Turbulent Wake

by Paul E. Hardisty

  The young man shook his head. ‘We just met.’

  The woman pursed her lips and held out a slim red-and-black print newspaper. ‘Copy of the An Phoblacht?’ She rattled the tin that hung on a string around her neck. ‘Money for the cause?’

  ‘What’s the Phoblacht?’ said the young man, mangling the pronunciation.

  ‘War news,’ she said with a you’ve-got-to-be-joking twist on her lips.

  The young man reached into his pocket and dropped three one-pound coins into the tin.

  ‘Bless you,’ said the woman, already moving away, canvassing other patrons.

  The young man set his half-finished pint on a table and opened the paper. He read that in the aftermath of the bombing at Enniskillen on Remembrance Day, which the IRA described as a monumental error, loyalist paramilitaries were carrying out revenge attacks on Catholics across Belfast.

  As he sat reading, the music started. A five-piece band played on a small stage across from the bar, Irish pipes and fiddles. Seán was up there, a flute pressed to his lips. Everyone in the place was standing. Bodies swayed to the music, neighbours linked arms. Voices rose spontaneously in chorus, strange ballads in a language the young man did not understand, melodies of longing and loss, of being far from home. He stood transfixed, carried along. He thought of his own home, so far away, under snow now. He thought of Helena, of what she’d said to him the last time he’d seen her, when she’d ended it.

  And then, too soon, the band leader was thanking the audience, and the final number began. Everyone stood. Voices rose together, singing in that haunting ancient language. Old men swayed, hands on hearts, tears streaming across their ruddy, bearded cheeks. The final notes hung a moment in the thickened cigarette air and it was over. The front doors were thrown open. The smell of winter rain and wet city pavement flooded the place, the cold wind carrying in dead leaves and scraps of rubbish. People moved towards the doors, disappeared into the night. The young man folded the paper, slipped it into the inside breast pocket of his jacket and started for the exit.

  He was at the end of the bar, not far from the doors, when he felt a hand on his elbow. The grip was strong and forced him to turn. It was Seán.

  ‘Stay for another,’ Seán said, still holding the young man’s elbow.

  ‘I’ve got to get back,’ said the young man, looking down at Seán’s hand, back up at his face. ‘Classes tomorrow.’

  ‘Ah yeah, the engineer,’ said Seán, smiling. ‘Building a better world.’

  ‘That’s why I’m here.’

  Sean was guiding him towards the bar now, against the outward flow of those leaving. ‘Come on. Just one,’ he said. ‘Never know if it might be your last.’

  The young man braced his legs, stopped. He was taller by a few inches, but he was pretty sure that Seán was stronger, and from the look of him could handle himself. ‘Look,’ he said. ‘I really appreciate it. But I’ve really got to get going.’

  Seán smiled and let go of his elbow. ‘Sorry, friend,’ he said. ‘I get a little carried away sometimes. It’s like I said. We like Americans here.’ He smiled again. It was a big smile, full of straight white teeth. He was a good-looking guy. ‘Sorry, yeah. I meant North Americans.’ He looked down at the floor. When he looked back up his smile was gone. ‘We’re both a long way from home, yeah. Have a drink with me and then we’ll go.’

  The young man looked around. The place was almost empty now, and there was no sign of the two men that Seán had been talking to earlier, before the singing. He followed Seán to the bar. Two pints of Guinness were waiting for them, along with a four-pack of tinnies. Seán lit a cigarette, inhaled deep. They drank and watched the last stragglers leave the pub.

  ‘What was that song you were all singing, there at the end?’ asked the young man.

  ‘The Amhrán na bhFiann,’ said Seán, downing his pint. ‘“The Soldier’s Song”. My song.’ He slammed his glass on the bar. ‘Let’s go.’

  The young man finished his drink and followed Seán to the door. Outside, the rain was coming down hard. It was gone midnight and the street was empty both ways, just the forlorn flashing of the yellow globe light at the pedestrian crossing nearby and the rain sheeting across the lamplit pavement.

  ‘Thanks again for the beer,’ said the young man. ‘Nice meeting you.’ Then he raised the collar of his jacket and crossed the road, turned left and started towards Kilburn Tube station, feeling as if he’d escaped something. He’d just passed the all-you-can-eat buffet Indian place he’d eaten at before going into the pub – all closed up now, its windows barred and doors padlocked – when Seán jogged up beside him.

  ‘Hold up there a minute,’ he said.

  The young man stopped, faced him.

  Seán held out his hand. ‘You dropped this,’ he said.

  The young man looked. It was a Canadian passport. His. ‘Holy Jesus,’ he said. ‘Where did you find it?’

  ‘On the floor in the pub,’ said Seán, ripping a tinny from the plastic holder. ‘You should be more careful.’

  ‘Thanks.’ The young man slipped the passport into the front pocket of his jeans. He had no idea how it could have fallen out. He must be drunker than he’d thought. ‘Thanks a lot.’

  Seán handed him a can of beer. The young man took it, opened it, gulped down half the contents.

  Seán smiled at him, opened one himself. ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘I’m going to the station, too. It’s not far.’

  They started walking. After a few steps, Seán stopped cold. ‘Shite,’ he said. A police car was up ahead, crawling towards them, very slowly, high beams on. ‘Here we go,’ he said.

  ‘Here we go what?’ said the young man, watching the car creep closer. It was on the same side of the street as they were, in the nearside lane.

  ‘Fecking cops. Always harassing us. It’s been worse since Enniskillen.’

  The young man took another sip of beer. ‘We’re not doing anything wrong.’ They kept walking. A second car had appeared now, behind the first, rolling towards them at walking pace, no more. The young man was on the outside of the pavement, closest to the road.

  ‘Step back from the kerb,’ said Seán. ‘Don’t provoke them.’

  ‘Provoke them? Just by walking on the pavement?’

  Just then, the lead police car nudged in, so that its tyres were right up against the kerb. The rubber made a squeaking sound as the tyres flexed against the guttersides. The car was less than twenty metres away from them.

  Seán grabbed his elbow, tried to pull him back from the edge of the pavement, but the young man jerked his arm away. ‘Move,’ said Seán. The car was close now.

  The young man set himself so that he was walking right on the edge of the kerb, towards the approaching car. He could see the two cops looking out at him from behind the windscreen. They wore peaked caps and black bullet-proof vests.

  The car grazed the young man’s hip like a slow-motion bull charging a matador. As it did, its side wing mirror clipped him and snapped back on its hinges.

  ‘Shite,’ said Seán.

  As soon as the car made contact it slammed to a halt. Doors flung open and the two cops were out and facing them, hands on belts. They were big guys, tall and broad-chested, bulked up by their gear. ‘You hit the car,’ one of the cops bellowed.

  ‘I didn’t hit it,’ said the young man. ‘I was on the pavement. You hit me.’

  ‘Fucking Micks,’ said the other cop.

  ‘You fucking hit the car,’ shouted the first one.

  ‘Look, we’re sorry,’ said Seán, backing away.

  ‘What the hell is this?’ said the young man, holding his ground. ‘We’re minding our own business, walking home. We have every right to be here. We’ve done nothing wrong.’ Behind him, Seán was backing away.

  The two cops glanced at each other.

  ‘We’ve got a fucking barrister here,’ said the second cop, his mouth wrenched into something that may have been a grin.

  ‘Don�
�t you have anything better to do?’ said the young man, getting into his stride now. ‘Go and chase some real criminals.’

  The second cop pulled out his night stick, palmed it. ‘Fucking genius, you are,’ he hissed.

  ‘Right, you’ve been told,’ said the first cop. He started towards them.

  ‘What is this?’ said the young man, angry now, alcohol fuelling the heat rising inside him. ‘We’re perfectly within our rights to walk here. What the hell is this? Some kind of police state?’

  The first cop was closing on him now. ‘Rights? What rights, you fucking scum?’

  The young man, who’d played a lot of ice hockey and Canadian football, flung his half-empty beer can at the cop, crouched low and charged. He didn’t really know why he did it, didn’t think about it. The can missed the cop’s head, but the spray caught him in the face, momentarily blinding him. The young man hit the cop square in the hips with a full tackle, knocking him off his feet and spearing him into the pavement. He heard a crack as the back of the cop’s head hit the concrete and then a hiss as the air came out of the cop’s lungs.

  Half an hour later, the young man was standing before a wooden desk. The second cop from the street stood beside him. Behind the desk, a uniformed police sergeant with a thick grey moustache sat looking through a passport. On the desk were the young man’s wallet, a return tube ticket from South Kensington, and a folded copy of the An Phoblacht. The young man ran his tongue over his lower lip, explored the thick heat of the split there, checked his teeth to see they were all still in his head. He was pretty sure his nose was broken, could already feel his eyes swelling up. His ribs ached and the handcuffs bit into his wrists.

  The sergeant put down the passport and looked up at him. ‘What were you doing in that pub, young man?’ His voice was like far off thunder, deep and resonant.

  ‘I just went in for a drink, sir. That’s all.’

  The sergeant picked up the An Phoblacht, started leafing through the pages. ‘Why are you in the United Kingdom?’ he said without looking up.

  ‘I’m doing a master’s degree in engineering at Imperial College. My student card is in my wallet.’

  The sergeant opened his wallet, found the card, pulled it out. ‘And is assaulting police officers part of the curriculum now at that august institution?’

  The young man hung his head. ‘No, sir. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have.’

  ‘No, you bloody well should not have,’ said the sergeant, replacing the student card. ‘The gentleman you were walking with at the time of your arrest, how do you know him?’

  ‘I met him in the bar.’

  ‘Did you know him previously?’

  ‘No, sir. We had a couple of beers together is all.’

  ‘What did you talk about?’

  ‘Not much really. He was playing in the band mostly.’

  ‘One of those,’ laughed the second cop. ‘Fucking queen, he is.’

  The sergeant glanced at the cop, leaned forwards across the desk. ‘I want you to tell me everything that he said to you, everything he did.’

  The young man recounted as much of their conversation as he could. ‘Two men came into the place,’ he said. ‘Seán – that was his name – spoke to them. They knew each other.’

  The sergeant reached into a drawer and withdrew a black-and-white A4 photograph. It was grainy and slightly out of focus – two men in heavy coats standing in front of a building. ‘Were these the men?’

  The young man nodded. His stomach was churning now, that feeling that he was in real trouble creeping through him.

  ‘Put him in the pit,’ said the sergeant.

  The cell was bare and cold so he could see his own breath. The only light came from a small barred opening in the riveted steel door. The other occupant was a very thin and badly beaten young Irishman who lay shivering on the floor, mumbling to himself. The young man sat in the corner with his arms wrapped around his knees and observed the clear and present slowing of time. Seconds measured in the long contractions of the Irishman’s breathing. Minutes announced by the hollow slamming of steel doors, hours thinking about home, about Helena and how he’d fucked it all up, and of the chaos that seemed the only governing force in the world.

  Come morning, he was led to a holding room, and then on to a police van. Six other men in various states of dishevelment sat silently as the streets of London rolled past under scattered cloud and shifting islands of bright sunshine. Twenty minutes later, they arrived at a large building with a secure, wired receiving area. The young man was led through a long corridor and down two flights of Victorian ironwork stairs to what could only be called a dungeon – a large arched central space with barred holding cells ranged around on three sides. His cell was the size of a prairie outhouse, so small he couldn’t stand and was forced to crouch and lean up against the brick walls.

  A kid with fair hair and tattooed forearms watched him from the cell opposite. After a while he said: ‘What you in for, guv?’

  ‘I hit a cop,’ said the young man.

  The kid laughed.

  ‘You?’

  ‘I nicked a motor, didn’t I?’ he said in a thick London accent.

  Just then, the main door to the dungeon opened. A young woman in a navy-blue skirt and matching jacket strode in. She had long legs and dark hair pulled back into a ponytail.

  ‘Phwoar,’ said the kid, smiling big. ‘Here you go.’ Whistles echoed around the place.

  The woman stood a moment, checked her notebook and approached the young man’s cell. ‘I am your public defender,’ she said.

  ‘Hi,’ said the young man, trying a smile.

  ‘We don’t have long,’ she said. ‘Your arraignment is in ten minutes, so let’s get started.’ She read the police report to him. He had attacked and damaged a police car, hurled beer cans at officers, and assaulted and hospitalised a policeman. His actions had been unprovoked. ‘Prosecution is moving for deportation,’ she said, looking up from her notes through a pair of dark-rimmed glasses. Her skin was flawless.

  A fizz ran through him, pooled in his extremities.

  ‘Tell me what happened.’

  He told her. ‘They initiated it. Not me. Ask the guy I was with. He can confirm it.’

  ‘Seán? Seán Savage?’

  ‘Yes. Seán.’

  The woman closed her notebook. She looked about his age, midtwenties. ‘After you hit the constable, the other policemen chased him, but he got away.’

  His word against that of four policemen. Not good. Still, he was glad Seán had been spared the beating he would surely also have taken. ‘Look,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry for what I did. It was stupid. I was drunk and angry at being harassed. I’m halfway through my degree. I’m paying a lot of money to be here.’

  ‘We should be able to get you off with a year’s probation,’ she said. ‘Keep out of trouble from hereon in and you’ll be able to stay. They don’t care about you.’

  Relief flooded through him. ‘Thank you,’ he said.

  She made to leave.

  ‘Wait,’ he said.

  She stopped, turned to face him.

  ‘What do you mean, they don’t care about me?’

  ‘Don’t worry about that. We’re going up in a few minutes. Just remember to be contrite. Be honest, but express regret. Be polite.’

  By now, everyone was crowding around the TV. The BBC reporter was on location, standing in a sunny street somewhere. Behind her, cars streamed in both directions. The red information bar at the bottom of the screen read: Breaking news. SAS operatives in operation against suspected IRA terrorists in Gibraltar. The reporter started her story: suspected terrorists, two men and a woman, were planning an attack on a military installation in Gibraltar. After a tip-off, the group was confronted by security forces in the forecourt of a petrol station. Two of the terrorists, Mairéad Farrel and Daniel McCann, were shot dead immediately. The third escaped and was chased through the streets by the soldiers. When he turned to confront the
m, he was killed by multiple gunshots to the head and body. He had been tentatively identified, the reporter said, as Seán Savage.

  March 12th. Geneva

  Walked all day today, south along the lake until I left the city behind, then up into the foothills. Spring is coming now, the first crocuses pushing through the grass, early buds on the trees. If you want to think, if you need to think, walk.

  So, I walk. I think about my dad. I know something about losing a brother, about the sheer absence that lives inside you every day for the rest of your life. But to lose a brother like that. And then, with what happened to Adam. My brother, but his son. The weight of it. What happened that day at the lake? Where was he taking him, carrying him from the landing like that? And why did they never tell me what happened?

  I think of Rachel. When she was born, I remember holding her little body in my hands and saying, ‘Hello there, little one.’ And as she grew, I took every day as it came, as if there would be no end to the flow of days. No one ever told me that one day it would be over. Guilt floods me like cold water. I keep walking. Eventually, I find a bistro, order a beer and then another, and when I finally leave, the sun is low in the sky and I am so drunk I don’t feel the cold.

  When I get back to the hotel it’s late. I turn on my phone. Two emails from my boss, asking about the Borschmann contract. Four text messages from Constantina. No photos. Just questions. Questions to which I have no answers.

  I stare at the screen for a time, start to grovel out a reply to my boss, apologies, explanations, rationalisations. I stop mid-sentence, reread what I’ve written, and then delete it and turn off my phone. I call down to the front desk and ask them to bring up a bottle of whisky and some ice. All they have is Bell’s and I tell them that’s fine. Just fine.

  Twenty years ago, I wanted to be an architect. Design fabulous public buildings and sports complexes that people would marvel at long after I was dead. For a time, I got into carpentry, thought it would be good to make a living with my hands. I was pretty good on a motorbike, too, and for a while I thought I might take up racing, see how far I could get on the circuit. Not sure now, looking back, where I lost the direction. I guess I just slowly convinced myself that those weren’t the right dreams, that there were other, more practical, achievable ones to set for. Maybe none of them were the right ones, after all.