January 2023
BOOK EXTRACT
Limbo In this extract from the thriller LIMBO by debut author Maureen Gallagher, Detectives Kate Francis – also known as Frankie – and Anto Moran have just arrived in Gweedore to investigate the murder of an infant boy found on Port Arthur strand. Garda Marcus O’Toole is the rookie appointed to help them. Moran lifts a pointer and taps a large, tattered map that he’s hung on the wall of the prefab. He takes a long pull from his cigarette, rests it on a saucer on the table in front of him. “The name Gweedore or Gee Door, as they say in the vernacular, refers to the parish here” – he traces a circle around the area – “in the northwest of the county.” “Population 4000, give or take,” pipes up O’Toole. Moran twists to squint at him. “I’ve been reading up on it, sir.” Moran turns his attention to the map again. “Most of the area inland is mountainous, and uninhabitable. Errigal” – he points – “is the county’s highest mountain – dominates the whole parish. Well – that goes without saying!” “The people used the mountain for their sheep and cattle at the time of the Famine, sir,” offers O’Toole, “and sometimes stayed with them. But the landlord took the mountain from them and –” “Okay, okay, O’Toole, much appreciated, but enough of the history lesson. It’s geography we’re interested in right now.” “And the beaches?” prompts Frankie. “There are three of them.” He taps the map with three short sharp raps like hammerblows, to indicate the location. “Brannigan tells me they’re all popular with tourists, especially Port Arthur” – taps again – “because of the dunes, the long strand, the safety for swimming.” “Obviously not so safe for infants, sir,” O’Toole opines. Moran snaps around to face the rookie, sucks air in through closed teeth. “Thanks for that, Garda O’Toole.” O’Toole blinks. “Oh, you’re welcome, sir.” The narrow grassy road that winds down to Port Arthur Strand comes to an abrupt end.
Frankie parks and walks to the pier. Hundreds of granite rocks, of all shapes and sizes, form a barricade between the slipway and the beach to its left. From here Frankie can see the crime scene cordoned off. She steps down onto the rocks, trying to avoid the bulbous globules of bladderwrack on the bigger stones, the luminous slimy sea moss that tuft the smaller ones. How on earth would anyone navigate this either pregnant or with a baby in their arms? Of course, maybe the woman – if it was a woman – could have approached from behind the dunes or along them. It hadn’t occurred to her to enquire about the easiest way of getting onto the beach. She slips and steadies herself. A number of barnacles huddle in a shallow pool, clinging on to surfaces with an iron grip. With difficulty she reaches terra firma and takes off her sandals. She faces the ocean and breathes in the intoxicating smell of brine. She feels a sudden desire to get into the sea and feel the sharp icy tingle on her skin. Frankie can’t remember the last time she went swimming. She isn’t sure she even owns a bathing suit any more – she certainly doesn’t have one with her. The sun breaks through the clouds, a shaft of light illuminating the whole strand that curves in a long wide golden arc. There is a gradual incline up to the marram grass. The place is deserted. She could be a traveller from the Stone Age, feeling the thrill of having arrived in paradise, except for the garish orange ticker-tape. She pads in that direction. At the point where the wet sand – crisp and cool on her feet and dotted with thousands of tiny crab-holes – ends, and the fine soft sand begins, up towards the dunes, there is a distinct line, curved along the shape of the strand and crowded with small stones, bits of broken shell, predominantly razor clam and
barnacle, some crab and mussel. She can see long strings of weed, some of it bunched up in a tangle, more of it spread out like darkbrown shoelaces. Beyond this line, the sand turns from deep gold to almost pristine white. Frankie scrutinises the line of shingle that forms this uneven but definite line along the beach, parallel with the sea. This has to be the high-water mark. The sea does not reach the dunes. She takes out her notebook and starts to write. Every detail is important at this stage of the investigation.
Limbo, by Maureen Gallagher Poolbeg Press Ltd
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