by Finn Óg
I trundled around beneath the streets on the “T” for a while, and then found digs in Southie, where the bars looked more Irish than those back home. I tried to beat the time difference by sleeping immediately, to leave me alert early morning.
The guesthouse was pretty rough. There was a family next door, presumably in the process of being re-housed from some project. The mother had only one eye, and one of the sons was chasing the dragon in the corridor as I left the next morning. The tin foil rested on his knees and he crouched, wedged, foetal, between the carpet and the wall. He looked up, startled, when I emerged. The way his hand fluttered towards the small of his back made me note that he could be useful later, but for the moment it was recce time, and I battered on.
I eventually got on Dorchester and walked for a few hours towards town. As usual, I was drawn east, to the sea and the harbours. There was a more direct route, but not a better one. It gave me time to think about the contact, for all the good it did me. He seemed to be confident that he would be available whenever I arrived. I wondered what that meant. Was he retired? Did he work in the area, and if so, what sort of hours would make him be accessible all the time?
The shops were all shut, so I had to wait before picking up another phone, but that was grand, as I wanted to walk Tremont and get a feel for the area, and its landmarks. In the Service, we might have called this an “appreciation,” working out the ways in and out, the risks and the opportunities. The big disadvantage was that in plodding the streets so early in the morning, I would stand out on CCTV, and could be accosted by a cop. For that reason, I had on a pair of runners, a trackie end and a baseball cap. I popped in some headphones, linked to nothing, and made out like I was exercising.
Tremont was long and pretty by city standards, but coming from the eastern sea side, it was initially disappointing. The City Hall looked boxy for such an old town. The architecture rapidly improved though, and I allowed a little admiration for the speed at which America was built. There was a small church, right bang in the centre of the metropolitan area, then countless banks and chain cafes. I admired the planners’ willingness to preserve green areas, and I could see the sky without looking straight up, which was unusual in some U.S. downtown areas. I paused to look in the window of an armed forces career centre, but my attention quickly turned to the park where I imagined the meet would happen. So bloody predictable, I thought, a park bench in the middle of the open. It staggered me that every movie happened the same way. Why on earth would anyone meet in a public place, potentially observed by thousands, when they could do it in an office, or a toilet, or an elevator?
Eventually the cosmopolitan gave way to the ordinary; hotel and cinema land, then residential, and it terminated without glory at what Bostonians would probably call an intersection. Still, it had all I needed, countless ways out, countless ways in, and I had options for exit North and South. There was nothing at the guesthouse I could not do without, and through the recce, I had identified the means by which I could get to the airport quickly, and unobserved. In fact, I looked straight at it, and it made me smile.
*****
I sat by the paddling pool on Boston Common and slapped together the parts of a new burner phone. The battery wasn’t particularly well charged, which suggested it had been sitting on the shelf for a long time. Hardly surprising, given that nobody really wanted phones for phone calls anymore – they wanted computers in their pockets.
“In place, what next? Charlie,” I tapped, and lapsed into a thousand-yard stare, working logically through the possibilities, and the connection I was trying to make.
I didn’t know who the contact was, but it seemed reasonable to assume that he had an interest in stopping the abusers. I didn’t believe much of what the Counsellor had said, but I saw no logic to him connecting us unless our goals were similar. By extension, there would be no point in connecting me to someone who was involved in the abuse. I ran over the last conversation, and focused on the American angle, the claim that someone close to the President was involved. “Works for the special envoy,” he’d said. I knew that the White House had maintained a Special Envoy to Ireland, or more specifically Northern Ireland, ever since peace broke out. The aim was to secure business and economic prosperity, but also to wade in with the boots when negotiations between the factions got tricky. My broad sense was that it had been a success, but an attaché involved in an abuse ring? I’m sure I appeared sceptical, particularly to the Counsellor’s face, but in all honesty, I knew it could be true. Cover-up requires power, and the ability to keep something covered up for a long time requires a special kind of influence.
Behind every public leader is the person with real clout. It had been such in the Marines and in the military, and my interminable attachments to close-protection units had confirmed that politics was no different. The colonels and the cabinet ministers were often just needy extroverts, who possessed the ability to string a sentence together. They also had enough arrogance to wade through any media onslaught; they needed the attention. I had seen at close quarters that there were good reasons why the backroom boys and girls didn’t like the limelight. These were people who enjoyed power so much they wanted to hang on to it. The cyclical nature of politics ensured that failure, for the elected, was guaranteed. When it came, the breed that lingered behind the politician would simply crown another King or Queen, and sand it into shape. Such people could draw their fix, and their finances from power, yet remain un-seen. When I was protecting politicians in London and abroad, I’d been issued intelligence briefings that went with any “Principal.” On two occasions, we were told to be more wary of the advisor than the cabinet minister, because un-specified proclivities could pose a risk.
The phone chimed, I’d forgotten to put it on silent. “Come back tomorrow, noon. SMS me then.”
The language suggested an American. I deleted the contents of the inbox and sent folders, rubbed the phone hard to get rid of fingerprints, and hurled it angrily into the middle of the pond. I saw no reason to allow anyone to ping me now. On the long walk back, I bought a third phone from a dingy little corner store, and gave it a charge at the guesthouse. The neighbours were fighting, at least the sons were. I got between the sheets and waited.
I woke to silence a few hours later. The jet lag from the time difference had worn off. I lay and listened, hoping I’d been roused by movement in the adjoining room. Ten minutes later its door opened quietly, which suggested that some of its inhabitants were still asleep. I slipped from the bed, and hoped that one of the sons was on the move. I could hear steps on the corridor, too heavy to be the one-eyed woman. I dressed, and followed.
He turned heel into an alley fifty metres from the house, and must have been needy because he didn’t venture far up it. From the street, I could hear his preparation, the crinkle of foil, the tell-tale Zippo flip, the strike. I don’t know what he was cooking up to suck, but I hoped it was good stuff. I walked off for a while, and by the time I came back he was just as I wanted him, curled over his knees. He couldn’t have been more accommodating really. I wouldn’t have to hurt anyone today. I lifted the back of his jacket and his belt practically handed me what I had come for, a 9mm Beretta. But there my luck ran out. It was in shit shape; rust in the barrel and the slider was sticky. Worse still, there was nothing in the magazine. I could tell by the weight before I checked. The kid must have used it for show, or for robberies. America was awash with such side arms, skimmed from the military and available in most unfriendly exchange stores. Still, I took it anyway, and went back to the room. There I replaced the plastic wedge I always carried with me on such trips, and kicked it tightly under the door; simple but enormously effective. Key or no key, an intruder’s only option would be to break the door down to get in. That and the weapon gave me enough peace of mind to get some more sleep.
*****
I made contact at midday, as directed, and tried to take the reply in good humour. “Go to where the Puritans lie, by Philips.�
�
I had assumed that the contact would want to take a look at me before he stepped forward, so a run-around was to be expected. I began walking, same route, same pace as the day before. I had an idea of where I needed to go. The little church I’d looked at had a graveyard, which pleased me. In any other major city, they’d have paved over it and thrown up a Starbucks, but the Americans had so little history that they hung onto every tale and title. There was a sign, indicating I was on the Freedom Trail, the oldest burial ground apparently, on the outskirts of a Puritan settlement. Lovely, I thought. I waited a while to see if the contact would hit me up, and when he failed to, I wondered whether he was following me at all. I got texting.
“Ok, I’m here.” The response was immediate.
“I think not,” came back immediately.
I tried to suppress my irritation, and looked again at the first text. “By Philips,” it said. I began to dander around the graves. Deacon Robert Gardner, Simon and Mary Rogers, Mary Seymore. Many were hard to make out, they’d been there since the 17th century, eroded by smoke, and later fuel emissions. Isaac Merrion, Piebec Merrion, wife of Isaac, William Hallowell. Three hundred graves, and not one Philips. My patience was wearing. Perhaps I’d missed something the day before? I ran the recce through in my head, as if replaying a tape, and remembered another church, but with no graveyard. I decided to carry on up the road. As I walked, another message buzzed my balls. I lifted out the phone, imagining the contact was watching me do it.
“Go first to Franklin, then Philips.”
This told me he was impulsive, changing his mind. I grew to dislike him a little bit more. He’d obviously made a plan, and was unable to stick to it. That, to me, suggested he was excitable, which was frankly not my favourite trait in an adult.
It happened as I passed the Last Hurrah bar. I’d been alert, so I saw it coming, even though I didn’t quite believe it. A vagrant, lying by the side of the main street, begging, had picked me out at a hundred yards and was giving me the eyeball. He had a note scrawled on cardboard, no doubt identifying himself as a veteran. Takes one to know one I guess. He leapt up, but he wasn’t keen on a greeting.
“Fucking fag!” Anger roared from his eyes. I moved aside and had to pivot as he followed me. He was a fit enough character, and he wasn’t for letting go. He appeared determined to shove his face in mine. “Fucking faggot, fucking faggot!” he yelled.
This was attention I could do without, and like the ripples made when a stone hits water, people circled wide, but stared centrally towards the commotion. The rabid scruff wouldn’t let up. Every time I moved away from him, his hands grappled me, and he kept screaming and hurling his shoulders towards my upper body. I quickly tired of the intrusion and the attention, and made the poor choice to drop him. I placed my weight on my aft foot and using his moment, bent my forearm to drive through.
As I connected, something of interest registered out of my peripheral vision, but then it was all about withdrawing. I heightened my pace and listened to what was going on behind me. Someone had tried to help him, and I turned a little to catch him lashing out at the Samaritan with his legs. Then there was a patter behind, and I knew he was determined to follow up. This time, I had no choice. I timed it right as he ran towards me. If I had punched him, I would have injured myself and he would simply have got up again. He was spitting now, so when I turned, I caught him just where I wanted, palms up under his eye ridge. His head flew back, his feet rose and he hit the sidewalk with his skull. Even at that he wasn’t entirely knocked out, but he’d certainly lost his grunt. One woman stared at me and hustled away.
“So unnecessary,” I heard her mutter. She didn’t stoop to help the man though, who was bleeding a bit.
I crossed the road and hunted for whatever had caught my attention. Eventually my heart rate rested and I caught sight of it. Straight across the road was another ancient-looking graveyard. It was surrounded by high buildings, apartments perhaps. The beautiful steeple of a clock tower stood to its left, a real Back-to-the-Future type structure. I had to move away, but I could see that the centrepiece of the graveyard was a cenotaph style monument, on which I could clearly make out the word, “Franklin.”
I walked two blocks and then coasted back to the area, removed my shell jacket, and took the sunnies off my head. There was a little blood on the pavement but not enough to worry me greatly, so I skipped up the steps through wrought iron gates, into the graveyard. A man in period dress was addressing two Asians and I had to pan between the tour guide and his captivated audience to see the engravings. I caught the largest headstone, “Philips,” and made a note to thank the vagrant with a little cash if I passed him again. Without him I would have walked the wrong way and missed it altogether. This sort of mystery and suspense nonsense would normally have made me very contrary, but I was buzzing like a brothel’s doorbell. “First Mayor of Boston,” read the inscription, on closer inspection. Then the phone rang.
“You could have just called in the first place,” I said.
“Well, you certainly know how to make an entrance.” The voice was muffled, but was American for sure.
“I think it’s time to stop pissing around,” I said, in my best Lieutenant Commander voice.
“Come in, pull up a stool. You could probably do with a drink,” he said.
“Where?”
“Right beside where you drew blood, my friend,” and he hung up. I looked across the street. There was a classy sign, made of bulbs, “The Beantown Pub.” I was quite thirsty, and a little tired of bullshit.
*****
I walk into a pub as a woman might a jewellery shop. I looked longingly at Jack and Jim twinkling at me from behind the bar. They’re part of the reason I don’t do as much drinking as I would like to.
“Diet Coke,” I told the barman. He nodded in an odd kind of approval, and got his funnel frothing. He placed it in front of me, and stood for a moment. I hadn’t been expecting to pay right away, so I looked from his apron to his face.
“On the house,” he said, quietly. “I finish in a half an hour, we can talk down below.”
He motioned his head to the lower, darker part of the pub where TVs were showing sports. Well, there you go, I thought. A barman. I need not have bothered my arse doing the recce at all. I watched him for a moment; he was in his late thirties, but lithe, and confident, like he was capable and comfortable.
“So where do you fit in?” I asked him as he sat down. He’d changed his shirt.
“It’s a long story,” he said.
I rather imagined it would be.
“How do you know our friend in Dublin?” I tried, meaning the Counsellor.
“Survivors’ network,” he replied. “I met him at a gathering here in Boston. He was in a closed seminar about healing. We shared.”
That seemed like a very American phrase. I knew it would only be a matter of time before he began to talk about “closure.”
“Shared what?”
“Umm, how should I address you, Sir?” he spoke respectfully, even though he clearly had the upper crust.
“Charlie will do,” I said.
“OK,” he shrugged.
I didn’t want his name, but he wanted to tell me all about himself.
“I’m from money, Charlie. I’m Ivy League, and we have a big old house in the Hamptons, the whole nine yards.” He looked at me, my turn to shrug. “My family and I are… not real close anymore.” He got up then, and reached over the bar to grab a coffee pot. He poured himself a mug, and sat down again, waiting for me to ask a question.
“You’re going to need to keep going, I’m fresh eyes on this.”
“Well then, you’ll need to be very, very careful, because what I’ve got to say to you is exceptionally dangerous.”
I sighed. “Exceptionally” isn’t a word people use without rehearsal. “So people keep telling me,” I said.
“I went home unexpectedly one night, to New York, from here in Boston. I was at Ha
rvard.” He paused, and stared straight at me. Not a flinch. “I was gonna surprise my folks. I went around back and there were big cars in the space the staff would normally park, which was weird, because visitors usually pull up out front. There were no cars round back. Not even my mom and dad’s. I kicked around some and then I went to the dining room, I don’t know why.”
He pulled a chug on his coffee mug, and then cradled it in his paws. “Our dining room is kind of like a library, Charlie. It’s a big old room with a balcony all around, and two doors attached to that, and two stairways down to the dining area.”
I nodded.
“The house was quiet, so for some reason I was moving around it kind of quiet too, and when I opened the door to the balcony, nobody in the dining room heard me.”
I followed his logic and had an image of the layout in my head, old dark timber, with a ladder on wheels to reach the books.
“Down below, there were some real bad things happening.”
He paused, and then he went on to describe a sort of ritualistic ceremony, at the centre of which was a child. There were sheets, and there was blood. I shook my head a little, and held my hand out flat to indicate that I didn’t need to hear the horrors. It was all starting to bring back some pretty bad images of my own, of what my wife had told me, and of what the Counsellor had said.
“Just tell me who was with your father,” I said.
He looked up in surprise. “Oh, my dad wasn’t there. These were friends of my mom.”
That shocked me, but in retrospect I don’t know why. I knew there had been women involved. I suppose I just hadn’t anticipated that a mother could be associated with something like this.