Short Storm

by Hegarty, David

  Doyle replied quickly.

  “Those two people were made for a better world than this one. And that’s where they are now. Your brother has his own ideas on what the world is and, as for you, you know no one’ll ever say anything to you or the children. They all think Steven’s a patriot, a misguided one maybe, but a patriot nonetheless, and one who isn’t afraid to back up his convictions.”

  He was glad to have relatively good news to give her.

  “He wasn’t caught with the other two because he had a safe place and friends to go to.”

  “A safe house?” she asked. “Is it in Dublin?”

  Her voice caught and she looked at him, reaching for his outstretched leg.

  “He’s not gone north again?”

  He looked back at his wife.

  “No. Not a safe house. A boat. And no, he’s not gone north. I don’t think he will be going there either.” He nodded to the boat. “We’ve got him. He’s well and he’s fit. He’ll soon be outside this jurisdiction to a place where there’s no extradition.”

  She looked at her husband’s strong profile. The dim table light behind them cast his head in strong shadow. She wanted to thank him and let him know of her gratitude. She knew that words were inadequate. And he wasn’t her man of eleven years, and a lifetime before that, for nothing. He put his cup down, lay one hand on his knee and the other gently over her hand resting on his thigh.

  A half moon lit the drifting sea before them. The pier stood in dark relief against the reflecting surface. A soft draught blew in from the south-west. The Atlantic rolled in gently on the distant shore, the sound carrying softly to where the couple sat.

  “He’s safe and well,” Doyle said.

  He knew Eileen would want to ask about Steven, but she would also be aware that Doyle had put up with him for three days, at great risk to his own safety.

  She lightly squeezed his thigh.

  “You’re more than we deserve.”

  “Not you,” he answered, making a light laugh of it, for he wanted to change the direction the night was taking. “But maybe him, maybe more than he deserves.”

  The words were hardly out when he regretted them. It was a time you couldn’t joke about. It was like trying to be humorous at a funeral. Nor could he make light of her brother’s predicament, or of his associations and intentions. They were all too damned serious and she was just as liable to get hurt by any of them. He dismissed any danger to himself. If it arose he would deal with it then. In whatever way was necessary. He felt a surge of conflicting emotions — anger, hate for Steven, protective and aggressive love for his wife.

  “No, that’s not true and I don’t mean it,” he said, “even as a joke.”

  He took her hand under his for emphasis.

  They sat silently for a time, listening to the night, the bicycles passing on the nearby road, the occasional motor car cranking and grinding its way up to the village, the snatches of conversation and laughter of young men and women as they passed. Soon the warm draught changed and a chill air came in through the open window. The moon-lit sea showed a new clarity and brightness. Slowly, almost unnoticeable, a darker mass gathered in the air. The rolling of the surf on the beach became deeper, stronger, incessant. The first few drops of rain came. Doyle got up, closed the big double bay window and turned to his wife.

  “C’mon,” he said, taking her by the hand. “It’s time we got some rest.”

  Chapter Four

  The boat he was hiding on was new. For one who was on the run from the law and others, Cullen counted himself a lucky man. The smells were not the usual ones in fishing vessels. The paint, fresh oils, ropes and grease of the equipment still hung in the air. It would change of course. But he knew that this would always be a clean ship. Like her skipper. She would be a good example of a well-run boat.

  He moved from the darkness of the cabin corner to the porthole. Even a porthole was a luxury, not at all like the primitive, purely functional sleeping quarters of the older, smaller fishing boats. He looked out towards the village, just in time to see the light go out in the downstairs bay window of his brother-in-law’s house.

  He didn’t dislike Doyle now. In many ways he was grateful to him, not only for the protection Doyle gave him now when he needed it, but also for caring for his sister and for his parents when they had been alive. Ironically, the kindness that Doyle had shown them and the happiness they had with him in their last years were the resentments that Cullen might have held against Doyle.

  He heard voices on the pier — calm, evening-soft voices of strolling men. Snatches of conversation drifted across to him. He knelt on the bunk, listening. From the tone of the voices, he imagined that a few of the fishermen were on the pier for a walk, admiring and discussing the new boat in the fleet.

  With curiosity, Cullen listened. He was hoping he might hear a familiar tone or expression, an exclamation, anything that might identify the talkers. But they only stayed a short while, speaking quietly, then wandered off up the pier again.

  Cullen sighed and sat back on his haunches. He felt deprived. That was what he felt mostly these days. He was open enough to realise he had no future with his former associates. They’d never let him out now. He knew it was nothing personal on their part. He just didn’t fit the machinery anymore. He knew too much to be allowed to wander around the world at will. He was a walking diary of events, names, places and dates.

  He sighed heavily. He wanted a drink. No, he wanted a lot more than a drink. He wanted to get out of the cabin and go up the pier in the clean fresh air. He wanted to breeze through the door of Bannion’s Pub and lose himself in the noise and smoke and banter of the normal Sunday night drinking. That part of his life was over. Gone forever.

  The realisation steadied him. That’s enough, he told himself. Enough of the self-pity. Enough of the dreaming about what can’t be anymore. Get on with what you’ve got to do. His acceptances gave him comfort.

  Of course there was the money. That would help. He was already in a much better position than he had been a week previously. He’d faced a long jail sentence at best. So, he told himself, he was winning, was doing well.

  The moon shone through the portholes, lighting the darkness, giving dim shapes to items which his night-accustomed eyes could see clearly. He started to tidy the bottles, plate and cup. He’d have it clean when his brother-in-law arrived. It was the least he could do. It would demonstrate respect. Doyle would appreciate that.

  Chapter Five

  It was shortly after midnight when the steel tips of Doyle’s leather boots rung out on the pier. The village was asleep. The lights of the pier had been put out.

  The half-moon was generous. He could identify every half-shadow and nuance of light, as he could have even on a cloudy night. The breeze had dropped entirely and the air was calm. The only sounds were his footfalls and the lapping of the water around the hulls of the moored fleet.

  He reached the spot where his own boat was moored, the third vessel out from the pier. With care and sureness, he picked his way down onto the hull nearest him and crossed over to his own. He went to the wheel-cabin and rapped lightly twice on the deck with his steel heel. He went into the cabin and switched on the light. He made a quick preparation check of controls, fuel, log and record cards, then went below to the main cabin. He went to the aft cabin, where Cullen was hiding. There he drew the curtains, then switched on the light.

  Cullen raised his body onto one elbow. He squinted at Doyle.

  “OK?” Doyle asked. “No problems?”

  Sean Doyle looked around the cabin and saw with gratification that his guest had tidied his quarters. He turned to Cullen and said, “We’ll be off tonight. The boys’ll be along any minute. I don’t expect trouble, but you can’t be certain. So stay low ’til we’re well out. I’ll let you know when you can come up.”

  Cullen asked, “Is your crew the same? The three we came down with?”

  “Aye. They’ll be here any minute. I
’m going inside to change. You stay here.” Doyle paused for a moment at the small exit door. “I’ll leave your light on if you want. So long as you stay low, there’s no need to be in the dark.”

  They didn’t have time to speak further as the heavy clump of waders sounded over the boats beside them.

  Two men approached, climbing over the gunwales of the boats and clambering over ropes and tie-posts to their ship. Even with the unsteadiness of step, Doyle recognised the movements of Peter McCann and T.J. Wills. That was the thing about living on a boat with other men. You came to recognise their movements, just as you’d recognise their steps. Each man had his own grasp, haul, step, climb, sigh, effort.

  Peter McCann was twenty-five and the acting second-in-command of the vessel. He was distantly related to Doyle. When he had been chosen for a position on the new vessel, he had been pleased. He hadn’t been certain whether Doyle had approved of his performance or not. The position was a strong vote of confidence in him and a boost to his own self-esteem.

  It was even more so because he revered Doyle.

  T.J. Wills was an orphan. At twenty-four, he had come to the conclusion that he had been a very fortunate man to be adopted into the McCann family. They were good crewmen. Doyle was glad of them.

  “Sean?” Peter McCann’s voice came down to him.

  As the skipper, it was Doyle’s duty to check his crew as they came aboard. It wasn’t a formal lineup. The younger men just stood and let their skipper check them over for what they were wearing and whether or not they had sufficient gear in their lockers for heavy weather. Doyle had never contributed to the romantic notion of gnarled fingers, humped backs, incessant coughs and bronchial wheezes.

  McCann and Wills were adequately equipped. As Doyle put his own shoreclothes into the large locker beside his bunk, he spoke over his shoulder.

  “Check your weather gear. If there’s anything damp, I want it all out and the locker dried.”

  The two younger men set to their work willingly. As Doyle reached the steps to go up top, he said, nodding in the direction of Cullen’s cabin,

  “Leave yer man alone. If he speaks, just tell ’im you’re busy.” Almost as an afterthought, he asked, “Where’s Seamus?”

  The answers from both the younger men were too quick.

  “On his way,” said McCann.

  “He had to see his aunt,” said Wills.

  Doyle checked his gauges and meters, then did a full-run test on his echo-sounding equipment. He was very proud of this instrument. He knew that this alone would help him pay for the boat in the seven years he had to clear the loan. It was the key to a decent living for him and his family, the introduction to a whole new era.

  He was flicking off the switches, familiarising himself with the controls and switches, when he heard the approaching footsteps. He recognised Seamus Pritchard’s steps instantly, but noticed a slight unevenness. He listened more intently. For a moment there was silence, then a heavy thud, a couple of stumbles.

  “Bloody clown,” muttered Doyle.

  He wanted to be fair. After six years, Seamus Pritchard should have been the automatic choice as his second-in-command. He looked out into the well of light thrown out from the wheel cabin onto the deck.

  Pritchard came into the pale yellow brightness. He was dressed for shore in suit, shoes, shirt and tie. His appearance was dishevelled. As he came into the cabin, nearer the bright light, the full extent of his untidiness became clear. His left eye was an angry lump, working its way to a shiny black mound, and his mouth was swollen, making his sneer distort his whole face and giving it the look of a bruised mask. Otherwise he was a handsome man. He was as tall as Doyle, and as broad. He had an open face topped with thick curly black hair and carried himself well. But when confronted with anything, his eyes shifted and his lips pursed slightly in muted petulance.

  Doyle decided that the details could wait for another time.

  “Can you work?” he asked.

  The younger man stood in front of him.

  “Aren’t I here?”

  “Go below and get ready,” Doyle said. “We put out in ten minutes.”

  Pritchard moved to the steps.

  “Aye, aye, sir,” he muttered.

  It was one of those incidents which Doyle would have to file in his mind, and on the record, of the younger man. But he had other things on his mind now. There was the boat to get ready and moving, the journey, and the rendezvous. The sooner they got Cullen from the confines of their own craft and onto the French craft, the better.

  Chapter Six

  Cullen stood near the stern of the trawler, watching the frothy tumble churning out from the propeller and the pathway it drew in hills and bumps over the surface of the sea. He enjoyed the feel of the engine powering them through the troughs and crests. The force, the solidity, the sense of motion all combined to raise his spirits and gave him a sense of optimism. Being confined to a cabin was stifling. It was better than a prison cell, but after a while even the companions don’t help and the only thing you want is air, fresh air, the air that smells and tastes of freedom. Only that air, filling nostrils and lungs, could give him that sense of liberty. The sky and sea, the vast expanse he could view through a porthole meant nothing, until he could stand outside as a living part of it. Then he could breathe it and taste it, feel the wind on his cheeks and the sting of salt on his lips.

  He could think about the money. He knew he mustn’t rush that part. He could easily wreck the whole plan for the want of a few day’s patience. After what he’d come through, he had no intention of losing it now. Not the money. Not the freedom.

  He turned and looked forward to the first pale hint of dawn in the eastern sky. He walked to the front of the ship, where he could see the fresh white roll of foam as it washed out from under the charging bow. There was a constant sound of heavy splashing as the broad prow ploughed the lumpy surface. He watched the steering cabin, could see the tall figure of Doyle through the half-glass door. He’d see Doyle right for all this. And the fellow deserved it. Of course, it would settle the debt he had to Doyle. It would never level it. No money could do that. He combed his fingers through his hair, surprised at how soaked his face and hands were. He was glad of the big waterproof jacket Doyle had insisted he wear. Huh! More debt.

  He thought of the money again and wondered if anyone except himself, Kelly and O’Brien knew the correct amount. Reports in the media had stated amounts of up to fifty thousand. They had counted out over twice that amount. That had been a good job all right. And sure, what the hell, even though they’d been arrested two days afterwards, they’d had time to hide the money. But Kelly and O’Brien were back inside now. That was tough, he thought, especially for Kelly. He was a good fellow.

  It was O’Brien that caused him concern. Kieran O’Brien would run with the hare, hunt with the hound. He would change sides and betray loyalties with a relish that made Cullen wonder why the hell he had ever agreed to include him in their operations. He knew O’Brien would be in touch with Maguire and his crowd — that O’Brien, out of malice, if nothing else, would tell Maguire where the money was.

  The thought sobered him, pulled him up and erased the good feeling he’d been enjoying. The fact angered him and for a moment or two he seethed silently while his hatred and frustration filled him. He told himself he’d better keep his mind like that. A hundred and fifteen thousand is a lot of money.

  A rogue wave slapped the topside of the trawler sideways and splashed a high shower of spray all over him. Exhilarated, he shook his head and decided he’d try to find a coffee. Or something to eat. The air made him hungry.

  He held the railing all the way to the wheel-house. The boat had changed direction slightly and was heading east. She was taking the sea beam-on and was having to cope with a slight roll. The spray was fine but constant. The decks were thoroughly wet. Cullen shivered. Water was beginning to drip from his hair down his neck and back. He reached the wheel-house and knocked. Doyl
e motioned him in and shook his head.

  “Wind’s rising,” said Cullen.

  “Aye,” said Doyle. “Glass is droppin’ too. Let’s hope we meet these mates of yours before it blows up. Forecast’s not brilliant. I don’t want to be bangin’ round here like a flea in a bucket.”

  Cullen sounded slightly surprised when he spoke. “Surely there’s no problem in this one where the weather’s concerned?”

  Doyle gave him a quick glance.

  “It’s not that. How the hell are we goin’ to get you aboard with a big sea runnin’? There’s somethin’ else too. The coastguard’s in the area. They’re over by Hook Head, about twelve miles away.”

  Cullen nodded. If the coastguard even heard of a foreign trawler in the area, they’d be over as fast as they could to let the boat know it had better stay off the Irish limits. Cullen’s eyes followed the outstretched finger of Doyle’s. To the south-west, thick masses of clouds were shifting in quickly.

  “It’s only a squall,” said Doyle. “But it could hang around for a while.”

  He gave Cullen a concerned look. “The thing is, it’s headed for our rendezvous point and should be there in about half an hour.”

  As if to confirm what he had just said, a sudden whistle of wind hit the windows on the starboard side of the cabin. A small shower of spray sprinkled the glass.

  “Coffee?” he asked Cullen.

  For twenty minutes they said little. Doyle had ordered coffee from the galley. T.J. Wills brought it up, placed it quickly and quietly in the cup holders and disappeared below again. The hot drinks did both men good. They took them heavily sugared and Cullen could feel the warmth spread through him. The clouds were nearly on them. The wind had risen, driving the seas in a fast and white-topped march from the broad Atlantic. Both men had remained silent since the radio message. Garbled as it had sounded, indistinct, they had been able to communicate with the Frenchman and were scouring the horizon.