Short Storm

by Hegarty, David

  Pritchard halted. He held his hand up for the others to stop, then poked at the wall, searching for something.

  “What is it?” rasped Maguire, the tension and exasperation clear in his voice.

  “I’m looking for a hole. There’s part of the wall here with real easy holes in it. It’s only a matter of climbin’ over.”

  He quickly added,

  “We need make no noise at all. Easy as a ladder. Hold on,” he said, and moved up a yard or two on his own.

  “Here,” he whispered.

  The other two followed.

  “I’ll go first. I know the way over and the far side as well.”

  Pritchard moved to the wall, placed his hands and feet in the necessary holes and scaled the wall effortlessly and quietly. He sat astride the top, leaning forward, keeping his silhouette to a minimum.

  “Wait until you hear me slap the top of the wall, then come up one at a time.”

  Maguire nodded, moving his hand in a wave so that Pritchard would see his acknowledgment. Boylan moved in close beside Maguire and muttered in his ear,

  “What the fuck does he think we’re going to do? Charge up in a battalion?”

  The leader nodded at Boylan’s remark and whispered curtly,

  “Give me the gun. You go first. I’ll hand it to you when you’re on the top. Then give it to Seamus.”

  As Boylan handed him the Uzi, Maguire caught him by the arm.

  “No talking over the wall.”

  He gave the man’s bicep a squeeze.

  “And go nowhere. Not a step. Don’t move until I get over and join you.”

  Boylan nodded, was about to move to the wall, but Maguire held on.

  “D’you hear?”

  Boylan nodded again.

  “Yeah. Yes!”

  Satisfied, Maguire let go. Boylan moved with the easy skill of an agile man, a darker shadow in the dark night. In a few swift moves he was at the top. Silently Maguire handed him the Uzi. He watched the shadow take it, sway and reach down the other side of the wall. The legs moved, a foot scraped and he was over. As Maguire searched for the holes, now darkly visible to his intense watchfulness, he swore as the whispering voices of the other two came over the wall to his ears. He hauled himself up, pausing at the top to look around for movement. There was none. They were still whispering in argument below him.

  “Shhh!” he hissed and they both stopped.

  He swung himself over and lowered himself onto the ground. All three crouched so that they were under the wall. Maguire motioned them to squat, as he did.

  When the three of them were settled, he whispered softly, so that the other two had to crane their necks forward to hear him.

  “Now. No talking. Quiet. Silence is everything. Move slowly all the time. Got that?”

  He paused.

  “Got that? Take your time. We’ve all night. There’s no rush.”

  He paused again.

  The others caught his urgency and the need for quiet. They formed a close huddle.

  “Now,” he went on, “this is the hardest part coming up.”

  He spoke in short bursts.

  “So, take your time.”

  Pritchard started to speak, but Maguire silenced him with a brief shake on the shoulder.

  “It will take us longer when we’re inside.”

  He spoke each word with deliberation.

  “If either of you makes a noise, I don’t care why,” he stopped. “If either of you makes a noise, I will kill whoever does it.”

  He moved his shoulders.

  “Kill him. You know I mean it. Time to remember it. OK, now, Seamus, you move. Slowly. Very, very slowly. Then me. You follow us, Fred.”

  Maguire was elated. He could feel the excitement flooding through him, giving his senses that keener perception, sharpening his mind, giving him the power to creep in stealth.

  Step by careful step they moved, feet lifting in small moves, pausing at each new place, hunting stones or glass or paper that could roll or crack or crinkle. Time passed. Time meant nothing. Only the black shape of the house, in the fey light of the flickering moon, was in their consciousness. All else ceased. Their world was the objective. First to reach it, get there. At times they paused, alert, sensitive to interferences in the quiet, animal rustlings, alterations in the breeze, the gentle shuddering of leaves in the big sycamore tree in the garden corner. Maguire’s command held. They reached the house unobserved and undisturbed.

  Only Willie Maguire sitting in the car around the front of the house was aware of the time. He was counting the minutes, feeling the seconds.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  The three men at the back of the house stood silently by the door. Maguire put his fingers to his lips. The others nodded, caught up in the pressing excitement of the operation.

  Maguire pointed his finger at the door, leaning slightly towards it, hunching his shoulder to indicate a push. Pritchard shook his head. He leaned his face over and mouthed the word “Bolts.”

  He held two fingers in front of Maguire’s face, leaned forward again and said, “Big ones,” barely audibly.

  Then Pritchard raised a hand, crooked a finger and muttered, “Window.”

  Slowly they moved towards the kitchen window and stood for a short while listening. Maguire waved his hand, giving his consent for the work to start.

  Pritchard hauled the roll of bandage tape from his pocket. He laid it on the window sill, reached in his pocket again and lifted out a penknife and a screwdriver. He picked up the tape, peered at it in the dark and, feeling with his thumb around the surface, peeled about fifteen inches from the roll. Holding it up, keeping the tape from sticking to itself, he nodded to Boylan and said, “Cut it.”

  As the blade whisked through the sticky material, Pritchard put down the roll and let the severed piece swing from his fingers. He caught it at the other end and stretched it fully, giving a slight tug to keep it taut. With patient care he placed the tape on the window opposite the catch. Slowly they cut and placed five more strips, until a rectangle of plaster covered that part of the window pane. Then Pritchard cut two more strips and placed them in an X across the rectangle. He nodded to the others, picked up the screwdriver and showed he was going to start the break. The other two stood back. Pritchard gripped the handle of the tool in both hands, his strong fingers making a tight and immovable alce, the metal working end sticking down from under the heels of his hands. He raised the point, carefully placing it against the bottom of the tape. Slowly, gripping the handle tighter, he forced his concentration on the tip, so that the tool was an extension of himself, and began to press against the tape-covered pane. He inched the weight in from his shoulders, letting his powerful frame keep its own balance. As he pressed, he could feel the resistance from the window arresting his efforts. Slowly, slowly, he let the pressure build. He did not breathe, did not blink. He focussed his eyes and all his controlled strength and concentration on the dim, grey tip of the silver metal.

  The glass popped. It was barely noticed by Maguire and Boylan, such was Pritchard’s control. What they felt, rather than saw, was the relief in his body. The shoulders relaxed, the big chest moved, and a quiet sigh filled the night. Pritchard punctured the glass at six more spots, forming a rough square of about six inches. Then he reversed his tool, gripped the metal shaft in a rolled handkerchief, and pressed the handle to the centre of the square. This time there was a dull splintering and the three of them froze as they waited for the window to waver and cave and let the whole house know of their presence. But it didn’t.

  Pritchard reached a hand to the tape, testing gently with a fingertip. The tape dipped slightly under his touch. Then he traced carefully around the edge of the taped rectangle, feeling for any spreading cracks, threats to the whole of the pane. Nothing. It was clear and smooth. Taking his time, he pressed the edges of the tape and worked his way all around the punctured area he had made. It seemed good, sound. It looked as if the only break was the r
ough-marked square. All other spots under the tape were of intact glass. Now, time to take out the broken hole.

  Pritchard handed the screwdriver to Boylan, turned to Maguire and made a crossed-finger sign. He patiently tapped at the top corner of the stuck fabric. After a while, the corner lifted. He kept on tapping it gently until he had a good fingerhold. He grasped it between thumb and forefinger and placed his other hand flat on the rectangle, controlling the amount that could lift. Slowly he began to haul. He stopped at every piece of lifted tape to renew his grip and keep his hold close to the window. It lifted slowly. The sound of the peeling was negligible. The three men kept their attention on the point where the fabric was progressively lifting from the glass. When Pritchard came to the square he had delicately punched in the glass, it lifted cleanly with his touch, made sensitive by his concentration. When he held the fabric in front of him, the cracked glass stuck to the adhesive, the three men could clearly see the black shadow of the latch in the centre of the hole.

  Now that they had gotten this far, with more speed and silence than they had hoped for, a confidence borne with the familiarity of the night began to fill them. Their movements, no less careful, were deft and swift. They were in tune with each other and each knew what the other was thinking and planning. Their objective was now centred on the one point and each man was playing an integral part in that achievement.

  Pritchard quickly reached up, pressed lightly on the latch, then, holding his hand in position, moved the crossover piece with the strength of his fingers. He motioned the other two aside from the window sill. Carefully he reached in with one hand through the gaping hole. Lightly first, moving instinctively to avoid any small shards, he curled his big fingers around the upper frame of the bottom pane.

  Taking his time, he eased the pressure onto the frame until he was gripping it tightly. He took a deep breath, held it. He eased the strength into his hand and drew it up, easing the bottom pane gently off the window sill. Then he checked the outside and inside sills for any objects which might fall. There were none. He took out a pencil torch, screened the back of it with his hand and checked the floor inside, leaning his head in through the window. There were no wires, cords or curtain ends to trip him. He then put his hands under the slightly raised bottom pane and slid it up all the way. He pocketed the torch and climbed in. The flag floor held no danger of creaks or squeaks. Lightly he moved through the kitchen to the hall and the back door. He knew where the bolts were. He’d seen them often enough when he’d been a guest of Doyle. God, that had been some time ago! He started on the top bolt first, working it back carefully until it was fully pushed against its buffer. The bottom one was stiffer. He had to take time, succeeding in releasing it only through a long and painstaking series of short moves, done by shifting the bolt up and down in half revolutions, freeing it enough to gradually slide back from the hole in the big sunken frame.

  With the bolts back, he stood straight and listened. No sound came. He lifted his finger under the catch and raised it. He tapped once, very lightly, on the door and stood back into the hall. The door pushed open slowly. He could clearly see the silhouette of Maguire come across the doorway. Boylan followed and the door was quietly closed, the latch put back to secure it.

  Now, in the deeper darkness of the house, the three of them came close together again. With his hands on their shoulders, Maguire conferred with them in a quiet voice.

  “It will be a slow job from here.”

  He turned his face to Pritchard’s ear and said,

  “The stairs are wooden, aren’t they?”

  He knew that some of the old coastguard cottages in the area had low stone stairs to the upstairs floor, but he wanted to be sure that this wasn’t the case in Doyle’s house. Pritchard nodded.

  “The stairs and the landing will have creaking boards, so take your time,” said Maguire.

  He turned to Pritchard again.

  “You go, then me.”

  He turned to Boylan.

  “Then you. Remember,” he added, turning his head from one to the other, “slow, slow, slow.”

  He asked Pritchard once more,

  “You know where they are?”

  “At the end of the corridor. The kids are in another room beyond theirs. We’ll have to go easy. They leave the landing light on.”

  “Right. Move. I’m with you.”

  The first part of their approach along the concrete hallway to the front of the house was easy. They moved swiftly to the bottom of the stairs beside the front entrance.

  Pritchard moved first, letting his weight settle slowly on the first step. He walked on the side of the stairs; there would be less movement of the timber there. He lifted his weight onto the left leg as it straightened, bringing his right leg up, then placed the weight on both of them. He paused and waited, listening. It was quiet. He leaned forward again, letting the right leg take his weight, splaying his fingers on the wall beside him for balance, and slowly raised the left foot until he could place it squarely on the next step. So he went, step by step, waiting, stopping, listening. He checked his own balance and the steps ahead for creaks, pressing his hands on the boards. The work was tense. He found his muscles tightening. In a few steps he realised that he was at the first turn in the stairs. The next step up would bring him into the light of the bulb on the landing. Well, he thought, at least he could see where he was going, but he could also be seen immediately if anyone came out.

  He heard a faint movement and turned his head. Maguire was right behind him, the whites showing in his eyes, fierce determination showing in his face, ill-lit as it was. Pritchard turned back to his climb. There were only four more steps on the next flight, then the landing ran along a short way beside the bathroom, turned the corner and led to the bedrooms. He knew the house well. Around the corner were two windows which looked out on the front road where Willie was parked. These were curtained at night, so they presented no problem of allowing anyone to see them. On the right were two adjacent bedrooms. One was used as an office and workroom by Doyle. The other, Pritchard knew, was a spare room for the occasional guest. Not that the Doyles had many guests. Pritchard had slept there one night himself, when he was loaded up on some poteen from up-country and had been unable to walk home.

  That seemed ages ago. Three years. He had just joined Doyle on the old boat and both men had hit it off well. The memory hit him like a shock. Was he really doing this? Was he really sneaking down Doyle’s corridor with Maguire? Jesus! For a moment he wavered, turned again and saw the man behind him. He suppressed an urge to reach out and touch Maguire to see if he was real. He knew he was, he knew why he was there. The moment of panic passed. He became aware of the beads of sweat standing on his brow, on his upper lip, felt them trickling down to his eyebrows. He wanted to wipe them from his face, but moved forward towards the corner of the landing. He told himself to be calm, to remember the hardships Doyle had given him and the fact that McCann was in the place that should have been his. Yes, he was right, stay with Maguire. He was the man. That was the way to go. By Jesus, he would show some people what they could and what they could not do with Pritchard! The night before last, with that dummy Malone, had been a start.

  Pritchard felt better. He was right and he knew it. When people used you and promised you breaks, then took them away from you, you had to take matters into your own hands. That’s life. That’s the way. Do it yourself. He grinned to himself. He would give Doyle and his stuck-up tart of a wife a bit of his own D.I.Y. tonight. That’s what she needs, he thought. She probably never had a good one. He reached the corner. The sweat was coming over his eyebrows, down the bridge of his nose and into his eyes. The salt stung. He reused a sleeve and pressed it against his brow and held it there for a moment. Slowly he dragged the forearm down along his face. He felt something behind him. Maguire was looking at him with a question in his eyes. Was he OK? Pritchard blinked a tiny drop of sweat from his eye and looked at the two behind him. God, but they were rig
ht close! He blinked again and searched their faces. Not a drop anywhere. The two were as cool as ice. Both pairs of eyes were on him. He gave them a hint of smile. He felt better for having seen them. They gave him confidence in what he was doing, and belief that they would do it successfully. He turned and moved his head around the corner so that he could see down the corridor.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  For what seemed to be ages, Cullen stood staring out the bedroom porthole. In reality, it was minutes. It was as if time had stopped. The realisation of what had happened registered slowly in his mind. His instincts were far more powerful in their effect. His stomach churned as if the bomb of surprise had gone off in it and the blast of horror had blown through the rest of his body. He knew it would pass. It always did. He knew this even as he blinked into the reddening blaze of sky that glowed above the sinking sun. Why? If they were facing Ireland, charging west at near full throttle, why the hell hadn’t Gustav told him? Why had Gustav lied to him about going to France? Or had he? Now, hold it. What had Gustav said? Had he said he was going straight to France. No, he hadn’t. He had only told Cullen to amuse himself and that he would call him when he was nearing France. So had Gustav deliberately misled Cullen, or had he just omitted to tell him something which didn’t concern him anyway? He forced the thoughts, checked the panic. But why were they going towards Ireland?

  Now that he had begun to think, the shock of the discovery began to lessen. He thought again. First things first. Back to start. The boat was going towards Ireland. Gustav had not told him. He was not meant to know. He was going to be surprised, perhaps unpleasantly. Gustav had been short and flippant in response to his enquiries. He caught his mind. Hold it. Get back to the facts. Forget who. Think what. Recap. You’re going to Ireland. Surprise. But now you know. No surprise. Gustav doesn’t know you know. Now it’s your surprise. Like a sense of relief from a bad shock, he welcomed the ability to think again. He was quickly rising to the occasion. He was coming back to normal. For that was his life: minute to minute survival. Constant vigilance — it kept the edge, gave the advantage. He knew something was going on. He didn’t know what. So he was a bit behind, but he was catching up fast, assessing himself and his probable position. The rest and the diversion with Elaine had done him good. He was setting himself to find out what was going on, and beginning to feel the exhilaration of the chase. For him it was back to normal. He fitted easily into the situation. His brain and nervous system were finding their metier. This was how he functioned.