9,49 €
Mehr erfahren.
- Herausgeber: Europa Edizioni
- Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024
Shane Donnegan spends virtually all his life in Australia before moving back to his native Westport. The 14-year-old is flabbergasted when he smashes his new school’s swimming records. He’s further gobsmacked that he can understand languages he’s never heard before. On a school trip to Westport House, he becomes strangely drawn to the surroundings and the weird activities of its billionaire owner, Lord Dunraven. Suspecting something seriously nasty is going on, Shane and friends sneak by night into Westport House Estate. Passing through fields of gigantic Venus fly-traps, they discover that Dunraven is secretly carrying out grotesque experiments − supposedly assisted by a prehistoric druid. Encountering deadly dangers, Shane learns that the unspeakable horrors within the Estate have disturbing links with his own dark past…
Roddy O’Sullivan is a keen children’s writer. After a long career in medicine, he now devotes himself to lecturing and campaigning for the protection of the lakes, rivers and wildlife of his native Ireland. Roddy enjoys playing the guitar, fishing and birdwatching. His lifelong interest in past civilisations was the inspiration behind his adventure stories for younger readers which involve the unexpected meetings of today’s world with that of the ancients.
Das E-Book können Sie in Legimi-Apps oder einer beliebigen App lesen, die das folgende Format unterstützen:
Ähnliche
Roddy O’Sullivan
The Horrific Secret of Westport House
© 2023Europe Books| London
www.europebooks.co.uk | [email protected]
© 2023 Europe Books| London
www.europebooks.co.uk | [email protected]
ISBN 9791220145725
First edition: December 2023
The Horrific Secret of
Westport House
Dedicated to the memory of the wonderful, ever-shining,
Deirdre Hughes [1955 – 2023]
WESTPORT HOUSE
[Credit: Westport House]
Westport House is one of the few privately-owned historic houses left in Ireland. Long associated with Ireland’s Pirate Queen, Grace O’Malley [1530 – 1603], the House is sited on 400 acres of mature woods amid rolling Mayo countryside and enjoys unsurpassed views of Croagh Patrick, Clew Bay and Clare Island.
[TOURIST GUIDE TO Co MAYO 2021]
Chapter 1
“What will I do now?” muttered Shane Donnegan, his eyes sweeping the busy Arrivals Terminal.
He set down his suitcase and, realising his phone was dead, tried to dismiss the same fears that had haunted him since first boarding the Airbus 350. What if Aunt Agnes and Uncle Lionel’s car breaks down? he thought. They won’t be able to contact me…
Jet-lagged and trying to decide whether he was more awake than asleep, he removed the Qantas Airlines − Unaccompanied Minor tag from around his neck. He hoped someone might make eye contact with him because his name wasn’t on any of the placards being held aloft in the waiting crowd. His Dad was forever telling him how chirpy and friendly the Irish were, but everyone seemed just as grumpy as in the other airports he’d stopped at during the long flight. He shivered in his t-shirt and jeans, realising that European summers were far colder than back home.
“Shane!” The piercing cry made him swing around.
Oblivious to those around her, a small, grey-haired woman was waving and pushing her way through the crowd. “It’s me!” she called. “Your Aunt Agnes.”
Relieved the wait was over but unsure of what to say to this smiling, tear-stained stranger, he could only mumble, “G’day, er, Aunt Agnes.”
“Let’s be having a look at my long lost great-nephew.” She dried her eyes then held him at arm’s length. “And just listen to yourself; you sound like you’ve just stepped off a plane from Australia.” “Maybe because I… just have.”
“Oh, you know what I mean. You look much older than fourteen; you so remind me of your poor mother, Finnoula.” She crossed herself. “God rest her soul.”
Shane felt his face glow as his Aunt enveloped him without warning in an embrace which seemed to last for an eternity.
“I’m making a holy show of myself.” Staring at him with mock severity, she added, “This isn’t the Australian outback. Haven’t you a jacket or something?” She turned to the tall, thin man standing to attention nearby. “Lionel, you remember Shane?”
Bowing his grey head, Uncle Lionel said, “Hardly, m’dear, it’s been, er, ten years?” He proffered his hand. “Welcome back, Shane. Good flight?”
“Yes thanks, Uncle.”
“Good firm handshake there, m’boy. Remember, keep your back straight; look the world in the eye. How’s your father’s leg coming along?”
“Once they take off the plaster, he’ll visit me here.”
Shane became aware of another figure standing close by, a hardback under his arm. About Shane’s age, he was chewing contentedly and from behind rimless glasses, his eyes were focused unwaveringly on Shane.
“This is Finbar McAuley, our genius engineer,” introduced Aunt Agnes. “We call him the Professor; he goes to your new school, St Columbanus, and…”
“… G’day to you, cobber,” interrupted Finbar, his phoney Australian accent almost flawless.
“G’day to you, Finbar,” said Shane.
“Lay off the Finbar stuff, everyone calls me Tubs on account of my…” He winked and tapped his ample waistline. “… Ice cream-heavy bones, understand?” I like this guy, Shane thought. No way would he make the fourth football team, but there’s something impish about him...
“Shall I take your suitcase, Shane?” said Uncle Lionel.
“I’m fine, Uncle, thanks all the same.”
Exiting into the morning air, Shane stopped to take in his new surroundings. For a few precarious seconds he tingled with a weird sensation of having experienced the identical situation before, somewhere in the buried past, in some prior time or existence. The feeling was so vivid that he momentarily felt unsure of where he was. Or even who he was. Everything feels spooky or unreal or… something... he thought.
“All right, m’boy?”
“Er, it’s just things feel sort of, well, strange.”
“As one would expect; new faces, new places. Let’s get the column moving. It’s a long trek to Clew Bay Lodge.”
***
Shane’s black eyes stared out of the window as the Renault Clio manoeuvred into the slow-moving Dublin traffic. He’d half expected empty country lanes yet here he was, bumper to bumper in a traffic jam far worse than in Brisbane.
“I’d rather hand-to-hand combat,” said Uncle Lionel, blowing through his moustache, “than face morning rush hour.”
Aunt Agnes patted his shoulder. “Watch the blood pressure, dear; it’s not the Falklands.”
Uncle Lionel muttered something unintelligible under his breath.
I see Macca’s are called McDonald’s here, Shane thought. I wonder will they have my favourite sausages? No Aussie Rules football but… He pointed. “Say, it’s over two hundred and fifty kilometres to Westport.”
Aunt Agnes turned around sharply. “That signpost was in Irish; I didn’t know you could speak Gaelic?”
“I can’t.”
“You must have learnt it at some point.”
“If I did, I don’t remember.”
She nodded knowingly. “You learnt it from your mother; that’s the answer obviously.”
“Er, can I ask you about Mam, Aunt Agnes?”
“Of course, dear.”
“I’m looking forward to making new friends and that, but I’d like to know something about my early years here with Mam – before I left for Oz.”
“What’s stopping you asking your father?”
“He’s always so vague.”
“I see.”
“I’ve never seen a photo of me as a toddler; no blowing out birthday candles or, well, anything. All I have is this ring she left me.” He stretched his ringed finger towards Aunt Agnes. “It’s my only memento of her.”
“Umm, queer-looking thing. I’m sure she had enough on her plate without being bothered with taking photographs and the like. Isn’t that right, Lionel?”
“Harrumph.”
Dad and me waved goodbye to Ireland after Mam passed away, he thought. The only place I remember is Oz, yet somehow everything feels so familiar, so green…
Tubs’ mock-adult accent broke through his thoughts. “Why,” he asked with exaggerated seriousness, “come all this way to an Irish school?”
“Dad reckons it’ll, er, keep my head out of the clouds. He doesn’t want me slogging my life away on his fishing boat, like I do most summers. What’s this St Columbanus like?”
“It’s fulltime; it’s a weekly boarder; or it’s a day school. I’m on a scholarship; no way could Mum afford the fees on her supermarket wages.”
“What about your dad?”
“They’re separated,” muttered Tubs, wistfully regarding his trainers before adding quickly, “As I was sayin’, St Columbanus is a Monday to Friday place unless you’re a nutjob who’s into sport.” He deliberately spat out the word sport.
Shane playfully elbowed him. “I’m afraid I’m one of those.”
“When do you start?”
“I have the interview and exam tomorrow and if I pass…”
“…Of course you’ll pass,” Aunt Agnes cut in.
Tubs’ accent reverted to Australian. “That’s real ripper, blue.”
“How come you know Strine, so well, er, Tubs?”
“What’s Strine?”
“It’s the funny way we speak English back home.”
Tubs proffered a bag of toffees. “I loved those old Aussie soaps − Home and Away and Neighbours − so, I became a world expert in Strine.”
Despite his best efforts, Shane’s grip on the conversation was slipping; the long journey was taking its toll. “I’m sort of bushed, folks,” he said, stifling a yawn.
“Finbar, pull that rug over him,” fussed Aunt Agnes. “We don’t want him catching his death of cold on his first day back.”
Shane’s last recollection of the journey was Aunt Agnes saying, “Chalk and cheese those two are, Lionel, yet it looks like they’re going to be great friends. Mm, now that I think about it – I’ve never seen a photo of Shane as a toddler, never mind a baby…”
Chapter 2
Shane awoke staring at the ceiling, unsure of where he was. His nightmare had been more vivid than usual – the same passageway, that door, the horrific darkness. Trying to shake off the clammy feeling of unreality that clung to him like glue, he commanded himself to breathe more easily… I remember the air stewardess shaking me, saying my cries were disturbing other passengers…
“Wakey, wakey, Shane.” Aunt Agnes was at the bedroom door. “Breakfast in twenty minutes.”
Tossing the sleep from his eyes he called, “Thanks, Aunt Agnes.”
Ten minutes later he was staring at his reflection in the bathroom mirror, hardly recognising himself in white shirt and tie, teeth gleaming and his black hair neatly sleeked backwards. I look like a posho; nobody would notice my slightly crooked nose. Through the window, he saw for the first time how the sea and sky were dominated by volcano-shaped Croagh Patrick, its tiny church gleaming whitely on the summit. That distant blob on the horizon must be Clare Island; it reminds me of a whale’s hump… those rashers and sausages smell great…
Aunt Agnes smiled as he entered the kitchen. “My, oh, my, Shane, you do look smart. Are we a wee bit nervous this morning?”
“Yes, a bit.”
“Your bedroom is also your study. If you need a break from your old aunt and uncle, you have your own computer.”
“Thanks, Aunt Agnes. That’s really great.”
As Shane took his place at the table, Uncle Lionel cleared his throat. “A short exam isn’t worth getting nervous about, eh? I remember once, my platoon was…”
“…I don’t think that Shane wants to hear about your Army days, dear.”
“Maybe later, Uncle,” said Shane, attacking the breakfast. “I don’t have time right now.”
“Remember, a headmaster is like a regimental sergeant major; everything must be spick and span.” He leant across to flick something off Shane’s collar. “Ha, ha, dust. That looks better.”
“Thanks, Uncle.”
“Before I drop you off, m’boy, have a browse around your new home; it takes a bit of getting used to.”
Shane quickly discovered that Clew Bay Lodge wasn’t a house, it was a sprawling mansion. He lost his way twice during his exploratory walkabout before eventually finding his way back to the main dining room. Feeling slightly awed beneath the high ceiling and long mirrors, he felt like walking on tiptoe so as not to disturb the severe-looking men in uniform who stared down at him from the large wall-portraits. So different from Dad’s cramped Brisbane flat,he thought. Oops, I’d better call him before we head off for St Columbanus…
“Hi, Dad, sorry I couldn’t ring yesterday, I...”
“…No probs, son. Settling in OK?”
“Yeah, really well. Clew Bay Lodge is great. Dad… er, do you know if I’ve ever been able to speak… Irish?”
“That’s a strange thing to ask.”
“I know. But did I… ever?”
“Of course not. You hadn’t even gone to school before you and me arrived in Oz.”
“Mam didn’t teach me?”
“If she did it would have been a miracle. She didn’t have a word of Irish. Do you want to learn it or something?”
“No… I was just… just wondering. How’s the leg?”
“The plaster won’t come off for a while. Oh, hell, the American evening group has just arrived. Call you back later, OK?”
“OK, Dad. Bye”
“Miss you, son. Bye.”
***
As Shane met Tubs outside the school gates, a line of flash mountain bikes braked alongside. From the lead machine, the muscular leader turned and made a muffled wisecrack over his shoulder to his cronies which produced an explosion of raucous laughter.
“That’s Jeremy Brockenhurst,” whispered Tubs, biting his lip, “the school’s weight-liftin’ champ. His dad’s a school governor. I call him Pot Hole.”
“Why?”
“Because everyone tries to avoid potholes in the road.”
Brockenhurst was pointing at Shane. “So you’re the latest blow-in?” he said, his lip curling.
“What’s it to you?” said Shane, coldly holding Brockenhurst’s gaze.
“What kind of an accent is that?” said Brockenhurst, pushing his Ray-Ban sunglasses to his forehead.
“Australian.”
“Umm, I thought you sounded aboriginal.”
As Brockenhurst’s followers sniggered, they parted to allow the Deputy Head through, struggling under an armful of books. Cannily sensing trouble in the air, Mr Stubbs said, “You’ve no business in the junior school, Brockenhurst. Move on.” Fussily ushering everyone forward, he asked, “You’re Shane Donnegan?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’m your exam invigilator. I’ll see you in the Classics Block, 9.15.”
“Thanks, sir.”
As Mr Stubbs departed, Brockenhurst pointed again at Shane, thumb cocked behind his finger, like it was a gun. “There’s something about you that pisses me off,” he said before accelerating away, followed by his pack of hyenas.
“Nice one, fella,” came a deep voice from behind.
Two other pupils had overheard the Brockenhurst exchange, one tall and burly; the other thin and whippet-like. The bulkier guy addressed Shane. “Anyone who stands up to bullyboy Brockenhurst is a friend of ours. I’m Mike Tarpey and that there’s Peter Woods; you’ll be in our class.” He held out his hand.
“Hi, Mike, I’m Shane Donnegan.”
“Nobody calls him Mike,” said Peter, shaking hands. “Everyone calls him Caveman, the reason’s obvious.”
“And nobody calls him Peter,” said Caveman, rubbing his stubbly chin, “everyone calls him Scruffy, the reason’s obvious.”
“Scruffy?” said Shane, frowning as he clocked Peter’s cufflinks and suede shoes. “I don’t get it.”
“Unlike the other meatheads around here,” said Peter with a knowing grin, “I know how to dress properly.”
Tubs pulled Shane’s sleeve. “Don’t be late.”
“See you around, fella,” called Caveman as he and Peter sauntered off.
Tubs frowned. “You make friends real easy, Shane. I’ve been here for two years and those guys hardly ever speak to me. What’s the secret?”
Shane placed an arm around Tubs’ shoulders. “We’ll make friends together.”
“Thanks, Shane.”
I’ve made a friend already… also made myself an enemy.
As they approached the main building, a tall, dark-skinned girl broke away from a nearby group of girls. “Hiya, Finbar,” she greeted, “what was all that with Brockenhurst?”
“He was givin’ Shane stick about bein’ an Aussie and Shane stood up to him, that’s what.”
She looked around to take in Shane. “Well, I’m glad to see someone finally taking a stand against that eejit. He’s got such a big mouth. Hey, girls, wait! Bye, Finbar.”
Tubs beamed at her disappearing figure. “Hear that, Shane? She called me by my proper name.”
“What do you mean?”
“Some people call me things like porky, fatso – I’m not used to bein’ called Finbar.”
“Why not just try and forget about it? If they don’t get a reaction, maybe they’ll leave you alone.”
“I’ve got to hand in homework to Stubbs; catch you up in a few minutes.”
On his way to locate the Classics Block, Shane recognised the same attractive girl Tubs had spoken to. Scrutinising her face in a hand mirror behind one of the colonnades, she was applying finishing touches of eyeliner.
“Excuse me,” Shane began pleasantly. “I’m trying to find the…”
She snapped the mirror closed and head high, flounced past. “Find it yourself,” she said.
Shane was still standing open-mouthed as Tubs reappeared. “Who was that, Tubs?” he said, indicating the girl’s departing figure.
“Zara Singh,” said Tubs grimly, “Westport’s answer to Bollywood. She’s in our class, one of the twenty girls here; she teaches your Uncle Lionel how to use a computer.”
“She’s one seriously sour Sheila.”
“A friend of hers recently scooted back to Oz with Zara’s ivory chess set; a present from papa − he’s some bigwig businessman − so she has a thing about Aussies.”
“What’s that got to do with me?” said Shane indignantly.
