THE ENCHANTED ISLAND

THE ENCHANTED ISLAND

First published in Australia in 2015 by

Simon & Schuster (Australia) Pty Limited

Suite 19A, Level 1, 450 Miller Street, Cammeray, NSW 2062

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

A CBS Company

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Visit our website at www.simonandschuster.com.au

Ellie ONeill 2015

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced,

stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any

means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise,

without prior permission of the publisher.

National Library of Australia Cataloguing-in-Publication entry

Creator: ONeill, Ellie, author.

Title: The enchanted island/Ellie ONeill.

ISBN: 9781925030013 (paperback)

9781922052995 (ebook)

Subjects: Lawyers Fiction.

Detective and mystery stories.

Ireland Fiction.

Dewey Number: A823.4

Cover design: Christabella Designs

Cover image: Pinvinok, NorSob, Anna Paff/Shutterstock

Typeset by Midland Typesetters, Australia

Printed and bound in Australia by Grif n Press

The paper this book is printed on is certi ed against the Forest Stewardship Council Standards. Grif n Press holds FSC chain of custody certi cation SGS-COC-005088. FSC promotes environmentally responsible, socially bene cial and economically viable management of the worlds forests.

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CarrigCross

Surf HQ

Caravan

Tanseys

Mulligans

Kenmir

Dunlavens Rock

Skellig Rock

Lettermores Cove

Lissna Quail

H YB R A S I L

Killians house

LissnaTra

A TL A

N TI C

OC

EA

N

1 mile

N

S

W E

Sean Fitzpatricks houseM

ain S

treet

Dans house

Frank and Jacks house

Mount Culann

Millers Point

Blowhole

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11

I had never been to Hy Brasil before. I had a vivid image

of it as an island of green soggy elds, paddy caps and

cigarette-rolling locals in diamond-patterned woolly

jumpers who might sing you a song or punch you in the

stomach if you looked sideways at them. I expected it to be

insular and parochial, with violent, unforgiving weather. But

still, I wanted to go. I wanted to leave Dublin. My carefully

constructed life was crumbling, and I had been the one to

start the avalanche. I needed to run away for a little while

to straighten my 27-year-old head out.

When my boss suggested going to the western-most tip

of Ireland on a job, I had practically high-kicked my way

out of his glass of ce, cheering and waving pompoms. And

here I was, three days later, wet and shivering and bouncing

around in a tiny boat on a furious sea with inches of water

at my feet.

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El l i e O N e i l l

2

The rain was black. It collapsed from the sky, building

momentum, getting angrier, before it threw itself down in

a temper. I tightened my grip on the edges of the wooden

seat, the skin of my ngers welded into the grooves. I closed

my eyes, giving in to the relentless seesawing of the boat.

There wasnt much to see anyway when wed set off twenty

minutes ago, the island had been a dark grey spot on a grey

sea against a grey sky.

Itll clear, came the shout from the front of the boat. The

owner of the shing boat that was offering washing-machine

experiences pointed to a tiny pinprick of light grey in the sky.

Itll be a soft day.

Blinded by the blankets of rain billowing at my face,

I nodded and then straightened out the black plastic bag hed

given me to wear. At least it was waterproof.

You from Dublin?

I wasnt sure if it was the wind that was causing the whistle

in his speech or the fact that he had no teeth. His chin and

nose met in a perfect kiss. He pulled his tweed at cap down

further over his clear blue eyes and continued to swing the

boats rudder half-heartedly with his left hand.

Yeah.

Not many Dublin folk come out this way.

I nodded again. Hy Brasil was the smallest and remotest

island off the coast of Clare; it was said that on a clear day

you could see America. I doubted very much that there was

ever a clear day. Google had taught me that Hy Brasil had a

population of 534, many of whom were over fty or under


Th e E n ch a n t ed I s l a n d

3

twelve, and spoke Irish as their second language. There were

no cars, people got around on bikes and, if my imagination

had taught me anything, probably donkeys. The main indus-

tries were shing and knitting, as if knitting was an industry.

It probably just meant there were a lot of sheep. One line on

Wikipedia referred to the island as the Irish Bermuda Triangle,

except it wasnt a triangle, it was more of a weird oblong

shape, all seven by three miles of it. The seas around Hy Brasil

were treacherous: for such a tiny coastline, it had clocked up

more shipwrecks than anywhere else in Ireland. Strange static

sounds came over the radio in the vicinity of the island, and

compasses were known to go haywire. Larger vessels stayed

miles away from it. There was one small shing boat that trav-

elled out and back from the mainland daily, and a larger one

with supplies for the island once a week if the weather allowed.

I watched as a threatening shape with jagged edges

appeared on the horizon, sheer cliffs stretching towards the

sky as black velvet waves exploded with white foam against

the rocks.

What brings you to the island? Boat Man peered inquis-

itively at me.

I shook my head briskly. Work, I replied. I took a deep

breath of salty air as the wind whipped around me. Heavy

droplets of rain stalled on my long black eyelashes before

plopping onto the plastic bag poncho like tears.

He swivelled his body to me, causing the boats rudder to

veer to the left, and me to swing awkwardly over the edge,

close enough to the oceans surface to feel the spray on



4

my face like angry splinters. Work? he repeated, shouting

through the chasm of air between the wind and the waves.

And you from Dublin?

Shouldnt you be . . . ? I nervously pointed towards the

island, attempting to direct the boat.

Shed make it there on her own, believe you me. He

shrugged. What kind of work?

Its con dential. I straightened myself up and deliber-

ately turned my head to the horizon, channelling my inner

beard-stroking, sea-faring captain.

He looked at me suspiciously. Right so, people mind their

business here too. They like to stick to themselves. They wont

take kindly to outside meddling youll learn that fast.

I wont be meddling. After a pause, I couldnt resist

asking, Are you from here so?

Do I look like a halfwit? Dont Ive ten ngers and toes

and me parents werent brother and sister?

I laughed.

Im a mainland man. Cosmopolitan, like yourself. He

pulled his tweed-jacket collar closer round his neck.

My shoulder-length black hair hung like a drenched shower

curtain over my face. I was con dent my work as a solicitor

wouldnt remain con dential for long, all going according to

plan. The trucks would be rolling in by the end of the month

and Hy Brasil would be changed forever. I could deal with

any islanders and their issues from the warmth and dry seclu-

sion of my Dublin of ce. This would be awless. My stomach

lurched in nervous excitement. A bridge. A spectacular bridge.



5

My dad had been an architect. He had built half of Dublin

and his spirit whistled through the bridges, parks and corners

of the city. Ever since I was old enough to click Lego blocks

together, he had instilled in me his love of design and building.

My university summers were spent working on building sites,

not the norm for a middle-class Dublin girl, but I was a bit

of a tomboy back then. I remember Dad smiling proudly at

me when hed pop on site in a hi-vis vest, a steaming mug

of tea in his hand, joking that he was raising four boys,

not three. It was nice to share his passion and the money

was good a lot more interesting than ipping burgers for

minimum wage.

The guys on site didnt exactly warm to me, what with

me being up her own arse and a wanker stoooodent, not

to mention gagging for it. But they got bored of mocking me

after a while and in spite of being on the blob every day for

four consecutive months for three years, I put in the hours like

the rest of them, got covered in dust, lugged bricks, balanced

on scaffolding, drank sugary tea and wiped my nose on my

sleeve. While my peers went backpacking in Europe and kept

thoughtful journals about one-night stands and views from

lengthy train rides, I learned how to lay concrete, weave laby-

rinths of pipes, plaster walls so smoothly they felt like glass and

decipher which grain of wood catches sunlight in a kitchen.

Dad died of cancer during my nal year of college, six

years ago. I didnt work on site that summer. I didnt want to

feel like one of the boys anymore without Dad turning up

to laugh at me in a hard hat. I didnt see the point. I took a job



6

in a posh clothes boutique with a French name and dressed

mannequins in silk fabrics with ornate gold-clasp belts.

I kept my lipstick fresh, my skin dewy and skirts fashion-

ably short. I smiled politely at perfume-drenched customers

and oohed and aahed when they transformed in the change

rooms. I tried not to think about how I would prefer to have

calloused hands and itchy eyes lled with dust. I replaced

my work boots with heels that summer, my hard hat with

jewelled clips, I got manicures for the rst time in my life and

I shut the door on my tomboy self and all that it meant.

This trip to Hy Brasil had me so excited I was going to be

a part, albeit in a minor way, of a bridge build. It made me feel

like I was doing something right. That I was still Dads Miss

Maevo, that he was still grinning proudly at me.

Almost there now. Boat Man looked straight ahead.

I couldnt see two inches in front of me with all the rain

to know where we were. The constant motion had forced my

stomach to lurch, and my head to spin. Nauseated and shiv-

ering, I wanted off this boat as quickly as possible before I

passed out and landed head rst in the black waves.

The bottom of the boat jolted, and we slid onto a ramp

and came to a dramatic halt. The rain started to ease off

slightly. I could have sworn the boat had stopped, but she

was still rocking like a 1970s glam rocker at a revival concert.

Boat Man leaped out with legs on springs and pulled the boat

up along the cement slope so the front half was on dry land,

then hooked a rope around a nearby pole. I went to stand, but

my legs quivered and melted under me.



7

Whoa, watch yourself. He held out a hand. I leaned my

whole body into this tiny gure of a man and with great

effort heaved myself over the edge and slowly clambered

onto land.

While my wobbly legs adjusted themselves, he swiftly

unloaded my luggage.

Thanks very much, I said, looking around, lost.

Someone coming to pick you up?

Yeah, I think so.

No ones a good time keeper here. Im sure theyll make it

eventually.

Not to worry, I said, worried.

I plonked myself down on my suitcase, trying to orien-

tate myself. Water and earth. One uid, one solid; I was now

de nitely on solid ground, even though it didnt feel like it:

my legs trembled and my stomach still heaved ominously.

I took a deep breath. It had stopped raining, and the grey

clouds were magically dissolving, a whiter light illuminat-

ing my surroundings. It wasnt much of a harbour, more of

a poor mans car park, anchored by two green elds, which

was probably where the overwhelming smell of sheep shit was

coming from. The road ran uphill, and two waist-high grey

stone walls snaked alongside it. I couldnt see too far ahead,

but there didnt seem to be any buildings at all, just a few

bushes and some frizzy-haired sheep eyeballing each other in

the distance. I braced myself for the great outdoors.

Boat Man was slowly easing the boat into the water again.

He stopped and looked back at me. Be careful.



8

Will do. I smiled, and nodded my head in a goodbye,

cheerio fashion.

No. He turned around, one hand holding the boat. His

face was ushed. This place is not how it seems. They keep

secrets. Its dangerous. Dont stay long. And with that he

pushed off the boat, hopped into it and was away into the

violent black sea.


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THE ENCHANTED ISLAND