Perhaps it was all just imagination. Perhaps. And who could blame you for seeing things? It's been eight years since you last set foot in these hills. This place—these woods, the farm beyond them, and the great sweep of the Wicklow Mountains beyond that—was once a haven for you, a place of enchantment, of escape. Then, on a hot Midsummer's Eve, you came face to face with true horror, a horror that has scarred your memory and haunted your days and nights ever since. You saw the Beast of Glenkildove that day.
Unable to face the memories, you never returned to Wicklow. And you might never have returned at all if it hadn't been for a call you got this morning. The voice at the other end of the line was that of Cormac O'Donnell, who disappeared on the day you saw the Beast and hadn't been seen since.
He was rambling, incoherent, near-crying.
"Jesus…Jesus," he kept saying, then started repeating your name instead like a mantra.
I tried to get through to him by talking about old times, telling him how much everyone had missed him.
I tried to calm him down by asking him clear, factual questions, speaking steadily and regularly.
I demanded to know where he'd been and why the hell he'd let everyone think he was dead.
I listened, saying very little and trying to understand.
Wary, I asked him to prove that he was the real Cormac. What if this was a scam or some cruel joke?
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Perhaps something you said sparked something in Cormac because he began to speak somewhat more lucidly.
"I'm at my da's old place in Wicklow…please come. Please come. I need you. I need to see you. The Beast is back."
Suddenly he laughed, an ugly strangled sound.
"Or maybe it never went away. Oh Jesus. The Beast is coming for me. It's coming for me. Promise me you'll come. Promise me!"
And the line went dead. And you were on a flight to Dublin that evening. You took the last bus from the airport up into the mountains. It deposited you at the crossroads by the Marian shrine outside Ballyavon, a mile from the O'Donnell place. You've walked the rest of the way through the cold Irish night. What has brought you back here, a place to which you once swore you would never return?
My friend needs me. That's all the reason I need.
I have to know the truth about what happened the day that Cormac disappeared. Perhaps then I'll finally be able to sleep at night.
If the Beast is coming for Cormac, it may come for me and the others next. I'm tired of running. I want to fight.
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You've reached the top of the trail now, and the whitewashed, grime-streaked buildings of O'Donnell's farm stand before you, glowing faintly in the moonlight. Nettles and brambles have taken over the farmyard, fighting moss for possession of a skeletal, rust-ruined old tractor squatting in the barn. Half the windows in the farmhouse have been shattered, and graffiti has been daubed all over the walls—Tiocfaidh ár lá, Beast, Murdering cunts. Judging by the blackened section at the far end, an unsuccessful attempt was made to set fire to the house.
Crossing the yard, you make your way into the farmhouse. The kitchen is a shambles, strewn with rubbish. The shelves that once lined the walls have long since been broken up and used for firewood. The big honey-colored table is still there, but now it is scarred by knife marks and burns. Terry's old shotgun lies discarded amid the rubbish on the floor by the fireplace.
This was where it all began.
Ten Years Ago
[Maire]
You are sixteen years old. You are making your way up the hillside path, following behind your Aunt Maire and her black-and-white sheepdog, Misty. The leaves of the trees glow green in the light of the mellow, golden summer sunshine.
"They've got a bit of a reputation, the Red O'Donnells," Maire comments. She is a spare, sharp-featured woman with metal-rimmed glasses and graying dark hair cut short. She strides along, speaking without looking back, forcing you and Misty to scramble to keep up. "But Terry's all right and he's got a boy about your age, Cormac, and he's a good lad. Terry's had to look after him all alone ever since his wife died, and he hasn't done a bad job, under the circumstances. Anyway, Aunty has things to do today so Aunty is abandoning you. I'm sure you'll become fast friends with Cormac and have a splendid time. And if you don't, it'll be good fodder for the misery memoir that will make you millions twenty years from now."
"I think I'll call it Get Me Out Of Here: A Summer in Ireland."
"What do you mean, a 'reputation'? What kind of reputation do the O'Donnells have?"
"I'm sure I'll be fine, Aunt Maire."
I don't respond, focusing instead on the path ahead.
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"I'm sure you will too, my little one."
You only arrived in Ireland from London a couple of days ago, picked up from the airport by Aunt Maire in her battered, mud-spattered Jeep. The two of you are still getting used to each other's company and trying to decide if you like one another. Maire lives alone, running the Wolf's Head, her rambling country inn in the hills above Ballyavon. You suspect that she's not used to any company, let alone that of a teenager. Her manner towards you veers between treating you as though you were three and as though you were thirty.
You've never met Aunt Maire before, your father's older sister. Your father has rarely even mentioned her before now. You've never even been to Ireland before. Although your father is Irish, he emigrated to London when he was young. And Irish heritage was nothing unusual at the Catholic school you attended there, St. Jerome's. You were better known…
…as a wheeler-dealer, a budding entrepreneur.
…as an exceptional student.
…for your promising football skills.
…for your love of theatre.
…for your skill with computers.
…for your devotion to boxing.
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Since you were a kid, you've loved to perform: dancing, doing impressions, and putting on a show. You're one of the key members of St. Jerome's theatre clique, playing a role in every year's production. You have a gift for playing a role, one that is derived from a solid grasp of the psychology of the individual. But Mum got sick, really sick, and your life changed. It was decided that it would be best for you to spend the summer in Ireland. You've gone from London streets, London noise, and the London crowds to these still, cool green woods and lonely hills. How do you feel, waking up every morning in your room below the eaves at the Wolf's Head?
I feel good. These surroundings are so peaceful and serene that I can feel the tension and worry of those last weeks in London draining away.
I feel restless. I want to explore these woods and climb these mountains but I'm not sure where to begin.
I feel lonely. I've yet to meet anyone my own age here; the only people besides Maire are the handful of old people who regularly drink at the Wolf's Head of an evening.
I feel bored. I miss the energy and excitement of London.
Next
You arrive behind Maire and Misty at the O'Donnell farm. Whitewashed stone sheds and a metal barn enclose the farmyard. Chickens peck in a coop at one corner of the yard, while a one-eyed tabby cat sleeps in the sun on a low, lichen-stained wall. The cat is apparently well-known to Misty, who pays it no heed. A tall, barrel-chested man with a thick red beard, evidently Terry O'Donnell, emerges from the barn and waves to you. Misty runs up to him and he scratches her behind the ears.
"Maire Groghan!"
"The very same," returns Maire. "I come bearing relatives. This is my brother in London's…."
…girl."
…boy."
…kid."
Next
"I have some errands to run and I was hoping to leave him with Cormac for the day."
"Why not? The Fox kids are coming over and they're picking up the other two by the village. They're all going to Glenkildove. It'd be good for us to have another Catholic handy in case those feckin' Prods try something." He winks at you. "Cormac's over there, by the pump. Go and say hello."
"That's good," Maire comments. "I think you've been dying for some company your own age, haven't you?"
Next
[Cormac]
You find Cormac splashing water over his face and hair by the pump—a boy with his father's height and striking dark red hair, but lean where Terry is paunchy. As he turns, you find yourself looking into very brilliant green eyes, all the brighter in his pale, slightly freckled face. He has evidently overheard Maire's introduction.
"So you're English, are you?" he asks you, his expression ambiguous.
"Yes. Although my father is Irish."
"Is that going to be a problem?" I square up to him, looking him in the eye defiantly.
"Fuck no. I'm a Londoner. I'm not English."
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He grins at you.
"Nah, you're grand. I like someone who can stand up for themselves."
Cormac plasters down his wet, short-cropped hair.
"Anyway," he continues. "I was only messing. London sounds deadly. My cousin Oisín is a builder there. I'm going to live there someday, shake the dust of this place off my feet."
I am a little skeptical. "Really? What are you going to do there?"
"Maybe you can look me up when you get there."
"Why are you so keen to leave Ballyavon? It doesn't seem so bad to me."
"It's a good idea. There's always something going on in London."
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