If the light catches the coast of west Cork right at the fade of a humid August Friday, the scene can be almost Aegean, a postcard view of scattered islands and rugged headlands in a sunset so beautiful it seems computer-enhanced. But then, as you drive carefree through the gloaming along the narrow twisting roads, the sense of paradisiacal calm is suddenly pierced by the blare of the local radio news, in all its grim detail.
She was eight years old, the newsreader said, and had been wandering near the Warren Strand outside Rosscarbery. It's a popular beach and, by early on Friday afternoon, it would have already been milling with sun-seekers, mostly from Cork city, eager to get a good head start on the weekend. She was looking for her parents when the car pulled up.
The young girl was bundled into the car by the lone male driver. He drove the couple of miles back into Rosscarbery, the child anxious and confused beside him. He stopped the car, apparently to inspect some abandoned buildings. But the girl was brave. She saw her chance, jumped from the car and ran to safety.
At just eight years old, there was only so much detail she could give. The car was red and may have been a Nissan or a Mazda. The seats had a black and grey check pattern. The man was probably around 29 or 30 years old and had a Dublin accent. He wore blue jeans and a black jumper and a black baseball cap with the Nike logo. A week later, gardai in Clonakilty say they've had a few calls, but not many. The chances of catching up with this man are receding.
Travelling around west Cork the day after the abduction, it was clear that the word had spread in worried side-mouth whispers. When you talked with shopkeepers or barmen, it was the first topic, after the weather. In the hotels and B&Bs, in the caravan parks and campsites, wherever parents were gathered, it would have been a source of anxiety.
Paedophile-fear has become a real and dark undercurrent this summer. It's just a few short weeks, after all, since the abduction and murder of Sarah Payne in Sussex. Any parent exposed to the vast coverage of that crime must have thought: "what if?" Would have been incapable, in fact, of not imagining themselves at the epicentre of that nightmare, imagining themselves as Sarah's parents, dark-eyed and hollow-cheeked with grief and disbelief.
There has been the subsequent "naming-and-shaming" of paedophiles in some of the tabloids; there have been witch-hunts and near-riots as convicted child sex offenders are run out of housing estates. There have been demands for registers, and arguments against.
And now, from just a few miles down the road in Rosscarbery, comes confirmation that not only do such sick people really exist, but that they're nearby, very much in our midst, cruising in a red Nissan or Mazda. New anxiety springs from the dawning reality that we live in a country with its fair share of paedophiles and pederasts, sex offenders, child molesters and baby snatchers.
This is not hyperbole: just open your newspaper. There are so many of these stories that the abduction at Warren Strand rated just a couple of paragraphs in a couple of newspapers; a couple of rotations on the radio news.
But on the ground, for all the childtoting weekenders, the event in Rosscarbery sent a squall of paranoia down the coast of west Cork.
The next day was one of the busiest Saturdays of the summer and, uncharacteristically, the sun had obliged, the rays at last breaching the cloudbank and drenching the beaches and villages and the low-slung mountains. It should have been a halcyon day, the kind that memories are made of, but any parent who had heard that radio newscast would have been distracted, their thoughts drifting again and again to the dark place.
Paranoia is viral, it throws suspicion on everything and everybody.
There's a red car. Is it a Nissan, or a Mazda? There's a man alone, about 30, does he have a Dublin accent? The guy in the pub, wasn't he wearing a Nike cap?
This isn't new. For 10 years now, since the first major rash of paedophile court cases, Irish parents have been wise to the evil around them. They have developed antennae for danger signs and there has been a change to the feel of our public spaces, the places where the kids roam. Like the seaside. I like to walk a beach on my own. I like to listen undistracted to the easeful drag of the tide. I've lately talked to some friends who have a similar taste and we've agreed that a man walking an Irish beach alone these days somehow feels he has to give evidence of an innocent agenda.
It's true, you do. You smile in gurgling appreciation at the antics of the small 'uns, but you never get too close. You don't talk to the kids unless their parents are around. You get used to being sized up, evaluated as a potential risk. The mums are open about it, they stare at you owlishly, tight-lipped. The dads are a little more shy, but you can tell they're checking you out too. It's uncomfortable, but you know that you would do exactly the same. Your very biology would insist on it. So you do what you can to project the picture of innocence.
The incident at Rosscarbery will quickly be forgotten by most, if not by those directly affected. Paedophile cases will continue to surface and it is likely that a sex offenders register will be introduced here next year. In the meantime, gardai in west Cork have warned parents to be vigilant and on the alert. But parents in the summer of Y2K hardly need to be told.
