Short Storm

by Hegarty, David

  “…down.”

  He hung tight and listened and tried to think. And then he heard it plainly:

  “Come on down. We’ll do it then.”

  It came to him. He realised what they were saying. They’d hauled the flag in from the sea, had it off the rope and were waiting for him to come down so they could haul up the other one.

  Gingerly he dropped his hands over the edge of the mast tip and fractionally loosened them around the circumference. He was aware of his trembling legs relaxing slightly in their grip. He was moving before he knew it. On the wet surface of the pole, McCann completed his descent in about three seconds. He was only vaguely aware of arms around him as his limbs, exhausted from the effort, let go and dropped him to the deck.

  Chapter Nine

  Doyle steered straight to the French boat. He knew now that she was headed towards him and the relief gave him confidence. Now, if only those clowns at the stern would get that bloody flag up. He glanced back to where the drama was taking place. He could see McCann sliding down the pole and falling in a heap, surrounded by the others. Leave him, he thought. Get the damn flag up. He turned back to the bow. The French boat was nearer; he could see the wake from her bows. She was coming on fast. Or was she turning? Christ!

  He moved instinctively. His hand reached out and hauled firmly on the throttle handle. A shudder rumbled through the hull and the ship ploughed forward into the ocean swell. He glanced behind again. The signal was running up the mast. He swung back to the wheel.

  The French boat had nearly completed her turn. Doyle looked behind again. The signal was flying high and the men were gathered around the bottom of the mast, bending over the fallen McCann. The Stella charged on at full throttle. She was catching up fast on the French boat, which had now completed her turn and was off the port bow of the charging trawler. Doyle could see clearly the boat ahead of him, the length of the hull and the crew at the stern watching him approach. The Stella roared on, shuddering and heaving in the sea as the power of the engine pushed her to her maximum capacity. He had gained on the French boat. He picked up the binoculars, held them in his left hand with his elbow against the pillar of the cabin to steady himself. A tinge of excitement caught him. He was closer than he’d hoped and the Frenchman wasn’t increasing speed or veering off. Instead, he was holding his course and speed. Doyle put the binoculars down and gripped the wheel in one hand. His spirits lifted.

  The crew at the stern of the French boat waved to them. Doyle noticed that his men, including McCann, were up on their feet at the port gunwale and waving back at the others.

  “Bloody halfwits,” he said to himself, but not crossly, like earlier when he’d been threatening to let the younger two, McCann and Pritchard, swim ashore. He’d been impressed by McCann’s climb up the pole. It was true bravery. Typical, thought Doyle. He was glad McCann had done it and not Pritchard. He’d have hated to give Pritchard the credit. And, he reminded himself, the one thing he wanted to be was fair. So much the better if the fairness coincided with his wishes. He brought the Stella to a halt, put her in slow reverse and let the French boat drift ahead, for she was moving very slowly now. Cullen came up to the wheel-house. He grinned at Doyle and opened the door.

  “That was close enough, Sean. Fair play to you. I don’t know it anyone else would’ve got us up to her before Marcel triggered off.”

  Doyle could sense his relief, and it made him wary. He was aware that when coming to the end of any operation, mistakes were made. Doyle figured that what Cullen should be doing now, instead of grinning at him like an idiot, was checking the horizon for signs of the coastguard.

  Doyle grabbed the glasses and thrust them at Cullen.

  “Here. Do something useful. If that coastguard’s about, he’ll be coming from there.”

  He nodded to the foredeck in front of the cabin. “Check from out there. You’ll have a better view.” He added then, just as Cullen was moving from the doorway,

  “When you’ve done that, go get your stuff ready. We’re not hanging around here with this lot all day.” He was moving closer to the French boat now. Some of the French crew were leaning on their starboard railing — a couple of feet taller than his own vessel — and were shouting and gesticulating as the two boats drew closer together.

  Doyle stuck his head out the open cabin door.

  “Get the fenders ready! Peter! Seamus! Boat hooks!”

  The fenders were only to prevent the boats touching and scratching in the ceaseless swell on the surface. If he could help it, he would keep both boats well apart. He could see the name painted on the side: La Chanteuse. He looked up at the cabin, now level and over him, of the big French vessel.

  Gustav had the window down. He was bigger than Doyle remembered him. And even more treacherous looking. A devious bastard if there ever was one, Doyle thought. He didn’t envy Cullen going on Gustav’s boat. Stories had got back to him from others, and while Doyle knew there were two sides to every story, he put some more credence into what he had heard about Gustav than what he had heard from him. Doyle still wondered about the train robber of 1963. He’d never been heard of again. And Doyle knew damn well that he’d gone on Gustav’s boat at the time with a case full of money. Hard cash.

  Doyle watched the big man give a desultory wave and concentrated on getting the Stella close to La Chanteuse. With a movement of his eyes, he acknowledged the return of the glasses from Cullen, dimly heard him tell him all was clear and saw the man go below. He looked out again to check the proximity of the ships. McCann and Pritchard were staving the big boat off with the strong boat hooks. Wills, with another, shorter, boat hook in his hand, was moving from bow to stern, prodding and calling to the lounging crew puffing cigarettes to do the same. Both ships were idling in neutral. Now, thought Doyle, it was just a matter of transfer.

  Chapter Ten

  Cullen didn’t have to rummage. He knew where everything was. It didn’t take him long to gather what few things he’d brought. The escape and getaway had been well planned. He thought of Gustav. He’d seen him only once, years ago, when Doyle delivered some English fella to him. It hadn’t been far from this very spot in the ocean. Christ, ten years! Just like that. A lifetime. Like so many things in his world.

  He checked the kit bag: towel, underwear, shaving and toilet gear. He took it all out quickly and piled it beside the bag, then reached in and hauled out the Webley. He released the clip, checked it for a full load and rammed it home again. It had a nice, solid feel. Especially when it was loaded. He placed it back in the bag, tucked the box of ammunition behind it and replaced the clothes and other gear.

  He opened the zip on the side of the bag, then the one on the other side. It was all there, neatly packed and stored, waterproofed and safe. And lethal.

  “Some ticket,” he said out loud.

  For that’s what the heroin was. He’d be glad to hand it over to Gustav. He didn’t even like carrying the stuff. He was especially concerned about having used Doyle’s boat for it. And not just his boat, but Doyle himself. He was glad he hadn’t told him. As it was, he’d taken the risk, run the gauntlet, and got away with it. Still, he’d be relieved to let Gustav have this stuff. It was not, Cullen decided as he fingered the tightly bound packages, an idea he had willingly gone along with. He pondered briefly at what touch of Puritanism rebelled against dealing in dope. Perhaps it was the devastation it brought to the innocent. But what of nail bombs? Mortar shells? Gelignite?

  All he had to do was carry the package and deliver it to his liberator, and he would be free. The alternative was to stay in jail, maybe be sent north, or to the British mainland, from which he’d never escape, with the heroin either distributed on the streets in Dublin, or carried out of the country some other time. He told himself he wasn’t doing anything that wasn’t going to be done anyway and, to boot, was getting the stuff away from his own country. He had the grace to smile wryly at his self-exoneration.

  “How noble of you, Steven,”
he said.

  He zipped the two side pockets of the bag, then the centre, leaving the gun inside. With one last glance around his quarters, he headed for the decks.

  Doyle gave him a quick glance and said,

  “Right. They’re here. So’re you. Let’s get moving.”

  The two boats bobbed gently and slowly on the ocean swell. A thin oil slick spread from their sterns. Doyle moved to the cabin door.

  “C’mon,” he said.

  Cullen caught his arm, drew his attention.

  “Sean,” he said with emotion in his voice. “I want to thank you.”

  The skipper turned, looked at his brother-in-law and said,

  “That’s OK.”

  Cullen stepped up to him.

  “I mean it. And not just for the ride down the coast. I mean for Eileen. And Ma and Da. You were their son, you know. The one they looked on as their real son. I’m glad you were, because if anyone was going to take my place in their eyes, I couldn’t have wished for a better man.”

  He gave a slight squeeze to Doyle’s arm.

  Doyle looked at Cullen. It was odd, he thought, how meetings and departures, births and deaths always affected him. It was as if at those occasions, the previous lives of people were encapsulated in those moments.

  That was how he saw Cullen now. He knew it was the same for the other man. What was in their minds was put there by the bonds built over the years. Nothing would break them. Ever.

  A shout came down from the hull of the gently shifting French boat. Gustav stood on the starboard side, one knee placed on the gunwale for balance.

  “Hey! Mon ami, Sean Doyle! Come out! Let me see you and we make some talk for minutes, eh? Sean? Sean Doyle?”

  Doyle stepped out into the sea breeze.

  “Hello, Marcel,” he said.

  The broad Frenchman stood a couple of feet higher than him. Doyle could see he had put on weight. But the face and character were undeniable. The vitality was still there, emanating from the blue eyes in a constant stream of glints. The malice was still there too. The mouth smiled and the skin pinched into crow’s feet at the edges of his eyes, but the brain behind the eyes kept them unblinking. His eyes moved from him to Cullen emerging from the cabin. For a moment, his grin faltered. The eyes clouded, but the years of devious practice, of daily deceit quickly flexed the flagging muscles and his face erupted in further friendliness.

  “Eh! Steven Cullen! You OK? Hey, you looking good?”

  Gustav glanced at Sean for approval of his statements and continued,

  “What do you think, Sean? They feeding him too well in Irish prisons? Hey? Ha!”

  He looked at the crew gathered close to him and made a joke in French. They laughed on cue when he finished. Gustav said in English,

  “Hey, Steven, you got food, OK?”

  He stuck a half-smoked cigar in his mouth and continued,

  “But no bang-bang, eh?”

  He pumped a fist in the air.

  Doyle gave a dismissive snort.

  “He’s just like you said,” muttered Cullen.

  Doyle nodded.

  “Aye, he is that. Only I think I may have been too kind in my remarks about him. Anyway,” he went on, “he’s your man, like it or not, and it’ll make it easier on yourself if you can. Just so you don’t start trusting him.”

  For a moment, the two skippers eyed each other speculatively. Gustav broke the pause.

  “OK, you get ready, Steven. We bring you up.”

  He wagged a warning finger at the Irishman.

  “And you mind your cargo, eh? We don’t want to lose you in the Irish Sea. But what’s important, mon ami, we can’t afford to lose you in the Irish Sea.”

  He guffawed at his joke.

  In rapid French, he organised a derrick to swing out over the Stella. A rough rope and webbed seat hung from it. It swung with every rise and dip of the big French trawler. Cullen braced himself.

  “This is it,” he said to Doyle and, before the Irish skipper could answer, moved to the waiting chair.

  Once strapped in, he watched the faces of the three Irish crewmen, who had their eyes fixed on him, looking for a reaction. But they said nothing. McCann turned and waved to the Frenchman.

  “Haul away.”

  Cullen felt the canvas webbing lift and tighten under his crotch and arms. His own weight made it tighter and he had to fight the urge to shout to be let down again. The sudden movement into the air caught his breath.

  “Goodbye, Steven,” he heard someone say,

  “Good luck.”

  He kept his face impassive and his eyes directly in front of him. He knew he was being watched and what those watching expected. As he moved out over the deep water, he concentrated on the squeak of the pulley. The harness twisted on the wire, so he had a steady, slowly changing panorama.

  A well of panic washed up inside him, then subsided. He put his mind back to the pulley, listened to it, focused on it. But his eyes saw the sky, then the French boat, then the sky again and the fleeing clouds.

  Still he did not look down. A wave lifted the French boat. The line tightened and the buoy slid forward, then jolted back. The harness spun so he saw the Irish boat. He put his mind on the pulley again; the squeak was lessening as he neared the French boat. He heard the Frenchmen speak, feet from where he was suspended. He felt himself being lowered. He had crossed. He was on La Chanteuse.

  Chapter Eleven

  Cullen quickly unstrapped the webbing and stood free on the broad deck of Gustav’s vessel. Gustav was turned to him, watching him. Cullen stepped to the side of the ship, where he could see down to the Irish boat. The Stella was already moving off. The Stella seemed small to him, small but sturdy, homely, familiar. He had an urge to shout, to wave them back, to collect him and bring him back to his own homeland. He felt he’d rather face the worst on his own patch, than have the best, as far as he could expect it, on foreign soil. But he knew that was only wistfulness, and that he had relinquished any rights to some things a long time ago. His hand moved in a small gesture at his four departing countrymen. Doyle’s arm moved slightly in the wheel-house. He turned to his new skipper. Even before he uttered a word, he could feel the mistrust between him and Gustav. He glanced around at the quietly watching crew, feeling aware of his loneliness. The droning of the Stella’s engine diminished in the distance. The only sound left was the erratic low vibration of the French boat’s big engine, turning over slowly as she drifted on the sea.

  Gustav grinned broadly at the anxious Irishman.

  “I think, perhaps, Steven, you and I must talk. It is good that men who do business together should make acquaintance. Friendship is a good basis for business. There are those who say it is not, that friendship has no place in business affairs.”

  He waved his hand in dismissal of this theory.

  “But what do they know? They do not do our kind of business, where friendship and trust are the things that count, where men do their affairs and agreements because of their hearts.”

  He clasped his right fist to his chest dramatically and stretched his grin to its widest.

  “And not,” he moved his hand to his head and bounced an extended index finger gently on his temple, “because of what they think they think in their heads.”

  He caught Cullen gently by the elbow and brought him forward.

  “Come, Steven Cullen, and we will talk and become friends, as Sean Doyle and I are. It is something we must do, and then we can complete our other dealings.”

  Cullen felt a small flutter of hope. He wasn’t sure whether he was telling himself that Gustav was possibly, maybe, trustworthy, or whether he was gaining confidence from the man’s affable welcome. He thought of Doyle’s advice: like him, but don’t trust him. Cullen felt better; he was in control, could see the situation, and was not about to let himself be fooled by either the skipper’s jollity or his own wishful thinking.

  The French trawler was big, over seventy feet long. Gustav steer
ed Cullen aft to where the big wheel-house and his own quarters were. Cullen looked at each crewman, who were dispersing and returning to their duties. There were three in all. As he climbed the short stairs up to the door of the wheel-house, Cullen threw one last glance at the departing Stella. She was some distance away now, just a large shape in the sea. The urges he had felt on leaving her were receding, like the boat itself. It was time to get on with it. He looked at Gustav, still giving his monologue on the virtues of friendship and trust. Cullen smiled encouragingly at his advice, and stepped into the cabin.

  Even the wheel-house was so much larger than the Stella’s. Cullen gave a quick, appreciative glance at the equipment. He made a point of letting Gustav see that he was impressed. The Frenchman smiled in genuine pleasure and Cullen could see the difference in his eyes.

  “But here,” said Gustav, pointing to two heavy curtains at the back of the wheel-house, “this will be interesting for you, mon ami.” He gestured for Cullen to go through them.

  Behind the curtains was a very short corridor, leading to steep, dark stairs descending to the stern of the ship. When he reached the foot of the stairs, Cullen stopped, confronted by a solid, mahogany door. Gustav came down behind him.

  “Go ahead, open it. You will like what you see. As you will be aware, your passage will not be without certain compensations.”

  He reached around Cullen and turned the knob on the door, giving it a light shove. As soon as the door began to open, a faint sweetness filled the air. The place Cullen entered could not have been called a cabin. It was the size of a very large bedroom and, but for the low ceiling, could have been in a very fashionable and expensively decorated house. The walls were covered in solid mahogany panelling. Open shelves supported various objets d’art, while others, closed with glass fronts, held cameras, tapes, and photos of Gustav with assorted people. A record-player and small tape machine filled one cupboard, an elaborate transmitting system another. Books and catalogues filled the wall from floor to ceiling on his left. Cullen could see that they were tabulated according to subject matter. Straight ahead was a long, broad window giving a view from the stern.