The Sea and the Sand

by Finn Óg

  Sam leaned forward, put his head in his hands, did the maths and sat back up. He didn’t face the priest but spoke in profile. It felt less painful. “Look, father, in a nutshell, we’re from Ireland. It’s a long bloody story – sorry, father, but it is. My wife, Isla’s mother, she got killed. Murdered in a fairly random incident. She was trying to do the right thing and some bastard stabbed her. Sorry again, father.”

  The priest nodded away the apology.

  “Thing is, Isla was with her.”

  “Your daughter.”

  “Yes.”

  “When she died?”

  “Yes. She was … holding her. And she thought it was her fault.”

  “Why?”

  “Look, father, there really isn’t time for this.”

  “Make the time.”

  Sam knew he needed a significant diversion to create enough confusion to allow them to escape Sicily. He could really do with sending the police inland away from the coast, so he needed help, and to get it he spooled back into the damaged quarter of his mind where the dark stuff was boxed and stacked, requiring attention while being ignored. He span fast, unwilling and unable to give the words proper thought.

  “A drunk man nearly ran Isla over in his car. She was on her bike.”

  “Ok.”

  “My wife was with Isla – they were out for a cycle. My wife, she was a strong sort of woman. A headstrong woman. Principled, you understand?”

  “I do.”

  “She drove to the man’s house and stole his car keys to stop him driving. Then she went home, and Isla was playing with the keys – she was only small then, and she hid them in her wee bag.”

  “Ok.” The priest was no less confused.

  Sam began to talk very fast. “Well, through the jigs and the reels, the man turned up and demanded the keys, and he had a knife, and my wife – Shannon – she got scared for Isla and so she decided to give him the keys, but she couldn’t find them. Then the man stabbed her in front of Isla and she died. And Isla thinks it’s her fault.”

  “Dear God, forgive us,” said the priest.

  “Anyway, that’s the gist of it.”

  “Where were you?” asked the priest.

  “I was abroad working,” which told the priest virtually nothing about Sam’s life as a Royal Marine.

  “What was your work?”

  “You’re better not getting into that, father.”

  “It must be tough work for you to disable three men.”

  “Well, I don’t do it any more.”

  “You were military,” stated the priest.

  “Anyway,” said Sam, “we were sailing and healing, and then Isla heard this noise from the sea, and it turned out there were people in the water – the woman, the kid and a man, so we rescued them, and to be honest, father, I’ve been trying to get rid of them ever since.”

  “But now you want them back?”

  Sam was not oblivious to the irony.

  “Not really, but I feel I should help them. The man, see, I didn’t know he wasn’t her husband, but Isla did, and she didn’t tell me until I sent them ashore here, in Sicily.”

  “Why did your daughter not tell you?”

  “I think she thought I already knew, somehow. It doesn’t really matter, but I didn’t even know the woman spoke English for fuck’s sake – sorry, father. She was silent for days, and she was in a burka yoke, I only saw her face for the first time when I came here to the church.”

  The priest thought for a moment. “So where is your boat?”

  “In the harbour being fixed.”

  “It is damaged?”

  “Look, father, that’s not really the issue.”

  “And where is this man who isn’t the child’s father?”

  “Fuck knows,” Sam said, giving up on the apologies. “If he wasn’t here when you found them, he must have scarpered.”

  “Scarpered?” Father Luca had, at last, come across a word he was unable to guess the meaning of.

  “Fucked off, father. Now are you going to help me or not? Those cops won’t stay tied up forever, and that woman and her kid won’t stay out of a detention centre for very long if I don’t get to sea soon.”

  He leaned forward and looked straight at the priest through the mesh. They were roughly the same age and both had the seasoning of lives lived in problematic parishes. They were old enough to have the confidence to break the rules and young enough to have the balls to get away with it.

  “There is more in your head that you are not telling me. You would be best to let that out, to confess, to ask God for forgiveness.”

  “He’d be at it for years if he listened to my sins, father. Now – decision time.”

  “Something I need to know first,” said the priest, “what did you do to your wife’s killer, and what will you do with the women?”

  “That’s two things.”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll answer one.”

  “Ok,” said Father Luca.

  “I have no idea.”

  “I think you just answered both,” said the priest.

  “That’s it?” Tassels asked as a large rubber roll was transferred from one lorry to his van. A hire vehicle which, on reflection, looked enormous.

  “That’s it,” said the Jordanian who had transported it from who knew where.

  “Well, how am I supposed to conceal that?” he asked, staring into the empty loading area of his own vehicle.

  “Where are you going?” asked the courier.

  “North-west. Port Said,” lied Tassels.

  “Risky,” mused the courier unhelpfully, not really caring either way.

  “Why?” asked Tassels.

  “It’s Sinai,” he shrugged, as if that were explanation enough.

  The Jordanian leaned forward and unfastened the ratchet straps holding the bundle together. The package fell apart like a bouncy castle inhaling before a kid’s party. Inside was a large outboard engine that looked new.

  “Four-stroke,” smiled the Jordanian with pride. “No oil necessary. Very fast. Will travel long time, small fuel.”

  Tassels had no idea what he was talking about. “I’ll need to find stuff to cover it with.”

  “If you want to deliver the rest of my load, you will save me money,” said the courier.

  “What have you got?”

  “Four more of those,” he said, pointing to the boat, “and rugs, Persian. Fine rugs.”

  “You have four more boats?” Tassels struggled to compute.

  “Yes.”

  “With engines?”

  “Yes,” said the courier, confused.

  “And where are you delivering them?”

  “Suez.”

  Tassels bristled at the news. He could have avoided the treacherous journey and met the courier in safe territory.

  “Who are they for?” he snapped at the Jordanian.

  “Merchant vessels on the canal heading south.”

  “What?”

  “Container ships, they come to Port Said from Europe, yes?”

  “Yes,” said Tassels.

  “Then they go through canal, yes?”

  “Yes, I get that bit, but surely the ships have their own small boats on these ships.”

  “Yes,” said the Jordanian, who seemed to say yes a lot.

  “So why do they need extra boats – why smuggle these ones?”

  “Pirates,” smiled the Jordanian conspiratorially.

  “Pirates,” repeated Tassels, none the wiser.

  “Suez is halfway down the canal, yes? Many shipping companies pay for special soldiers. These men get on ships at Suez to keep crews safe.”

  “Ok,” said Tassels, broadly aware of the pirate threat off the East African coast. “But what’s that got to do with these boats?”

  “When ships leave Red Sea, Gulf of Aden, pirates can attack. From Somalia.”

  “Ok?”

  “Not at daytime – they stop daytime raiding because of Russia
n patrols.”

  “So?” said Tassels, adrift from the nuances of piracy.

  “So, is at night special soldiers use these boats.”

  “To do what?”

  “To sink pirate boats,” said the Jordanian slightly frustrated at Tassels’ lack of understanding.

  “But why don’t they just use their own boats from the ships?”

  “Everywhere there are patrols. India, Russia – is combined task force.”

  “So they are safe – the ships?”

  “Sometimes. Shipping companies are very greedy. They do not want pirates arrested, they want pirates dead.”

  Tassels shook his head. “So why not just let the special soldiers shoot the pirates when they get on the ship?”

  “Pirates don’t get on ship – patrols stop them most of time.”

  “So there is no problem?”

  “Sometimes they get on ship. Sometimes they have ransom. Ship companies do not like this.”

  “So they send special soldiers to kill the pirates?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then what?”

  “Then they leave dead pirates in these boats,” the Jordanian pointed at his massive rubber rolls, “take off engine, leave boat close to shore and stab the tubes so boat is useless. Families of dead pirates know someone is killing them. No more pirates.”

  Tassels stared at the deflated deterrents.

  “So these boats are abandoned?”

  “Abandoned?”

  “Left in Africa?”

  “Yes, left behind. Special soldiers are collected using ship’s boats and nobody know of anything. Is necessary because all ships are checked when they arrive from Mediterranean at Port Said in north Egypt. They have all the small boats they are supposed to have and they get all-clear and travel south on the canal to Suez. Then they take on extra boats, smuggled so nobody can trace these boats back to the ship.”

  “I see.”

  The Jordanian nodded and smiled.

  Tassels admired the sleeked plan. It was like passing through customs with no contraband only to collect the illicit goods on the other side. The boats were sacrificial, avoiding audit from maritime checks. He imagined the pirates’ bodies were mutilated before they were allowed to drift ashore – like heads on spikes or the bodies left by the roadside to deliberately decompose after Mubarak fell.

  “So who collects these boats?” he pointed to what was left in the Jordanian’s van.

  “I do not speak to them. I just turn up on time and someone comes to collect.”

  “Did you expect someone to collect here, in Nuweiba?”

  “One customer only. Libyan.”

  Tassels nodded. “I am here in place of that desert rat.”

  The Jordanian shrugged his shoulders. He didn’t care, so long as he got paid. “If you take all of this west, you will be able to cover the boats with the rugs. It will be safer for you and I can go back.”

  “I will take them on one condition,” said Tassels.

  “What?”

  “Next trip, you deal only with me.”

  The courier snorted. “I am just driver. I do not make arrangements.”

  “When you collect these boats, are there more? Can you buy more?”

  “Perhaps if I have money.”

  Tassels reached into the cab of his van and pulled out the wad of notes.

  “I will give you half of this if you return as soon as you can with more boats for me.”

  “This is not enough.”

  “This is a lot of money.”

  “Crossing Sinai is dangerous these days.”

  “I just did it no problem,” said Tassels, who in truth had taken the safer and longer journey south, and had still needed to use his police ID on numerous occasions.

  “Ok, if you collect here in Nuweiba and you take rugs and other boats to deliver in Suez, it is worthwhile for me. I can bring more boats. No problem.”

  Tassels shook the man’s hand before exchanging numbers and arranging dates. He couldn’t believe his luck.

  “Listen,” said Father Luca as Sam and Isla got out of his little Fiat. “Get in touch when you are back. Let me know everyone is ok.”

  Sam crouched down into the ridiculously small car and looked at him sceptically.

  “You think that’s a good idea, father?”

  “I am not convinced any of this is a good idea, Sam, but my conscience is telling me that it is the right thing to do. I am trusting you. I want to know that trust is well placed.”

  “I am trusting you too, father,” said Sam. “You’re clear about what to do?”

  “Yes. Now you must be clear too, Sam. You need to address many things in your heart and in your head. I can help you. When this is done, we can talk. Even priests have Skype.” He handed Sam a sliver of paper with an email address on it.

  Sam stared at Father Luca. He rarely made friends. Sam hadn’t spent any real time with other men since he’d left the Marines, yet in the space of an hour he and an Italian priest had somehow come to an understanding and Sam found himself grateful and respectful.

  “It’ll not be on Skype, father,” he said, “but, look, I’ll be in touch eventually and we’ll have a pint or two and we’ll talk.”

  “I am not a pioneer.” The priest smiled. “Ciao, Isla.”

  “Say bye-bye,” Sam said to his little girl.

  “Bye-bye, father,” she said suddenly shy.

  “Thanks, Luca,” Sam said, nodded his sincerity, gently shut the door and tapped the roof.

  He took Isla by the hand and began to walk towards the travel hoist. His spirits rose as he approached the boat hanging silent and imposing in the slings. The hull was washed smooth as an Italian tailor.

  “Come on,” he said to Isla. “I need you to sit in the cockpit while I put the boat back in the water.” She climbed up the ladder.

  “Ok,” she called from above. “Can you drive the crane?”

  “I hope so, wee love. I used to drive one years and years ago.”

  “When I was small?”

  “No, darlin’, long before you were even born. Before I met mammy, before everything.”

  Sam almost drifted off. Father Luca had somehow opened a few old wounds.

  “When she’s in the water, you start the engine and I’ll jump down from the dock and we’ll go, ok?”

  “Ok.”

  He climbed into the open cab and stared at the levers. He didn’t relish the experimentation he was about to perform while Isla was on board the boat hanging at his mercy, but there was little choice. The engine fired up and he looked around to see if the yard owner might appear. Nothing. He touched a few levers gently to get a feel for how the forward and aft slings were controlled, and with growing confidence and muscle memory gently tilted the correct two towards him to lift the boat off her keel about a foot in the air. Isla’s head appeared above him.

  “Sit down!” he yelled at her, “and don’t move.”

  Her straggly hair swept behind her as she retreated.

  Sam released the groaning brake and began to trundle the enormous machine towards the dock. He anxiously turned the massive wheel as the tyres found their tracks over the gaping expanse below, and eventually Sian dangled over open water. Four levers were pressed gently away from him and the boat began to descend into the tide.

  As she floated twenty feet below him he released two levers using the front sling to keep her in position. The back sling could run off its drum as far as he was concerned. It needed to dive deep beneath the keel to allow them to reverse the boat out. He’d just switched off the engine when he heard a shout and turned to see the hairy boatman hobbling in his Crocs towards him. Sam had no patience for explanations. He climbed out of the cab just as he heard Isla fire up the boat’s engine. Good girl, he thought. Then he leapt at the rigging and grabbed the first crosstrees. From there he shimmied like an ape to the mast, wrapped his legs around it and slid like a fireman to the lower spreaders. From there it was a gent
le fall to the boom and a few paces to the cockpit.

  “I’ve got to go!” he shouted up to the grisly yard owner. “I’ll chuck you up some cash.”

  But the yard owner wasn’t liking the departure or that his crane had been used, and plainly didn’t understand what Sam was saying. He had clambered into the cab, started the engine and was starting to reel the rear sling in again.

  Sam had seconds to act. He threw the boat engine into reverse, praying that the fouling of the shaft hadn’t done any alignment damage or screwed the gearbox. Sian slipped quickly astern and rubbed gently off one of the dock posts as he turned her. The yard owner hadn’t had the sense to pull in the forward sling, which would have contained them for a while, and was instead left swearing and swinging his arms from the dock as Sam turned the boat.

  “Isla, get come cash from the bilges,” he shouted, “quick!”

  Up came a grand bundled in cellophane. Sam unwrapped it, handed more than half back to Isla to return below and rewrapped about three hundred euro in the cling film. He reversed the transom towards the fat man.

  “Here, catch!” he shouted above.

  The man had evidently seen what was was being offered and tensed himself as if he were about to grab a Fabergé egg from the air. Despite his unattended body he showed remarkable dexterity in retrieving the payment, which induced a pleasant bearing on his attitude: his scowl became a smile and he even waved them off. A week’s wages in one day, Sam suspected, but worth it. He couldn’t afford to have anyone call the police and betray their means of departure.

  The fact that the coastguard had been called still niggled Sam but there were more pressing issues. Provided the priest did his bit, they might just get away with it.

  Arish was a mess and Cairo was busting Waleed’s bollocks.

  He had taken the promotion against his better judgement. He knew it was pride that had driven him to accept the challenge to lead the desert campaign. It felt like a small internal victory – a Coptic at the heart of Egyptian intelligence, not that anyone else knew he was a Christian. He certainly didn’t live as a Christian – his actions routinely strained the description. Regardless, he felt he’d achieved something against the odds.