Short Storm

by Hegarty, David

He paused purposely. He wanted his next words heard, and understood clearly.

  “No one lasts on my boat who doesn’t. You know that. On the next voyage, I’ll be delegating jobs to the three of you. If there’s any query or problem about who does what, come to me at once. In the meantime, remember we’ve all got to earn a living. It helps if we all do our bit.”

  Pritchard was about to interrupt, but Doyle put his hand up.

  “I’m not saying anything to you I haven’t said, or won’t be saying, to the other two. I’m not blind and I’m not deaf.”

  He looked into the young man’s eyes and realised he was wasting his time. With a perfunctory wave of his hand, he said,

  “Go on, I’ll see you in the morning.”

  Before he realised what he was saying, added,

  “And stay out of rows. Wally’s no match for you.”

  He heard his own voice dwindle on the last few words, but they were out before he could get his mouth shut.

  “Pardon?” It was what Pritchard was waiting for.

  “I just mentioned about Wally because Peter said you and he had a row on Sunday night. Is that right?”

  Doyle cursed himself for having mentioned it. It was none of his business. It was Pritchard’s private life.

  “Aye,” answered Pritchard.

  The satisfaction of having been wronged was too good a chance to let go. It showed clearly in his face. He wanted to tell of his fracas with Wally; how he tried to avoid it; how he had contained himself with great patience and understanding, but in the end, had been pushed too far.

  “He started in on me and just wouldn’t let up.”

  Pritchard spoke with malice.

  “He just needed a bit of quietening down, so I obliged.”

  He laughed at the memory of his prowess, of the stumbling drunk he’d beaten. He could still feel the switch of his victim’s head as his tight right fist slammed into the man’s temple, could still relish the joy of complete mastery as his left jabbed the stunned, drunken face. He almost sighed with satisfaction when he remembered the man falling awkwardly and uselessly onto the ground, his eyes glazed and rolling up under flickering lids. Then came the coup de grace. So swift. So well-placed. A strong, sharp toe in the kidneys. Then some busybody had interfered. Bill France it had been, a good friend of Doyle’s.

  The look of satisfaction left Pritchard’s face. He fell quiet, unwilling to discuss it further with Doyle. No doubt the others would be giving their garbled, untruthful, biased versions. A lot of them liked that stupid old drunk.

  “As always, Sean, I don’t bother anyone, if no one bothers me.”

  Pritchard felt powerful, strong, in charge of his life. A man to respect and to admire. A man you spoke about in hushed tones and reverential awe. It was right, he thought. All Wally had to do was leave him alone. There would have been no trouble. He felt righteous, a strong, kind man tried beyond the limits of human tolerance. It was a great feeling, he thought, to beat the shit out of someone.

  Chapter Sixteen

  It was the kind of thing Doyle had heard before. He dismissed the younger man with a brief reminder to be back in on the boat and ready to sail at five.

  He was about to leave the wheel-house when he saw the car parked at the top of the pier with three men standing behind it. They formed a short line of heads all about the same height. The one in the centre had a beard. They looked as if they were three toy people placed there to give some kind of threatening visual effect.

  He recognised Maguire, even at that distance with the sun facing him. He watched them and wondered what they were up to. He’d heard that Maguire had been around recruiting, but he doubted it. Hadn’t Maguire been thrown out of the Organization on some disciplinary action? Or so he’d heard. Whatever Maguire was doing in the area, everyone should watch out. The fellow had a talent for troubling people, from individuals to whole communities. Neither size nor reputation daunted him. He could make anybody’s life a misery. Doyle held Maguire responsible for leading Cullen astray. Cullen had had to start somewhere and Maguire had been that place.

  Then he saw that they were being joined by Pritchard. The young man had left the boat and gone straight to the car.

  Alarms went off in Doyle’s nervous system. For the first time in many years he experienced fear. Real fear. The fear that shivers the gut and makes the palms sweat. He swallowed, or tried to. It merely lumped in his throat. He watched them meet, could see that Pritchard must have been expected by the others. He saw them nod and look to each other as if assessing Pritchard’s words. And he knew what they were talking about. He knew Pritchard was trying to impress Maguire and he knew how Pritchard would go about it.

  Maguire was after information. Cullen would be halfway to France by now and Maguire would want to know how he got there, where he was headed, and whether or not he had the money from the bank job with him. That was what Doyle was thinking and he was thinking Maguire would want to know where the money was. Well, thought Doyle, he won’t learn much from Pritchard. He was just beginning to take comfort from that fact when a following thought struck him and sank more lead into his bowels. If Maguire could get no satisfaction from Pritchard, but thought there might be more from another source, he wouldn’t hesitate to try that source. The only other possible source was Doyle himself.

  Maguire might be a thorough little shit, thought Doyle, but by God, he was capable. He had a native cunning that went far deeper than intelligence. A schemer. Always doing a stroke or working an angle. He’d been the same throughout his life. Now he was well-practised, polished and ruthless. Doyle felt a strong rush of apprehension. He tried to rationalise, tell himself he was over-reacting and that maybe Maguire was merely on a recruiting drive for his outfit. Fellows like Pritchard — immature, loud-mouthed, hungry for recognition — were fodder to Maguire’s appetite, fools to operate for him.

  The men got into the old car, the two unfamiliar ones climbing in the front. Maguire got into the back with Pritchard. Clever touch. Seamus would be flattered. He’d brag about all the things he knew to Maguire, and about things he didn’t know. That wouldn’t fool Maguire. He’d soon sort the facts out from the rubbish. At least, thought Doyle, he had fair warning. When Maguire came looking, as he surely would, it would not be as a complete surprise.

  Doyle was a man who accepted that life can’t always be easy. The higher one wanted to go, the harder one had to climb. But why, he asked himself, just why, not always, just now and again, can’t bloody life be a bit simpler? He was getting vexed. It should have been a good evening, he should be feeling relieved and safe. He’d taken the risks, passed the dangers. Why the hell couldn’t they all just stay out of his life? Leave him alone? Let him get on with it?

  He flicked the bits and pieces on the desk into a drawer and slammed it shut. He’d go home. See Eileen and the kids. Maybe they’d send the children to bed early and they’d go too. Make love. Lie in bed with the light out and watch the starry sky through the open window, listen to the sea washing gently on the far shore. It was a good thought for his anger. He brightened and left his ship. He took a lively stride. He wanted his wife. Wanted to see his kids.

  The air, the golden sun over the pier wall, the light breeze behind him, the clink of the fishing gear, the lapping of the tide in the wells between the fishing boats, the plaintive peal of the church bell — all washed over him in a soothing wave. He was lost to the worries that had bothered him. He heard his own footsteps, felt the solid concrete beneath him. He was going home.

  Chapter Seventeen

  In the passing of a day, a man goes through many moods. So does a premises. Bannion’s Pub was no exception. In the morning time, it was quiet, smelling of stale smoke from the night before and fresh disinfectant on the floor from the morning wash. By noon, the place had aired, the staleness gone, the disinfectant succumbing to the softer smells of cigarettes, pipes and alcohol. The scent of soup wafted from the kitchen door and the place had the feel and flavour of
human habitation again. In the afternoon, the older regulars who sipped stout and talked of the sea, fish and boats came in, breathing their lives into the place so that by early evening, it was warm, comfortable, lived-in.

  With its stone floor, formica table and counter tops, the oddly coloured red and black-topped wood stools, and the old bus seats lining the walls in the lounge and bar, Bannion’s had all the qualifications for being a gloomy, featureless drinkers’ pub. However, that was not the case. If anything, the pub was the proof of the theory that it is people — not places — which matter. In spite of the chipped paint, cracked ashtrays, the stools and chairs jury-rigged with odd legs, waiting either for eventual repair or the fireplace, there was not a speck of dust. The ingrained stains blooming into the ancient elbow-worn timber of the bar counter gave it a shade which was unique. Even the dim watt bulbs, glowing with effort from odd spots on the old wood-panelled ceiling, gave the atmosphere a special hue and softness of its own. In the farthest corner from the door, a brilliant oasis pooled around the area where the dartboard hung. The only other bright spot was from behind the bar where the bottles, glasses and old wood-rimmed mirrors gleamed and glimmered in polished comfort. The part of the pub farthest from the front door was named the bar, while the front was the lounge. Two old wooden pillars, with old spotted Guinness mirrors hanging on them, served as the partition. The main difference between the two was that the dartboard was in the bar, brighter, with more people walking around.

  To the men of Rinnemor, the place was an institution. Though the drinking was constant, drunkenness was occasional. Rowdiness was rare, except for the summer visitors who, it seemed, practised it as a way of life. The village people considered them harmless peculiarities. The noise level in the pub could be anything from indistinct, sporadic muttering during the afternoon, to a constant, low-toned buzz of conversation in the evening, to the late night din. The attitude of most people, most of the time, was of understanding and goodwill. Only in the teeth of unwarranted aggression were people unfriendly.

  But there are exceptions to every situation.

  Pritchard turned out to be an outstanding exception. It suited his temperament. It let him act out the villain he wanted to be and imagined everyone saw him to be. On the night after his row with Malone, he felt he had established himself as the local tough man. Some of his contemporaries had been stunned by his violence. Some had seen it coming. No one had wanted to be involved. Their only concerns were a pity for Wally and a vague pity for Seamus.

  The story had become news. Both participants in the event were aware of the talk: Malone with growing shame, not for the beating he suffered, but for what he considered foolish behaviour. Pritchard confused the attention with admiration. He was beginning to enjoy what he considered to be the fruits of celebrity. With all the versions of the story circulating, it was not difficult to get people to talk about it. Everyone heard several versions and, by the time they added their own embellishments, the truth became confused. McCann and Wills were getting from their enquiries in the village many interpretations of what actually happened and how it came about. After some casual meetings, they decided they would only get a straight answer to what had happened, never mind how, from one man. It was well into the evening when they knocked on Malone’s door.

  Mrs. Malone — seventy, bright, and lively — opened the front door to them. The two men went straight to the kitchen. Wally was at the back window, the one overlooking the sloping meadows that ran in a patch-work of hedges and bushes down to the shore. His back was to them, but he knew who they were. He rose as they entered the kitchen and went to the back door. They followed him out, going to the end fence at the bottom of the yard with its chickens and bits of netting and the doghouse. They sat on a few old wooden lobster pots. They could talk here, out of earshot of Mrs. Malone. Wally knew what they had come to see him about. It was no conversation for his mother’s ears. It was only when they were at the pots about to sit, and he turned, that they saw his face.

  “Jesus,” said McCann. “How do you feel?”

  The face they saw was puffed and bruised, bloated and disfigured. One eye was totally shut, a blown-up mound of flesh that ran up into the scraped forehead. His lips were swollen tight, rounding out from a crooked, pulverised jawline. Wally shifted his one good eye from one man to another. The bottom lip moved, the chin stirred, and the words came out with difficulty:

  “Just about.”

  Slowly, leg by leg, carefully placing his weight with the aid of a stiffly bent arm, he placed himself on a lobster pot. It took time. The two men let themselves get used to the extent of the beating. He was hurt everywhere. Slowly he settled himself, allowing a moment’s rest before he looked to his friends. He gave them an awkward nod to indicate that he was ready, could talk, would listen.

  Wills was the one who asked first.

  “We’ve already heard stories, and, of course, Seamus gave us his version on the boat last night when he came aboard.”

  Malone nodded. When he spoke, his words were restricted by the lack of movement in his jaw and his inability to close his mouth, but they listened quietly, carefully, as the story stuttered and stumbled out into the twilight. Pritchard had teased Malone, goaded him and baited him until Malone, well into his drinks and slipping quickly from his wits, had responded to the baiting. He had laid himself open to accusations of being aggressive and offensive. The situation had rapidly deteriorated to where Pritchard had aimed it. Malone had been cornered and Pritchard became the reluctant administrator of righteous justice.

  But even Malone was at a loss to understand the savagery of his beating. In the quiet of the yard, the night clouds drifting overhead in the darkening sky, Wills exchanged glances with McCann. They both looked briefly at Malone, the still and pathetic figure, hunched and beaten, bruised and tired. They rose together. McCann laid a hand gently on Malone’s shoulder.

  “Don’t worry, Wally, we’ll find our own way out.”

  Malone listened in the quiet as they men left; heard them go through the house, talk to his mother, their voices diminish and the front door shut. It was strange, he thought, how he had always been the one who the younger men looked to. Now he was fast becoming a drunk and a nuisance; a fool who couldn’t handle his drinking or his life, a target for every barroom smart arse like that fucker Pritchard. He’d walked into it. That was a fact. He told himself it wasn’t his fault. He tried to feel angry at Angela. Until she had come along, he had been in perfect control of his life. She had quickly demolished that. And had let him see it. Once he had seen it in himself, he saw no point in hiding it from others. He giggled sorely. That was the trouble with always being wise and right, he thought, when you suffered an attack of stupidity, you just couldn’t handle it. It was an instance of what should have been a sharp, brief illness becoming a terminal case. If you’re going to survive stupidity, you’ve got to build up an immunity to it.

  “That’s it,” said Malone to himself and the night, “I need practise.”

  He wished he could hate Angela. He thought of her on the strand on warm nights, her legs lying in the gently frothing surf, her bare breasts budding up to him, her passionate demands whispered in his ear, her clawing, tearing fingernails on his back; and his own shouts and moaning, his rhythmic pulsing into her arching body as they pumped and pounded in the foaming surf. He wished he could hate her. Even as he wished, his own body betrayed him and he moved painfully from the pots to loosen the trousers around his throbbing erection. He would go inside, listen to the wireless, reassure his mother that he was all right, tell her again how fortunate he’d been when he’d slipped between the boats on Saturday night. Yes, she needed that, and deserved it. Maybe he’d try another letter to Angela. Maybe she’d never got the others. After all, California was a long way off. A lot of things could happen to a paper letter in a paper envelope stuck with a bit of light glue on such a journey.

  Chapter Eighteen

  The time just after twilight
was when Doyle liked best. The doorway to the night and rest, it was time for his other life, the life he dared not think about too much during the day. If he did, he knew he would let himself be happily distracted from the business of running his boat.

  As was usual in the evenings, when she knew the boat was in, his wife was constantly on the alert for his footstep on the front gravel, his special turn of the key, which he took from the geranium tub, and his voice, saying he was home.

  They kissed briefly. Conversation started, travelled the day’s happenings. They both revelled in the discovery of the day gone, of the ideas and occurrences with other people, and how they both coped. They drank tea, sat before the front window, and were aware of their own individual lives and their inseparable bond. They had been sitting quietly when, inevitably, the purpose of the trip on Sunday night came round.

  Without turning to him, Eileen asked,

  “Did everything go OK?”

  “Fine. There were no problems. Gustav is punctual if not much else. He was ready and waiting, on his way as soon as Steven was with him.”

  “And Steven? How was he? Did he say anything?” She turned to look at him, her anxiety filling the question.

  Doyle sighed and looked out into the night.

  “Aye, he did. He talked a fair bit. It wasn’t so much what he said, as it was what I gathered he was trying to say and couldn’t, either because he wasn’t sure himself, or didn’t want to show his feelings. I don’t know.”

  He shook his head and said,

  “I had a feeling he was trying to tell me something, knew something he thought I should know.”

  He sat silently for a moment.

  “He was worried.”

  He added then, waving his hand in dismissal of an anticipated protest,

  “No, no, I don’t mean worried about the trip, or even his destination. Steven takes those things in his life as we eat meals and go to work.”