The Mammoth Book of Irish Romance Part 40

Tara McGinty pushed an errant strand of hair from her face. Around her, tendrils of early-morning mist rested on the damp heather coat of the field they were excavating. The light green of a copse of ash trees to the north of the archaeological dig contrasted with the backdrop of the darker slopes of the round-topped Mourne mountains in the distance. An army of dark clouds loomed on the West horizon, emphasizing the fleeting nature of the fragrance of fresh dew in the air. A lone crow's caw didn't break the silence as much as accentuate it.

In four hours, the first of the staff would arrive. The smell of coffee would mingle with young voices, students grateful for the summer job, flirting and bantering. With a sudden sense of urgency, Tara ducked under the canopy that protected her demarcated soil squares from rain. She cast a glance at the tent near the entrance to the dig. Thomas, Dr Dullaghan's faithful sidekick, was still asleep. There hadn't been as much as a stir from inside the tent when she'd slipped a note through a small gap in the tent flap: I couldn't sleep, so I started to dig. Call me when you wake up and I'll make both of us tea.

Tara.

She'd have been surprised if he wasn't asleep. It was only four in the morning, a chill bite in the air belied the fact that summer was at the height of its power.

Tara opened her knapsack. With deft movements born of hours spent sc.r.a.ping soil away in search of the past, she first took out a small square of canvas and laid it on the ground. On that, she placed a trowel, brush, metal dustpan, measuring tape, folding metre stick, clipboard and her camera. She checked the remaining contents: a flask of tea and a sandwich, in case she got thirsty or peckish before the rest of the staff arrived. These could stay in the pack.

Tara picked up the trowel and stilled. There it was again. That same p.r.i.c.kling feeling that often crawled up and down her spine when she met certain people. It wasn't as intense as usual, but the feeling was unmistakably there. She'd felt it from the first day she arrived at the dig, but shrugged it off. It would soon disappear: it always did. This time, however, it had not settled into an almost pleasant buzz, it had become a constant irritation.

She clicked her tongue and stepped into the shallow hole. Dullaghan had decided to let her choose her own square to excavate, with no supervisor peering over her shoulder. "Away from the rest of the dig, so you can have some privacy," he'd said. But she'd sensed something else under his words, a kind of frustration. The man didn't like her, she was sure of it. He'd appointed another worker, who also held a BSc Honours in Archaeology and Geology, to be square supervisor. Tara didn't mind, but Dullaghan had insisted on giving her the option of working alone to "make up for it".

The dirt made a sc.r.a.ping sound as she brushed it into the dustpan. She emptied it into a bucket beside her square to be sifted for possible relics later, and tackled the next layer of soil.

In the end, worried about Dullaghan's att.i.tude to her and feeling miserable at the prospect of being apart from the camaraderie that often developed on a dig, she'd picked her spot to dig at the exact place where the p.r.i.c.kling feeling along her spine had been strongest. What a fool. The feeling had driven her to distraction over the last few weeks: invaded her dreams, stolen her sleep.

This morning she'd got fed up with tossing and turning. Sure, midnight had been an all too recent memory in the air, but the long summer day was already chasing darkness from the skies. She'd given in to the sense of urgency and driven to the dig to start working. And now, three full hours before the rest of the crew were due to arrive, she'd unearthed something . . . interesting.

Something round and beige was revealed when she carefully sc.r.a.ped away the next layer of dirt. It was about the size of her thumb. A river pebble, probably, though its mere presence here could tell a story. She brushed away more of the dirt, reached for her measuring tape and noted the pebble's exact position on her clipboard. The temptation to dig just more and more ate at her tired brain, but Tara resisted. She removed another layer of soil with the trowel, leaving the dirt around the pebble for last. Then she took up her brush, excitement rising in her chest.

It was a face, probably a statue or a bust. Although, when she leaned closer, it didn't look right for that. It seemed too real. Measure, note, photograph with hands shaking from excitement. Should she go and wake Thomas? But no, she wanted to unearth this alone. Tara set to work on the next layer of soil. It was more than just a bust. A body emerged as she carefully removed another layer of the earth that had hidden it. This was no statue. It was human remains.

This time, before she reached for her measuring tape and camera, she set her brush aside and stared at the man she'd uncovered. Something was seriously wrong here. She'd taken every grain of soil from the body herself, there was no indication of recent disturbance. From the settled state of the earth, she'd have guessed he must have been buried for at least 100 years, possibly more. Yet the body looked fresh.

Soil and climatic conditions were not condusive to mummification, yet the corpse had not skeletonized. In any case, it didn't look mummified. It looked as if life had animated the man's long limbs and sensitive lips just yesterday. As if he'd open his eyes and lift an arm to scratch his one-week beard any moment now.

Another anomaly puzzled her: though there was no sign of as much as a sc.r.a.p of clothing on him, a rusted belt buckle had emerged as she'd brushed away the dirt on his stomach. The rest of the belt, and the trousers it had held up, must have disintegrated. That meant a good few years' underground.

Tara peered at his finely sculpted face, more that of someone asleep than long dead. The stillness of early morning hung around her like a shroud. Rain started pattering on the canopy over her head. A deep sense of melancholy overcame her as she stared at the corpse, still half encased in tight-packed soil.

She rose, picked up her camera and took photos of the find from every angle, circling him clockwise, then she retraced her steps to put the camera away again. Tara climbed back into the hole, grateful now that she'd given in to the impulse to excavate two squares side by side. Her man lay diagonally across them.

What had he been like when this body was still filled with life? she wondered as she crouched beside him. The little she could see of his face spoke of a handsome man with fine features. Only his face showed, his head was still encased in soil. What colour was his hair? It was impossible to tell if his dirt-caked chin was covered with dark or light stubble.

His lips were perfect. Not too thick, not too thin. Made for smiling. For kissing. "Come back to life, sweet man, and tell me your story," she whispered. She kissed her fingers and dared to touch them to his mouth.

His lips moved.

At the same moment, a shock of impressions flooded her mind. A feeling of pressure around her ribs, of an overwhelming desire to gasp a deep breath but no s.p.a.ce for her chest to expand. She s.n.a.t.c.hed her hand away and scrambled from the hole with a suppressed yelp, falling on her backside.

The chill touch of sloppy mud seeping into her trousers brought her back to reality. What the h.e.l.l had just happened? She rubbed the needles-and-pins feeling from her fingertips and shook her head as if to dispel her silliness. For long moments she sat in the mud, rain tapping her head as if impatiently demanding she make a decision.

She'd touch him again, that's what she'd do. Show herself there was nothing to it. Tara swallowed away her stupid fear and crawled closer to the corpse, into the shelter of the canopy. She climbed into the hole. Gritting her teeth with determination, she reached out a shaking hand and rested it on the man's forehead.

Suffocating, she was suffocating. Tiny, shallow breaths into a chest gripped tight by something and she couldn't move . . .

When Tara came back to her senses she was frantically digging away at the soil around the corpse's chest. She stopped herself, horrified with her carelessness. She'd flung the earth asunder without a thought to taking careful measurements, or checking for artifacts. G.o.d, she'd ploughed her way through dirt she would otherwise have taken days to remove.

Dullaghan was going to kill her.

A small sound drew her attention and she fixed her eyes on the corpse's lips. This time she had no doubt. They'd moved. In fact, his chest rose and fell with small, gasp-like breaths as she watched. There was only one possible conclusion she could come to: she'd gone insane.

So insane, in fact, that the memory of that closed-chest feeling moved her to grasp her trowel once more and carry on digging. She hacked at the soil around the body with total disregard for long-learned principles of practical archaeology. Her only consideration was to free the man from his earthy prison. Anxious glances in the direction of the tent showed no movement, no sign that Thomas had woken and was about to discover her need for a padded cell and men in white coats.

When at last she was sure he could be lifted easily, no longer in the grip of his grave, Tara set her trowel aside and knelt next to him. She leaned forwards, peered intently at his handsome face. He still wore a soil halo, and only once she'd washed him would she be sure of the colour of his hair.

Once she'd washed him? Where on earth were her thoughts going? She swiped a filthy hand over her face, heedless of the streak of dirt she probably left there. The best thing she could do now was to get away as fast as possible. That way she'd have a very, very slim chance of not being blamed for this travesty.

Except, she'd left the note in Thomas' tent. Oh, G.o.d, she was so screwed, on so many levels.

And with that realization, Tara crossed a line. She was so far gone, so deep in trouble that nothing she did could make it much worse. Why not explore this experience to the full, so that at least she'd not have unanswered questions eating away at her when she sat in her padded cell?

Quickly, before she could change her mind, she placed her hand firmly on the man's forehead again.

Able to breathe now, grit in my mouth, nose blocked, very cold. Broth. Warm broth.

This time she didn't lose herself in his sensations. Was it because he was no longer panicked, suffocating? She stilled, rubbed her tingling hand. What exactly did that thought tell her? It meant she believed she felt the man's feelings. The corpse's feelings.

h.e.l.l. This was no corpse.

Tara's whole body started shaking. Shock. Her mom always swore by sweet, hot tea for calming one down. With nothing to lose, the decision was easy. Tara dug out her flask, poured half a cup of steaming tea and drank it down. Then she poured another half-cup and held it over the man's parted lips.

Drip-drip-drip.

She watched, not sure if she dreaded or desired this supposedly lifeless body to show some reaction. Long moments pa.s.sed. Then the lips pressed together, his Adam's apple moved.

"Oh. My. G.o.d." Tara dripped more tea into his mouth, watched as he swallowed again. And again, and again. At last he'd drunk half a cup of tea, and she couldn't stop smiling. b.u.g.g.e.r the dig, b.u.g.g.e.r Dullaghan. She was taking this man home.

With feverish haste, Tara screwed the lid on the flask, then tossed it into her knapsack with the tools she'd brought along. She peered through the now almost solid veil of pouring rain. There was still no sign of movement from Thomas' tent. That was normal enough. Though it felt to her as if ages had pa.s.sed, it was still an hour before the normal starting time for the dig. Furthermore, he wouldn't even have to leave his camp bed to realize there would be no digging today because of the rain. Hopefully, he'd take the opportunity to sleep in.

She got to her feet and ran past the tent, pushed open the never-locked gate and hurried to her car. The temporary fence was for keeping animals out here, in the country, there was little if any chance of human interference with the dig. Once she was seated behind the wheel of her twelve-year-old hatchback, she flung her knapsack on the pa.s.senger seat. The engine purred to life at the first try and she drove carefully down the road, to the corner of the fence closest to her man. There was a bend in the winding, crumbly tarred path there, and she parked out of sight of the dig.

Quick as a flash, she opened the hatchback and put the rear seats down. Would he fit? How on earth was she going to carry him there? She'd make a plan, somehow.

It wasn't difficult to undo the loosely twisted wire that kept the two sections of the fence together nearest her man. With more anxious glances towards Thomas' tent, she stole to the former corpse's side. This was it. From here, if she was caught, no explanation could possibly save her. Tara took a deep breath, bent down and scooped up the soil she'd loosened away from his shoulders. She grasped the man under his arms.

She did her best to support his head as she struggle-dragged him through the mud. Her heart did its best to climb out of her throat and abandon the body and mind that had clearly lost all traces of sanity. Fear gave her strength, and the rain-soaked ground helped her slide the man's body ever closer to her car. G.o.d, he was heavy. They had left a brown trail of mud over the bright green heather once they made it from the churned ground.

Oh-G.o.d-oh-G.o.d. She was sure that at any moment Thomas would poke his head from the tent, stare straight at her and the game would be up. She was mad, mad to do this. And still she fought to drag her man to her car.

She was exhausted by the time they made it to the little hatchback. The rain had washed away much of the mud from her man's face. She saw him squinting against the sting of the pelting drops, saw him lick his lips. The last traces of doubt that he was very much alive were blown away when he sneezed a gob of mud from his nose, then spat weakly. He opened his eyes for a moment, looked straight into hers.

Tara froze. She was convinced she'd seen those bloodshot eyes somewhere before. They seemed as familiar as her own blue ones. His were light green, like the Mediterranean Sea when the sun caught it just so. From somewhere, bizarrely, relief flooded her heart, as if something that had been missing in her soul had been returned. He smiled, then his eyelids fluttered closed again.

The car. She had to get him into the car. Would he even fit? There was no time to wonder or doubt now. She opened the hatchback, then squatted and took a firm hold of his upper body. His head rested against her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. She forgot about the flick of the raindrops, about the danger of discovery, about her tired muscles. For a moment, she just stayed like that, cradling him in her arms.

What was she thinking? She willed her mind back to the pickle they were both in, took a deep breath and lifted with all her might.

Weeks of hard manual labour paid off now. Grunting and straining, Tara managed somehow to struggle backwards into her car, hauling the limp body of the man in with her. One last heave and they both fell backwards into the car. Panting for breath, Tara rested for a few precious moments, hugging him to her soaked body. Was he OK? She could feel him breathing in her arms, a small tremor as if he was starting to shiver. It was the best she could hope for. Once she had him home, she'd be able to take better care of his needs.

Again it took an effort of will to remind herself that she was in deep, deep trouble, and didn't have the luxury of time. She wriggled out from under him, lay him down as best she could and tumbled from the car. She had to bend his knees to get his legs in, but thank heaven he did fit. A picture of herself driving off with his legs dangling from her car, sporting a red flag from one toe, flashed through her imagination. She closed the hatch door, suppressing a hysterical giggle. Her mind wanted to hammer on the absolute lunacy of what she was doing, but she forced her focus back on to practicalities. Enough of her self-preservation instinct remained for her to think of ways she could cover her tracks.

Gusts of wind tugged at her sopping jacket and flung rain in her face as she ran back to the gap in the fence. There was one very, very slim chance of getting away with this. At least for the time being. She slipped into the site, crept to her man's former grave. Each corner of the canopy was fixed to the ground by a guy rope. Tara kept her eyes on the tent as she dropped into the shallow hole. She had no tools with her, but adrenaline and fear helped her use her hands to fill the gaping hole in her dig area with loose soil. That task done as best she could, she glanced at Thomas' tent again.

The flap moved.

She fell flat on her stomach in the hole, her heart in her mouth. Seconds pa.s.sed like hours. At last she sc.r.a.ped together enough courage to take a peek. Thomas chose that moment to emerge, a poncho draped over his head. He jogged in a half-crouch to the Portaloo, opened its door and slipped inside. Tara ducked down when she saw him turn. She counted to ten, then risked another peek. The door was closed. It was now or never.

She sprang from the hole and raced to the first guy rope, pulled with all her might. The peg stuck for a moment, then yielded reluctantly and slipped from the ground. She dashed to the other one, coaxed it from the ground as well, then half fell back into the hole. Now she needed Thomas to come out of the confounded toilet; he seemed to have moved in there permanently. Minutes dragged by, then the door opened and he emerged. Another gust of wind tugged at the canopy and Tara's breath froze in her chest. If the other leg fell over now, she'd be dead meat. She risked reaching out and grabbing the nearest metal leg of the frame to keep it in place.

Thomas didn't even look her way. He crouch-ran to the mess tent, holding the poncho over his head, unzipped the door flap and stepped inside. Tara ducked down when he turned to zip up the door. She counted to ten again, risked a glance. He was gone.

She clambered from the hole, grasped the leg of the canopy she'd held in place and lifted with all her strength. It was almost a superfluous effort: another gust of wind near tore the canopy from her hands. It toppled over, leaving her man's grave exposed to the deluge. Hopefully, all sign of foul play would be obscured by its wash. The mud trail to the fence would, with a bit of luck, also fall victim to the rain's cleansing touch.

One last hurdle. She had to close the gap in the fence. Tara slipped through and pushed the fence sections back together, found the stiff wires that had kept it together before.

Why now did things have to go wrong? Her hands were too slick to grasp the wires she had to twist. They kept slipping from her fingers. How long before Thomas would turn to the plastic window to stare out over the dig as he drank his tea? His gaze would no doubt be drawn to the toppled gazebo straight away.

She couldn't do it. The wires were simply too slippery. But who would come and inspect the fence this closely? She'd just have to remember to fix the wires next time she came into work. With that promise to herself, Tara turned and ran as fast as she could back to her car.

Her man was still breathing. He was shivering noticeably, and his skin was still as cold to the touch as it had been when she first unearthed him. She wondered what he'd been wearing when he died.

When he died! What an overwhelming thought. Had he died? What was his story? Was he even human?

She had nothing to cover him with. Her own clothes were soaked through. Though there was a bite to the air, it wasn't that bad. There had to be more to the man's shivering than cold. She turned the heater on full blast as she sped back home.

When she got the job on the dig, a contract that would last at least six months, Tara had found a two-bedroom detached house half an hour's drive from the site. It would have made sense to share, but with the old place a few kilometres outside an already out-of-the-way little village, the rent was so low she could afford the luxury of keeping it to herself. She now thanked her lucky stars for this happy coincidence. With no curious neighbours around, she could take more time and care unloading the man than she had done loading him.

Whether it was the lack of fear-spiked adrenaline, her already tired state or just the more awkward job of getting the man out of, rather than into, her car, it proved much more difficult. She managed, at last, to heave him into her sitting room and lay him down on the carpet. Exhausted, Tara sank down on to the floor beside him, her back against a stuffed chair. He still shivered, but she simply had to catch her breath before she could try to do anything about that.

It looked, now that the rain had washed some of the dirt away, as if he was blond. His hair, plastered to his skull and streaked with mud, was probably shoulder length. Tara's gaze slid down to his exposed torso. She swallowed. Whatever her mystery man had done in his former life, it must have involved a fair amount of exercise. The muscles of his dirt-mottled chest, covered with skin as pale as milk, were well developed. And lower down . . .

His eyelids flickered, opened. He looked to his left, then to his right and saw her. As if it was a huge effort, he rolled his head to see her better. Tara froze. For long moments, they stared at each other. Then the man mumbled something.

Tara leaned forwards. "I couldn't hear you. Please, speak again." d.a.m.n, she hadn't even considered that he might not speak English.

He closed his eyes; she thought he'd fallen asleep again. Then his lips moved, and she had to lean right over him to hear his whisper. "Ye are very beautiful, la.s.s."

Warmth blossomed in her heart. She smiled. "Thank you."

A spasm of shivers shook his body. "Broth. Warm broth."

"Of course." She'd have said bath, warm bath would take precedence when you're hypothermal, but she knew little of bringing the dead back to life and would rather go with whatever he said he needed. Broth. Did she still have some of that soup her mother had made in the freezer? It was quite chunky, but if she put it through the blender, it would probably work as well.

Tara first fetched an old sheet from the cupboard in the spare room, which she spread over her man. After that, she took the duvet from the spare bed and covered him with that, too. Shivering herself now in her wet clothes, she stole to her bedroom, whipped off the wet stuff and changed into her bathrobe. Then it was off to the kitchen. Twenty minutes later, she had a steaming saucepan of thin soup ready.

Tara knelt at the man's side. She reached out to touch his cheek, to gently roll his head up so he could drink the broth, but stopped herself. Would she feel his feelings again? He still shivered. She braced herself and put her hand on his cheek.

He was so cold. Bristle and grit rubbed against her palm, but she felt no emotions other than her own. And her own emotions puzzled her. Under the excitement, fear, wonder, anxiety and curiosity, was something like tenderness. Concern. Why had she taken this man from the dig? She lived for archaeology, had worked many years to get her degree and the work experience she wanted. Why risk it all?

She stroked the man's cheek. "h.e.l.lo. Are you awake? Can you hear me?" No reaction. Would he choke if she dripped soup into his mouth while he slept? Yet she had done so with the tea earlier, and he had swallowed automatically. She decided to take the risk.

Drip-drip-drip. She watched anxiously, and yes, he swallowed the soup. Satisfied, Tara fed him some more. The bowl was soon empty, and she noticed his shivers had subsided. What else could she do for him? Would he ever wake up completely, or was this as conscious as he'd get? He was the find of the century, a man who'd come back to life after being buried for who knows how long.

Realization struck her then, and Tara felt herself pale. Yes, she'd made the find of the century, but she would never be able to prove it. Even the photos would not be enough, not considering the claim she'd be making about him. What an idiot she'd been!

Then she let her gaze rest on his muddy face and her regrets faded. She thought of him lying in a laboratory, being poked, prodded, sliced and inspected. No way. Minutes slipped by as Tara stared at him. He was shivering again.

Her phone beeped, and she checked the text message on the screen. No work today. That was to be expected. Had they inspected her squares yet? Was Dullaghan on his way right now, perhaps with the Gardai? Or no, this dig was just across the border, in Northern Ireland it would be the police accompanying him.

"La.s.s." Tara started at the sound of the hoa.r.s.e whisper. The man's eyes were open. "Broth. Warm broth."

This time, when she fed him the soup, he was awake. He kept those light green eyes focused on her face. It was almost embarra.s.sing. She had to look a sight, probably as dirty as he was, and she didn't have the excuse of having been dead and buried for years.

Ye are very beautiful. Tara's cheeks warmed.

When the bowl was empty, he still stared at her. "Thank ye, fair la.s.s."

"Is there anything else I can do for you?"

"Aye. I am very cold."

"I wish I could get you into a hot bath, it would be just the ticket to warm you."

He smiled. "Ye need not drag me into yon bath, la.s.s. I think I can move to it with yer aid."

Tara nodded. "I'll run a bath first, then I'll come help you to it."

She filled the tub with steaming water, added a dash of jasmine-scented bath oil. When she returned to the sitting room, her man was sitting up on the floor, his back against her couch. "What is yer name, la.s.s?" he asked.

"Tara." She smiled, awkward. "And yours?"

"I am Ulick."

"Ah. Pleased to meet you. The bath is ready. Can you stand?"

"Nay, la.s.s, not without yer aid."

How was she going to do this? Ulick made the question superfluous when he struggled to pull himself up on to the couch. She hurried to his side, grasped his arm and helped. He soon slumped on her couch, breathing hard, eyes closed, as if he'd run a mile. She sat down beside him, suppressed the urge to stroke his forehead with her fingers, the even greater urge to stare at his crotch. Minutes pa.s.sed before he opened his eyes again.

"Ready?" Tara asked.

"Aye."

She slid her hand behind his back, then dragged him with her into a standing position. He leaned heavily on her, and Tara thanked her lucky stars she only had to get him to the bathroom. Step by staggering step they made their way down the short pa.s.sage. Holding him this close, she could still feel him shivering. Wouldn't it be nice to feel this firm body warm against her?

He crumpled in a heap on to the mat when they made it, one hand grasping the rim of the bath.