by John Brady
"Yeah. Mutiny on the what-che-me-call-it," echoed the smaller one.
"Ah go on, yous are only jealous," the older man derided them.
The four men fell silent as if each knew that the talk only served to distract them from waiting. Another few passengers-again all men-trickled into the lounge. The tanned man felt his radar sense ease with each arrival. Then the sound of the screen sliding up returned him to the present.
"Aha. What'll you have," the old navvy said to him.
"Hold on, it's my twist" said the red-face.
"You buy later. I'm flush. A pint of beer?"
The tanned man wasn't listening. He was trying to supress any outward signs of the alarm that was yammering in his head.
The man had walked in just as the screen was going up.
Instantly, the tanned man was aroused. He felt his pulse push at his collar. The man had glanced at his group and then affected to look around. He was a tallish man with a full head of hair. His gait suggested an attempt to look slovenly, but it didn't come off. The face was a little too impassive, his glance a little too neutral. The man's coat was darkened at the shoulders by rain and his hair was stringing. His duffle bag should have bit into his shoulder but it didn't: it was probably half empty. Who would travel with a half-empty duffle bag?
"Beer. You can have Smithwicks, though personally I wouldn't drown a cat in it. How about Harp? That's a lager…"
"Yes."
"The Harp?"
"Yes. Please."
It was as if there was a stage director in his head pointing out all the moves. See how he is being too casual? Walking so slow? He's trying to look sloppy but look at the shoulders. Face is too bland by far, because he's not tired. He's trying so hard not to look… excited.
The red-faced man leaned over.
"Oi. We haven't got going yet. Don't look so thrilled."
"Pardon?" said the tanned man. He watched the man disappear around the corner, back out toward the stairway.
"You look a bit peeky so you do. Go out and stick your finger down your neck. Honest to God it works."
The tanned man looked directly at the red face. He saw a dissolute, loose face. Written on it were evasions and self-pity. The shallow banter was a poor attempt to mask the weakness. Instantly he loathed these men and the inanity which formed their lives. They were caricatures and they didn't know it, half-alcoholic, petulant children. Their humour had a manic, follow-on quality. The red-rimmed eyes above the bristles, puzzled and wary, the very pith, of the simian Irish peasant in Punch. He looked at the smaller navvy, whose face showed a mix of cowed agreement and resentment at the world, tempered with anticipation for the drinks on the way. He felt a rage against them. All he had risked and hoped and: not for these.
He left the table without a word. He didn't turn to the "Oi" from the older navvy who was carrying pint glasses of beer and stout to the table. He felt himself walking almost on his toes, ready to break into a run. The cop was not there. He unzipped his jacket three-quarters of the way and he opened the door which led out on deck. Immediately a spume of drizzle came in out of the night at him. Dun Laoghaire pier ran out alongside the boat.
He looked over the railing. The gangplank was still down. It was the only way off the ferry unless he was to jump into the water. He began walking toward the steps which, he supposed, led to the back of the boat. There was no one on deck. He passed portholes and windows where he saw passengers settling listlessly into chairs. A seagull flew through the lights and into the darkness overhead. Above the back of the ferry, he saw the lights of the hotels half hidden by the trees. Stepping closer to the railings, he looked down at the dock. Several porters and men in overalls stood around, sheltered by the roof of the railway terminal. A faint cloud of drizzle hung over the rail tracks in the light which came out under the roof. Two men appeared from a doorway and walked hurriedly to the end of the platform.
He thought about the lifeboats or storage, but they'd search them. The ship's engine droned up through his feet. Maybe the car decks, there might be a car open. Or a truck. They'd want to isolate him in a set-up like this. Dump the gun and brazen it out with the Canadian passport: the playwright… Trust in no one. Well, father, what would you do?
"Here come on. Is the job done?" he heard behind him. The older navvy stood at the door.
"In a while," he managed to say. Turning around again, he noticed a movement behind the navvy. The navvy made to step aside and let the person pass. The tanned man called out:
"Come on over for a second, would you?"
The navvy stepped over the jamb, scratching the back of his neck. As he began walking, the tanned man realised he might not have the time to put the silencer on.
"I'm a bit groggy," he said.
The navvy came over reluctantly. Whoever had been about to come out the door had not appeared.
With the navvy between him and the door, the tanned man turned back to looking at the town and reached into his jacket. He felt, rather than heard, the navvy's footsteps approaching him reluctantly across the deck.
"What's the story?" the navvy began.
The tanned man turned and brought the gun away from his chest.
"We're getting off the boat. Don't say anything, just listen to me."
Quigley saw the older man freeze, with his arm out a little from his sides. He heard Gibbons breathing close to his ear. Quigley's finger pushed out at the trigger guard, the muzzle touching the side of his knee. His arm felt heavy as if the gun were hanging from it.
"He has a gun on him," whispered Gibbons,
"He'll probably bring him down on the stairs outside as much as he can. There's no one on deck," Quigley murmured. Quigley tried to guess the distance from the door to the railing. Probably the best part of fifty feet. The door opened out and there was a jamb to jump over too. The Yank was right-handed. Quigley watched the Yank's hand come down on the navvy's shoulder, the navvy's arms go up almost horizontal. Must be an instinct, to raise your hands like that, he thought. Anything could happen here. This was what they had feared, a hostage. For a second he remembered the stoicism on O'Rourke's face, well in control of the skepticism. Even in broad daylight you couldn't shoot accurately at fifty feet with only one chance. So: the Yank had copped on when he had walked into the bar. Quigley leaned back against the wall, flattening his back.
"Which deck is the ramp on again?"
"For passengers on and off, sir?" Gibbons asked. Quigley nodded.
"Two decks down. If he's going to try and get off the boat, he'll have to take at least one stairs inside the boat, sir. The deck right below us is the last one with a promenade outside…"
Would he jump to the dock? Quigley wondered. Fifteen… eighteen feet; bad light… hardly.
"Fuck it, fuck it!" Quigley hissed. "Go down one deck you, Gibbons. Wait by the door there. That's where he'll make his move to come inside if he's really headed off the boat."
"Right."
"Now listen, man. I'm going to get behind him from here, so's I can take him at that door if I have any safe angle at all, I'll call out to him. You see him turn around, grab the oul lad he has with him. Through the door, if you can. By the hair if you have to. Just get him to the deck as fast as you can, I don't care. We'll have a clear take-down on the gunman if it works."
"Lookit, you have the wrong man. Where's the cameras? Is this 'Kojak?'" the older navvy said.
"Shut up. Walk slowly. You'll know it's for real if I have to use it."
The navvy turned and began walking slowly to the pier side of the boat. The tanned man stared at the door and then to the stairs ahead. Had he been mistaken?
When the navvy reached the stairs, he grasped the rail and stopped.
"Look, mister, it's none of my…"
The tanned man nudged him with the gun and stepped down after him.
"Slow down." The navvy stopped at the bottom of the stairs.
"We have to go inside now," the navvy said quietly. "It's the
only way off without breaking your neck. If me mates see me, what'm I going to say to them?"
"Tell them you're looking after me."
The two men stood four steps from the door. The tanned man looked around and listened. He looked toward the stairs they had come down.
"The door opens out, so no funny stuff," he said to the navvy. As the navvy grasped the handle, the tanned man hid his gunhand under the left side of his jacket. The navvy yanked the door open with ease and lifted his leg over the jamb. The smell of cigarettes and the opep-opep of a video game came through the door. And something else: the tanned man turned and looked back up the stairs. He knew instinctively that he had to hold out his hand to stay the closing door, but it would have to be his left hand. The sound from inside drowned out the voice from the top of the stairs.
Someone had knocked the navvy over inside. The heavy door had snapped almost shut. It was hissing slightly in the closing gap. The tanned man stepped back from the door and fired up the stairs. More shouting inside, the door clicking shut and the huge daanng as the bullet hit off a rail, whining off into the dark. The figure at the top of the stairs stayed flattened against the wall. The tanned man began backing away on his toes. A face appeared in a window next to him and reflexively he squeezed off a shot. The glass webbed instantly. Someone screamed. He watched the door where the navvy had been swallowed up. Overhead he heard footsteps running along the upper deck. Things were happening too fast, at least three men. Turning, he ran.
Quigley waved O'Rourke on toward the stairway forward of the ship. He heard O'Rourke's crepe soles squeak softly as he began running down the wet promenade. Quigley started down the stairway slowly. Three steps down he saw the two men at the doorway below. Quigley shouted as the navvy opened the door. The Yank turned toward the stairway as the door closed abruptly ahead of him. Quigley heard muffled shouting from indoors. He saw the flash as his back pressed into the plate which formed a wall section to the upper stairway. The second shot was from further away, Quigley guessed.
He eased himself down one step, then another and took aim at the doorway. Outside the door at the bottom of the stairway, the promenade deck was empty. Drizzle had gathered into droplets at the rims of the overhang, and they fell off slowly onto the railing beside him. Quigley strained to listen: the hush of sea, a breeze, drizzle. His arms were hurting. Images of passengers walking into a line of fire flashed on and off in his mind. He crouched near the railings, still pointing the gun at the doorway.
"Gibbons?" he called out, still pointing.
"Sir!"
"You got your man in?" he shouted.
"I have him here!" Gibbons shouted back.
"Where's the target?" Quigley didn't care that the edge of panic in his voice was quite plain now. He looked down the promenade. He thought he saw a flicker of movement, a shadow in the dimness beyond the lifeboats. Running? Gibbons' head appeared in the doorway. Quigley looked in at the navvy still sprawled on the floor, pale.
"Looks like he's headed for the stairs up ahead. Go inside, now and quick. O'Rourke's up there, maybe ahead of him, up above. Don't let the Yank inside!"
Quigley went forward in a crouch, his left hand on top of his right to keep the barrel down when he fired. He felt the beginnings of a cramp grasp the palm of his right hand. As he passed a window, a glance showed him some passengers on their knees, others running for doors from the lounge. The ship swayed very slightly from side to side. Faintly, a siren, two. Quigley swore aloud.
The tanned man stopped abruptly. Ahead of him was the other stairway descending from the deck above. It ran against him. A perfect spot to command entry to the doorway at the foot of the stairs. He strained to hear footsteps above him. Nothing. He looked behind. There was someone or something moving quickly around the lifeboat stanchions. He felt the ship's engine at idle, resonating underfoot. And something else, he sensed: the slightest tick, a vibration nearby. A footstep on the stairway? Through a window he glimpsed a figure running inside. Another one. Had to move now.
He stepped abruptly to the foot of the stairway and aimed up. The figure had one foot tentatively on the step down and he was already turning sideways. The first shot staggered O'Rourke. The tanned man saw something fly up from the head with his second shot, as the head jerked. The arms flopped and O'Rourke fell, as a puppet dropped. He tumbled down the stairway flopping loosely, without any attempt to slow. O'Rourke's pistol clanged, fell down a step, then another, and lodged. His leg caught in a support and the rest of him fanned bumpily against metal, pivoting around head first.
The tanned man had three steps to the doorway. He was through the second and reaching for the handle when a blow to his left side danced him sideways. Shot, he thought remotely. Must be the one coming up behind me. This is what it is like to be shot? No pain yet, why? He almost lost his balance.
The shout from behind seemed to be coming from the far end of a playing field. Must have been the guy behind. The other one inside would have reached the door by now too… yes. He felt himself swaying. Dizzy a little, but things were clear, not like being drunk even.
He turned and fired, wondering. He heard the shot ricocheting angrily off metal. The ejected shell pinged and rolled lazily along the deck toward the door. He felt hot, things were loud. Can't even try to go up the stairs, he thought. He wondered if he had spoken aloud. He tried to grasp a railing again, but he couldn't feel it. Another shot, but this didn't hit. He strained to see where the one who had shot him was. The after-image of the flash wavered as his eyes scanned dully along the deck. Someone crouched by that big box near the stanchion…? Not sure, keep looking, a movement… For a moment the tanned man was back in the water again, a child, listening to the voices of people on the beach, so far away, a plane droning overhead in the blue Florida sky. Ah, shot. Mistakes but tried, tried hard. Yes, there was someone crouched down there… The tanned man levelled his pistol. A chance, he thought. Done tougher shots on the range a couple of times anyway… He thought of his father's face turning back to the newspaper, tight lips: his mother kneading her hands at the door, always defending "He couldn't help it Seamus, he's only a boy"
Out of the corner of his eye, the tanned man saw the door fly open. He started to draw his gun arm around toward the doorway, knowing he was too late.
Already braced in the doorway, Gibbons fired. The shot caught the man behind the ear and his chin rocked onto his chest as he fell forward. His knees hit first and Gibbons heard the thunk of his forehead hitting the deck. A spray of blood flicked onto the deck around the head. The body rolled slightly but then seemed to right itself, face down. Gibbons stared at the gun next to the right hand, and he walked slowly over the jamb of the door. He looked up the stairway at O'Rourke. The side of his head showed purple in the light. A steady stream of blood had run across two steps and was draining onto the last step. Gibbons could see it moving like there was no end to it, edging and pouring over onto the deck now, mixing with the wet gleam left by the rain. Quigley was running toward him, shouting. How could people have so much blood?
"Jesus, Mary and Joseph," Gibbons whispered. He remembered something out of his youth, long gone now, and not knowing what else to do for O'Rourke, he started on the Act of Contrition.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
On Wednesday, Kilmartin had met him for dinner in the Civil Service Club in St. Stephen's Green. After the soup, Kilmartin winked at Minogue.
"Will you take a glass of whisky with me beyond in Dwyers pub afterwards?"
"No thanks, Jimmy," Minogue murmured.
Kilmartin nodded slightly and toyed with his fork.
"It'd put me to sleep for the afternoon, so it would. Thanks anyway," Minogue offered.
"I see, I see," said Kilmartin, still observing the fork studiously. "To be sure, I understand."
The waitress clumped a plate in front of Kilmartin.
"Cod?" she said to Minogue. Kilmartin forked a piece of stringy beef.
"He flared up only the once
yesterday, Loftus. But then he shut up very quickly," said Kilmartin. Minogue worked on the batter around the cod.
"Something about 'duty.' I asked him if he thought it was the duty of an officer in the Irish Army to resign his commission and work against the laws of a democratic state just because he didn't agree with the way the country was being run. I thought he was going to spit at me, so I did. But he clammed up then after a dirty big sneer at me. That's as far as we've got with that boyo."
Minogue nodded but stayed silent. By unspoken agreement, they had given up on Loftus. They had tried to lever him with news that the Yank had been caught and that he was telling all. Loftus, it seems, knew better. He said nothing. He had withdrawn, leaving a composed expression. It struck Minogue that Loftus seemed relieved now that he had done his duty.
"Some duty," Kilmartin said. "Ah, but something will turn up on this Yank, you'll see. Then Loftus'll say his piece."
Kilmartin had been wrong to date. The most that Loftus said in the days after his arrest was couched in a mixture of disdain and a half-hearted effort to explain by allusion. He soon stopped that, even, apparently sure in his mind that the audience of interrogators would never understand. That left Kilmartin to wonder if the Irish Army really would have gone into Derry in '69 like Loftus said. They had field hospitals and vehicles gathered up near the border, everyone had known that. Should they have gone in? Against the British Army, could they? Loftus had resigned within the year.
"I think maybe his trip to the States is what turned the corner for him," Minogue said finally.
"You mean all the hardware and blather they have over there? And where did it get them in Vietnam I ask you, Matt?" Kilmartin replied.
"America is a country full of savages. They don't know what they're at half the time. Look at the telly, I mean. Or should I say, don't look at the telly," Kilmartin said indignantly.
'"Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori,'" Minogue murmured.
"What?"
"It's about dying for your country."