Shadow Box

by Peter Cocks

  Two hours later, after a Burger King and a couple of large vodkas to settle his pre-flight nerves, Donnie was in the departure lounge.

  Donnie hated flying. Even when he’d done the two hours to Malaga he’d never wanted to set foot on a plane again. It was unnatural. He didn’t like the take-off or the landing. He didn’t like the bit in between, either, especially when it got turbulent and bumped along like an old holiday coach with shot springs.

  Despite the drinks, Donnie had the jitters by the time he settled into his seat. Dave had said no to business class, and he found himself next to a plump, middle-aged American lady who smelled strongly of perfume. An airline seat was barely wide enough for Donnie at the best of times, but given a neighbour who looked fond of the Dunkin’ Donuts diet, he found himself cramped.

  “They never make these seats big enough,” the lady said conversationally.

  “No,” Donnie said. She bustled up her handbag, newspaper and stack of novels in an effort to make room for Donnie, but in fact leaving less space than before.

  “You English?” she asked.

  Donnie grunted and shuffled meaty legs into the small area, trying to kick off his shoes.

  “I love your country,” the lady said.

  “Stow it,” Donnie huffed. He was in no mood for seven-odd hours of chat.

  “Pardon me?”

  “Put a sock in it,” Donnie said, attempting to make the message clear. The lady looked absently for what needed stowing, and then at Donnie’s feet.

  “Your feet swell when you fly,” she commented.

  “Shut up,” Donnie clarified.

  The woman looked blankly at Donnie.

  “You’re just nervous,” she said. “Don’t worry, I’m a frequent flyer. You sit tight and relax. You’ll be fine. I’m Marcie.”

  She patted Donnie’s hand, and he was relieved when she opened a novel that looked like it would take six weeks to read.

  Marcie kept her headphones on through dinner. Donnie ate microwaved sausage and mash, and after racking up a few miniature bottles of wine managed to nod off during a Bourne film, the headphones protecting him from any unwelcome intrusion.

  Somewhere into the flight, Donnie was awakened by a chime as the cabin lights came on and an announcement came over his headphones.

  “The captain has switched on the seatbelt sign. We are entering an area of turbulence. Please return to your seats and fasten your seatbelts.”

  Donnie blinked and looked around nervously, remembering where he was. Marcie, next to him, was already awake and belted. She helped Donnie wrestle his unhooked belt from under his legs. Donnie grunted his thanks and looked at the seat back in front of him. He took deep breaths and tried to focus, suddenly feeling, as the plane hit the first bumps of turbulence, the watery-gut sensation that he never felt when confronted by a baseball-bat-wielding thug. As the bumps levelled he let out a long breath, but then he saw the flight attendants lock the trolleys into place and belt themselves into folding seats. He was sure he could see panic in their faces. If they were panicking, he thought, he should be shitting his whack. As the plane hit the next, deeper troughs of turbulence, he thought he would. His breathing quickened and his fists tightened on the arms of the seat, his knuckles whitening.

  “Don’t worry,” Marcie said. “These bad boys are designed to take this. I used to be a fearful flyer, I went on a course…”

  His companion chattered on about air pressure and lift and resistance, stuff that Donnie didn’t understand, but her soft American voice, which came deep from an abundance of chest and chin, strangely comforted him.

  Then the plane dropped suddenly. It felt like free-fall on a fairground ride, hundreds of metres.

  Donnie gasped and found himself clutching Marcie’s hand.

  “It’s OK. It’s OK,” she said. “It’s a pressure drop.”

  Donnie squeezed Marcie’s hand tight, engulfing it in his massive paw. As the crockery rattled in the galleys and other flyers gasped, Donnie heard himself emit a whimper.

  “We’re experiencing an electrical storm,” the voice came over the speakers. “No need to panic. We’ll just be switching off the intercom for the moment and will come back to you as soon as it passes.”

  The communication cut-off had exactly the effect on Donnie that the air crew were attempting to avoid. His legs shook, trembling against those of his plump neighbour.

  “It’s OK,” Marcie repeated like a mantra. “When things like this happen, we put our faith in the Lord Jesus Christ. What’s your name?”

  “Donnie,” he told her.

  “Well, Donnie,” Marcie said. “If we believe in Jesus Christ, he will see us through times like these.”

  Donnie couldn’t remember the last time he’d thought about God or Jesus or anything else beyond where the next feed, drink or job came from. He looked out of the cabin window into the darkness and saw lightning flashes momentarily illuminate the wing. He suddenly saw himself as small as an ant, powerless, being tossed around in a storm, trapped in a steel tube in the middle of the sky. He began to say his prayers.

  “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” Sharpie’s voice was crystal clear despite the distance between us. I didn’t really have a good answer for him.

  “Tony told me to come. Didn’t he speak to you?” I asked. I was on the back foot.

  “Maybe he did, for what it’s worth. But Tony is not your case officer, Tony is not running this case. Tony’s not even on the firm at the moment. Anyway, he told me quite categorically that he’d told you not to go.”

  “What?” I was thrown. Why would Tony give Sharpie a different version of the story? I decided not to pursue it for fear of getting in even deeper.

  “Someone was on to me, up in Stoke,” I said. “I’m sure of it. Thought it best to get away.”

  “So you should have come back to me while I decided what’s best. You didn’t tell me about anyone being on to you up there. Who do you think it was? Or are you just making up more lies to cover your tracks? Why aren’t you keeping me in the loop? What are you up to? Where are you staying?”

  “Tony told me not to…”

  “Don’t give me that!” Sharp shouted. “Where?”

  I had been getting on OK with Sharpie, and I was grateful to him for coming to rescue me when he had. Now I felt that all his goodwill had evaporated. I had broken every rule in the book, and I felt bad about it. He had a point: I wasn’t reporting back to him as much as I should. I felt cross that Tony had made a bad decision and landed me in it.

  I told him the address of the hotel.

  “Shall I come back?” I asked.

  “You’re there now,” Sharp said. “Stay put while I decide. I may have to come over myself.”

  “What shall I do?”

  “Nothing, until I tell you. Take in the sights for a couple of days.”

  “OK, I said. “Look, Sharpie, I’m really sorry, I know I’m out of order. I’ll do what I can to make amends.”

  “That may be a disciplinary matter above my head,” Sharp said. “You’re a good agent, but you’re a hot-headed little fucker.”

  “I’m sorry,” I repeated, but he had rung off.

  I felt chastised, but I had been trained to work on my own initiative. They didn’t seem to mind me making my own decisions when I was out in the field, getting in up to my nuts with Irish gangsters. Then, when it suited them, they reined me in.

  I sat on the hotel bed reviewing my case notes, licking my wounds, looking for something to emerge to make sense of it all. Nothing did. It was about three o’clock. I had eaten a massive all-day American breakfast of crispy bacon, scrambled eggs, hash browns and endless refills of coffee several hours earlier and my stomach was still bloated. I was jumpy and agitated. I had been cooped up ever since I’d got here and was getting a little stir crazy. At least Sharpie’s suggestion to go and see the sights gave me licence to stray outside, and a short walk around the park or the shops would be a welcome di
version.

  I put on a clean shirt – a Ralph Lauren Oxford – and sailing shoes. I wouldn’t stick out. I wasn’t armed and had nothing to defend myself with, but I made sure I had money and my phone.

  I was about to leave when I noticed a letter under my door. A hotel envelope, probably containing details of that night’s menu or cleaning services, I thought. I opened it and found a handwritten note. The writing was poor, in looping capitals:

  KIERAN – Fancy hooking up with an old friend while you’re in town? You need one. Meet me for a beer at Kelly’s bar, 12 Avenue A, East Village. 6 pm. You’ll know me as Michael.

  What the…?! I sat down again, my heart in my mouth. Read and reread the note. The tone was not threatening, but neither was it over-friendly. I didn’t have any friends in New York, old or otherwise. “Old friend” was the kind of thing they said in Doctor Who or Sherlock Holmes stories.

  Had Sharpie put someone on my case already? Fast work if he had.

  I looked at the map. The East Village and Avenue A would only be about fifteen minutes’ walk from the hotel.

  Kelly’s Bar. There had to be something in that.

  I didn’t want to go. Also, Simon Sharp had told me to wait for his word, so I decided I would follow his instructions.

  Five minutes later I changed my mind, the old phrase “curiosity killed the cat” running through my mind.

  I turned the corner into West 8th Street, magnetically drawn towards the East Village. I decided that I would check out Kelly’s Bar. It would still be a good couple of hours before the suggested meeting.

  I crossed Broadway, checked the map and walked across Astor Place and on to St Mark’s Place, where the street became narrower and tree-lined. It felt a little safer, more like London in scale, and I continued until the junction with Avenue A.

  There was a park opposite Tompkins Square. I walked in and strolled along the path under the trees, parallel to the street, until, across the road, I could see the arched door of Kelly’s, complete with the green, white and orange Irish flag.

  I decided to sit and wait.

  By 5 p.m. I was bored stupid. I had seen few people come and go from the bar. I walked around the park, watched kids playing basketball and toyed with the idea of going back to the hotel, the butterflies in my stomach building. I was getting cold feet.

  At 5.30 p.m. a few more punters started to go into Kelly’s. I didn’t recognize any of them. Then it occurred to me that if I was to arrive early and find myself a quiet corner, I might steal a march on my “old friend”, whoever he might be. I could always work out an escape route if it went wrong.

  I went across the road and, after checking the windows, pushed the central door open.

  A large TV screen at the end of the bar played a silent baseball game. It was dark. Good. Squeezing between a couple of big men wearing baseball caps, I ordered a Bud.

  I found a booth hidden in the shade of the bar and watched the door. Like someone in an old movie, I picked up a sports paper and pretended to read it, bringing it up to eye level when any new customer entered.

  Ten minutes later, the door opened and I raised the paper again. I peeped over as the man scanned the bar and went to order a drink. Lit by the overhead lights, I recognized him. I now knew who my “old friend” was.

  And I didn’t like it one bit.

  The plane began its descent into New York.

  Donnie had finally relinquished his grip on Marcie’s hand, but she continued to pat his, resting on the seat arm, as the captain apologized for the turbulent flight and thanked them for flying with American Airlines. The sense of relief in the whole cabin was palpable. A bonhomie born of fear had struck up and engendered conversations and connections that would never otherwise have taken place. People chatted and exchanged phone numbers, all the while praising cabin staff for their calmness. Free drinks were circulated once the storm had passed, and Donnie had swallowed a large brandy with shaking hands and then drunk Marcie’s, too.

  The cabin staff had been attentive, helping Marcie calm Donnie, bringing him water as his body shook and sweated with fear and he struggled for breath. He seemed to have had some kind of crisis or panic attack. The biggest, scariest looking man on the flight had also been the most scared of dying.

  “There we go,” Marcie said. “Nearly there. I told you we would be fine.”

  “Thank you,” was the best Donnie could muster.

  “But Donnie, I get a strong feeling from you. A strong sense of sadness. I think you are a good man, but there have been many bad things in your life.”

  Donnie looked sideways at Marcie.

  “Yeah?”

  “I sense a loneliness, and I don’t know why you’re coming to New York, but I think you will be lonely here, and sad, too, unless you make some changes. You were so scared back there, so alone. I’m glad I was here for you. You need to make your peace with God and he will always be by your side.”

  Donnie considered.

  “Will he?”

  “He will.” She grasped Donnie’s hand again and looked at him. “I see a beautiful girl, maybe your daughter?”

  “Donna?” Donnie never really considered his daughter beautiful. He couldn’t see beyond the nose piercing and dyed black hair.

  “Blonde.”

  Not Donna.

  “And a young man, lonely, like you. Look after the girl, Donnie. Look after them both.”

  Donnie began to sweat again as he digested Marcie’s words and felt the bump of the undercarriage lowering.

  “Nearly over,” she said, and seconds later they were on the runway.

  Donnie helped Marcie down with her bags from the overhead locker. She took a card from her purse and handed it to him. It had pink edges.

  Donnie struggled to read the kooky font on the card. He tucked it into his top pocket.

  “Don’t you go losing that, Donnie,” Marcie said, patting his chest. “My number’s on the back, so if you’re ever stuck in New York, or just need to talk, you know where I am.”

  Donnie muttered shame-faced thanks, then walked slowly along the walkway to passport control. He had barely been able to squeeze his shoes back on at the end of the flight; his feet had swollen, and they hurt. He heard a rumble behind him and quickened his pace, paranoid on foreign ground. The rumble came closer and he realized that it was the wheels of a case being pulled along. Another few seconds and Marcie Kahan was back at his side.

  “Whoa, Donnie. Where did you get to?” she puffed. “I musta lost you back there.”

  She wittered on about dos and don’ts in New York, how much Donnie should tip a cab and the best place for a salt beef sandwich, until they reached immigration.

  “I guess this is where we say our goodbyes,” she said finally, joining the queue of US citizens and pointing Donnie at the sign that read Aliens. “I’d offer you a ride into the City, but my sister’s collecting me and she only has a tiny Yaris.”

  “I’ll be fine,” Donnie assured her. “Thank you.”

  Marcie reached up on tip-toes and planted a lipsticky kiss on Donnie’s cheek.

  “Remember, Donnie, put your faith in the Lord.” She patted his chest.

  Donnie watched as his travelling companion waddled off to US passport control, dragging her wide load and her trolley case behind her. His shakiness was beginning to lessen, but, as he disappeared into the queue, he felt the unfamiliar catch in his throat again.

  The man at the bar was one of the last people I expected or wanted to see in New York, or anywhere else. He was dressed like a construction worker in a sweatshirt, worn jeans, boots and a Dodgers baseball cap. Dark-haired, black stubble. Looked hard as nails.

  I slid back in my seat while he ordered, worked out my escape route. I was not going to hang around.

  His back was still to me as I stood, and I decided that a straightforward walk to the door would attract the least attention.

  Then he turned.

  “Kieran?” he said, putting an arm ou
t to stop me. “I’m Michael. It’s been a while. I’ll get you a drink, but I warn you, the Guinness is shite here.”

  He presented two bottles of Rolling Rock and pointed me back to where I had been sitting. We sat down.

  “Cheers for coming,” he said. “I thought the name of this bar would raise your curiosity.”

  “Curiosity killed the cat,” I said. He smiled.

  And I found myself clinking bottles with Paul Dolan.

  “So how long have you been here?” He sounded exactly like his brother, Martin.

  “Not long,” I said, cagey as a schoolboy caught shoplifting.

  “Anything interesting?”

  “No,” I said. “I’ve been cooped up in a hotel. Jet lag.”

  “Who knows you’re there?”

  “You do.” I wasn’t going to give a thing away.

  “Tony Morris? What about your case officer?”

  “How did you know?” I asked.

  “I didn’t get to where I am today by dishing up everything I know straight off the bat, did I?” He grinned and winked at me, just as he had on the marshes a couple of years back, the night he and Tommy got pulled in.

  “Tony Morris? Sure,” I said. “He sent me here.”

  Dolan clearly knew plenty. Pointless denying it. At least it would let him know I was protected. All the time I was talking my mind was racing, trying to work out whether it had been Tony or Sharp who had told Dolan where I was, and why. And, more importantly, whether or not I could trust him.

  Dolan chuckled.

  “If you take my advice, you’ll move as soon as possible. If I can find you, then other people can. You know what it’s like in this work, you stay still too long and you’re a sitting duck.”

  “I don’t know where else to go.”

  “I know a few places,” he said. “Bet your case officer told you to stay put as long as possible?”

  I shrugged but didn’t deny it.

  “’Course he did,” Dolan said. “They always want you where they can keep an eye on you. It’s all about control. They want you in your place until they pull your strings and then you dance off into the next sticky situation. You’re a puppet.”