The Sergeant

A body washed up on the shore. Sergeant Moyles was perplexed. None of the fishermen had heard anything about a boat in distress, or a man gone overboard.

‘We can’t leave him there Sergeant or he’ll wash away again,’ said Jimmy Herlihy, the fisherman of fifty odd years who had alerted Moyles to the grim flotsam. Moyles nodded. 

‘Anything of forensic value is long washed away.’

Jimmy helped carry the body to the Garda station. Moyles offered him a cup of tea but Jimmy said he’d have to be getting home, the dinner’ll be waiting.

Moyles tried to call the station in Galway city. No signal.

‘What if it was an emergency?’ he grumbled to Buttercup, a black labrador, the only other occupant of the most westerly garda station in Europe. He tried the radio.

‘Finnerty? Finnerty? Hi, Moyles here. There’s an unidentified body dripping sea water onto my tiles. A local man found him on the strand…no I checked with the lads at the pier, there’s been no distress calls, I’ll get onto the coast guard though…no he’s not someone from the island, the local man would’ve recognised him, I’d recognise him, I’ve been here long enough….I really couldn’t tell you…looks to me like he drowned, but a coroner’ll have to take a look at him…yeah, ok…that’s my next question, do I send him to you or are you sending someone to me? Ok…can do, thanks Finnerty, bye now.’

The station lights flickered. Moyles looked out the window. It was only 8 o’ clock. It felt later. 

He put his high vis jacket back on. It was still wet. He whistled for the dog. He ran out to the garda car and swung the door open. Buttercup hopped onto the passenger seat. He ran his fingers through his wet hair before starting the engine. The pier was within walking distance but he’d make that mistake already today.

All the boats were in, packed together tightly. No night fishing today. Some of the lads were still there, tidying up, preparing for the next outing; he envied them in their oilskins. The rest were gone home or to the pub.

‘I’ll have to send that body to the mainland, when do ye think ye’ll be heading out again?’ He nearly had to shout for them to hear him. The men looked at the sky, they looked at the sea, they looked at the Sergeant.

‘You’re talking tomorrow evening at the earliest Sergeant,’ said McEldry, ‘could they not send the helicopter?’

‘They could, but tomorrow evening would be alright. I’ll check with ye again in the morning will I?’

‘Do Sergeant.’ He bid them good evening and got back in the car.

He drove to the house of Paul Geoghan, a farmer who was known to be handy with a piece of timber and a saw. Paul’s wife, Felicity, ushered Moyles into the sitting room and gave him tea and biscuits in what he suspected was the good china. When he worked in Dublin, sometimes the youngsters would throw stones at the squad car. This was certainly an improvement.

There were photos on every possible surface of the Geoghans’ three grown-up children, of their debs, their college graduations, their weddings. Two were living on the mainland now, and one was in Australia, Paul had told him before. The lights flickered.

‘What can I do for you Sergeant?’ said Paul.

‘Paul, I’m sorry to put you to any trouble but I was wondering if you could make a box, one that’d fit a body?’

‘A body Sergeant?’ Moyles nodded.

‘A body washed up on the beach and I’ve to send him to the mainland. It wouldn’t be decent not to put him in some sort of casket, a temporary one, he has to go to the coroner yet, and he doesn’t look right, lying out without a kind of casket.’

‘I see the situation Sergeant, would you not have one of those bodybags?’

‘I don’t have any no, I possibly should order a few, but I don’t get many bodies washing up, thank God.’

‘Thank God is right. It’s surprising in a way, given the way we’re surrounded by water.’

‘It is. I don’t want to put you to any trouble Paul, ‘tis only as a courtesy to the man-‘

‘It’s no trouble Sergeant, I’ll drop it up to you tomorrow afternoon.’

‘That’d be perfect Paul, I’ll reimburse you for the timber-‘

Not at all Sergeant, not at all, as you said ‘tis a courtesy to the man.’

‘I appreciate that Paul. I’ll be off now but I’ll see you tomorrow.’

Moyles popped his head into the kitchen. ‘See you Felicity, thanks for the tea.’

‘Bye now Sergeant.’

Paul saw him off at the front door.

‘Take care now Sergeant, mind yourself near the bridge, that river looked set to burst earlier.’

‘Thanks Paul, see you.’

Buttercup was curled up in the front seat. She sat up when Moyles got into the car. He put the windscreen wipers on full frequency and took his time going down the hill. Sure enough the road had flooded at the spot Paul had warned him about. He drove through it slowly, and made sure to dry out the brakes when he got to the other side of it. If he messed up the garda car he’d be right stuck. There was no garage on the island and a special ferry had to be booked to bring cars over and back, which could take weeks to organise.

When he got back to the station he made himself a cup of tea and poured out some dog food for Buttercup. The dead man hadn’t moved, which was to be expected. While he was sipping his tea the lights went out.

‘Blast it anyway!’

He rummaged around in a drawer for a torch he prayed had batteries in it. It did. By the light of the torch he lit the fire and a few candles. His eyes drifted to the dead man on the table. 

He got out a bottle of whiskey and poured himself a glass.

‘We’ll sit up with the body,’ he said to Buttercup, ‘well you can go to sleep if you like, I’ll sit up with the body. It wouldn’t be right to leave him on his own. Do you know any stories Buttercup, to pass the time? No? I’ll try and think of a few.’

Moyles would never tell any one that he was relieved when he heard the dawn chorus. There was a part of him that expected the body to sit up and start talking. Whether that was due to the candlelight, the whiskey, or the deficit in sleep incurred he wasn’t sure.

He tried the kettle. The power was back on. He made toast and tea and checked his emails.

Sergeant Moyles watched Jimmy Herlihy’s boat take the unknown man to the mainland. He walked back to the station. It felt oddly empty.

‘Who knew the dead could be such good company?’ he said to the dog, the only other occupant of the most westerly garda station in Europe.