by Finn Óg
The boss stopped to stare across the expanse of the lough. On a good day they could see three of the six occupied counties: Tyrone, Derry and Antrim. His native Armagh had always been a blight on Britain’s landscape – a matter of considerable pride to him. His county and its unruliness had proved a major handling and he wanted to keep it that way.
“So what’s he said?”
“There’s a delivery due at the location. You are to understand that there must be fire and all floors are to be destroyed.”
“I am to understand?” He ground his teeth. “Patronising bastard.”
“I’m just telling you what he said.”
The boss mused upon the desire to shoot messengers.
“Next time he rings tell the fucker there’ll be fire.”
The yard owner was a handless prick. Sam kicked off two hours before Isla woke every morning. At eight he got her up, made them both breakfast, took her to school and was back on the tools by nine – at which point Handless started his lackadaisical day. Most of Sam’s time was spent fixing the half-assed botched jobs his new boss carried out. He knew the yard owner felt undermined, that he was being upwardly managed, but the man didn’t have the capacity to deal with someone like Sam. Handless almost fell into a sort of rhythm whereby he consulted Sam on how to carry out jobs, Sam then patiently spelt out directions only to berate the boss for not having listened when he made a bollocks of it. This went on for a while coupled with the boat owner praising Sam’s standard of work, which only served to irritate Handless even more. Instead of harnessing cheap and skilled labour, he grew to resent it.
About three weeks in Handless kindled a kind of bravado and started leaving deliberately shitty jobs on the clipboard in the shed for Sam. It was the tone of the writing on the shitlist than annoyed Sam more than anything.
Get the big schooner scraped back to the gel. Make sure.
Clear the toilet and replace pipes and Jubilee clips.
Bail all dinghies in yard and turn over.
Sand back yawl topsides. Needs done by end of day.
Sam raised an eyebrow as he read the note. They both knew that the sanding job would take three days in itself – six if Handless was to do it. Sam realised that his time in the yard was drawing to a close. It had been inevitable, really – nobody likes to be undermined. Sam decided to see how their first conversation of the day went before doing anything rash – he needed to keep the pontoon space.
By dinner time they had agreed to part ways. The owner had been snippy all day, so at six Sam took it head-on.
“Would you prefer to work alone?”
“What?” the owner said, unprepared for confrontation.
“We both know you’re not happy with this arrangement. I think my work is good but you might not. If you want to work on your own, just say.”
“Well, it’s just, you know—”
“Yes or no?”
The owner floundered around, nervous, not wanting to give up the opportunity to slip back into uselessness. “I don’t want to be working the sort of hours you’re working.”
“You don’t need to,” said Sam, curious that that was an issue. “You own the place.”
“My father owns the place. He sees you working at six and finishing at six. I know you take Isla to and from school for two hours every day but that’s still ten hours every day and—”
“So you’d prefer I go?”
“Your work is good, Sam, it’s just …”
Handless was on the back foot and scared of directness. His MO was to leave his irritation in notes on the clipboard.
“Can I keep the berth?”
“What?”
“On the pontoon – can I keep the berth?”
“Of course.”
“If I do you a turn when you need it, instead of every day, can I have the berth for free?”
The son was staring at an offer that suited him very well.
“Eh, well, yeah.”
“Right, well, then, I’ll finish up, and if you need a hand, you give me a shout. And I keep the berth and just pay for electric. Agreed?”
“Ok,” said the son, feeling like he had just struck gold. “But, you know, maybe don’t mention this to my dad. Maybe you could say you got another job.”
“Fine by me,” said Sam, having cut a deal that would reduce their overheads while his income was down.
“Right, then,” said the son.
Sam turned tail and wondered, as he walked, what the hell he was going to do next.
Libby was at a loss. It gave the ops officer a tingle of contentment.
“So they’ve just left it there?”
“Yes.”
They were looking at a harbour that was becoming increasingly shrouded by fog rolling in from the sea.
“Ok. We need to get boots down and we need to track the van.”
“Your call. Do we keep the Gazelle on the car or track the van?”
“Car until we get eyes on, then the heli can go for the van. We’ve a fair idea where it’s headed anyway. The priority needs to be the laden vehicle. Agreed?”
“Makes sense,” said the ops officer, who turned to ready a team for deployment.
“Shit,” Libby muttered, her hands raised to her chin, fingers tapping her temple. She had expected the car to be removed straight away. Instead, she had watched the youth get into the van, the car arrive and the youth dismount and wander aimlessly through the town. It was not the scenario she had been building in her head. She lifted her phone to relay events up the chain.
To her superior it came as no surprise at all.
Sam had often wondered how the rain always came just as the water tanks began to suck air. Shannon, he imagined. Shannon looking out for us – minding us.
He was dozing. He’d been working out what their minimum viable income each week needed to be: ninety pounds. That meant a deficit each week of exactly ninety pounds. The buzz entered his dream – the clippers in the barbers at the NAAFI. And then his eyes sprang open and he located the handset just in time to see Charity disappear. Because of a thing, as yet unidentified and certainly unspoken, she never rang just for a chat.
His mind was now restless and remained so until a voice message bleeped through: “Hi, Sam, maybe give me a call back? I have a proposal for you – a job proposal.” She rushed to clarify her words and then groaned. Sam tapped the button to return the call – no point in her agonising.
“You know what I meant,” she said immediately upon answering.
“I know,” said Sam laughing gently. Humour the antidote to difficult conversations.
“So how is Isla?”
“She’s grand, thanks for asking. How are you?”
“Ok, actually.” Sinead sounded chirpy.
“Oh?” said Sam, interested in her high spirits.
“Yeah, we’re looking at a new flat by the river – amazing views. Quite exciting, really.”
“Sounds posh,” said Sam, knowing the twins wouldn’t move away from inner city working-class Dublin without cause. It would grate on their social sensibilities.
“A housing association came looking to turn our block into a shelter,” she explained, which immediately made sense. “And, well, you know …”
“You do enough for people, Sinead. You deserve a bit of comfort. You get paid pittance for the hours you do – and get less thanks for it. Don’t begrudge yourself a view of the Liffey.”
“Thank you, Sam.”
“How’s Áine?”
“Buzzin’,” she said. “I’ve never seen her so businesslike. She’s designing her workspace and study, she’s pricing some sort of cabling and satellite kit. I think she’s actually delighted to spend some of that incredible money she used to earn.”
Sam’s cheek twitched at used to.
“Anyway,” Sinead began to babble, “I’ve a job for you if you’re interested?”
“Funnily enough,” said Sam, looking to the sky and imagining the hand of his wife
squeezing his neck.
“Hear me out now – it’s not a bodyguard job.”
“Just as well,” said Sam. “Most people who need bodyguards actually need to be shot.”
“Not this one. You know her, actually.”
“Áine again?”
“No,” Sinead said. “I believe you call her the heiress.”
“Right. Is Delaney back on the scene?”
“Dunno. I think the parents had her under house arrest since the trial, but she’s kicked off and they’ve agreed to let her go on holiday with some friends.”
“From house arrest to a holiday – that’s a bit of a gear change.”
“The father says he can’t keep her cooped up forever, and given that it’s abroad he’s more relaxed about it – provided I can persuade you to go along.”
“Ah, Sinead, I’m not a nanny.”
“You wouldn’t be,” she said. “He’s looking for someone who can keep an eye on her without her knowing.”
“Right,” he said.
“I’d say you could do that.”
There was a time, thought Sam, when that was all I did. “How long?”
“What?”
“How long’s the holiday?”
“Ten days. Name your price.”
“Ten grand,” Sam joked.
“I’ll tell him.”
“Serious?”
“Well, he can afford it, and he asked for you specifically. Let’s see what he says.”
“Should have said twenty.”
“Try it if you like.”
Sam did the sums, rounding his and Isla’s weekly subsistence figure up to one hundred pounds. Twenty grand would let them live frugally for two hundred weeks, nearly four years.
“Ok, tell him twenty grand plus expenses.” Sam thought the ask was mad but Sinead took it in her stride.
“You might need to give a little.”
“I’d be happy to negotiate.” He chuckled. “He’ll never pay that sort of cash.”
“He might if you’re prepared to tell him a bit about your background.”
Sam mulled that for a moment. Not attractive, but neither was the dole. “You can tell him.”
“I can’t tell him what I don’t know.”
Sam was silent again for a beat.
“Do you not know?”
“Not really. I guess a lot.”
“Let me think about that, but in the meantime you can give him the basics if you think it would bring in the big bucks.”
“Spell out the basics, just so I have it straight what you want me to say.”
“Special forces. Would that do?”
“It’s not much,” she said, “but I can try.”
“Marine, lots of deployments, then Special Boat Service. All between us.”
“Grand, so. I’ll let you know.”
A stirring of excitement bubbled in Sam’s shoulders. “Thanks, Sinead.”
“Don’t thank me yet – you haven’t heard the best bit.”
“She’s going to Yemen?”
“No, eejit. This is, like, your happy place. Full of boats. She’s going to Venice.”
“We have people watching these 24-7,” the ops officer told Libby.
“I know.”
“You’ve been staring at those screens for hours. We’ll tell you if anyone moves.”
She longed to offload her anxiety but such discussion was discouraged. Two wings of the security estate working together but not always to the same end. She would love this experienced man’s opinion on leaving that car sitting there. The prize, of course, was great – he could deliver the whole cell to the police, but that had never been her modus operandi before. Spooks never formed part of the evidence chain and securing convictions wasn’t the priority. Libby’s job was to gather the intel and feed it into the machine.
She had joined – well, been recruited, to keep people safe, to stop attacks wherever possible, and yet here she was staring at a major risk and all she could do was watch. If something went wrong, would she be able to sit and stonewall? Yeah, I knew it was there. No, I didn’t just do nothing – I monitored it around the clock.
And then she watched in horror as someone approached the car.
“Oh, Daddy, I have a note for you from Molly’s mummy. She wants me to go for a sleepover!”
Isla’s excitement glistened. It gave Sam pleasure and pause.
“Where does Molly live?”
“Oh, can I go, Daddy, please?”
“Where does she live?” asked Sam again.
If he said yes, it would be the first time since her mother’s death that Isla would be in the care of someone he didn’t know. And a sleepover too. It was a big test for Isla herself. He suspected the idea of it was more appealing than the reality.
“Don’t know,” was all Isla said, her voice sinking with the realisation that she might not be allowed to go. She may have been only seven but she understood her father’s instincts and his determination to keep her close.
Isla rooted in her bag for the note. Sam read the invite, tapped Molly’s mother’s number into his phone and told Isla to change out of her uniform. As the phone rang he resolved to avoid interrogating the woman. As ever, he had naturally picked up on the routines of others as they dropped their children to school – almost unconsciously mapping who belonged to who, what vehicle they drove and who their partners were. He didn’t know anyone’s name but he made finely tuned assumptions about their likely occupations, style of parenting and even their inclinations. He’d seen Molly’s mum often and his loose impression had been good. She said hello in passing, which was more than some did, and she was attentive to her daughter.
Of course, everyone knew who Sam was. He and Isla had returned to the town where his wife had been murdered, and in a small community no such event goes without gossip, particularly when you choose to live on a boat instead of a house, you’ve got an unidentified background and no apparent job.
“Hello?”
“Hello, my name’s Sam, Isla’s my daughter. She gave me the note you sent home. Thanks very much for asking her.”
“Hello, hello,” she said, perhaps surprised he had called so quickly. “Thanks for getting back to me. You know what kids are like – on at you all the time to ask.” She laughed nervously but Sam felt her warmth of character, which just made things more difficult.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t get your name.”
“Ah, what a dope. I mustn’t have put it on the note. I’m Sally – Sal.” She laughed again for no reason.
“Well, thank you, Sal. Isla’s pretty excited, but I’m not sure she’s quite ready for all that.” Sam struggled to express himself properly.
“I totally understand,” Sal said graciously, “I’m not sure Molly is either, and, you know, that long away from home, it’s … a lot.”
“Oh, right, I thought it was just a sleepover?”
“Oh,” she said, her tone dropping. “Sorry, again – I wasn’t clear in the note.” She laughed with increasing unease. “We were actually wondering if Isla would like to come to our holiday home for a few days at half-term?”
“Right,” Sam said, a little more sternly than he had intended.
“It’s no problem if it doesn’t suit, honestly, Sam. It’s just they’ve been talking together and, well, I sort of gave in and asked. Sorry.”
Sam imagined she was gnawing her lip in anticipation.
“No, no.” Sam tried to put her at ease. “It’s just, well, I don’t know if you know but Isla’s been through quite a lot …” His gaze rose from the floor as the door to Isla’s cabin cracked open and his half-dressed daughter looked out with pleading puppy eyes. She silently mouthed “please”. Sam turned away and gestured impatiently to close the door.
“To be honest, I did know that, Sam.”
Sam had often caught the glances of the mums sitting in each other’s cars at drop off watching him walk past. He knew they’d be talking – it was natural. And the
re would be gossip too: “Wonder what he does all day?”
Sam sighed. “Ehm, where’s the holiday house?”
“It’s right beside the beach in Ballycastle. They’d have a ball. I’m sure Isla likes the sea – of course she does, of course she does.”
Sam could almost see Sal shake her head at the stupidity of her comment.
“Well, Sal,” said Sam, lowering his voice as a countermeasure to alert little ears. “Isla’s never been on a sleepover before. She’s doing well but, you know, night-time hasn’t always been easy for her, and this is two nights, which is a lot.”
“Oh,” she groaned, “we were actually thinking of three nights.”
Sam was silent for a few moments. “I’ve kind of lost track – when is half-term?” He pretended not to know, trying to buy time, even though he was staring at the calendar.
“They get a half-day Friday fortnight.”
“Sal, I’m sorry, I’ve to go overseas for a job. I’ll not even be in the country then if she wants to come home or anything.”
“Look, honestly, it was only an idea. Please don’t think any more about it. I had just promised Molly I’d ask. Really, it’s no bother. We can get them together for a play date at some stage instead without a sleepover.”
“I’m really sorry,” he said. And then he sensed, rather than heard, Isla crying behind the door. He cracked it open a bit to see her little body turned away from him on the bed, her loneliness drawing him back to the despair he’d tried so hard to beat. “Can you let me think about it?” he said into the handset.
Libby had her own separate secure line to her boss in Belfast.
“We’ve just had a community cop approach the vehicle and stick a ticket on it,” she imparted with exasperation.
“Well, it has been there for rather a long time,” he said.
“I just … I don’t see the logic of letting it sit there.”
“Of course you do.”
“Ok, I see the logic, but I don’t see the justification.”
“You let me worry about that,” he said patronisingly.
