Mauk Donnabhain

From ‘Ballybrone’

Eoghan scans the scenery for something to take his mind off the journey, but all he can see is emptiness. Flashing lights, then mile after mile of nothing. He’s gripping the door handle as the four-wheel-drive lurches through the desert, and a salt-encrusted reflection creates a dizzying haze in the distance. He suffered from motion sickness when he was a child. Bumping along the back road to Ballybrone, with his father crouched over the wheel, flying along dips in the lane that had made his stomach heave. He doesn’t want to say anything. Motion sickness is such a childish thing. It takes all of his concentration to control the nausea.

Saudi Arabia. The trip to Dammam.

His boss looks unconcerned, as camels, colours, people wearing headscarves whizz by. Male voices blasting from the car radio, and the driver puts his foot down, under strict instructions to get them to their destination on time. The Al-Ahsa highway cuts sheer through the desolation. He covers his eyes with one hand, a respite from the glare, and he visualises the landscapes of home. How fresh the air is after a storm, and how raindrops cling to the trees, glistening everywhere. His tongue is swollen and awkward in his mouth. He feels a thump in his abdomen as the driver slams on the brakes, bringing the car skidding to a halt. The suddenness of their stop throws him against the back of the driver’s seat. A sharp pain shoots right through his heart, and he makes a choking sound. He opens his eyes, and the light blinds him. The driver jumps out of the car, screaming in Arabic. Eoghan opens the passenger door and vomits. In front of them lies a scene of utter chaos. An overturned lorry, watermelons whirling through the dust, passengers from a Honda Odyssey smashed against the tarmac. He notices one young woman in particular. Her niqab thrown aside. Hair matted. Fluid oozing out of her skull. Pieces of watermelon on the road, all around her.

But this is here. And this is now.

He sits up in a panic, clutching his seatbelt. When the paramedic speaks, it’s with a Ballybrone accent, and he remembers that he’s home again.

‘Don’t worry, we’ve got you. Just try to stay calm.’

His breath comes in flurries. The road outside is cold and dark. The lights of the ambulance reveal the shattered windscreen and inflated airbag. His eyes bulge, and he winces as the woman cuts him free of the seatbelt.

‘What’s happening to me?’

The paramedic makes eye contact as she cradles his head, holding him steady.

‘There’s been an accident.’

He leans back, struggling to contain the pain. An accident? Closed eyes. Willing the world to disappear. The woman and the lights. The watermelons.

‘Can we lift him? On the count of three …’

Rest. Peace. Rain.