Eamonn Furey is a writer from the North of Ireland. He has been previously published in All Your Stories magazine, The Argyle Literary magazine, The Galway Review, The Bath Flash Fiction Anthology, Free Flash Fiction, Close to the Bone magazine, The Raven Review,The Hunsbury Review, Bristol Noir and The First Light Anthology. He was also published in Flash Fiction magazine under the pen name Joseph Gatz. Eamonn was shortlisted for the Kate O’Riordan prize for short fiction at the 2026 Kenmare Literary Festival.
An Cillín
By Eamonn Furey
Gerry woke at the foot of the sand dunes. Beside him, lay a black urn and an empty rum bottle. A bird perched on top of a flagpole cried, cuck-coo. It was too late in the summer for a cuckoo to herald any good luck, he thought.
The sun detached from the horizon as the tide streamed along the channel, filling the bay. The cuckoo called again, then flew over the dunes, and out of sight. In his shirt pocket a sea-shell pressed gently against his chest. He contemplated holding it to his ear, but decided to walk the short distance to the lifeguards’ cabin in hope of finding a cigarette instead.
Shards of sunshine spilled through the cabin window, warming his feet on the wooden floor. On a small desk, a two-way radio rested beside a folded red and yellow flag. He slid open a drawer but found it empty except for a dog-eared copy of The Old Man and the Sea. For a while he stared towards the mouth of the estuary, where the seal pups lay. Across the channel, a rusting fishing boat rocked gently below a row of lobster pots.
Best be heading back, he murmured, as he lifted the urn and made his way to the trail that wound through the sand dunes, and back towards the cottage.
Although he hadn’t walked the trail for some years, the feeling of unease seemed familiar. A slight breeze stirred the white sand around his feet, causing the marram grass to dance along the dunes. He stepped over a discarded beer can, then followed a small set of footprints on the trail in front of him. They seemed to be those of a child and led him to where a white sliver of bone jutted from the sand. The sight of it unsettled him briefly.
It’s probably just a dead animal, he decided, resting his hand gently upon the shell in his breast pocket, before continuing on his way.
——-
The cottage door was slightly ajar, the curtains drawn. A ginger cat hissed at him from the bonnet of a rusting red Vauxhall Avenger, suspended on bricks beneath the hawthorn tree. A black-framed bicycle leaned against a milk churn. He stepped into the hall and walked to the bedroom before setting the urn on the floor. A bag of clothes rested beside the wardrobe. A duvet lay folded on the bed. Gerry ran his fingers through his hair, raised the blinds and pushed open the window.
In the kitchen an old cauldron dangled above the hearth, suspended from a rusted chimney crane. An old photograph of Kilroe Harbour hung crookedly on the wall above a bottle of whiskey. Gerry boiled the kettle and fixed a hot whiskey. For a time, he stood sipping his drink, staring towards the sea.
—-
A fortnight earlier, Gerry was pouring a miniature bourbon into a coffee in King’s Cross when his phone rang.
Your father wants you to go to Kilroe to collect Tommy’s ashes, his mother said.
His ashes?
He died last week, she continued.
Her tone lacked emotion, like she was talking about a stranger.
He died last week and you didn’t think to tell me?
—-
He was met at the station by Michael Leonard, a friend of Tommy’s who owned the bar in Kilroe. After a handshake and a nodded hello, they walked to the car.
How’s London treating you, Gerry? Michael asked starting the engine.
All good, Michael, he lied. How are things with yourself?
I’m a great grandfather now. Time’s getting the better of us all. Michael said.
It is Michael. It just seems like yesterday I was here for the salmon festival.
Michael possessed a contentment that had eluded Gerry.
Your uncle was very proud of you Gerry, Michael said.
The car turned off the road and onto a lane filled with overgrown hedgerows which led to the cottage.
It’s just how I remember it, Gerry said.
—-
The bar was filled with afternoon drinkers. At a table beside the television, an elderly man in a tartan cap studied the form, the Racing Post spread out like a tablecloth in front of him. Gerry sat across from him, beneath a painting of the Lusitania.
A teenage girl set a plate of sandwiches on his table.
I’m Maeve, Michael’s granddaughter. Your uncle was a gentleman, she said, before drifting towards the bar.
Gerry reached for a sandwich, then leaned back against his seat closing his eyes. At the bar Michael Leonard looked up from the taps as the door banged open.
Slowly, a man entered the lounge carrying a black urn. Michael set the pint he was pulling on the counter, stepped towards an old ship’s bell hanging on the wall behind him, and rang it steadily five times.
Drinks are on the house, he declared, prompting a cheer from the customers at the bar.
The man set the urn on the counter as Gerry left his table and walked to the bar.
Gerry, this is Tony, Michael said. He found Tommy.
The two men shook hands, and raised their glasses above the urn.
Any ideas as to what you might do with them? Michael asked.
Apart from dropping them in with my father, I have no plans at all, Gerry replied.
Not sure Tommy would have planned being in your father’s care, Michael said. He abandoned young Tommy after their mother died.
Gerry nodded. Tony took a slow draw from his pint.
Did you know that your Grandmother isn’t buried in the same grave as your Grandfather? he asked.
Mary-Kate isn’t buried with my grandfather?
No.
Gerry swirled the drink around at the bottom of his glass.
She took her own life after her baby girl died during childbirth, Tony continued. Her and the baby are buried in the wasteland down by the sand dunes.
They were buried in the dunes? Gerry asked.
Alongside all the others who died outside the state of grace; the unbaptised, the suicides. Tony said. The priests wouldn’t give them a Christian burial.
Michael set two pints on the counter, Tony placed his hands on Gerry’s forearm.
He belongs here Son, he said, before placing an ivory-coloured sea-shell in Gerry’s hand.
Tommy always carried it with him, he said. He swore that he heard the sighs of the dead when he held it to his ear.
Gerry took a mouthful from his fresh pint, and wrung his hands. He stood up from the table and headed outside to smoke a cigarette.
——
Gerry stood at the kitchen window and stared towards the dunes. Tommy’s garden lay untended, the grass overgrown. Rubbish was strewn among the branches of the hawthorn tree. He had no memory of his grandparents. Soon, the memory of his uncle would be limited to a few old photographs and anecdotes retold in Michael Leonard’s bar.
The sun was high behind him, as he walked back towards the dunes. He located the sliver of bone again and covered it with sand. The footprints on the trail had disappeared. He climbed to the top of the dunes, and held the shell to his ear for a moment. The fishing boat lay sideways on a sandbank in the harbour. Above the lifeguards’ cabin, the red and yellow flag flapped limply on the breeze, as the seal pups swam playfully in the channel.
He unscrewed the lid of the urn and let it fall onto the sand. The cuckoo’s cry drifted on the breeze, as he spread the ashes in an arc across the dunes. They hung briefly in the air, before settling among the marram grass. A fine dusting of ash blew backwards, lingering for a moment before clinging stubbornly to his trouser leg.