{"id":13221,"date":"2022-02-10T14:29:38","date_gmt":"2022-02-10T14:29:38","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/cassandravoices.com\/?p=13221"},"modified":"2022-02-10T14:29:38","modified_gmt":"2022-02-10T14:29:38","slug":"into-the-river","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/casswp.eutonom.eu\/index.php\/2022\/02\/10\/into-the-river\/","title":{"rendered":"Into the River"},"content":{"rendered":"

I can barely make out Richard\u00b4s handwriting on the piece of torn paper.\u00a0 <\/span>
\n\u201cSecond left\u201d I say, looking down at the words. \u201cAfter the farm\u2026with eh, the eh, big stables.\u201d<\/span>
\n\u201cI think we just passed it.\u201d Richard says, looking behind him. <\/span>
\n\u201cEyes on the road dude!\u201d I shout. \u201cPlease!\u201d I\u00b4d almost reached for the wheel. \u201cAfter the farm. So, the second left. Not signposted. Look! There! There there there! Second left! Second left!\u201d\u00a0 <\/span>
\nRichard takes a glance at the rear-view mirror, indicates, decelerates, and turns off the winding, narrow country road. <\/span>
\n\u201cThis is it,\u201d I say, turning down the music.\u00a0 <\/span>
\n\u201cThis might be it.\u201d Richard says.\u00a0\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

The boreen is a long tunnel of trees. Sunlight flickers through the thick leaves overhead, giving the passageway an intense golden-green glow. Stray branches and brambles tap, knock and scrape against the windshield, and drag against the worn-out body of the car, as we\u2019re bumped and jolted gently in our seats. Richard is quiet, his forearms resting over the steering wheel, his fingers interlaced. We\u2019ve been driving since morning, across the smooth new continuous sedation of the M7 motorway, from Dublin to Exit 27. But now, nearing the end of our journey, I\u2019m becoming curious again as to where I\u00b4m being led.<\/p>\n

Richard sits back and steers the car slowly from out under the trees and into a sunlit clearing. In front of us, behind a low, grey, moss-mottled stonewall, squats an old shrunken cottage, tucked up in welcoming silence. Richard turns the key in the ignition and the rattling engine shudders and shuts off with a sigh.<\/p>\n

Once through its small front door, we begin to explore the dark little habitation. The air inside is cool, cavernous. Rough flagstones, slightly uneven, line the ground. Whitewashed stonewalls loom close in the wan daylight which struggles in through the deep-silled elfin windows. For some reason I was expecting a stifling humidity, a trapped reek of old country rot and neglect to greet us.<\/p>\n

On the right is the kitchen. A deep white porcelain sink and dim countertops domesticated with wooden containers, a red kettle, a wooden bread-bin, a blue cup-rack, and a stainless steel dish drying rack. From the ceiling of an arching alcove hang a confusion of copper pots and pans over a blackened range. Ahead, at the far end of the room, stands an old round pine table and three pine chairs. Behind that, and in front of a larger day-lit window, is a red cushioned, two-seater couch and small mahogany coffee table. To either side of the couch, tall leafy plants, dark and evergreen, creep up out of the farthest corners, as though the trees outside had somehow broken in. On the left wall is a small black stove and, beside it, an empty wicker basket for firewood.<\/p>\n

I follow Richard down the narrow hall that leads to two bedrooms, their open doors facing each other. In the smaller room I see a framed print of \u201cMen of Destiny\u201d hanging on the wall. Behind the last door, at the end of the hall, is an old grimy bathroom. I step around Richard and take a look inside. Its green-tiled gloom and old dirty white shower-curtain remind me of something out of a horror film.<\/p>\n

\u201cShe must have had someone in to do the roof,\u201d Richard says, walking back down the hall and looking up at the newly restored wooden beams.
\n\u201cShe keeps the place well, your aunt,\u201d I say, following him. \u201cI don’t know why I’m so surprised.\u201d
\n\u201cWhat you think?\u201d Richard asks, looking around.
\n\u201cI love it,\u201d I say, \u201cIt’s perfect.\u201d
\nRichard looks at me.
\n\u201cDo you good to get out of Dublin anyway for a while,\u201d he says. \u201cClear your head.\u201d
\n\u201cYou have no idea, Man.\u201d I say, looking at him. \u201cThank you for inviting me.\u201d
\n\u201cNo worries,\u201d he says, spinning his car-keys around on his finger. \u201cRight. Let\u2019s make this place our own.\u201d<\/p>\n

Out back, in what we could reclaim for a garden, after I\u00b4d sheared away some dead dried branches of a gooseberry bush and Richard had strimmed some of the long grass, we share a light lunch at a small wooden table, sitting on two loose wooden chairs.<\/p>\n

It\u2019s a fine spread. Various cured hams. Gorgonzola and Camembert cheese. Black pepper crackers. Green pitted olives. Sundried tomatoes. Crisp brown bread and a beetroot, grated carrot, broccoli and hazelnut salad for which Richard has whipped up his delicious honey mustard and Irish whiskey dressing. To top it all off, I\u00b4ve opened a none-too-chilled bottle of steely Chablis.<\/p>\n

In the warm summer air, we take our time and eat slowly, swatting wasps and midges away from our food and from our faces. I\u2019ve had to move my chair out of the sun and into the shade more than once. I don\u2019t want to get burned. The garden surrounds us. The creeping brown briars. The exhausted trees and their shade. The tall dry grass. All so overgrown. So still. So dense. So close to us. This is true summer seclusion. I look around and enjoy a deep sense of peace. This is our place now, to do as we please, to idly rusticate in, undisturbed, for a week.<\/p>\n

Richard is sitting back in his chair with his blue denim shirt open, sunning himself and chewing on a piece of bread. Under his straw hat he wears Aviator shades and with his Van Dyke goatee he is nothing if not the epitome of summertime cool. He smiles broadly at me and looks like he\u2019s about to say something, or is thinking of saying something to me, but then just goes back to admiring his surroundings, leaning back on his chair. I drink my wine and listen to the insect hum in the grass, and in the trees all around me.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou know what?\u201d Richard says after a while.
\n\u201cWhat?\u201d
\n\u201cI found a bag of MDMA in these work shorts.\u201d
\n\u201cHa! Really?\u201d
\n\u201cI think it must have been left-over from the barn-party in Kilkenny.\u201d
\n\u201cThat was some night,\u201d I say, reaching for my pouch of rolling tobacco, suddenly nervous and certainly thrilled on hearing that night now being finally brought up again.<\/p>\n

I fumble with my rolling papers and with the tobacco. Part of me wonders if it\u00b4s true, if he\u2019d really found it, or if he\u2019d bought some especially for this trip in the hope of recreating something of that night, of that morning. Either way it\u2019s welcome news. In fact, it\u2019s exactly what I want to hear, what I\u2019d been hoping for. I tap my rollie on the table, smiling, then light it up.<\/p>\n

Settling back down into my own skin again, I feel at ease. Recomposed and in control. I look at Richard as he takes a drink of wine and rests the base of his glass on his flat brown stomach. Then, with a finger, he lowers his shades, looks at me from under an arched eye-brow and, in a mock paternalistic tone says,<\/p>\n

\u201cI was debating, you know, on whether or not I ought to tell you.\u201d
\n\u201cWell, you\u2019ve blown that now haven\u2019t you? And sure why wouldn\u2019t you have told me?\u201d
\n\u201cYou said that you wanted to get some work done down here.\u201d
\n\u201cSo did you.\u201d
\n\u201cAh, but that\u2019s different.\u201d
\n\u201cHow is that different?\u201d
\n\u201cMine is just the monkey work. I don\u2019t want to be a bad influence on you and, you know, hamper, or dampen, or darken even, your\u2026\u201d He searches dramatically, airily, with his free hand for the right word, \u201c\u2026your cogitations.\u201d
\n\u201cMy cogitations? Or do you mean, my brooding contemplations?\u201d
\n\u201cYour country ruminations?\u201d
\n\u201cOh, my rural cerebrations?\u201d
\n\u201cExactly.\u201d
\n\u201cWell, you won\u2019t. Besides, I don\u2019t plan on writing much. I\u2019ll be reading, mostly.\u201d
\n\u201cMostly,\u201d Richard says, smiling. \u201cYou brought enough books down with you anyways.\u201d
\n\u201cI always do. Usually too many,\u201d I say. Then I add, with a smile, \u201cI just don\u00b4t know what I want sometimes.\u201d<\/p>\n

Tapping the ash, I pass the rollie over the table to Richard.
\n\u201cYou still only writing the short ones?\u201d he asks.
\n\u201cYup. And still only for myself and for the entertainment of my friends.\u201d
\nRichard blows smoke in the direction of some midges.
\n\u201cToo right. Nothing worse than a poet who publishes. So go on then. Give us one before we go back to work.\u201d
\n\u201cAlright. Do you want a happy one? A sad one? A funny one? Or a sexy one?\u201d
\n\u201cSurprise me.\u201d<\/p>\n

I take my glass and raise it for a toast. Richard sits up, leans forward and raises his glass too. I can imagine that behind his sunglasses Richard has closed his eyes, cleared his mind and is making himself suitably receptive. Sitting up straight in my crockety chair, I look at him and say, in my smoothest voice.
\n\u201cI find myself again, cast into the ancient gaol of love. But this time I\u00b4ll remember that the cell door is always open, and the guards are always drunk.\u201d
\n\u201cBeautiful\u201d Richard says. \u201cI was transported\u201d
\n\u201cI\u2019m sure you were.\u201d I say, smiling.
\n\u201cI want more.\u201d
\n\u201cYou\u2019ll have to wait.\u201d
\n\u201cWell then, in the meantime,\u201d Richard says, \u201cHere\u2019s to a poetical and festive week in the country.\u201d
\nWe clink glasses.
\n\u201cCheers.\u201d<\/p>\n

We clear the table, bringing our plates, glasses and bowls back inside. My eyes have to readjust to the sudden cottage darkness. Sun-dazzled, and a little drunk already from the heat and the white wine, I find that I\u00b4ve wandered off in the wrong direction and start laughing to myself, at how disorientated I am. This is a crazy little domicile I\u2019ve found myself in. Blinking and stretching my eyes wide open, now I\u00b4m standing by the table. I look down at my stack of books, at my notebook and my pens, all neatly laid out. There will be time. Plenty of time. I can feel it building already. Some good work is going to get done.<\/p>\n

Richard has plugged his phone into the speakers he\u2019s brought and is playing a compilation of Italian Renaissance lute music. Its gracious simplicity fills the air around us with a homely sophistication. I put the two plates with my emptied wine glass down on the countertop and stand beside Richard at the sink. He washes. I dry. We listen to the music and fall into an easy rhythm. I notice that he\u2019s even brought his own little bottle of organic washing-up liquid.<\/p>\n

\u201cMan, that wine is choice.\u201d
\n\u201cGoes down easy.\u201d\u00a0 He says.
\n\u201cToo easy.\u201d I say, smiling. \u201cSo, time for a little daba-daba?\u201d
\n\u201cHa! You dirty drug fiend. I have to get up into those trees now\u2026\u201d
\n\u201cYou doing that today?\u201d
\n\u201cBetter to get it done now,\u201d he says, looking out the window. \u201cThen I can relax.\u201d
\n\u201cTrue,\u201d I say. \u201cBest to wait\u2026To wait. To wait.\u201d I add with a deep sigh. \u201cSuch exquisite restraint you display.\u201d
\n\u201cAll the better to torture with, my dear.\u201d<\/p>\n

Richard smiles and hands me a rinsed wet plate and I come back to myself, dreamily, to the task at hand.
\n\u201cWill I open another bottle or do you want a beer?\u201d
\n\u201cI think I\u2019ll have a coffee,\u201d He says, pulling the plug in the sink.
\n\u201cI\u2019ll make it for you,\u201d I say. \u201cYou go out and get started.\u201d<\/p>\n

At the side of the cottage, I bring Richard his coffee. He points up at some low overhanging branches.
\n\u201cThese are the ones she wants me to cut back I\u2019d say,\u201d he says.
\n\u201cHow long will that take you?\u201d
\n\u201c\u00b4Bout half an hour or so. But there’s probably more to do around the place.\u201d
\n\u201cWell, I’m looking forward to helping out,\u201d I say.
\n\u201cDon’t worry,\u201d says Richard, \u201cThere’ll be plenty to do.\u201d<\/p>\n

We step over the orange extension cable and Richard\u2019s chainsaw, his clear-plastic goggles and his pair of old, dirty, heavy work gloves.
\n\u201cBringing the hammocks was a great idea,\u201d I say.
\n\u201cIt was, wasn\u2019t it?\u201d He says, grinning. \u201cWe\u2019ll put them up later. One there\u2026and one\u2026over there. If you could strim some more between those two trees that\u2019d great.\u201d
\n\u201cYeah. No worries.\u201d
\n\u201cAnd I was thinking of digging a little fire pit too, over there, for later on. If the nights are going to be as nice as they say, might as well stay outside for as long as we can.\u201d
\n\u201cSounds great.\u201d
\n\u201cWhen was the last time you lay out in the night and looked up at the stars?\u201d Richard asks.
\n\u201cI can\u00b4t remember,\u201d I say. \u201cThere was even a time there when I couldn\u00b4t look up at them for long. Sometimes, I don\u00b4t know, it was just too immense. I\u00b4d get the fear, and have to look away.\u201d<\/p>\n

At the rear of the cottage near a little back-gate we stop at a gap in the boundary trees. I look down over a field of high, lush green grass. Shielding my eyes from the sun I see the hazy banks of a river, more fields, other country houses, and mountains far in the distance.<\/p>\n

\u201cWe’re not too far from Ardnacrusha, are we?\u201d
\n\u201cNo,\u201d Richard says, lighting a rollie, \u201cIt’s a few miles down to the right there.\u201d
\n\u201cWe should go for a walk then later, if you want?\u201d
\n\u201cSounds good,\u201d Richard says. \u201cI’ll get cutting.\u201d<\/p>\n

On a narrow pathway, along the bank of the river, we walk in the direction of Ardnacrusha, passing my hipflask of whiskey back and forth. The calm country scenery, the cooler evening air and the sound of gravel pleasurably crunching underfoot mellows my thoughts. Up ahead, Ardnacrusha Bridge arches over the river. Nearing sun-down, the shadow of the bridge ripples on the orange and purple water.<\/p>\n

\u201cSo you\u2019re serious\u2026about leaving your studio in Callan, and never painting again? Say it ain\u00b4t so, Man.\u201d
\n\u201cWell yeah, that\u00b4s the idea.\u201d
\n\u201cJust had enough?\u201d I ask, passing the flask back to him.
\n\u201cYou saw the last work.\u201d
\n\u201cI did. And I really liked it. Very zen. One fluid movement across the canvas. I always thought it looked like a tusk. You sold a few too.\u201d
\n\u201cThree.\u201d
\n\u201cThat\u00b4s good.\u201d
\n\u201cNot good enough I\u00b4m afraid. No, it\u00b4ll never leave me, but I need to take a step back. Or a step forward. I need to get out, get moving again.\u201d
\n\u201cWhere you thinking?\u201d
\n\u201cThe Camino first. Then maybe Mexico, for a while. Bring my ukulele.\u201d
\n\u201cAnd write some songs?\u201d
\n\u201cWrite some songs and find my way. At the moment I think I\u00b4m being drawn to horticulture.\u201d
\n\u201cReally? That actually makes a lot of sense,\u201d I say, taking the flask back from Richard.
\n\u201cYeah,\u201d Richard says, \u201cI think so too. Tend a garden and\u2026\u201d<\/p>\n

But I\u2019ve noticed something up ahead. The diminutive form of someone standing up on the bridge. I pocket the flask and gaze on, thoughtlessly, not even wondering until, suddenly, that same body falls clear from the bridge and splashes into the water. I stop and grab Richard by the arm.<\/p>\n

\u201cFuckin\u2019 hell!
\n\u201cWhat?\u201d
\n\u201cDid you see that?\u201d
\n\u201cDid someone fall in?\u201d
\n\u201cI don\u00b4t know, Man. Either fell in or jumped.\u201d<\/p>\n

Without another word Richard starts to run ahead. I keep my eyes on the water and watch as an arm, then a head, comes up to the surface, and disappears again. On the bank of the river Richard begins rapidly undressing: shirt off, boots off, jeans off, socks off.\u00a0 He looks back at me, desperate for some sign of warning or encouragement. But I\u2019m dumb-struck. Helpless.<\/p>\n

I stand back and watch as Richard dives into the water. Gathering up Richard\u2019s still warm clothes, I hold them close to me, and keep my eyes on him as he swims out and dives under. Coming back up, he looks around, and dives back down again. Each time he disappears, I hear myself mumbling,
\n\u201cHe’ll be ok. He’ll be ok. Come on. He’ll be ok.\u201d<\/p>\n

I walk backwards to keep up with the displacements of the current. From the river bank all I can to do is focus on maintaining a line of living endurance between myself and Richard. Somehow, through my undivided attention, a fierce observance, I feel that I can transfer all my available energy and strength to him. That this will keep him safe. That this connection will keep him alive.<\/p>\n

Thrashing the water Richard struggles back to the riverbank, pulling the still body of a boy, a teenager, behind him. At the water\u2019s edge I bend forward and grab hold of Richard. Once he\u2019s up on the bank, I reach out and get a hold of the boy, grabbing him under an arm. I pull and drag him, with Richard\u2019s help, up and out of the cold water. Richard collapses on the grass and turns on to his back. Grunting and gasping for air, he covers his face with his arms and struggles to speak.<\/p>\n

\u201cHe…He\u2019s got something\u2026in his pockets…weighing him down…\u201d
\nBut before I can gather my thoughts Richard rolls off his back and gets himself up onto his knees. He leans down over the kid, tilts his head back and blows into the boy\u2019s mouth. Richard stops, gasps, listens, and looks down. Nothing.<\/p>\n

Again he blows again into the boy\u2019s mouth and I watch, horrified, as that chest rises and falls under his soaked, black t-shirt. Nothing. I turn away. All I see is the rushing, swirling brown surface of the river, and all I can think is that there must be more bodies in there, more bodies like this one, lost in those damnable depths, helplessly flowing by.<\/p>\n

A sharp and sudden intake of breath from the boy\u2019s mouth startles me. Richard falls backwards onto his hands. We both watch as the boy’s body spasms and contracts on the grass. His eyes open wide as his pale hands clench and tear at the grass. He coughs and gasps painfully for air as dirty greenish rills of foul river-slime runs down the sides of his mouth.<\/p>\n

On our way back to the cottage nobody says a word. We trod through a field, having forgotten to take the easier pathway back to the cottage. Richard strides through the waist-high grass with all of his reach and strength, and still only in his boots and wet underwear, determined to get away from that river as fast as he can.<\/p>\n

The boy staggers behind me as though drunk. Lost to his surroundings. From the corner of my eye, I think I see him dropping stones out of his pockets. I think I hear them falling to the ground, one by one. I look his way but his head is down, staring into the grass. Mesmerized. Twice the boy snaps out of it to look up and take notice of where he is. I hear him gulp and catch his breath.
\n\u201cYou ok?\u201d
\n\u201cYes.\u201d
\n\u201cSure?\u201d
\n\u201cYes.\u201d
\n\u201cWhat’s your name?\u201d I ask.
\nBut the kid says nothing.<\/p>\n

Our cottage appears up ahead from behind the cluster of trees. Up beside the chimneypot is a rusty TV aerial and a warped weathervane leaning silhouetted against the clouds in a fading purple and orange sky. Richard opens the barely hinged back-gate and the kid follows us around the side of the cottage. We enter through the small front door, one by one.<\/p>\n

The kitchen and living room smell of cool country evening air, coffee, and freshly cut firewood. Richard’s shaking, and without saying a word, walks down the hall and into the bathroom. Still holding Richard\u00b4s clothes, I pour a glass of water from the sink tap and put it down on the table for the boy. I ask him to sit, and he sits.<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m Stephen.\u201d I say. \u201cAnd that\u2019s Richard. What\u2019s your name?\u201d
\nSitting there in front of me, silent and stunned, he\u2019s a rudely revived corpse shivering in his dripping clothes. Around his plain grey canvas runners, strands of slimy green river weed are still coiled. I try not to stare but can\u2019t take my eyes off his narrow, mean-looking face. His long, thin arms are pale and his short dark hair is flattened to his head. He can\u2019t be more than fifteen or sixteen.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou should have a shower when Richard gets back.\u201d
\nA long silence passes between us before he says anything.
\n\u201cDon’t tell anyone I’m here,\u201d he says.
\n\u201cI won’t.\u201d
\n\u201cDon\u2019t call anyone.\u201d
\n\u201cI won\u2019t.\u201d
\n\u201cSwear?\u201d He says.
\n\u201cI swear. What\u2019s your name?\u201d I ask again.
\n\u201cDaniel.\u201d He says, looking at the glass of water on the table. \u201cMy name is Daniel.\u201d<\/p>\n

Richard returns in a long grey woollen jumper, fresh jeans, and in his bare feet. He hands Daniel two big fluffy grey towels and walks him down to the bathroom.
\n\u201cThere\u00b4s hot water,\u201d I hear Richard say. \u201cTry and get warm.\u201d
\nDaniel closes the door.<\/p>\n

Without looking at me, Richard goes into his bedroom and shuts his door. I go and sit down at the table and place Richard\u2019s clothes on the seat beside me. I take my hip-flask from my back pocket and I drink from it. But the whiskey doesn\u2019t taste right. It\u2019s watery. Silty. I put my pouch of tobacco, filters and lighter on the table and just sit there, looking at them, without appetite, but it\u2019s not even the pouch of tobacco that I see.<\/p>\n

All I see is Daniel, standing in his clothes under the hot shower, waiting to feel warm again. Then peeling off his wet clothes, like layers of a painless, un-protective skin. Runners. T-shirt. Socks. Jeans and underpants. Drenched, they fall and slop to the floor. Heavy. Sodden. And sad. I see him sitting down in the bath, under the showerhead, in the steam, his eyes closed. A tiny dot of darkness, peaceful and unthinking. And warm. Warm for a while at least. Until the water starts to run cold.<\/p>\n

In the living room candles are lit and pots of food simmer on the kitchen\u2019s range. A fire rages silently in the stove. The mahogany table, on which Daniel\u00b4s clothes have been laid out to dry, has been pushed closer to the fire. Richard and I are busying around each other, almost as though we\u2019re putting on a little show of domesticity for Daniel, who sits quietly at the table, in warm borrowed clothes.<\/p>\n

Richard opens a bottle of red wine while I lay out three plates. We\u2019ve insisted he eat with us. There is no talk about today. Nothing. Richard pours wine as I spoon out steaming pasta shells and meatballs. Passing an aromatic roll of garlic bread around, I feel that me and Richard are doing our best, our utmost, almost telepathically, to make Daniel feel included and welcome at our table.
\nInstinctively, I go to raise my glass for a toast but correct myself, and cover it, by just taking a small sip.<\/p>\n

\u201cTuck in.\u201d says Richard. \u201cIts good. It\u2019s warm.\u201d
\nWe all eat slowly. Small mouthfuls. We try to eat. There’s warmth and healing goodness in the food but there seems to be no real depth to our hunger. Still, we persist in silence. Shadows flicker close around us on flame-lit walls. Daniel\u00b4s shadow flits and frets on the wall behind him. When he burps, I think I get a phantom, silty taste of muddy water in my mouth. Daniel pushes the food around on his plate, then cuts a meatball into small manageable bites. Richard nods and sighs as though talking to himself in his head.<\/p>\n

After chewing on a piece of sauce-soaked bread for what seems like a very, very long time, Daniel coughs, clears his throat and looks up at me, then at Richard. In a soft, hesitant voice he asks,
\n\u201cYe both\u2026ye both from here?\u201d
\n\u201cNo,\u201d I say, and clear my throat. \u201cNo. I\u2019m from Sligo originally, but I live in Dublin now and Richard\u2019s from Kilkenny.\u201d
\nDaniel nods and looks down at his plate.
\n\u201cAre you from Clare?\u201d I ask.
\n\u201cLimerick.\u201d
\n\u201cOh right. Where abouts?\u201d
\n\u201cCastleconnell.\u201d
\n\u201cThat nearby?\u201d
\n\u201cNear enough.\u201d
\n\u201cMy aunt owns this place,\u201d Richard says finally. His voice is distant, as if it were coming from somewhere behind him.
\n\u201cWe thought we\u2019d just come down and do some work around the place,\u201d I say, \u201cHelp out his aunt, you know?\u201d
\n\u201cJust the two of ye?\u201d Daniel asks.
\n\u201cYeah.\u201d
\nDaniel looks at Richard, then at me. I feel like he\u2019s going to say something \u2013
\n\u201cWould you like more sauce?\u201d Richard asks, moving the ladle around in the pot. \u201cThere\u2019s some left.\u201d\u00a0 \u201cNo.\u201d Daniel says, pushing his plate away from him. \u201cI want to go home.\u201d
\n\u201cWe\u2019ll take you home after this,\u201d I say. \u201cPlease. Try and eat something.\u201d<\/p>\n

Attempting to lead by example, I try to eat but have to stop after a few mouthfuls. I sit back in my chair and turn my wine glass around by its stem, observing the marks left by my lips and the tiny bits of food on the rim. I\u2019m unable to look at Daniel directly. I can’t watch him go through those mechanical movements of eating all alone. A density, of something incommunicable, hangs around him. It\u00b4s emanating from him. He saw nothing down there, in the murky underwater. No premonitory flashes or flickers of an afterlife. Nothing in those last moments but the shock of it, and the struggle against it. A last taste of terror before release. I watch as my wine glass becomes misty. Candle light flares into golden, watery shards. I turn my face from the table and discreetly wipe the welled tears from my eyes.<\/p>\n

We drive in the direction of Castleconnell in silence. It’s late, but not so late that Daniel\u2019s parents might be worried. In the back seat Daniel sits in his own damp clothes.
\n\u201cYou should make up something about today,\u201d I say to him. \u201cSay that you went out to Ardnacrusha for a swim. And eh, a group of lads or something threw your bag of clothes into the river and you had to swim out after them, to get them, you know, and you nearly drowned. And that\u2019s why, if they say you look shook, that that\u2019s why you look shook, you know?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cAnd you just went to a friend\u2019s house then, afterwards,\u201d Richard says, looking back at him in the rear-view mirror, \u201cTo shower and to calm down or something. But now you\u2019re home. Safe and sound. And everything\u00b4s ok.\u201d
\nI turn around and look back at Daniel.
\n\u201cYou know what we mean? Like a cover story.\u201d
\n\u201cI know,\u201d he says.
\n\u201cPractice it in your head for a while,\u201d Richard says. \u201cConvince yourself that it\u2019s real.\u201d<\/p>\n

We park outside Daniel\u2019s house, a huge, warm-looking, many-windowed Bed and Breakfast just off Station Road. Cars pass by on the road beside us, their headlights shining in on us intermittently. I think about giving Daniel my number, but I don\u2019t know how much more I can help. Then it just seems like a bad idea. Richard turns in his seat and looks back at Daniel.
\n\u201cYou alright?\u201d He asks.
\n\u201cYeah.\u201d Daniel says.<\/p>\n

But he just sits there. Waiting. Part of me is expecting him to say sorry to Richard, or to the both of us. Part of me is expecting him to say thanks. Part of me is expecting him to break down crying and part of me is expecting him to go absolutely ape-shit now. To start kicking and punching the back of my seat and screaming. Screaming that we tried to abduct him or kidnap him or\u2026But he just sits there. Waiting.<\/p>\n

After a while he opens the door, gets out and slams it shut behind him. He doesn\u2019t turn around, or say anything, once he is out of the car. We just sit there and watch him as he walks over the cow rail and makes his way up to his house.
\n\u201cWhat\u2019s the name of the B&B?\u201d Richard asks, taking out his phone.
\n\u201cGlenville B&B,\u201d I say. \u201cWhy?\u201d
\n\u201c\u00b4Cos we\u2019re coming back here tomorrow. Or calling them.\u201d
\n\u201cI really don\u2019t think that\u2019s a good idea.\u201d
\n\u201cWhy not?\u201d<\/p>\n

But I don\u2019t say anything. I\u2019m watching Daniel as he walks up the long, steep driveway to his home. All I can think about now is what it\u2019ll be like for him when, after he rings the bell and waits in the cold, well-lit archway for his mother or father or brother or sister to come to the front door, and they see him standing there, pale and shivering and alone. They won’t even have to look in to his eyes to know. Daniel. It\u2019s Daniel. Something has happened to him.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

I can barely make out Richard\u00b4s handwriting on the piece of torn paper.\u00a0 \u201cSecond left\u201d I say, looking down at the words. \u201cAfter the farm\u2026with eh, the eh, big stables.\u201d \u201cI think we just passed it.\u201d Richard says, looking behind him. \u201cEyes on the road dude!\u201d I shout. \u201cPlease!\u201d I\u00b4d almost reached for the wheel. […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":265,"featured_media":13258,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[26],"tags":[533,537,1385,3262,3263,3266,4444,6525,7871,8922],"class_list":["post-13221","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-fiction","tag-andrew-mceneff","tag-andrew-mceneff-into-the-river","tag-cassandra-voices-fiction","tag-fiction","tag-fiction-about-attempted-suicide","tag-fiction-by-andrew-mceneff","tag-into","tag-new-irish-fiction","tag-river","tag-the"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/casswp.eutonom.eu\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/13221","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/casswp.eutonom.eu\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/casswp.eutonom.eu\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/casswp.eutonom.eu\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/265"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/casswp.eutonom.eu\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=13221"}],"version-history":[{"count":0,"href":"https:\/\/casswp.eutonom.eu\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/13221\/revisions"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/casswp.eutonom.eu\/index.php\/wp-json\/"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/casswp.eutonom.eu\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=13221"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/casswp.eutonom.eu\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=13221"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/casswp.eutonom.eu\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=13221"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}