by Tony Walker
John exhaled heavily. "I'm out of ideas mate. Out of plans. I've got to get out of this country."
Frankton nodded. "Sure, sure. I have a way."
"You do?"
"I have a mate who has a boat at Whitehaven. It's just a small boat called the Solway Star. He often crosses to the Isle of Man. They won't expect that. And you can get a ferry to Dublin from there. I'll bet they won't be looking that way."
John suddenly felt elated. He went and hugged Frankton, who backed off with embarrassed surprise. "You've been down south too long John. Men don't hug each other up here."
John laughed. He finished his bacon sandwich and gulped down his tea. " Can I get a shower before I sleep?"
"Sure. I'll take you to Whitehaven tomorrow. I'm going to ring him now. He won't mind. He just loves to sail. Any excuse."
John went upstairs and took a long shower. When he felt clean and dry he walked into his bedroom draped in towels. On the bed were some of Frankton's clothes. They were about the same size. There was an old Thin Lizzy Johnny the Fox t-shirt with some clean blue jeans and a black pullover. He lay on the bed and fell into a deep sleep. Downstairs, Frankton phoned his friend with the boat. Then he came in to check John was ok. When he saw he was asleep he didn't disturb him. He went back downstairs where he read Out of the Night until he felt his eyes closing and fell asleep in his chair.
00:10, 10th November. Frankton woke suddenly to the unaccustomed bright flashing lights as the police vans pulled up outside. He jumped out of bed and ran upstairs to snap the light on in John's room.
"Dress! It's the filth."
"What?"
"That little fucking rat Robbo. He must have dobbed you in. Come on."
John pulled on Frankton's t-shirt and jeans. He struggled with the pullover as they hurried out of the room.
There was a hammering on the door downstairs. "Open up! Police. Open up now or we'll put the door in."
"All right!" shouted Frankton "I'm coming. I've just woken up." Then he whispered to John. "Take my coat. Out of this window."
John looked at him incredulously.
"The extension roof's below - not a long drop. Then into the garden and over the back fence. You'll get into the neighbour's garden and from there you can get to some back streets. It's a long way round by road for them."
John nodded. He shook Frankton's hand, opened the window and climbed into the darkness, feeling his way as he dropped onto the flat roof.
Frankton went downstairs. The police were shouting their final warning. He calmly opened the door and was blinded by police flashlights.
"Armed police stand back!" they shouted, pushing him out of the way.
"What the hell are you doing?" said Frankton. "I hope you've got a warrant."
The leading officer in full riot gear said, "We have and we're executing it now."
The armed police filled the house, running up the stairs, going into the kitchen. Behind them came a plain clothes Special Branch officer. "We have reason to believe that you are harbouring a wanted criminal."
Frankton shook his head. "I don't have a clue what you're talking about. No criminals here all night."
John found that the police had stupidly not covered the back garden and in a rush of adrenalin he was over the fence and running through the garden of the house behind. He ran alongside the house and onto the back street. All was quiet there. From behind he heard the commotion of the police, but in front, just empty streets in the long dark before dawn. He began to run until he was streets away and out of breath. Then he had to walk, gasping. Frankton's coat had a hood. He pulled it up against the cold breeze and headed in the direction he felt would lead him to the sea. He saw a bedroom light flick on in a house he passed. He heard the cry of a child and silhouettes cast on the bedroom window while a mother went to comfort the little one. He thought of his own and hoped that they were dreaming of Mogg the Cat.
It was a long walk through the dark town. He didn't know where he was going and went back on himself. Once he waited by a dark bridge, holding his breath, trying to see through shadows where he thought someone lurked. There was no one. Another time he found an empty caravan on derelict land. The door was open, the inside filthy and broken. For several hours he waited there as if for the world to forget him. When it didn't he moved again. Eventually he found his way to the station and waited for the first train as if he was a worker going to the first shift. The train was packed with people heading to the nuclear plant down the coast. It took fifteen minutes to get to Whitehaven. The station was near the harbour and he walked to where the yachts were moored. The dawn was grey and low in the east as he searched for the Solway Star. Seagulls fighting over last night's chips flapped away as he approached. Then he saw the boat, small and dirty, bobbing in oily water. It hardly looked seaworthy. John walked along the floating jetty to where the yacht was moored. He was half surprised to see someone was on board. He tried to get the man's attention by shouting. Whoever was in the boat heard and after a shuffle and a delay the hatch opened and a bearded face popped up. He looked more like a hippy than a sea captain. He was wearing a pirate style bandana and smoking a roll up cigarette.
"How do?" the man shouted. "You're Billy's friend?"
"Aye, I am."
"I heard you were a Jock. Still- not prejudiced. Come on board."
John stepped on board the boat and it sunk underneath his weight and swayed in the swell of the harbour waves. The man came up onto the deck. He was wearing a faded t-shirt with a marijuana leaf design. He extended his hand. "I'm Daz."
John nodded. "I'm Joe."
"Aye, Joe, whatever you say. Don't care really. Come in."
The yacht was cramped. It was packed with cases of cigarettes. Daz nodded. "I've got a lot of friends on the Isle of Man. They like to smoke."
"You're a smuggler?"
"I help people get things they want at a good price. And no money goes to the government to buy nuclear weapons. Win win, I say. And you? What are you? Something." He shrugged. "Don't give a fuck what really. As long as you pay."
John wondered how such a man knew Billy Frankton. But it was a small community. Not enough people to separate out by tastes and interests; you were bound by birth and geography even if nothing else. John nodded.
"Right Joe," Daz coughed. "£200."
"Seems a bit steep."
Daz smiled. "Take it or fuck off. I don't think you've got much option myself. I watch the news." He tapped his nose as if he had said something profound.
John took out his wallet and counted the money he'd got from the Soviets.
"Very nice doing business with you. Feel free to sleep. It'll be some hours before we dock in Douglas."
John went and lay down on the berth. He could hear Daz above him starting the engine to get them out of the harbour. Then he felt the heavier swell of the open sea, tilting him from one side to another. He was tired and even in the company of an unknown criminal felt safer than he had for days.
When he awoke he had no idea how long had passed. He sat up on the berth banging his head on the woodwork. Then he found the steps to the deck. The sail was up. Daz looked magisterial at the helm. Seagulls flew above the wake that streamed behind them in grey and white lines of froth. Behind he could see Whitehaven and the Cumbrian mountains. The sky was blue but heavy with cumulus clouds. The sun lurked somewhere behind them out of sight. Ahead he could see the Isle of Man on the horizon, Snaefell pointing upwards - too peaked but otherwise resembling a grey blue fried egg.
"26 miles from Whitehaven to the Isle of Man. It still takes about five hours in this," said Daz.
John turned again to look back at England - Ireland out of sight beyond the horizon - then Scotland to his left. The Galloway mountains lifted up to the sky. Scottish mountains. He thought of Ailsa. He longed for her like a compass needle longs for north. But she would never be his now. He turned to look back to the bow and felt its spray on his face. The past was burned out and dead. There wa
s only the future.
He couldn't face talking to Daz and went down below again. He dozed for a long time. He woke as the movement of the boat changed. There was a different quality to the sound around and outside. He got up and went on deck. They were in the shelter of Douglas harbour. Daz was still smiling. "Nearly there mate."
John stood and watched as Daz expertly brought the Solway Star to its moorings. As they tied up John said, "Well that's it then. Thanks for the lift."
"Very welcome squire. If you're ever on the run again, you know the man to come to."
John smiled thinly.
"I can't help but say," Daz added as John clambered off the yacht onto the jetty, "that you Commies will always fail. You always need the small businessman like me to save your bacon."
John grunted and made his way down the jetty to the harbour. He didn't look back at Daz.
John soon found the Isle of Man Steam Packet ferry terminal and booked a ticket to Dublin. He kept an eye out for police but saw none. No one was looking for Joe Boyd on the Isle of Man. He booked a cabin on the night sailing. He had about £300 left of the Soviet money after that. He went out into Douglas and found a cheap café where he ordered a cheap meal. He spent the rest of the day going round the shops - round Woolworths and Boots and WH Smiths. He went into another café and ordered a milky coffee. He picked up a used copy of the Manx Independent newspaper where someone had half done the crossword and spilled coffee on the football results. He couldn't settle. He went and spent some time sitting on the sea front. He was nobody anyone there wanted. No one who did want him knew where he was. Not the British, not the KGB. No one he loved either.
When it was time he filed onto the ship. He went to the bar and bought a pint of Guinness then after lingering with it until it was gone, retired to his cabin. There like Jonah, he was deep in the belly of a metal whale - the walls hummed and vibrated with its internal rhythms. It was without windows. It was hot. All he felt was the endless throbbing of the engines as they churned through the Irish Sea. He fell asleep lulled by exhaustion and was pulled deep by hypnopompic visions into the inhuman fathoms below.
He awoke just before they docked at Dublin. He got an indifferent bacon and egg breakfast from the ship's restaurant and after that went to stand on deck watching the ship enter Dublin Bay. Dublin was spread out in front of him. The barber's pole chimneys of the Polbeg generating plant standing in welcome. The city was dim and grey under low clouds. He disembarked and no one took any notice. He began to grow confident that he would get away.
He made his way to Trinity College, walking up Pearse Street. The College was the same except that the advertising board had a new exhibition. He followed the signs for the Department of Irish. A middle aged woman with dark hair was sitting in the department office, typing. She looked up. "An féidir liom cabhrú leat?" she said.
"Sorry I don't speak Gaelic," said John.
"It's Irish."
"Sorry. I'm looking for someone."
"Who's that then?" smiled the woman.
" Eithne Ní Dhubhghaill," he said with his best effort at pronunciation. "She teaches here I think."
"She does that. She was around earlier. Who should I say is here?"
"Richard MacIntosh. From England."
"You sound Scottish, but I'm no expert on British accents."
John smiled. "From Scotland via England."
"Enough of my blethering. Let me ring her." The woman dialled a number and spoke rapidly in Irish. She put the phone down." She'll be right here she says."
John went and stood outside the office in the corridor. Eithne approached from behind him and he didn't see her before she gently touched his arm. He span round.
"You're very nervous," she said.
He laughed. "I guess so."
"You're a man I never expected to see again."
"I need your help."
"Do you? We'll probably not talk here. Come on let's get a coffee."
They walked to the lecturers' common room and she showed him where to sit while she got them both a coffee. He waited for her return. She was still smiling when she came back.
"You know," she said, "you look like someone."
"Really?" he said quietly.
"Let me think," she made a theatrical show of scratching her head and then she suddenly pointed at him. "I know - the guy on the news. The spy on the run - John Gilroy. When I first saw his picture, I thought, that's Richard McIntosh, map dealer. But then I thought it must be his double."
"I'm not really Richard of course."
"No," she said, "evidently. Nor Sergei."
"I couldn't come clean about who I was."
"Just as well you didn't. You wouldn't have survived the night. Taken to some remote part of the Wicklow Hills and had bits of you drilled through, other bits of you cut off. Before they killed you that is."
John looked at her to gauge her hostility. The exit sign looked very welcoming.
She continued. "And who are you today Richard?"
He tried to smile. "Joe Boyd, salesman of used gaming machines."
She laughed out loud. "Fucks sake, who thought that one up? You Brits are ingenious, I'll give you that."
"It was the Russians actually."
She ran her finger round the top of her coffee cup. "So whose side are you on? I don't think you're on mine."
"Maybe not. But I hope you'll be on mine."
She took a sip of coffee. "Ah, I get it," she said, "the enemy of my enemy is my friend. I take it your ex chums in MI5 don't know you're here."
"I hope not. I don't think so."
"And you are counting on me as a wild Irish rebel not to turn you in?"
"I'm hoping you'll do more for me than that."
She looked sceptical. "What?"
"I need you to go to the Soviet Embassy. I need you to ask to speak to the KGB and tell them I'm here."
She sat back. "I see." She looked at him, playing with him. "How do you remember who you're supposed to be and who you're working for? Do you sometimes get mixed up about who you're betraying?"
He looked coldly at her. "Never."
"So you've always been a Soviet man, and the Brit thing was always a put on?"
"Always. I'm a Communist. Like my father before me."
"Ah," she said," I know a few Communists. We even have them here. Mostly very serious boring men. And you're not boring John Gilroy."
"So will you help me?"
She shrugged. "I'm minded to. MI5 has assassinated a lot of my friends."
"But?"
"I need to check it out with other people. I'm not free to act as I want."
"Why do you need to do that?"
"There's a command structure. There may be more we can gain from you than this."
"Ok. I understand that. So who will you talk to and when?"
"I'm going to talk to Pádraig. I don't think he'll be surprised to find you aren't really Russian. He might want to kill you anyway. I'll let you know."
She took out a piece of paper from her briefcase. She wrote the name of a small hotel on it. "It's not far. Go there. I'll come round about 6pm."
"Ok Eithne. But I need to tell you something."
"Yet more? Do tell."
"The night we met, someone took a photograph of us. Because they thought I was Russian I guess. Someone who works for MI5."
Her eyes narrowed. "Where?"
"When we were coming out of the club. Someone must have followed us out."
"A few people followed us out."
"I don't know who it is."
She got up suddenly. He couldn't read her expression. She said, "I'm teaching now. See you later."
John found the hotel and he booked in. The desk clerk gave him a key and wished him a good stay. John made to go up the stairs and then turned and said he'd left something in his car. He went out and booked into another hotel three streets away. In his room there he got a shower. The day dragged. At 5:30 he went out and sat in the pub o
pposite the hotel he was supposed to be staying at. He got a Guinness and looked through the window to see who entered the hotel. Just after 6pm he saw Eithne and Pádraig go in. He finished the dregs of his pint and got up quickly. He crossed the street and waited outside for them. Then Pádraig and Eithne came back out of the door. Pádraig was scowling. Then he saw John. His face assumed a cold grin. "Didn't trust us eh?" he said.
John shrugged. "Better to be safe than sorry. I thought you might turn up with the Police."
"The Garda? Are you joking? They work for the Free State government and therefore for the Brits. Let's go and get a drink comrade," he said to John. They re-crossed the road and sat in the pub he had just come out of. This time they found a snug well away from the entrance.
"So," said Pádraig, "The man who took the photo you told her about. This MI5 spy - who is he?"
John shook his head. "I don't know. I was just shown the photograph and told an agent took it."
"I hate traitors," said Pádraig, "But for you I might make an exception. Once I'm sure you're not just planted here to fuck with our heads. All the double, triple agent stuff."
"A wilderness of mirrors," said John.
"Come again?"
"So you don't know who to trust," said John.
"Fucking rats. I'd execute every last one of them. After I'd castrated them. If I only knew who they were."
"That's why this needs to be kept very tight," said John.
"Don't be telling me my business, Mr Spy."
"So will you go to the Soviets? It's all I'm asking you," said John.
"Don't get irritable. I have contacts through the Communist Party of Ireland. I can go to the Embassy. It won't even look suspicious to the Garda. They know I go in there on Party business."
"So no one but us three needs to know I'm here?"
Pádraig gestured to Eithne. "Just us. And Mickey. He's my right hand man."
"Was he at the club that night?"
"Yes, but don't worry he's no Brit grass. I've known him since I was 16 when we joined the IRA together."