Lynch by Peter J Merrigan Page B

his childhood, where every seaside town in Ireland was not a seaside town if it wasn’t accompanied by the smell of wood smoke. He could remember the tiny tourist shops that sold buckets and spades, hanging from hooks outside the windows like colourful pieces of a dream. The shops’ interiors dark and cluttered, a magnificent display of penknives laid out on purple or navy felt in a glass display counter over which the proprietor would hover, smiling crooked teeth through an overgrown moustache that was turning white at the edges.
    He and his mother, back before the cancer, back before Ryan, would travel the length and breadth of Ireland by coach and rolling-stock train, visiting every beach they ever found on a map. He remembered the way she flicked her hair out of her face in the wind, the way she picked gently with her fingers at a sandwich, the way only her thumb and forefinger would dip inside a bag of crisps, her other fingers winged above the opening as though she was giving a secret A-okay sign. And he remembered his conscious effort in doing the same, feeling every bit a grown-up at the age of seven, standing in his swimming trunks, being photographed in front of his sandcastle creation, thumb and forefinger dipped almost reverently inside a bag a Tayto Cheese & Onion.
    He smiled at Jesse and sucked some melting ice cream from the side of the cone before it reached his thumb.
    ‘Seeing as we’re here,’ Jesse said, ‘we might as well take a walk down along the shore.’
    ‘I thought you’d never ask,’ Scott laughed.
    They finished their ice cream before stepping foot on the beach and Jesse stooped and took his shoes off, wriggling his toes into the sand. ‘You forget how good that feels,’ he said. ‘I haven’t done it in years.’
    Scott’s thoughts had changed as he looked out across the beach from focusing on his mother to recalling his years with Ryan, and his mood darkened. He and Ryan had continued his mother’s tradition after her death of visiting beaches, although they had settled on one beach in particular, a stretch of white sand along Portstewart. They went whenever the whim took them, or whenever one of them was feeling down or reflective. It became a calming measure; it became Their Beach. And now, still smelling the wood smoke, coupled with the fresh sea air, he couldn’t look at Jesse for fear of seeing Ryan.
    The breeze that caressed his neck reminded him of Ryan’s breath as he’d nestle his face against his skin. The warmth of the sun reminded him of the heat of Ryan’s body. The waves that broke against the shore were the whispers of his dead lover calling his name.
    He sighed, shook his head. Jesse walked a pace ahead, carrying his shoes in his hands as he pointed his toes and dug each step into the soft, warm sand.
    When Jesse turned, a fat grin on his face, he said, ‘We should sleep here, under the stars.’
    Scott smiled, trying to hide his melancholy. He stuck his hands in his pockets, and stared at the shells by his feet. Sitting down on the sand, he looked out across the sea. ‘Let’s sit a minute,’ he said.
    Jesse dropped down beside him and stretched his legs out straight, leaning back with his hands in the sand behind him. ‘It’s beautiful here.’ When Scott didn’t respond, Jesse looked at him. ‘Hey, what’s up? Have I done something?’
    Scott shook his head. ‘No, it’s just…’
    Jesse waited, prompted him when the sentence went unfinished. ‘Just…?’
    Keeping his eyes forward, towards the small group of people swimming in the sea, Scott said, ‘I used to come to a beach all the time with…with an old boyfriend.’
    ‘Talking about exes on a date,’ Jesse said. ‘That’s never good.’
    Scott looked at him, touched his leg briefly. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I didn’t mean it like that. There’s probably something you need to know.’
    Jesse straightened up, shuffled slightly closer. ‘If it’s only probably, it probably means I