by Finn Óg
“Sorry, Sinead.” It was the first time he’d ever actually used her name.
It wasn’t lost on her. She was silent for a moment. “You’re grand,” she said, as he somehow knew she would. “What’s the job?”
“Can you come to the south coast?”
“It’s a long coast, Sam. Where?”
Sam didn’t like to give too much away on the phone. He knew a lot about interception due in no small part to the sarcastic sister sitting beside his friend.
“Well, where are you now?”
“Dublin, strangely enough.”
The pair lived in Dublin together. Unfortunately. He thought again about why he’d imagined she had no children and wondered if their living arrangement had led to the assumption.
“About two hours from you. I’ll ping you the place in the usual way.”
Sinead’s twin had set up the process: a message through an encrypted app which the authorities hadn’t yet gained permission to monitor – at least officially.
“When?” asked Charity. Sinead.
“Soon.”
“We’re on our way to see a band,” she said.
“Not that soon, but after,” he assured her.
“Ok, so. Will I come on my own?”
“I would be enormously grateful if you would,” he said, swiping away images of Áine, the talented torment of a sister. He just did not have the energy.
“Right,” she said.
“Sinead?”
“Yeah?”
“It’s nice to speak to you.”
He cut the call.
Waleed didn’t like frayed edges. They nagged at him, festered in the back of his mind. Waleed was an organised man. He liked to tick things off in short order because he knew more tasks with new pressures would arrive at any moment. IS was taking care of that. His responsibility was enormous, his jurisdiction unmanageable; all he could do was hope to contain the militants, and through it all was the nagging knowledge that an end as loose as the trousers on a malnourished former friend needed to be dealt with.
Ordinarily he’d have formulated a plan of action by now because so much time had passed since the oversized thug had presented himself in Sinai. Waleed was rarely short on options; his position was one of power in a country where consequences for stepping outside the lines were few, yet Big Suit had somehow managed to prick a nerve. It was unfathomable how such a stupid man had managed to identify a secret that Waleed had successfully kept for twenty years.
He worked through the options. As a senior commander – and a young one at that – in an elite Egyptian unit, Cairo would surely be reluctant to lose him, but then the rules were quite clear: no Coptic Christian had a place in the intelligence services. None. It had never happened before and the policy was unlikely to change. Even if his bosses deigned to overlook the revelation, his men wouldn’t. They were likely to turn against him. Sectarianism was seldom spoken of in Egypt because Copts were such a minority but that didn’t mean it didn’t exist.
Waleed decided to wrap up the Arish investigation as quickly as he could. Then he would try to clear his mind of the irritation languishing in the desert jail. How he would do that remained unclear but one way or another he had to keep his secret and he had to deal with the cumbersome problem. Quickly.
Sam couldn’t see the gust approach in the dark but he felt it building. An instinct – a breeze before the breeze that any seasoned sailor can detect – a sense, a change in pressure, a whisper in the air. For the first time in days he felt his tightened stitches complain as he moved to shorten the sail. He hauled and furled in the big genoa, his lacerations whining with the winch. His wounds had become accustomed to the sedentary hours since the gale had passed through and he didn’t relish the prospect of more expenditure of energy, more forceful stretching of thin skin. The wind hit them just as he was calling the girls to tuck in. Immediately the boat heeled and items lazily discarded started to tumble onto the floor.
“It’s ok,” he shouted, “just get in behind the lee cloths. We’re nearly there anyway. Alea, pass me up my oilskins, please.”
She did as she was bid but not before the sweep of rain hit him on the face with a ferocity that would ensure his discomfort for the next twelve hours. He flipped on the peak cap that was tied to his life jacket. It would keep the rain out of his face and allow him to see the instruments – the GPS, the radar, the chart plotter and wind indicator.
A few hours wrestling with the wheel broke the darkness. Sam could just make out the gloom of the Comeragh Mountains as the clouds barrelled into them and split around them, forced forward by the building easterly that was rising with the grey sun. And then the rain: deafening. Wet rain, Sam’s grandfather would have said. Curious how some rains left barely a damp patch, others saturation.
The approach was tricky. For Sam to shift his head in either direction was a challenge. The cold breeze had seized his limbs and his movement was robotic and slow. He hadn’t the heart to make any of the girls come on deck to help, so he opted for an outer harbour wall where he tied up with less diligence than normal before clambering back on board to consult the phone and open the app.
Confirmation. She’d sent the last message as she was leaving, two hours previously. He tore open his ocean jacket and held his fingers under his armpits trying to coax some movement out of them. The screen often failed to register his touch, not least when his fingerprints were geriatrified by overexposure to moisture, raisin-like and unidentifiable.
We’re here, he managed to tap out eventually.
Where? came back immediately.
Are you here?
Statue in the square.
We’ll be up now, he hammered. “Right, ladies, get your stuff, we gotta go.”
He couldn’t have hoped for more. He wanted no “Parting Glass”, no maudlin gathering. Speed, he hoped, would distract his daughter. The downpour and what was left of the darkness only added to the urgency.
He watched them gather the little they had into a bag he’d stitched from old sailcloth. Alea brushed her hair and went into the heads, presumably to consult a mirror. Despite the available excuses, no woman would ideally meet another after two weeks at sea. She emerged almost radiant. Sam had no idea what she’d done but in the low light of the cabin he noted how well she looked regardless of her nervousness.
And then Sam’s jaw began to ache as he watched his little girl approach her friend. Isla held a package wrapped in tissue paper. She presented it with bashfulness, nothing said, her eyes averted. Her lower lip was gripped taut and Sam knew she was one word away from tears. He doubted again the wisdom of casting these women adrift but he didn’t know what else to do. Sadiqah did the crying for Isla. She received the parcel and set it aside, reaching for her little pal and hugging her for a full two minutes. Sam and Alea just stood and watched, unsure whether to make a similar gesture or what message that might convey. Oh, to be a child again, thought Sam. Alea eventually looked up at him. Those eyes. And the ache again. She smiled a sad, sad smile.
“Your friend, she is here,” she stated.
“Mmmm.”
“Let us go now, Sadiqah.”
Despite the unholy hour there were a few rum-looking teenagers kicking about the square, gathered for shelter around a single cigarette. The locals probably called them knackers. The youths’ eyes followed every move of the little troop, each stooped against the lashing, headed towards Sinead’s car exhaust. They lit up in the red glow of her rear lights. The only heat in a windswept town.
She emerged from the car, tall and handsome, turning her collar up, her head tilted forward – through nervousness or against the rain Sam couldn’t tell but her eyes looked up at him, gentle, inquiring, vulnerable.
“Sinead,” he almost whispered.
“Ah, Sam.”
“Thank you.”
“For what?” she said gently.
“For coming,” he said.
“You knew I’d come.”
He turned quickly before he allowed himself to read too much into that.
“This,” he paused, “is Isla. Say hello, darlin’.”
“Hello,” she said, her little nose dripping.
“So you are Isla,” said Sinead. “Do you know that you are the apple of your daddy’s eye?”
Isla smiled bashfully.
“You’re a beautiful young woman. I love your coat.”
Sinead appeared to know how to talk to children. Sam wished he did.
“This is Alea,” he said, “and Sadiqah.”
He gestured them forward. They had walked behind him the whole way. Alea pushed back her hood a little, sodden, but still stunning.
“Pakis!” shouted one of the youths from the doorway.
Sam tensed and turned but Sinead placed her hand on his arm. It was Isla, though, who spoke the words of her mother.
“Don’t get involved, Daddy,” she said.
The maturity of the comment astonished him.
“Let’s get going,” said Sinead. Familiar with Sam’s skill set, she was keen to avoid a confrontation with the natives. She opened the rear door. “Alea, why don’t you jump in the front and we can have a proper chat.”
Alea appeared confused at first. Sam looked at her and she at him. Sinead copped the awkwardness and looked a little flustered by it, put out even. She turned away with a surprised look on her face and chose to help Sadiqah buckle in.
Alea looked straight at him, no hint of a tear. “You are complicated man. Yet simple.”
Sam stood silent, unsure whether he was being complimented or criticised. He let her carry on.
“I am grateful. And I am sorry.”
Sam stared at the freshly widowed woman and then dropped his gaze to shake his head at her fortitude, her strength of character, her submission to the unknown. He hadn’t the words. “Take care, Alea,” was all he managed.
And then the car doors slammed, Sinead turning to Sam one last time. “This time keep in touch,” she said brusquely, and he knew then her feathers had been ruffled and that the tide between them had ebbed as quickly as it had flooded.
He was confident that the car journey between the women would correct any misunderstandings. “I’ll call you when we’re settled. You know, see how they are.”
“See how they are,” she repeated, her eyes boring into him.
“And how you are. How … you’ve been.”
“That would be nice,” she said, although he couldn’t be sure she meant it.
And then they were gone and the Angelus called, and the wind howled, and not a tear was shed.
An end, he hoped, to an encounter he could have done without.
A fitting departure. From Dungarvan. In the rain.
Part II
There was no screaming, which Sam struggled to understand as he beat the man out with his good offshore jacket. Despite the seriousness of the act all he could really think was, this is my best sailing kit.
His instincts were telling him to turn around and walk away. Don’t get involved, as Isla would say. Let the man burn. But he couldn’t because he’d recognised the man the moment the liquid had ignited. He’d spent a few weeks in his menacing company, after all. Perhaps that’s why he was able to hammer the flames with such vigour. The fire was out in moments thanks to the beating. Every cloud.
And then there were guards and questions and denials from Sam: no, I don’t know him. I was just passing. He set himself on fire, so I put him out. Grand. And then Sam melted into the crowd, charred jacket in hand.
“What the hell has happened to you?” Sinead asked.
“I’ll tell you in a minute but why don’t you fill me in on your bits first?”
The pair had been meeting every few weeks as Sam fulfilled his promise to Isla to keep an eye on what was happening with her little friend.
“Well,” said Sinead. “Alea has had a better week. Sadiqah – not so much. After what they saw and what they went through there’s a lot to get out, and Alea’s determined to keep moving on because of Sadiqah but she’s also really worried about her.”
“Have you made the asylum application yet?”
“Not yet. I’ve been looking into it. I don’t know the system that well because – well, I’m more about getting women out of the country, which now looks to be easier than getting them into the bloody place. I’m told that as soon as an application is made they could be taken to Mosney.”
“Mosney?”
“Did you never go to Mosney when you were small?”
“No, what is it?”
“It’s like a Butlin’s holiday camp. Not a great place for kids, or anyone for that matter.”
“Sounds ok to me,” said Sam.
“No, it used to be a holiday camp. Now it’s a detention centre by the sea.”
“Oh, where?” Sam’s interest piqued.
“East coast, above Dublin. We used to go there when we were children. It was fun then. Now – not so much.”
“So it’s for migrants?”
“Yeah. They’re kept there until their asylum claim has been dealt with.”
“I can imagine what goes on in there.”
“Exactly. It’s not where I want them to wait this out, so my plan is to keep them with us in sheltered accommodation until the counselling is finished and then start the process – unless I can think of anything better for them. But they’re safe, that’s the main thing, thanks to you.”
She looked at him, searching for a reaction, receiving little more than a grunt of dismissal.
“You did, Sam. You got them away from that terrible man.”
“Funny you should say that,” he said as she gazed at him with something close to admiration.
“What?” she said, moderately alarmed.
“Well, the man who killed her husband – the bloke on the boat who wanted to rape her.”
“Yes, the trafficker’s brother.”
“What?” asked Sam, new to this tidbit.
“Apparently he was a brother of the man who organised all the trafficking.”
“Really?” Sam again realised how little he’d learned about the whole process.
“According to Alea.”
But Sam’s mind was racing. “I gotta go, Sinead, sorry,” said Sam.
“Not a fucking chance,” she suddenly hissed at him, careful not to disturb the other customers in the café. “This time you’ll sit and you’ll tell me what you’re doing.”
He rested back in his seat suddenly aware of his capacity to irritate her. He boiled down his story as quickly as he could.
“On the way here, on Grafton Street, a man set himself on fire.”
“Sure, I know.”
“How can you know? It was less than half an hour ago.” Sam was incredulous.
“Somebody Facebook Live’d it.”
“You’re joking?”
“Look.”
Sam gazed at her phone, which showed a bundle of firefighters and paramedics crowded around someone. Sam wasn’t in frame.
“What’s it say about him?”
“Who?”
“The man who went up in flames.”
“Funny enough, it says he’s an asylum seeker who burned himself in protest after being told he’s to be removed.”
“Removed?”
“Deported. Sent back.”
“From where?”
Sinead scrolled a little. “Everyone’s posting about it. They’re pretty sympathetic.”
“They shouldn’t be,” said Sam.
“What are you not telling me?”
“You’ll not believe it if I do.”
“Try me.”
“That’s him – that’s the man. The bloke from the boat. I dunno how he got here but that’s the bastard who skipped in Sicily.”
“Go ‘way,” said Sinead, genuinely shocked.
“I’ve just hammered out the flames on him – see?” He showed her his blackened jacket.
“What the f—�
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“Look again. Where is he gonna be deported from?”
“Well, I’d say he’s off to hospital.”
“He’s not too bad. He didn’t burn for long and he used lighter fluid. His skin was ok-ish.”
Sinead kept tapping and swiping.
“Well, seems he’d been detained you know where.”
“Butlins – what did you call it again?”
“Mosney.”
“Right,” said Sam, whose mind had slipped its lines and was headed to sea again.
“Looks like you’re off again,” Sinead said.
“Looks like it,” he said, and did something he’d never done before. He reached forward and gave her a kiss on the cheek.
The best things come to those who deserve it.
Feet and faeces. Toes and arse. The doc gagged. The man next to him claimed he wouldn’t notice in a few weeks.
“Soon you will smell just the same.”
“A few weeks?” asked the doctor, incredulous.
“I have been here seven months. No one has ever left unless they were dead,” said the man, who exposed festering bedsores as he rolled over to resume his sleep. For there was nothing else to do, not in this detention centre – this room, this oversized shipping shed now crammed with unsuccessful migrants.
The doctor lamented his luck but knew he’d got what he was due.
They’d spent less than twelve hours at sea. The skipper, whoever he was, had motored west, too far west. Because of the sea state, he’d said. The doctor had challenged him and so the African had changed course to prove his point. Immediately the women had begun groaning as the slop of the swell hit the rubber boat side-on and bile bubbled up throats. Reluctantly the doctor had acceded to the African’s seamanship and the boat had been turned again to face the swell, making the going at least consistent and uniform if still like a roller coaster.
The crew had quietened as the journey went on. The thrum of the outboard, its occasional tonal changes as a large wave plucked the propeller momentarily from the sea. They crouched, resigned, tensing their muscles at the top of each wave, bracing against the plummet into the trough. Routinely the helmsman had to replenish the fuel, a precarious procedure during which petrol was spilled into the bottom of the boat. It swashed about with the seawater they were compelled to bail and soaked into their garments, inducing dry bokes and eventually headaches. The wind took to their rear treating them to the exhaust fumes of the engine. The doctor knew nothing of the sea and couldn’t understand how waves could come towards the boat while the wind came from behind.
