“Now,” Elaine said, “you will have to communicate with the living, Mister Steven Cullen.”
She raised herself on her arm.
“Why do you talk so much in your mind? Don’t you trust me yet? You know me now. It is not good for one to talk so much to himself. It causes problems. You need others. Other people. Tell me. Look at me.”
He took his eyes from the ceiling, followed his mind to her face and to her smile.
“I was thinking,” he said, surprised at the calm of his voice, “that this is better than lying in a field in Armagh, or a forest in County Laois, or a shitty old barn in West Cork.”
“And it makes you happy? This thought of change?”
French surely, he thought. The Germans don’t raise their voices at the end of their sentences. Yet there was a guttural sound to it.
“Not only the thought,” he answered, “the change itself.”
He looked closely at her, let his eyes wander over her body. She was bare to the navel, the satin sheet resting over her hip, showing clearly the shape of her long thighs and her feet.
“You’ve never had to do that, have you? Rough it, I mean. Sleep rough, under hedges or in wet ditches, or tramp all night through fields and back roads and over mountains. It’s one pain in the arse, I can tell you.”
She nodded. Her smile had a hint of irony. So did her tone.
“Poor Steven. The only one in the whole wide world with problems.”
He gave a snort of amusement. She had picked him up and slapped him down, with a warmth and gentleness he knew his self-pity didn’t deserve.
“You’re right,” he conceded, “I’m a very lucky fella right now.”
He paused for a moment, thinking of Kelly and O’Brien. He wondered how they were faring. He worried for Kelly; he would have liked him to have got away with him. To hell with O’Brien. Better off inside. For everyone. A snivelling fart if there ever was one.
“I’ve two pals,” he went on, “well, one is. The other’s a sort of necessary evil. He works his way into things. They’re both back in the Joy at the moment. By rights they should, or at least the good one, should be with me now. Here, on the boat. I suppose I’m the lucky one. It could’ve been me who was caught.”
“Exactly,” she said, sliding the satin down his body. “But look what you’re doing instead. Do they have this in — what do you call — Joyland?”
“The Joy. Mountjoy. It’s the prison. The Joy is what it’s known as. That’s what the boys call it.”
She shook her head and, still smiling, stretched her fingers across the hair on his stomach.
“It is an odd name, this Joy, for a place of sadness to many men, non?”
Definitely French, he thought. Got to be. What German would say “non”?
She went on,
“You agree with what I say, Ya? It’s odd, is it not?”
Now, he thought, figure that one out.
“Yeah, “he replied, “it is that. But we’re an odd race, Elaine. We make sad songs and merry wars, and, at heart, we’re a peace loving people who’ll fight tooth and nail to prove it.”
He glanced at her to see if she’d caught what he was saying. She was looking at him.
“Yes,” she said, “and it is true how the saying goes, that nobody loves like one of your countrymen.”
He laughed and added,
“Maybe it’s all the sinfulness that’s attached to it in our country. It gives it a flavour which other people in the world haven’t been given.”
“How so?” she asked.
“Well, when we do it, we’re not only doing something very private, but all our lives we’ve been bombarded with how wrong it is to be doing it, and that a man and a woman shouldn’t be doing it unless they want to have babies, and that the worst thing in the world is to take pleasure in it.”
“Really?”
She propped herself straight up on an outstretched arm. The satin was folded over the top of her hips, the tiny folds on her waist giving shape to the lithe and expressive body. She placed a hand flat on his stomach.
“And you,” she said, “do you feel this sinning too? Are you sorry? Regretful?”
He put his hand on hers and guided it under the soft sheet.
“How does that feel?”
She laughed.
“Magnificent. Magnificently sinful.”
For the next hour, Cullen and Elaine were well-occupied. It was the first time in his life he made jokes and laughed while he made love. He had never been so comfortable in his life. Afterwards he wondered, was it him? Or her? Or the fact that he was off Irish soil? Away from the environment of priestly oppression and the constant show of holiness? He didn’t think so. He’d heard of other fellows — Irishmen and woman who did their own thing in their own way. He was just on a clear run to France, no more looking over his shoulder — for a day or two anyway. He was relaxing and enjoying it. He thought that he might, just might, be changing, getting new perspectives, altering his attitudes, catching himself by surprise. He wasn’t sure how he might carry that.
The thought of his sister and her husband came to his mind. She wasn’t unlike him in some ways, especially this one. He would have made bets that Doyle was well pleased in that regard. Proper order too, he thought. If you’re going to do it, do it. He knew Eileen was well ready and able. He supposed it ran in the family. His dad was meant to have been a great one for the women. He’d heard stories about that. From the way he’d seen his dad and mom kiss, he had an idea that he and Eileen got it from them both. Yes, he thought, it’s a good thing to like. He knew Eileen liked it too. He had seen it in the early days, long before baths and running water were in the house. When she’d douched in the basin in the kitchen, he had watched. That was one of the reasons he had never felt too guilty when he made his own experiments. She’d done it. He’d seen her. Her fingernails didn’t fall out, nor did hair grow on her hands. He chuckled softly at the dire consequences which were meant to befall the secret sinners. Eileen had come out all right. She was with the best fellow he could wish for her. A jolt interrupted his reverie: Maguire and his mob. It was possible, he thought, that Maguire would think he was still in the country and that Maguire would be after him to find out where the money was. It was a lot of cash. He hoped Kelly could exert enough influence on O’Brien to keep his mouth shut.
The decision came to him like an inspiration. He would have to go back much sooner than he’d intended. It was the only thing to do. It wasn’t just a matter of getting the money and slipping it out of the country before Maguire got to it, it was a matter of getting it out while diverting suspicion from those for whom he cared. Everyone associated with him would be the object of Maguire’s scrutiny. Maybe he could try to get Kelly out too. That would be a good finale. He’d like to do it. Kelly deserved the break. But whatever Cullen did, he’d have to go back soon. There wasn’t going to be any resting time. Maybe it’d be as good to do it sooner rather than later. In three or four days, the law, and Maguire, would have checked every place where he might be. They’d get vague word or come to the conclusion themselves that he’d skipped the country. They would imagine they’d seen the end of him, would send messages to the continent and to the States. But they’d not expect him to come back so soon. Certainly not. He began to take a liking to the idea.
He slipped the satin off his body, swung his feet out onto the floor, and moved across the carpet to the toilet. Bright, golden sunshine beamed in through the large porthole. The vibration of the engine was apparent through the timber flooring as soon as he stepped onto it. The bathroom, painted in a utility grey gloss, hummed to the power of the transmission. He pulled the shower curtain and checked the hose. The pressure of the shower was tremendous. The water sprayed out in powerful jets and drenched him. He lathered up, stood under the jets and grinned in pleasure at the torrents of soap running down his body. He rubbed in circles, then raised his arms, rinsing. He lifted his legs, soaped his thighs and underneath
. Keep it clean, he thought, makes for sensitivity. He grinned, opened his mouth and filled his throat, gargled, sprayed the water between his teeth, soaped again and stood a long time rinsing. He turned the jets off. He’d get Elaine and shower her. He’d give her a shampoo and dry her hair and all over. He was sure she’d like it.
He felt in control again. He wasn’t sure how just yet, but he knew that if he set his mind on what was a reasonable plot, he could, would do it. In the meantime, he’d relax and unwind. Get the tension and bitterness out. Have some fun and recharge himself for the job ahead. Life was good again — worth living. That’s what life is, he thought. A Challenge. If it’s too easy, everyone would be doing it. But it wasn’t and they weren’t. So it was left to men like him. He left the shower and picked up a towel from the rail. The sun, almost on the horizon, was full and strong through the porthole. The clouds had cleared. The sea was a crisp blue, throwing glittering reflections into the glass as he looked out. The watery troughs and waves swept by at a fair rate. They were making good headway. He could see the progress. He guessed fifteen knots. This trawler was made for pace as well as work. She sliced through the rolling seas. The wake from her bow frothed out in a silvered roll in the evening sun. It was while he was watching this, feeling the pace of the ship, watching the sea and the sun and the sky, letting the feel of the freedom of time wash over him, that the first tenuous knots of alarm knotted in his stomach. Over the two seconds it took him to realize, his system tautened in the face of the hammer blow of reality striking him.
The sun was glaring in from the bows of the thundering vessel. But the sun was sinking. And the sun sank in the west. France was to the east.
Chapter Twenty-One
Dark had descended on the village. The sun had gone down in a clear sky. The forecast was good. People went to bed early in the weeknights. It was the usual thing to do. A tough working life with early mornings and long hours outdoors made for tired bodies eager for rest. It was the pattern of life.
Maguire knew that pattern. Wasn’t he a village boy himself? He could wait. He sat calmly in the back of the old car. He wished the fellow in front would stop fidgeting. It was getting to his other colleagues, making them upset. He could sense it. He uttered two words, just over a whisper:
“Be quiet.”
No one questioned the order.
Pritchard stared ahead. His eyes, accustomed to the dark, were on the sea. He wanted to smoke. He had been going to earlier and Maguire had told him not to.
Maguire could sense the younger man’s irritation. Irritation wasn’t a bad thing, he thought, it would keep him alert. Maguire knew when to goad and when to praise. It was all a matter of balance, he thought. All they had to do now was wait patiently. Then they could move in. So far it had been relatively simple. Even what lay ahead was simple if it was done right. Keep an attitude of presumption, he thought. Adopt command and they’ll all follow. That’s what they knew how to do best anyway. He was only helping them fulfil their roles in life. He nearly smiled in the dark, but checked himself. That wouldn’t do. They’d never seen him smile at something as frivolous as humour. Smiles and laughs were kept for strategic occasions, like a good job on a robbery or wickedly bad luck on the part of the enemy. That kept the image intact. A hard mean bastard was what they needed. And that was what they would get.
He thought of Sean and Eileen Doyle in the house. It was an awkward situation. He was faintly uneasy. Doyle was an unknown quantity. He’d seen Doyle before and had been impressed. He reserved a healthy respect for the man he was about to attack. But he was not going to let himself be overawed by Doyle’s reputation, or his standing either. He’s human, like the rest of us. He found the thought comforting. Of course, he and his men would have the element of surprise on his side. Good thing too. From the look of Doyle, he wouldn’t be too easily intimidated by a couple of thugs like Willie and Fred. Maguire didn’t always like thinking of his brother Willie as a thug. If Willie came up against any problem, his solution was either to hit it, shoot it, or bomb it. Maguire had tried to sharpen the mind of his brother, to bring an awareness of another dimension to life, of a subtler way of doing things, but he had to accept the fact that Willie had neither the brains nor the inclination to be anything better.
Fred Boylan and Willie were his own personal bodyguards and went everywhere with him. He quickly discovered the value of not being surrounded by clever men. Clever men were ambitious men. They learned quickly and too much; before you knew it, they were climbing all over you and you spent more time containing them than you did getting on with your job. Oh yes, thought Maguire, give me the handyman any time. The old reliables.
“What time is it?” he asked no one in particular.
All of them answered, giving three variations within ten minutes of each other. They were about to start an argument, each supporting the time he gave as the correct one.
“Shut up!” spat Maguire. “Each of you, put your watches to half past twelve.”
He regulated his own watch, putting the minute hand at half past at exactly the moment the second hand swept past the figure of twelve.
“What time is it?” he asked.
“Half twelve,” they chorused in eager whispers.
“A short while,” he said softly, “then we’ll move.”
The other three were quiet. They had an urge to make up for their silliness, let Maguire see that they too could be calm, tough, unruffled.
Maguire thought now of Cullen. He wondered if Cullen was aware that it was Maguire’s drugs he was carrying to Gustav. He doubted it. The safe house where Cullen had been hidden was not well known in the circles. It was a nice break for Maguire that the owner of the house was a friend. It had been a simple matter for the owner to get Cullen to agree to transport the drugs to Gustav. Cullen had thought he was merely returning a favour to his saviour. There was no way he would have connected the owner with Maguire. It had been very neat. He was pleased that Kelly and O’Brien had been caught and returned. Kelly could have been trouble. He was close to Cullen. The two of them together might have presented a problem. O’Brien, well, he was just a nuisance. Still, he served his purpose. After all, it had been O’Brien who had first hinted that Cullen had stashed the money in Ireland. Without that original hint, followed up by Pritchard, Maguire might be none the wiser now and Cullen would be floating around the South of France, waiting to hop into Spain or Portugal. Then all Cullen would have to do would be to bide his time, slip back quietly and collect his loot. Nice set-up. Tough luck, Mr. Steven Bloody Cullen. You hadn’t reckoned with Maguire.
Now Cullen would be on his way back, would be approaching Irish waters soon. Maguire was glad he had been able to get Gustav on the radio, get him to halt, turn back. By God, the Frenchman was some tulip! He’d hate to be on the wrong side of him. Do anything for a franc. But who wouldn’t? He considered the Frenchman for a moment. What he saw, the treachery and the efficiency, reinforced his attitude about not having clever ones in his employ. Yes-men, he thought, that’s what you need: good, solid yes-men. On the law of averages, and human nature being what it is, you’ll get the occasional disappointment, but generally the first principle of survival is to make up your team of followers, rather than potential leaders. You may get let down, but you’ll be a lot less likely to get knifed.
“What time is it?” he asked quietly.
The three men looked carefully at their watches, holding their wrists up to the sparse moonlight to see the dials.
Boylan said calmly,
“Just a quarter to one.”
Quickly and quietly, Pritchard and Willie agreed,
“Quarter to one.”
Maguire suppressed a smirk of satisfaction.
“Right. Seamus, you know the way around the back. Lead Fred and me in. Willie, stay in the car. If anyone comes, pretend you’re sleeping, too tired to drive. We’ll keep an eye from the house.”
He put his hand in his pocket, felt for the Walther.
>
“Fred, bring the Uzi.”
He noticed Pritchard’s startled turn to Boylan, reaching under the seat. He decided not to comment. This was no time for arguments. Anyway, Pritchard was a big boy now. If he wanted to be one, he’d have to play the grown-up games.
Quietly they moved from the car.
“Leave the doors,” said Maguire. “Willie can look after them in his own time.”
He turned to Pritchard.
“Which way?”
Pritchard told them that they would have to go down around the front garden boundary, into a field and along the side of the house. When they reached the end of the house, they would have to scale a six-foot wall and then approach the rear of the house through the back garden. The windows were the simple sliding-up-and-down type, with a basic crossover latch. He put his hand in his pocket and held up a tape roll.
“This’ll do it.”
The three moved quickly along the edge of the road. They passed the high thick wall in front of the house and halted when they came to the end of it.
“Over here,” whispered Pritchard, climbing two protruding stones to the top of a stile.
“Mind yourself on this side,” he said as he stood in the field on the other side. “The steps are uneven. Take your time.”
The other two joined him in the field. They passed the window through which Sean and Eileen had been looking out from earlier. Maguire asked, catching Pritchard by the arm,
“Why not in here? It’s dark and there’s no one about.”
The younger man put his fingers to his mouth.
“Shhh. That’s the main window into the front room. We’ll go in the back way. Less chance of being heard.”
Maguire nodded. Maybe Pritchard had some grain of sense after all. At the mention of being heard, the three of them hunched their shoulders instinctively and slowly made their way under the side of the house. The moonlight flitted, throwing half lights on the land, letting them see their way and keeping them alert.
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