The Night Swimmer Read Online Free PDF Page B

girls were firmly ensconced at school, pursuing the public school fencing championships in foil and épée, Stephen and his wife purchased a small farm on the island and returned for good.
    You a twitcher then? Stephen said.
    Sorry?
    A birder? Here for the birds?
    No, I said, I’m actually looking for some good swimming spots.
    Stephen looked askance at me, concerned.
    Or I may just hike around.
    Plenty of good walking on Clear, he said. Figured you for Irish, what with the ginger hair. You sure got the map of Ireland on you.
    *  *  *
    As Baltimore and Sherkin Island dropped away astern, Cape Clear loomed up in front of us, brilliantly green and black, rising out of the sea like an unhinged edge of the earth. The swells grew as we left the leeward protection of Sherkin, and at times we weaved through channels bordered by sharp chains of black rock no more than twenty feet from the side of the boat. Looking back and confronting the array of outcrops and peaks in the pitching sea, I realized that I couldn’t point out the direction of mainland Ireland if my life depended upon it.
    Though there were only about a dozen bodies on the boat, I didn’t notice Highgate and his dog until we were nearly in the North Bay of the island. This was the first time I saw Highgate, in his yellow slicker and watch cap pulled down low over his eyes, talking to someof the other passengers sitting in the midsection of the boat, a massive German shepherd sitting between his legs in a harness. Despite his cheerful grin and animated face, there was a somber hue about him, like he was encased in an aura of dull light. Or perhaps that is a trick of my memory, influenced by what I know about him now.
    When we chugged into the North Bay of Cape Clear, another ferry was attempting to unload a backhoe on the dock. The boat captain, obscured by the murky glass of the pilothouse, was racing the engines then quickly reversing, the steel loading ramp slamming rhythmically on the concrete boat launch. The driver in the backhoe cab was looking to time the swells. A large wave retreated, drawing the boat back, and the captain gunned the engine and the boat surged forward. The loading ramp slapped down and the backhoe driver raced off the boat and onto the pier, its shovel whipping back and forth like a scorpion’s tail. Just when the next swell was about to carry the boat onto the ramp the boat roared back, and in one movement spun its front around and powered out of the harbor.
    That’d be Kieran Corrigan at the wheel, Stephen said. That’s his backhoe, his construction site, his island.
    I don’t know where I’m going, I said.
    Stephen pointed up the main road that led out of the harbor.
    There are really only three roads, he said, and they all connect. If you keep walking you’ll be bound to arrive eventually.
    *  *  *
    The first thing you notice about Cape Clear Island is the wind. It howls mostly from the west but changes directions constantly and never lets up for more than an instant. On Cape Clear you are always leaning into the wind. There are no discernible flying insects on the island, and the native birds tend toward small chattering things that fly low in and out of the underbrush, or large, strong-backed and wide-ranging seabirds, the kind that could carry off small pets. But as Clear is the first landfall for birds coming east over the Atlantic, you are likely to see nearly any species of bird at any time.
    I walked up the quay past a few corrugated sheds and prefabstructures and an old stone building perched on the water in the east corner that was the Siopa Beag, or general store. Just up the hill the stacked stone remains of a church and a walled graveyard containing a jumble of worn and slanted tombstones. Cars in various states of decay were parked on the pier and around the harbor, some with motors running, waiting for passengers. A pub called the Five Bells stood on the hill