At first, it was a low murmur. Then came the unmistakable rhythm of footsteps pounding past, urgent and unsteady. Rita’s pulse quickened. She sprang to the window and peered down onto Main Street. Shadows darted past in the moonlight. Curtains twitched in other windows, mirroring her own, while lights snapped on, like fireflies bursting to life.
Her body moved before her mind caught up, straight to Gerry’s room to check he had come home safely from the dance. Grainne was too young to be out at this hour, yet Rita still opened her door, just to be sure, just to feel that relief sink in.
Paddy was already dressed and waiting when she returned to the bedroom. Without a word, he held out a heavy overcoat, as though the season had slipped his mind:
“Wrap up tight, it’s a cold one tonight,” he murmured, though there was something in his tone that had nothing to do with weather.
On the street, they fell in step with their neighbours. No questions were asked, no explanations offered. Everyone knew where they were going. What they didn’t know, what none of them dared guess, was what waited at the end of it.
By the time they reached the cliff path, a crowd had gathered. Women clung together, sobbing quietly, while men stood silent, shoulders bowed beneath an invisible weight. Rita knew it would not be a local. No one from here would dare use the cliff path after dark.
Only two years ago, Father Durcan had tried to have it closed entirely after yet another tragedy, but the council, fearing a blow to summer tourism had strongly objected, settling instead for half-hearted warning signs.
She spotted the priest at the edge of the path, not pounding in fury at their stupidity or admonishing them for not listening to his forewarning, but silent, bent and broken by the knowledge that he would have to comfort yet another devastated family.
The women huddled close, clinging to the fragile thread of hope. The men spoke in low tones, discussing the inevitable. Someone would have to retrieve the body.
Timmy Maher stepped forward without hesitation. Young, strong, sure-footed, he had grown up on this coastline. If anyone could manage the treacherous descent in the dark, it was him.
Dr Murphy had arrived just in time as they brought the lifeless form to the top. .A reverent hush fell over the crowd as the doctor kneeled down to declare what was already evident.
Rita spotted it then, the unmistakable spill of red curls peeking from beneath the covers. Her stomach lurched.
Her eyes swept the crowd until she found Mary Garvey, standing rigid on the far side of the doctor’s car. Her body trembling violently as she watched the tragedy unfolding before her.
Rita moved to her and wrapped her arms around her. There were no words, only the comfort of the embrace.
“How am I going to tell them, Rita?” Mary choked. “They’ll never forgive me.”
She was talking about her sister and brother-in-law, the parents who had let their only daughter, Niamh, spend the summer by the sea. The beautiful, 16-year-old Niamh Ennis with her bouncing red curls and freckled face who now lay at their feet, still and pale beneath the night sky.
Somewhere far below, the tide ebbed against the rocks, a steady, hypnotic sound. The crowd began to drift away, each quietly thankful it wasn’t their loss to bear. Rita stayed behind, holding Mary as the night closed in around them. Beneath them, the cliff path lay empty, its warning signs glinting faintly in the moonlight, useless against the lure of the dark sea. The wind whipped past, carrying a low, mournful whisper, crying for a summer, now lost forever.
