Page 1 of Beneath the Quiet

Chapter One

Maeve Gallagher

“Harry, you stupid old beast! Wh-why are you doing this to me, you miserable git? Argh!” I pull the rope with all my might, cursing at the droopy-eyed, all-too-strong bull standing in the middle of Mrs. McCarthy’s flowerbed. As my feet slip in the wet soil courtesy of this morning’s downpour, I ask myself for the millionth time what I was thinking of moving away from Dublin to this remote village on the Irish coast.

I blow a wayward tendril of auburn-coloured hair away from my eyes.

“I can’t believe this,” I mutter, blinking at the sweat that trickles down and stings my eyes. “You are a real piece of work. Why do you keep doing this when you can run around in your own field, with fresh grass and plenty of lady cows to amuse, hmm? You really have to jump the fence to have a mid-morning snack right here, not caring in the least that you’re making my life difficult?”

Why am I talking to a bull?

Wait, am I even supposed to be this close to a bloody bull?

I snort as hysterical laughter wants to bubble from far down in my belly.

When I came to Cloonmara five weeks ago, the last thing I expected as part of my job description in the country Garda was having to chase bulls around the countryside. Yet, here I am, sweaty, my forehead and cheeks stinging from a slight sunburn because I forgot to lather up properly with suncream again, and my muscles are crying from the strain.

And all the damn creature does is keep munching on grass with his sad brown eyes. It doesn’t move one centimetre or even twitch. Why can’t his owner, Thomas Murdoch, keep his prized possession locked away behind a fence?

“Harry giving you trouble again, dear?”

“Oh, that he is, Mrs. McCarthy,” I huff at her, a wobbly smile threatening to slip from my lips due to the pressure in my upper arms. I take a fortifying breath and try my hardest to smooth the lines so as not to let it show how hard it is to get the massive beast to move. “But I’m sure he’ll stop the act and get on his way shortly. No need to worry about your…” I glance around but cannot for the life of me tell the names of any of the lovely shrubs, “…flowers,” I end weakly.

Mrs. McCarthy sighs gently and gives Harry a soft clap on his rear end. She gives me a cursory glance. “It’s not that I mind seeing Harry wandering about the village – we’re all used to him – but I wish he’d stick to the roads instead of vandalising my pretties.”

The bull just shakes his head, releases a long-suffering yawn, and practically pulls me up from the ground. To the outside, this must be one of the most hilarious scenes they have ever seen, and if it were happening to someone else, I might have seen it that way, too. But this is not happening to someone else; instead, it’s happening to me. Cool, calm, and collected Maeve Gallagher, detective sergeant of the Cloonmara Gardai. Instead of earning the respect of the inhabitants of this quaint, charming, sleepy village, I’m mere seconds from becoming the laughingstock.

A-freaking-gain.

Oh, I can just hear them down at the pub already.

“Hmm.” Mrs. McCarthy brings me back to reality. “You do what you can, and we’ll see who ends up the winner this time.” She smiles, her eyes dancing with mirth. “It could actually be you, eh?”

“Absolutely!” I beam and shake my head, trying to get the fringe away from my eyes and cringe again at the salt that hits my irises. More sweat gathers underneath my armpits. I really need to pull back from my obsession with the local baker’s cinnamon rolls and increase the time I spend on the treadmill every week, or I won’t be able to keep up my muscle. Especially not if chasing old bulls becomes a regular part of my job description. This is the third time I’ve been called to sort out Harry after he’s trampled all over the flowerbeds belonging to elderly ladies who live in cottages fit for fairytales.

“Perhaps it’ll help if I go back inside and make you a cup of tea, pet.” Mrs. McCarthy shares a knowing smile with me, narrows her eyes, and clucks her tongue at her unwanted intruder before she turns her back on us.

“Thank you,” I call softly to her retreating form, watching her as she goes. It hasn’t taken me long to realise that the people living here are proud and resilient, and even though I don’t really know anybody yet, I recognise a tough one when I see them. Mrs. McCarthy is definitely not weak, but her body is frail.

“Good Lord, Harry.” I release the tight grip on the leash as she closes her front door and let my aching arms fall to my sides. “Why can’t things ever be easy with you?”

Harry bends his enormous head, and before I can gather my wits and stop him, he wrenches another clump of flowers and crunches them without a care in the world.

“The longer we stand here, the more we’ll both get into trouble.” I sigh, pushing a fist on my hip. “I can’t exactly leave you here to wreck the flowers and tell my constable that I was defeated by an old…” I tighten the rope and widen my stance, leaning back as I pull it tighter, “fat,” I huff, “hairy bull.”

Heart filled to the brim with a decent amount of determination and humiliation, I dig my heels in the soil, but somehow, I wrench my ankle, and I slip, falling flat on my arse instead. The air leaves my lungs, and I gasp for breath, my hands gripping wildly behind me as I look for leverage.

“Oomph!”

“Need a little help there, Detective?”

I barely manage to muffle my surprised shriek in the palm of my muddy hand. The taste of wet earth makes me sputter, and I cough like a madwoman.

“Fuck.” The soft curse is followed by quick, loud footsteps hitting the damp grass drawing closer, only causing me to realise the state I’m in. A jolt of panic jets through me, and I turn my head in every direction, trying to find the closest hole where I can hide from the stranger. Not only is my mouth filled with mud, but my main focus is trying to find a safe spot where I won’t get trampled by a bull. I almost don’t see him before he crouches down, his face right in front of me. Another round of sputtering makes my eyes fill with water. His face blurs, and it feels as if I’m watching him through net curtains.

“Hey, hey, hey.” The low timbre reaches my ears through my coughing fit. A warm hand rubs my back in slow circles, releasing the tension I didn’t even realise had made my back muscles cramp, and despite the years-long knowledge of never turning my back on anyone when out on a job, I fall forward into something very warm and hard that feels comforting. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

Suddenly, I want to bury my face in the crook of the stranger’s neck and burst into tears.