Book three (The Son) is well underway. The prologue sums up the ‘tone’ of the book, i.e.
Tom O Keenan
Book Three in the Sean Rooney Thriller Series
They fear me, which is right, they are right to be feared. They hope I have moved on. I have taken a soul, but where there is the potential of more, I will remain.
We play together, the children and I. The school yard is small, but we run its length chasing each other in a game of tig as it is known in these parts. They do not see me, nor are to know I am here for one of them.
It is not John McLeod, a large lad of ten winters, who lives down the Rhu Road, in Mo-raig. Like his father, John the Crofter, he will take over the croft as a young man, in his case seventeen years, when I come for his father.
It is not Mary McNeil, a girl of eight, of the fair skin Viking folk who live around here. She is slow to cover the ground due to a fall from the cliffs at Moraig when she was six. She will survive into adulthood and replace Eileen McIsaac, the current teacher, on her early re-tirement.
John Sinclair is the fastest of foot and is out of reach of the rest. He is from John the fisherman and it’s not him, although I will take him on his twenty second year when he is washed ashore, his boat sinking off Callaness point.
Iain Grant, from the Islands, is a bold lad of nine. He will see his life out to be one hun-dred and three years and will chronicle the events to occur here. He is an inquisitive boy not interested in using his energy in the school yard. But more, he is a taibshear, one who sees the taibhes, those who have left their world form to come with me. He has the an da shealladh, the second sight, and can predict a passing. He is aware of me in his midst, though avoids me, like all taibshear do.
The lad trailing Mary is a dark, swarthy child from the lowlands. He is new to these parts, but not to me, and he will be mine soon. It is he I am here for. The rest of the children are of no consequence to me at this time.
The teacher claps her hands to herald the end of playtime and a return to the classroom. The children line up instinctively and filter in one by one up the ramp and through the door of the school house. It takes minutes for them to disappear inside. I hesitate, taking in the scene, and don’t follow, but there is a rich reward for me in a highland school, a place to foresee the inevitable from very early on.
It is time for the boy, Calum Rooney.