying a sadness deeper than Sean had yet heard from her. Her mother had died nine years earlier, and Miranda’s closeness to her memory was painfully evident. She didn’t say how the old woman had died, and Sean chose not to ask. She did, however, use vague expressions like “led away from life” and “sick in her soul”. Sean had hoped for some sort of elaboration on these odd phrases, but felt it would be wrong to explore the matter so soon.

  Their meals arrived promptly. Miranda seemed surprised by how good her fish was. Being so fond of this place, Sean felt a certain pride on hearing this.

  Her openness about herself relaxed Sean, making him more confident. While they ate, he spoke about his own parents, both dead for some years now. He spoke about his younger sisters, and his nieces, none of whom he saw as often as he would have liked, even though they all lived in Killora, just a few hours’ drive from Dublin. He had intended to avoid mentioning Cathy but, as soon as he said her name, he found himself speaking quite openly about her. Miranda’s sympathy was clearly genuine, and Sean felt that this added to the attraction he was already beginning to feel for this unusual young woman.

  Nevertheless, he refused to allow himself to discuss the crisis he was having in his work. This was partly down to his own professionalism, but was mainly due to his reluctance to sully the evening with his most disturbing client.

  As he became more comfortable, Sean decided to explore some of the mystery he felt surrounded Miranda. Attempting to use the same directness that she had earlier used on him, he asked, “So, you think I’ll reveal all my secrets tonight? Wasn’t that what you said?”

  “Yes, that’s what I said,” she smiled. “And yes, I believe you will.”

  “And what makes you so sure of that?”

  She took two short sips from her wine glass. Then she swirled the glass in front of her.

  Following this pause, she answered, “Because you want to tell me, Sean. I can sense it.” She took a third sip, then placed the glass back on the table.

  “Oh?” he said.

  �
��Yes! You want to open up to somebody about the concerns you’re having right now. I think these concerns may be mostly about your work. You can’t talk to your colleagues because you feel you should always be professionally detached from them. You suspect that they might all be willing to open up to you as well, but that they feel the same caginess you do. And besides…” She picked up her glass. “They all have husbands and wives to go home to.”

  She casually tapped the tablecloth with the silver dragon tail, keeping her eyes locked on his.

  Sean held her gaze, taken aback by the bluntness of her comments. The last time he had been on a first date was with Cathy, and she certainly hadn’t sounded this direct.

  His third glass of Burgundy was almost empty. He wanted to fill it again, but decided to remain still, both to keep his discomfort in check, and to hopefully exude a sense of self-control.

  Miranda smiled. She picked up the bottle, and poured another glass for him. Her expression suggested that she knew just what he was thinking.

  Replacing the bottle in the ice, she continued. “You can’t even discuss your work with your family – with your sisters. I’m aware that you’re not allowed to, of course, but you have touched on the subject with them. Many times. Am I right? You’ve done it blithely, though. You know that they find your work intriguing – the little bit that they know about it – and you kind of like that fact. You’re a naturally closed-off person, Sean. You enjoy the thought that you’re being mysterious.”

  She allowed another silence.

  Sean cleared his throat, and immediately regretted doing so. He hated how impotent it made him sound.

  “And how did you reach these conclusions?” he asked. “By reading my mind, I suppose! Like you said!”

  “You were quite open about your family earlier, and about your wife’s illness. But you avoided the subject of work, even though you did come close to mentioning it. And, for the past few minutes, you’ve been showing me your thoughts – in your eyes, in your voice, and in the way you’ve been playing with those battered fingernails of yours.”