“Oh God,” said Sarah. “I saw him. I bloody saw him.”
“No…” said the receptionist. “It’s just a story. Me dad used to sing me a song about it.”
“I know what I saw,” said Sarah.
“Did you say the guy’s name was Kilgannon?” said David. Sarah looked at him, frustrated. Is that seriously the only thing that you’re thinking about?! she thought.
“Yeah, I did. Why?”
“Isn’t that your uncle’s surname?” he said to Sarah. “Phil. His name’s Kilgannon, right?”
“Shit. Yeah. This is getting too bloody weird for me,” said Sarah. “I’m going to bed. Thank you.” She walked towards the lifts. David smiled and shrugged at the receptionist. When they were out of sight, she muttered under her breath, “Pfft. Feckin’ English.”
* * * * *
“What’re you sayin’?” said John. “Where’s Kathleen?”
“Denial, as always,” the man in the suit responded. “Dead. Same as you.”
“Nah, nah. Look.” John patted his hands together, lightly slapped his cheek and kicked a nearby wall…or at least attempted to. His foot went straight through the hard, crumbling stone. John gasped.
“Do you believe me now?” the man said. “What am I saying; of course you do. The same thing happens every year.”
“Every…”
“Every year, yes. You come back here, back home, and we have this exact same conversation. St. Martin’s Eve, every year for the past century or more. I’ve lost count, to be honest. I might as well just play you a recording to save me the hassle of travelling here.”
“But…”
“Because,” sighed the man, “I’m meant to help you pass on. To be with Kathleen, forever. But we always run out of time. Just as we undoubtedly will this year.”
“Kathleen…” said John. “So let’s say…and I’m not saying you are…but let’s say that I am…y’know…gone…”
“What do you need to do to be with her again? Well, in the next six hours we’ve got to work out why you’re still stuck here. Luckily for you, I’m onto something. We have, at last, an opportunity that may never arise again.”
“Yes? What?”
“There’s one part of the story that’s always been missing. A part that I’ve only recently uncovered. You had a son, John. A little boy. He survived the storm when you and Kathleen did not.”
“A…son?” John sat down and wrapped his arms around his knees. “But I don’t…I’d remember having a son. No. No, I never had any offspring. It was just me and Kathleen.”
“Death can do strange things to a man, John. And my memory can get foggy after a couple of weeks, let alone a century. Think.”
John did. He thought of Kathleen. Her luxuriant blonde hair. That tiny wart on her neck. Eyes as green as the fields. Her protruding belly… “She was with child,” said John, almost a question.
“Indeed she was. And the babe was birthed that night, during the storm. She died in childbirth, John, not from falling masonry. The townsfolk found the child crying next to its mother’s remains the next morning. He was taken in by a kindly farmer and grew into a strapping lad.”
John had a tear in his eye. “He…still lives?”
The man nearly laughed. “No, no longer. But he had offspring of his own, John. You have descendants. All moved away from Wexford, but one has returned. Your blood is back in town. I believe you need to meet her and make your peace. Then you can return to Kathleen for the rest of eternity.”
John composed himself and stood, groaning under his own body weight like a man much older than he felt. “Lead the way.”
Shane Rynhart 