by Finn Óg
“I wasn’t really expecting you to answer, though.”
“I know you weren’t.”
She looked at him, happy that he had confided in her. “Do you miss all that?”
“Shitting in plastic bags?”
“Yeah, cool stuff like that.”
“I miss the rush of removing someone who wants to kill innocent people. I miss the total physical effort required to do some of the stuff we did at sea. But there are bits I will never miss – things that were done that will stay with me, and, to be honest, I haven’t paid for it all yet – although I’ve definitely paid for some.”
“I know you have,” she said softly.
“How do you know?”
“I can see it, Sam.”
“I know you can,” he conceded, the drink washing away walls as he stared at the confessional collar of his pint. He twisted the glass.
“The lamb for you, madam,” said Robert.
Sam could have kissed him for his intervention.
“And the hake. Now, can I fetch you anything else?”
“One more pint and another one of those, please.” Sam pointed at Sinead’s wine.
“What do we do about this?”
The operations officer had materialised at Libby’s back. Most of the team were giving her a wide berth.
“Well, if we remove the clamp, someone will probably notice and ask why.”
“If you don’t, then the car is stuck there.”
“I’m not too proud to ask for advice,” she said without looking at her colleague. She trusted him and needed his experience.
“Reason it out,” the opso said. “The car has to move at some point. The young lad who we think is going to drive it can’t even find his way home, so he’s probably not going to be able to bust a clamp off.”
“Agreed.” She sighed.
“So it has to come off. The question then is when?”
“Ok. We wait till we get the nod that it’s all going ahead.”
The ops officer spoke quietly so nobody else would hear. “It’s your call but it might just be worth thinking about the plan if nothing happens soon. The next step is they’ll send a pickup to tow it. Then things become extremely dangerous.”
Libby shivered. She hadn’t thought of that. “Thanks, I appreciate it,” she said.
9
“Thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you, you’re the best!”
Isla was dancing a jig on the pontoon – hugging him once, pogoing, then hugging him again. She hurtled into babble and preparation.
Sinead had persuaded him in the end. Women need women, she’d said. They need to talk about stuff you cannot ever understand.
The Malbec had turned black on her lips and teeth, but she’d had that many she was almost beyond caring. He was as full as an egg – his drinking days long behind him and his threshold low.
“I can take her when she’s back.” Sinead had become uncharacteristically ebullient with the grape. “Sure, we’ll have right craic, me and her. She’s gas.”
Sam had noodled the idea around his fuddled head and apparently agreed. It had all seemed so sensible and straightforward. Sinead had followed it up with a confirmation text the next evening – which he knew was, in part, a means of communication and a test to see if anything had been said in the fog of drink that could damage their friendship. Or relationship. Or whatever it was that they had.
It still troubled Sam that he wouldn’t be on hand if Isla got distressed. The Venice job was getting in the way of that. He had occasionally imagined what it would be like when she started to get out and about more. He’d always thought he’d get her a wee Nokia with a speed dial and he’d just jump in the van and go get her if she wanted. Ideally with this trip he’d have booked a B&B close by and maybe kept an eye at a distance.
But Sinead had told him to get real. The booze had inspired a dismissiveness in her and she’d berated him for being too clingy. It had grated because he knew she was right. There had been talk of loosening apron strings and other such bullshit sayings that Sam had deliberately ignored. Isla was seven, not seventeen.
Even so, an agreement was reached. Sam would take Isla to meet Molly’s folks and they would go on holiday for a few days. Then Sinead would collect her and they would stay on the boat where close to normal life would resume until Sam returned.
Molly, it transpired, lived in a mansion. Isla lived on a boat. Each kid thought the other’s life was cool, apparently. The driveway was crunchy as the car Sam had borrowed from the yard owner’s son announced its arrival between perfectly planted trees.
“Hello!” he’d heard from behind as a broad, low-sized lady emerged from a hole in a hedge. “I’m just sorting the dogs,” she explained, her handshake revealing a firm grip.
“Nice to meet you,” Sam said.
“Lovely to meet you. We hear so much about Isla,” Sal said, staring at his daughter’s back as she and Molly tore off towards the house.
“She’s very lucky to be taken on holiday. We must return the treat at some point,” said Sam. “How is Molly with boats?”
“I’d say she’d be excited, although we’ve never done any sailing or anything like that.”
Sal seemed pretty laid-back. Sam felt he could grow to like her.
“So you’re off yourself?”
“Yes. I’ll be gone until the end of next week, but a friend of mine will collect Isla if that’s ok? She and Isla are pals and she sometimes looks after her while I’m away.”
“Are you overseas often?”
“Not really, not any more,” Sam said absently.
“Of course, of course,” Sal said, nodding sagely, and Sam realised that she thought she’d put her foot in it.
“Oh, it’s ok. I didn’t mean—”
“No, no, of course.”
Neither of them clarified anything, yet everyone seemed to understand.
“I know it’s a big move, first holiday and all that, without mum or dad,” Sal said and visibly cringed. “Sorry.”
Then the kids emerged from the stately front door carrying Molly’s Trunki suitcase between them.
Sam shook his head – no apology required. “Don’t worry, Sal, honestly.”
Molly’s mum tightened her lips in sympathy and tilted her head towards her shoulder. She reached out as if to touch Sam’s arm and then thought better of it. “I’m not going to pretend I understand – I couldn’t possibly, but in my work I do have some experience of this sort of thing. The first sign of any distress and I’ll call you. I promise. And we’ll take good care of her.”
“Thanks, Sal. What line of work are you in?”
“I’m a paediatrician at the Royal.”
Her profession gave him some comfort. He’d heard of the Children’s Hospital at the Royal – a remarkable place by all accounts. He looked at her and nodded.
“Here’s my friend’s number by the way. Sinead. She lives in Dublin, but any problems at all and she’ll get on the road. Otherwise she’ll meet you here in a few days when you get back.” His gaze fell to Isla, who was fizzing with anticipation on Molly’s arm. He slung her bag out from the back seat. “Alright, wee lamb, you have a great time.” Isla nearly hopped into her father’s arms, delighted at being released. He whispered in her ear and he hugged her. “You ask Molly’s mum to call me any time, ok? About anything, you hear me?”
“Yes, Daddy.”
“I love you so much.”
“I luff you,” she whispered back.
This is what it’s like to go crazy.
Anthony sat on the floor and stared at nothing. He’d stopped going down to the television in the evenings – he couldn’t stick the smell. They all drank some stinking tar-like liquid from mugs at night. They also watched ridiculous old repeats and had competitions to see who could remember whodunnit from the first time they’d seen the shows – detective stories, weak mysteries. He couldn’t stand listening to the old bloke wheeze. They masked him up to an oxygen
tank every now and then. It made him think of his mother’s chain-smoking.
Instead, he lay on the pink floor and stared at the ceiling, going quietly insane. His resentment at what he’d been asked to do grew and grew. He berated himself for listening to Grim. Anthony couldn’t believe he was actually craving the freedom of his tired little town, the cycle track under the bridges, the abandoned factories forgotten by all but those who lived there. At least the disused industrial plots had provided a place to go and sit unseen. He even missed the lough, the shore, the odd swim.
He suddenly realised he’d been scratching at the wall for ages and looked in shock at the little pile of dust scored along the pink carpet. Who has pink carpet? He scooped up the dust but had nowhere to put it. It was still daylight outside, but he had no choice. He fumbled the curtain and pushed aside the blind, spilling dust down the condensation on the windowpane. He got the latch levered up and threw the dust into the air. He heard a noise from below and in panic quickly slammed the window shut, replacing everything as it had been. Almost. Save for the mess.
He heard footsteps on the stairs and grabbed all he could of the mortar left on the carpet, irrationally terrified.
The mother stood there staring at him. “What are you doing with the window?”
“Nothing.”
“Have you been looking out that window?”
“No,” he said, like an eight-year-old.
The mother tore across the room and whipped back the blind, pushing Anthony behind her to conceal him. Dust had caught across both the inside and outside of the pane.
“What’s that? What have you been doing?”
“Nothing,” he repeated, disgusted that this old woman was scaring him.
“On the floor – what’s that? What have you been doing?”
She crouched down towards him. He could smell her age.
“What’s in your hand? Have you been looking out the window again?”
She knew. How did she know?
“Move!”
Anthony reluctantly stepped forward and heard the mother gasp.
“What – have – you – done? What’s happened the wall?”
He just looked at her, silent, embarrassed. He was back in school cowering before a teacher, terrified.
“Open your hand!”
Then he gathered his courage, remembering what he was there for. He hadn’t gone through all that risk and crappy training just to be spoken to like this by some pensioner. “Never you mind,” he said, growing in confidence.
“What did you say? What did you say to me in my own house?”
“Never you bloody mind, you old bitch!”
She jabbed forward grabbing his wrist but he twisted free with ease.
“What is it!” she yelled, incandescent now with rage.
“You wanna know?” he shouted, and threw what was left of the mortar dust in her face.
She stood eerily still, shocked, livid, resolute. Her voice dropped. “You’ll regret that. Oh, yes, you will. You – will – regret – that.”
And she turned and walked slowly out, leaving the door wide open.
Sam’s outlook was foul long before the three o’clock alarm went off, and it didn’t improve as he hurtled south to Dublin Airport. He thought back to the last few occasions he’d been there. Not ideal. Most of his visits had been to deposit vulnerable women he’d liberated from brothels for Sinead. Occasionally he had dropped off seafarers for Fran. On one occasion a girl’s pimp had pulled up at the drop-off point and tried to take her back. Sam had been forced to fight hard, which had undoubtedly resulted in his face being recorded on a CCTV database. When Ireland eventually adopted wholesale facial recognition technology he’d be screwed. All in all, Dublin Airport wasn’t his favourite place.
Underlying his foul mood was that he wasn’t looking forward to the job ahead. He had been many things in the past but a childminder wasn’t one of them. Nor could he pretend he was without prejudice; he knew he was predisposed to a disregard for the ignorant wealthy, and the heiress fell into that category. She may be undiagnosed as daft, but she was certainly aware of her status in society.
He watched her file through the priority section at security while the oily rags like him wove around the pillared tapes. He took some pleasure in finding her on the far side, queuing like everyone else and huffing petulantly as she was directed by a hardy Dubliner to bag up her private ablution solutions. The little security woman might have been from the rebel Liberties. Her voice travelled like the wind as she commanded the heiress to deposit her rash cream in the bin as it was much too large for the plastic bag she’d neglected to bring.
On board he could see her up front. Her roots delicately dyed – not a single trace of nature. Her head was permanently turned towards her companions, but Sam was pleased to have been spared their chat. It would be a long ten days.
Still, at least there would be boats.
“I want him gone.”
Grim knew immediately who was calling and who she wanted gone.
“Where are you calling from?”
“Never you mind. Just get this wee shit out of my house.”
“What’s happened?” Grim asked, now significantly alarmed.
“He’s crossed the line,” was all she would say. “You get up here and you take him away.”
“That’s not possible,” said Grim, hardening his tone.
“If you’re not here by tomorrow night, you can collect him on the street. That’s it. Done. Finished.”
She hung up.
Oul’ wagon, thought Grim, worried about where – in her temper – she had made the call from. He had no other safe houses. He hadn’t the balls to ring the boss and explain. He considered looping in the manager – him being a resourceful type, but he wasn’t happy about that either; they had deliberately separated the risk so that nobody knew the elements of the other’s responsibility. It was a means of avoiding compromise if one of them turned out to be a tout. Nice to be trusted, he had thought, when the manager suggested it. The boss seemed reluctant at first – Grim just put that down to control freakery, but he had come round in the end.
There were too many wee issues with this one. He’d get out if he was able, but it wasn’t that simple. Nobody resigned from this game – they went to jail or were interred.
So he went for a walk to chat to the manager.
Sam clambered into a river taxi, hard on the expenses tab but he couldn’t lose the heiress on the first trip of the first day.
Following her and her friends had, so far, proved easy enough. They were so self-absorbed that they had no notion of the people around them. The only worry was the constant preening of one of the three women, who whipped out a pocket mirror every five minutes or so to check her hair or make-up. Sam was genuinely astonished by the speed and frequency with which she checked her reflection. Worryingly, she also used her phone for the same purpose, under the inadequate guise of taking selfies. Sam was forced to meander out of the background of each shot every time she fished for her phone.
Sam peered over the raised bow as the old, inefficient taxi pushed water before it. Instead of enjoying the astonishing views of an unusual environment as his boat carved in the wake of the women’s, he found himself doubting his decision to have gone there at all. What if Isla screamed in the night? Her friend would think she was a baby. Maybe she wouldn’t be asked back.
He knew he’d too easily followed old tracks back to work that may not stretch his muscles, but would at least let him use hard-learned skills. He desperately wanted to change himself into a man who didn’t need intrigue or challenge to make him feel alive – but doubted whether he actually had it in him.
“We’re going to take the clamp off.” Libby was suddenly very sure of herself.
“Just like that?” the ops officer said, sarcasm creeping in.
“Yep, as soon as it’s dark and quiet enough.”
“Why the rush?”
“Because I�
��m told the wee lad might be on the move soon.”
“So my team have to risk their safety to cut off a wheel clamp that realistically could be replaced by some traffic attendant tomorrow?”
“I think that’s unlikely. There’s no reason for anyone to approach the vehicle again – the local police know it’s been ticketed and the red coats know it’s clamped. Unless they have hawk eyes they’ll not be near it for a few days. Hopefully this thing will all be over by then.”
“Ok,” said the ops officer. “It’s about time this thing went off.”
Careful what you wish for, thought Libby.
“This is going to be awkward.”
“Really?” sniggered Sinead.
He’d called her from an iPhone 6 supplied by the heiress’s father and begrudgingly installed with gadgetry by Áine.
“You’re going to have to ask the father for money. I can’t keep up with the heiress.”
“Why, is she partying already?”
“She got in a Lexus at the airport. Not a crappy wee taxi – a Lexus. It drove her little harem about fifty feet – they obviously couldn’t walk in their candlestick heels, and then they got into a river taxi.”
“Sounds right up your street.”
“It cost two hundred euros.”
“Go way!”
“Have you ever been to Venice before?”
“Nope.”
“Well, neither have I and I’ll not be here again.”
“Where is she now?”
“In a hotel. It’s one of those places where the room keys are actual heavy keys that they hang on hooks in reception, so I’ve already been into her room and pinged a camera in there. I just hope she doesn’t get jiggy with some Italian bloke later.”
“Jiggy?”
“Romantic.”
“Well, I’m sure you can switch the camera off, Sam.”
“Yeah, but this is the really awkward bit. I was just told to keep her out of trouble. Now I’m thinking – does that mean keeping other people out of her bed?”
