Run Before the Wind

by Stuart Woods

“The way politicians do, you mean?”

  He looked down at the tablecloth. “I suppose I had that coming.” He paused again. “I catch myself doing that; I try not to do it, but yes, it’s one of the liabilities of political life.”

  This admission caught me off guard. I had always thought of my father as being rather self-righteous, and it came as a surprise to me to find that he might recognize his own faults.

  “Listen, Will, you must know by now that there are people who will want to know you because of me. Be careful. Use your common sense.”

  “I’ll try.”

  “Jane is older than you, isn’t she?”

  “Maybe. Couple of years, I guess.”

  “That means the men she’s accustomed to seeing are probably a lot older than you. You should keep that in mind.”

  “Think I’m getting out of my depth with girls, too?” I would have been annoyed if I hadn’t been wondering myself.

  “I didn’t say that. There’s more to it, anyway.” He paused and ate some kipper. I waited. “You’ve grown up an American and a democrat, with a small’d’ as well as a large one. There is a great deal more social mobility in the United States than there is in Britain; people are judged more on their accomplishments.”

  “It’s all family here, then? I can’t believe that. Not today.”

  “Oh, I’m sure a young man from an ordinary background can do very well here if he works hard and all that, but he will find it almost impossible to crack certain social barriers.”

  “You’re talking about Jane’s family. The aristocracy.”

  “Jane’s family is more than aristocracy; they are near-royalty, at the very top of the aristocracy.”

  “And I’m just a country boy.”

  “You’re an intelligent, well-educated, and quite charming country boy. To tell the truth, I was becoming worried that that was all you wanted to be. But since you’ve been over here something has changed, I’m not quite sure what.”

  I wasn’t sure what, either. I didn’t feel particularly changed, except that I felt, perhaps, more independent.

  Your mother was quite pleased with you last night, by the way.”

  I grinned. “I don’t suppose she ever thought her son would introduce her to Derek Thrasher.”

  “Don’t get too puffed up with your social connections, my lad. Remember, you didn’t even know who Derek Thrasher was until she told you.”

  He was right, of course. “So what is it you’re warning me about, that a country boy shouldn’t aspire to a Lady Jane?”

  “Aspire all you like, enjoy it, but don’t let it become too important to you. Those people can cut you off at the knees between the soup and the fish. Don’t want it too much, and you’ll enjoy it more.”

  It was a good point, but I didn’t want to think about it.

  “What’s happened with your Irish friend, Connie?”

  “Oh, come on, Dad, I’m not exactly engaged to her, you know.” I didn’t want to think about that, either. “So what’s your day going to be like?” I was ready for a change in subject.

  “I’m not quite through, yet,” my father replied, pinning me to my evasion. “I’ve always believed that we should bring you up as simply as possible, not let politics or too much spending money ruin you on the way up. Your mother is responsible for whatever social graces you left home with; I kept you in jeans and beat-up pickup trucks. I think both our efforts worked well. Now, I think I’m moving more over to her point of view, because I think maybe you can handle it.”

  “Well, thanks,” I said, not sure of his point.

  “How’s your money holding out?”

  “Pretty well. I didn’t travel far before I met Mark and Annie, and I’m getting my room and board and twenty quid a week. I bought the Mini-Cooper, but that’s about all.”

  “I’m going to have an American Express card sent to you. Don’t go crazy with it; it will make it possible for you to do the things you really want to do while you’re over here.” He pulled a Connaught envelope from his pocket and handed it to me. There’s some money and a list of good shops in there. Get yourself some new clothes. You’re moving in more sophisticated circles, now.”

  “Dad, I really appreciate this.” I really did, too. All this largesse was clearly not impulsive; my father was not an impulsive man. He had never been exactly stingy either, but he had always made sure I earned something along the way. Like most men of his generation, who had grown up during the Great Depression, he placed great importance on the handling of money. Giving me not just cash, but an open-ended credit card was, I knew, as strong an expression of approval as I had ever received from him. I would have to be careful with it. I knew he would go through the monthly bills to see how I was managing this privilege.

  My mother suddenly appeared and sat down with us, looking great in a caramel-colored suit that went beautifully with her auburn hair. “Morning, you two. Am I in time for breakfast?”

  “Not with us, you’re not,” my father said, rising and kissing her. “I’ve got an appointment.”

  “Oh, drat.”

  “That’s what you get for being lazy and sleeping late. Why don’t you two do something together?”

  “Oh, yes, Will, let’s do the Tate Gallery. You’ve never seen the Turner collection, and we can have lunch there, too.”

  “Sounds good to me.”

  As we left the Connaught and looked for a taxi, the dark blue Mercedes drove up and parked. The driver wasn’t Blunt Instrument, but I knew that Derek Thrasher had been as good as his word.

  My mother and I did the Tate and had lunch, then I spent the remainder of the afternoon shopping for clothes and was back at the Connaught in time for tea and a nap before dinner. We dined with my father’s old war buddy and client, Sir Somebodyorother, at the Mirabelle and got to bed late.

  Next morning, as I was packing my new clothes into a new suitcase, I came across a loose sheet of paper in my canvas sailing bag, my only other luggage. It was a list of expenditures thus far on the building of the yacht; I reckoned it had come out of the packet I had given Thrasher. I stuck it into a Connaught envelope, wrote Thrasher’s name on it, and put it in a pocket. Downstairs, the package containing the replacement fittings for the boat was waiting for me, right on time. I had a farewell breakfast with my parents, and the doorman got me a cab for the airport.

  “Drive around into Berkeley Square,” I said to the driver, “I want to drop something off.”

  “What number, Guv?”

  “I’ll point it out to you.” We drove down into Berkeley Square, “Just up there,” I said to the driver, pointing. He double-parked next to a blue van, and I opened the taxi door. The package of fittings was on my lap, and I took it with me; it was my reason for coming to London, after all, and I felt uncomfortable about leaving it in a taxi. I ran up the steps to Thrasher’s door and opened it. The elderly commissionaire who had been there at the time of my visit two days before rose to meet me. His desk had been pulled squarely across the hallway.

  “Yes, sir, may I help you?” he inquired—cautiously, I thought.

  “I just want to leave something for Mr. Thrasher,” I said, reaching into my inside pocket for the envelope.

  He seemed to flinch and looked relieved when I produced only the envelope. “I’m sorry, sir,” he said evenly. “There’s no one here by that name.”

  I heard the heavy, wrought-iron and glass door open behind me. The commissionaire looked over my shoulder and shook his head. “It’s all right,” he said. I turned to find another man in a business suit standing in the open door. His coat was unbuttoned and his hand was inside, reaching up under his armpit. He was staring at the package in my hand. I turned back to the commissionaire.

  “You remember me, I was here for lunch with Mr. Thrasher day before yesterday. My name is Lee.”

  He shook his head. “I’m sorry, sir, I can’t help you.”

  “Look, I just want to leave this envelope for him. I gave him som
e other papers that day, and this got left out.”

  “I think you’d better leave, now, sir. Please.” His tone was kindly but insistent. The man behind me pushed the door all the way open and stood holding it, leaving my way clear. I looked back and forth between them. The commissionaire’s hand moved to the under edge of the desk top. “Please, sir. I can’t help you.”

  I walked out, down the steps and to my waiting cab. “Heathrow,” I said to the driver as I got in. “The terminal for flights to Ireland.” As we drove away I looked back and saw the man in the business suit talking with yet another man, nodding in the direction of my departing taxi. I put the envelope back into my pocket, wondering if I had somehow offended Derek Thrasher, or if he just wasn’t feeling sociable today.

  18

  IT BEGAN to rain while I was on the way to Heathrow. By the time I had reached the ticket counter, the weather was lousy outside and flights to Ireland were being delayed. The airline checked me in and accepted my luggage, but as I stood there it was flashed on the departures board that Cork Airport was closed. I could fly to Dublin and change planes, but that wouldn’t get me there any sooner. They could give me no estimate of what time the weather might clear, but I decided to wait.

  I read the Times. I bought a magazine and read it thoroughly. I had lunch and gazed out the steaming, streaked windows at a typically English autumn day, mist and fog. I bought another magazine. As I was turning away from the cashier’s stand a man came and thumped down a stack of the Evening Standard. The headline stopped me in my tracks.

  BERKELEY SQUARE BOMBING!!!

  MIRACULOUS ESCAPE FROM IRA ASSASSINS!

  Underneath was a large photograph of what had been a car and now was nothing more than a mangled hunk of metal. I snatched up the top copy and dug for a coin, reading all the while.

  Death missed its mark in Berkeley Square this morning, but only just. Shortly after ten o ‘clock a car bomb went off outside the offices of a building company, breaking windows on virtually all of one side of the square and demolishing two other vehicles. Miraculously, a large removals van driving past took the brunt of the explosion, saving the lives of half a dozen pedestrians on the opposite sidewalk. Normally heavy foot traffic in the streets had been kept down by heavy rain, no doubt sparing many other lives. A retired sergeant-major, serving as commissionaire in an adjoining building, was treated briefly at St. George’s Hospital for cuts from flying glass but then released. Minor injuries were reported in other buildings, but none required more than first aid. Police immediately sealed off the square, causing massive traffic tie-ups in most of the West End. More than two hours passed before the wreckage was cleared and traffic flow restored to Berkeley Square and adjoining streets.

  At 10.18 A.M. a telephone call was received at the offices of the Evening Standard from an organization calling itself the Irish Freedom Brigade and claiming responsibility for the blast. The caller, who spoke with an Irish accent, said the bombing was in protest against discriminatory hiring practices of Thrasher Ltd., a company specializing in heavy construction and currently engaged in three large projects in Ulster. Mr. Derek Thrasher, owner of the company, was said to be out of the country and unavailable for comment, but a spokesman said that a threat had been received and police called shortly before the explosion. Any discrimination against Catholic workers on the company’s sites was denied. No further comment would be made, the spokesman said. (More photos inside).

  I flipped open the paper and found pictures of the demolished moving van and a heavy door of twisted wrought iron grillwork, its plate glass scattered about the hallway inside. The desk where I had stood talking to the commissionaire was overturned. I tried to remember what time I had been in Berkeley Square. About ten o’clock, it must have been—only minutes before the explosion. I remembered the man at the door, his hand under his coat and his eyes on the package in my hand. He must have been a policeman or a security guard. As well as escaping the explosion, I was probably lucky not to have been shot.

  I returned to my seat and sat down heavily. I felt shaky and was sweating. I felt that I should do something, but I didn’t know what. I wanted to tell somebody what had nearly happened to me, but I didn’t know whom to tell. I knew nothing, had seen nothing that would be useful to the police; I didn’t want to frighten my parents with a story of what had almost happened. There was nothing I could do, nothing I should do. I sat back and tried to relax, breathed deeply. A woman sitting next to me looked at me.

  “Are you all right, young man?”

  “Yes, ma’am, I’m fine,” I replied, trying to look more normal.

  The rest of the day passed as a bad joke about air travel. My plane finally took off at three in the afternoon, circled Cork airport for nearly an hour, waiting for a break in the fog, then was diverted to Shannon. The passengers were herded aboard a bus and driven through a steady downpour to Cork Airport. It was nearly dusk by the time I had retrieved my luggage and found the Mini-Cooper, and I was exhausted. I drove toward Coolmore Castle more slowly than usual, not wanting a high-speed encounter with another cow. I turned into the gates, drove past the castle in the dusk and turned down the single-track road that led to the cottage. I was looking forward to a hot bath and a drink.

  As I drove along the rough road, a Volkswagen suddenly appeared from the woods a couple of hundred yards ahead of me, heading in the opposite direction. I was about to pull off the road to let it pass, when it stopped, then suddenly drove off the track into the adjacent pasture and roared, bouncing and rolling, across the field until it reached the road again, some distance behind me. There appeared to be four men in the car. I was too tired to wonder who they were or why they preferred driving across a pasture instead of down the road. They could have easily got past me without leaving the road had they tried. I parked in the clearing where we usually left the cars, got my luggage and walked the last few yards to the cottage.

  The lights were out. Mark’s van was not there, so he was probably still at the boatyard. As I approached the front door in the failing light I saw that it was ajar and the glass in the upper half of the door had been broken. I set down my bags and approached the door slowly, not sure of what to expect. The men in the car must have been burglars, I thought, though I had never heard of burglary in the neighborhood. I pushed the door open and peered into the semi-darkness inside. Total disarray greeted me. Lamps and furniture were overturned, books were scattered about. The picture over the fireplace had been ripped away, and something was painted crudely where it had hung. I moved closer into the room to get a better look at it in the bad light, practically tiptoeing. I heard a loud click and a husky voice said, “Get out of here right now or I’ll blow your bloody head off.”

  I jerked around and saw a dark figure standing in the kitchen door, pointing a large revolver at me. I froze in my tracks.

  “Willie?” It was a female voice.

  “Annie?” She lowered the pistol and ran toward me.

  “Oh, Willie, I’m so glad to see you!” she said, throwing her arms around me, sobbing.

  I took the gun from her and eased down the cocked hammer. “What happened?” I asked, holding her tightly. “What’s going on?”

  “I don’t know,” she sobbed, then continued, jerkily. “I was just getting out of the tub, when I heard … glass breaking … I got into my robe and was about to open the bathroom door when … I heard a gun go off and … voices … I locked the door and prayed they wouldn’t find me … I heard them knocking things about and laughing … They sounded drunk … When they seemed to be gone I dashed to the bedroom and got some clothes on, then I heard you coming and got Mark’s service revolver.”

  “Gunshots?”

  She released her hold on me and turned on the ceiling light. In addition to the general disorder, a shotgun had been fired indiscriminately around the room, making big gouges in the plaster. With the light on I could read what had been sloppily painted over the fireplace.

  BRITS OUT!!<
br />
  PROVOS ORDER!

  “Oh, shit,” I said. Then I heard the door behind me creak open. I swung around, the pistol in my hand.

  Mark stood in the doorway, looking at the room and me incredulously. “Stop pointing that pistol at me, Willie,” he said calmly. I lowered the gun and wiped my damp brow. “Well,” he said, “is anybody going to tell me what’s happened?”

  Annie repeated her story, while I searched through the rubble for a bottle that hadn’t been broken. The room smelled like a distillery. I found an intact bottle of Jack Daniels, my personal import, and got some glasses from the kitchen, which remained unscathed. The three of us sat down on the sofa with our neat bourbon. Nobody said anything for a moment. “Jesus, this is awful whiskey,” Mark said absently.

  Annie suddenly sat up straight. “We’ve got to call the police! Is the phone still working?”

  Mark pulled her back onto the sofa. “We’re not calling the police,” he said wearily.

  “And why not?” she asked. “You’re not going to let them get away with this, are you?”

  “She’s right, Mark. The house has been wrecked and threats have been made.”

  “Now hang about a minute, both of you; just think about this; what’s really happened here?”

  “Well …” Annie began.

  “I’ll tell you what’s happened. A couple of the local lads have heard rumors about Belfast; they’ve got a few pints down and played a prank.”

  “There were four of them, I think,” I replied. I saw them come out of the woods in an old Volkswagen, light green. When they saw me coming they cut across the pasture.”

  “A light green Volkswagen,” Mark said. “You have any idea how many of those there are in the country? In the county? They assemble them in Dublin, you know, and half of them are light green.”

  “You think we should just go along as if nothing had happened, then?” Annie asked, clearly amazed at his attitude.

  “The Provos are not people we ought to be messing with, Mark,” I said.

  “What makes you think this was done by the Provisional IRA?”