On the Edge of the Loch: A Psychological Novel set in Ireland Read Online Free Page A

despite his circumstances, an almost deserted world compared with the busyness of life in Phoenix.
    At Concannon’s Bar he climbed the hill, up to a lookout over Loch Doog. From nearby, traditional music floated, reminding him of a never forgotten life he once had. This, and the late sun in his face, carried him back to beach days and bottles of lemonade. How he’d loved Ireland back then, never-ending days bright until 10.30pm, even later, during school holidays, something he’d hated losing; playing street games at a time when most of the world was in dark, and the people in far-off countries, his sisters would tell him, even the head-hunters in Borneo, were already fast asleep; and he hadn’t even gone to bed yet the night before. He was lucky then, young and happy. Life was great, Ireland the best country in the world, and the last to go asleep. Everything was good until Ronan died. Little Ronan, ten years alive. Then not long after that, moving to America, to Newark, when he knew that Ireland, like Ronan, was never coming back. That’s when it all changed. Maybe that was why the blues came to dwell in him, the gloom so few suspected, out of what had happened in those long-ago days. But perhaps not, perhaps his troubles were bigger than loss or sadness or belonging.
    Suddenly he caught his drifting thoughts, drew his mind out of what was lost, forced it into what was to come. He needed nothing more, for how easily he drifted into reveries of the beautiful Lenny Quin, into wonder and hope, and things that scared him, those feelings he had never before felt, not in the real world. But now he needed to be practical, grounded; there were problems here to be sorted. He could handle it.
    Outside Horslips Hotel he chastened his inner chatter, slicked back his hair, and marched in through the big timber doors. It was still only 7.45. Plenty of time.
    From his seat in the lounge his stare swung between the deepening greys of the loch and the arched entrance through which she would soon make her appearance.
    Two hours later the loch was black, a void. The velour lounge seat was hard. He sat alone, his third coffee stale on the table. Still hoping for Lenny Quin. Another half-hour dragged past, then more. At 10.30 he left. Collar up, hands deep in his jeans pockets, he walked to the lookout over the water, then down the hill to his room.
    * * *
    Tuesday morning’s mist had descended before dawn and now greyed away the whole world. He fought out from under heavy blankets, shivering at the chill in the air. He dialled Dublin, willed himself to sound brighter than he felt. Kate would be disappointed, he knew that.
    ‘Tony! You’re not in trouble? Are you? I’d almost – ’
    ‘No, I’m not. I’m on my way. See you around ten-thirty.’
    ‘I was so worried. I didn’t know what to think. I was expecting you – ’
    ‘I know, Kate, I know. Stop worrying, I’m fine. Psychologists are not supposed to stress out. I’m not who I was; I told you that. I’ll see you soon.’
    ‘I’ll keep Ferdia up. He’s been asking the whole time: Is Uncle Tony coming today? You won’t get over how big he’s grown. Don’t get lost, Tony.’
    ‘I won’t get lost. And Kate, next time I get home, I promise, I’ll get to see you for much longer.’
    ‘Where did you get to anyway? I was expecting you before the weekend.’
    ‘Hiking. The mountains. Have to go now, Kate. The train will get me to Dublin around ten. I just have one thing to do here first.’
    Connecting with Kate always lifted him; this time was no exception. She never changed: strong, smart, spiritual, able to understand. A refuge still, as she had always been for him. Cutting his time with her wasn’t fair. Especially now, her marriage gone. But always a warrior, big sister, winning even when losing. One to emulate, not that he ever would. Ireland’s gain against the odds, America’s loss.
    The blur ceased. He had drifted, not been listening. ‘See you tonight,