On the Edge of the Loch: A Psychological Novel set in Ireland by Joseph Éamon Cummins Page B

suitcase they’d bought for their honeymoon, behind the old wool baskets, under the couch, in dressers and sideboards, even inside the turf boxes. The child was nowhere to be found. Outside, the storm from the north had turned into an Atlantic gale and was now whipping against walls and window panes.
    ‘Jesus, she wouldn’t.’ Peggy’s voice pitched higher. ‘She wouldn’t have rambled off home through the back field.’
    ‘She’d have no cause to do that, in this weather. Isn’t she afraid of the dark anyway.’
    ‘She’s done it before. With Róisín away in hospital and you up in the high pastures. I didn’t tell you.’ Peggy’s voice dropped. ‘That’s it; that’s what she’s done.’
    Leo pulled his raincoat off the rack. ‘Needs a good smack; she knows better.’
    I’ll go with you. Róisín should be home by now. I’ll bring the measure; I promised her I’d finish her cardigan for Christmas.’
    ‘You’ll need your boots. It’s well flooded.’
    They followed the long meadow before stepping down into the squelching softness of the back field, waves of sleet beating against their oilskins. Half-way across, amber room-light beaconed through the dark, then red and green blinking bulbs marking out both front windows of Róisín’s cottage, and soon the faint twinkling of Christmas tree lights.
    Leo banged on the door. Nobody appeared. No voices, no sign of life. ‘Róisín, it’s us. Are you in?’ he yelled, pushing the door open. The only sound in the main room was the rapping of rain and the wind in the chimney. The fire in the grate was set, but unlit. On the timber floor, Leonora’s scarlet raincoat lay in a pool, beside it one small black boot.
    ‘Róisín! Leonora!’ Peggy shouted. ‘Place is frozen cold. Róisín, darling; Leonora, darling, it’s us.’
    They entered the kitchen. Empty. Peggy grabbed Leo’s sleeve. ‘Something’s wrong. God forgive me for saying it.’
    ‘Jesus Christ, are you here or not? Where are you?’ Leo’s calls echoed through the cottage.
    ‘The bedroom,’ Peggy said, hands covering her face. ‘They’re fast asleep.’
    In the dim hallway he gripped the brass knob, eased the door in slightly. A moving shadow accosted him. Candle flicker. He called out, without response. Only a weak, seesaw creaking stood out from the gale. He pushed the door further. On the bed, a small body, prostrate, lying awkwardly, eyes open, lay completely still.
    For a heartbeat, he faltered. ‘There you are!’ he said. ‘You are never – ’ Suddenly a cry burst out of him. He sprang to the bed, gripped the child’s tiny shoulders, lifted her forward. ‘Leonora! Peggy!’ Her body sagged in his hands. He shook her, shook her softer, cradled her, then he lowered her to the pillow, talking to her, her face between his palms.
    ‘Please, Jesus!’ Peggy barged up against him, pulled the limp body upright. ‘Darling, what happened?! Darling, wake up, wake up!’ She rubbed vigorously at the child’s hands, put her ear to her chest, kept shifting position, kept listening. ‘Oh my God, she’s breathing, she’s alive. Wake up for Aunt Peggy, darling, Aunt Peggy and Uncle Leo, we’re here now, wake up, darling.’
    ‘Thank Christ,’ Leo said, plucking her into his arms as Peggy tucked a blanket around her. ‘She’s like ice and she’s saturated. We have to get her dry, get some heat into her, find a telephone, get Dr Lappin.’ He clutched her to him, rubbing briskly on her back. ‘You’re grand now, Princess. Uncle Leo’s with you now, Uncle Leo’s with you. Everything’s alright.’
    Peggy turned for the door.
    And saw Róisín.
    ‘Nooo! Jesus, no.’
    Then Leo saw her, behind the half-open door.
    Hanging.
    No words or sound came out of his deformed face.
    Head bent forward, the body swayed with a low rhythmic creaking.
    Leo thrust the child toward Peggy. He locked his arms around Róisín’s thighs, lifted her weight off the plastic-covered line. ‘Not