by Jack Elgos
Wiping away the tear he forced his gaze away from the clock and back to the desk. ‘Pull yourself together you old fool. You have the shop, and you have your work,’ Anthony sighed as he removed a sheaf of documents from his safe. The five envelopes he picked out looked identical. The only differences were the handwritten amounts marked on each of them. He selected the one with £75 in the top right-hand corner and slid it inside the Irish Times newspaper. He returned the others to the safe and locked it. Glancing down at the underside of the desktop he removed the double-barrelled sawn-off shotgun from its cradle, which was aimed directly at the seat opposite his own chair. Changing the shells for fresh ones, he cocked both hammers and replaced the gun in the mounting. His tea was clap cold and he checked the clock again. 11.50. ‘Where on earth does the time go?’ he mumbled as he took his favourite handgun, a Smith and Wesson .38 revolver, from his drawer and, after checking its ammunition, pocketed the pistol. An automatic gun remained in the drawer. The extra bullets it held were useful at times, but Turner preferred to trust his safety to the good, old-fashioned mechanism of the .38.
Leaving the shop, he flipped the sign to read “closed”, then strolled slowly down the road. He arrived at Ashton Quay and took his usual place on the bench, lighting his pipe as he gazed silently over the river. The view brought him a contentment he needed and relished.
‘Morning Mr. Turner,’ the man said, announcing his presence.
‘Good morning to you too young fellow,’ Anthony replied. ‘What do you have for me?’ he enquired, as he pushed the newspaper along the bench.
The young man shuffled closer as he whispered, ‘That shooting up in Belfast, you know the Springfield and Falls Road one, it was the I.R.A. who shot the informer.’
Anthony held up his hand to stop him. Staring at him he snapped, ‘McCartney, do you genuinely expect Her Majesty to pay you good money for supplying information that everyone in the province is fully aware of? Good God old chap, what on earth are you thinking?’
‘No, no, not the bit about that shooting; it’s about the shooting that followed. You know, when the soldiers were killed. I know who the shooter was,’ he explained in an even quieter tone, before continuing, ‘and I know where he’s heading.’
McCartney told Anthony Turner every detail he knew about this latest atrocity. When he’d finished he took the newspaper, along with the cash in the envelope, and walked away, quickly losing himself in the Dublin crowds. As he watched the man disappear, Anthony re-lit his pipe and sat a few minutes longer. Eventually he stood, smoothed his overcoat and sauntered off in the direction of his shop. This new information was important; it needed reporting urgently, but he also knew that to be seen rushing along the streets of Dublin could get him noticed, possibly by the wrong people. He was never, ever noticed. He blended in. Every day he did the same thing - sell antiques and walk slowly to and from the shop. That was his life here in Dublin. Though he hadn’t worn the uniform for almost twenty years (since the death of his wife he had preferred to work alone) his S.A.S. training still remained. He was the quiet, slightly eccentric and infirm antique shop owner. He was not the handler of paid informants. To lose sight of this simple fact could, and in all probability would, result in the loss of his life.
6
The Trip from Hell
About halfway down to Cork Darren stopped, pulling the old van into the car park of a quaint little thatched pub. There he had a tasty steak pie for lunch, and washed it down with a lovely pint of Murphy’s stout. Back on the road again, and soon he was almost in Cork. Following the directions he’d been given, he turned off to the left and was now heading out in the general direction of the quaint old seaside town of Kinsale. Just before he reached it he saw some large white buildings on his right. Then he spotted a sign announcing in giant blue letters, “A&R Transport and Haulage, daily service to England, Ireland and Europe”. He pulled in and parked on the forecourt in front of the main building. Leaving the keys in the van, he walked straight into the office and told the girl on reception, ‘Hello, my name’s Fitzpatrick, I’m here to see a Mr. Elliott.’
‘One moment please Mr. Fitzpatrick. Take a chair, and I’ll see if he’s available,’ she told him in her lovely soft country accent, which sounded to him more like she was singing than talking.
He took a seat in the corner and waited. Within five minutes the office door opened and a very fat, short, balding man came through. He looked at Darren and said in an unmistakable southern English voice, ‘Good morning Mr. Fitzpatrick, how are you today? I’m Philip, the owner. Would you like to come through to the office?’ As they walked by he asked Tuila, the pretty secretary with the beautiful accent, to bring them in tea and biscuits.
They sat chatting about how terrible the troubles were, the long drive from the North, the weather, and the transport business, of which Darren knew absolutely nothing. Moments later, the lovely Tuila knocked and entered carrying a tray, on which was a pot of steaming hot tea, plus a good selection of homemade biscuits. She set the tray down, turned and smiled at him, then left.
The instant the door closed behind her Philip leaned over the desk, whispering to Darren that he had that very morning received orders to take him across to Northern Spain. ‘Oh, and don’t let the accent bother you too much,’ he explained. ‘Though I was raised in Surrey, England, I’m as Irish as you are. My parents were originally from Waterford. My dad moved us all over to the UK for work years ago, when I was still a baby.’ Hearing this, Darren gave an audible sigh of relief. He suddenly felt safe again as he was back with his own kind - regardless of the accent. ‘You’ll stay with us tonight and be on my lad’s truck at 7am, bound for sunny Spain. I think you’ll like it too. Must be warmer than here, eh?’
Early the next morning, after taking a large fried breakfast, Darren stood and shivered as he waited in the cold, clammy morning air. Looking up at the huge Seddon Atkinson articulated lorry he wondered where, exactly, he would be riding, as it was obviously already fully loaded with forty-five gallon oil drums. Philip came walking towards him with another man whom he introduced as Steve, his eldest son. The two men shook hands.
‘Steve will be driving you,’ Philip told him, ‘but, you surely can’t ride up front. You’re much too hot for that. Unfortunately you are going to have to travel in the hide.’
Darren watched in dismay as the father and son started to unscrew the end of one of the oil drums, which was on the bottom row halfway down the trailer. As he looked inside, he discovered that three drums had been welded together especially for the job of concealing contraband. Darren was well aware of this kind of hiding place, but he’d never imagined himself inside one. It looked like a long pipe and the air holes drilled in the top, he assumed, were especially for him.
‘Jesus, I’ll be like a rat in a sewer,’ he said quietly.
Philip heard the comment and turned to face Darren. ‘Maybe so, but you’ll be out of the “sewer” in a couple of days. Our boys in the H-blocks won’t be nearly so lucky.’
Darren nodded his head feeling deeply ashamed of himself. After all, how could he possibly complain at a couple of days cooped up in there when his brothers were locked in Long Kesh and would be there for years and years to come? He crept cautiously on hands and knees into the elongated oil drum and, at the far end, found an old worn sleeping bag that would serve as his bed, plus what looked like a bedpan. Oh joy. There was just enough headroom for him to sit in a hunched position and he put the two water containers Philip had given him at the opposite end of the drum, then his loaf of bread and lump of cheese next to his bed. Philip leaned in and wished him good luck, then waved farewell as he and Steve picked up the drum top and slowly screwed it down tight. Inside it went pitch black - he couldn’t see a thing. He almost panicked in the first few minutes, but eventually managed to calm himself.
The huge diesel engine quickly turned over and fired into life.
He could feel every single one of the vibrations from the engine's slow revolutions as it sat smoothly ticking over. Next he was aware of voices. He recognised one as belonging to Philip, as he bade goodbye to his son. Then the vibrations sped up and, accelerating away, they were off.
Darren assumed they would be going to the Cork ferry, and then on to Spain. Though there was no event to break the monotony of the journey, to call it uneventful would have been a downright and dirty lie - a very dirty lie. He was violently sick, constantly throwing up until his stomach cramped owing to the vomit inducing motion of a very rough ferry crossing. One particularly turbulent wave threw his “toilet” in the air, and that was that. He coughed and spluttered as his own waste engulfed him. ‘Dear God help me,’ he screamed into the darkness.
He thought it must be his second day sealed up tight inside the drums, but really it could’ve been anywhere from one to ten days. He had lost all sense of time and couldn’t have said how long it had been if you’d offered him all the Guinness in Ireland.
7
Euskal Herria AKA the Basque Country
The truck made two stops during the ferry ride from hell, but still he was not allowed out. The third time it stopped he heard a tapping on the far end where the empty bedpan had come to rest. He then faintly heard Steve’s voice as he whispered, ‘Won’t be long now. Take it easy, you’ll be out soon.’
‘Jesus, and won’t I look a sight?’ he said under his breath. He was soaking wet from the foul mixture of piss, vomit and, worse, his own shit. As the vile potion had been mixed together it had swilled around his home due to the motion of the truck on the ferry. ‘Oh bollocks,’ he thought as he tried to inspect himself. ‘I’m fucking wet through and covered in it. It’s in my hair, beard, fucking everywhere.’ Though he didn’t realise it, he was moaning out loud now.
The noise at the toilet end had gone from a quiet tapping to a cringing high-pitched squeal, as Steve started unscrewing and removing the cap. The instant the cap came off an incredibly bright light assaulted his eyes as the Spanish sun invaded his home. Steve took an involuntary step back followed by three or four more as he quickly retreated, standing well out of the stench. He stood looking in, not daring to get too close, before calling out, ‘Hey, are you OK in there?’ On hands and knees Darren came slowly crawling out towards him. Steve retreated even farther. ‘Holy shit, that fucking reeks to high Heaven. Are you sure you’re all right? Smells like something’s curled up and died,’ he exclaimed, as he stood with a mixed look of disgust and revulsion on his face. Then the smile took over. He couldn’t help it, but the sight of Darren’s head poking out, dripping with slime and shit, seemed altogether too funny. He broke out laughing so hard that tears rolled down his face.
Darren jumped out and, despite making a nasty squelching sound as he hit the floor, stood and straightened his jacket and smoothed his trousers, doing his utmost to make himself look reasonably presentable. ‘I’d like to see how you’d look and smell under similar circumstances,’ he snapped in what he hoped was a defiant manner.
An old lady stood by watching the commotion. She was standing in front of three very thin farmer types. Looking down her nose, she tutted with an “I’m absolutely disgusted with you” air and pointed at a well-lit, blazing bonfire. Pulling an even more disapproving face she stood, constantly clasping and then releasing her hands, shouting at the top of her voice and looking upwards, as if to God, protesting violently about something. Darren couldn’t understand a single word, but he did understand the authority with which she pointed a long, sharpened stick in his direction. Her head began to shake even more violently, and then she protested some more.
‘Who’s that old crow - and what the hell is she saying?’ Darren asked Steve, who had to brave the smell and move closer to catch his words.
‘That old crow,’ Steve happily informed him, ‘is the new woman in your life. She’s the head of the family, and the absolute boss in these parts, and she’s cursing you. She says that you not only look like a filthy animal, but you smell worse than any pig or cow she has ever seen in the whole of her seventy two years on Earth.’ Steve carried on grinning as he translated further. ‘Another thing, you have to strip off all of your clothes and throw them on her bonfire. Now, she says, as that’s the only thing they’re fit for.’
‘Charmed, I’m sure.’ Darren sulked and asked, ‘Does the old hag say anything else?’
‘As a matter of fact, yes, she does. She says the sea is that way.’ He pointed for effect.
‘Why the fuck would I be needing to know where the bleedin’ sea is?’
‘Because that’s where you have to go and bathe, and because she won’t let you anywhere near her house smelling like that,’ Steve chuckled.
Hanging his head low Darren slowly stripped off his stinking rags. He handed Steve The Killer for safe keeping and, when he was completely naked, the old girl started raving again, pointing at the bonfire and then towards the sea. Even he didn’t need that translating so he did as she ordered and, after tossing his stuff onto the fire, wandered off with what he hoped was a modicum of dignity, naked as a jaybird - in search of the sea.
Eventually, wandering along the small pathway, he arrived at a low cliff face. He climbed down and found himself standing in a small isolated bay with a rocky beach. Walking towards the water he gingerly waded in. It was bitterly cold and not at all what he had expected of sunny Mediterranean Spain, but he had to admit that it felt absolutely wonderful after his incarceration. He had a good scrub and, as he grew accustomed to the temperature, took a long swim to ease out the pains from his cramped body. Finally he moved to the water’s edge where he dithered until he was dry.
Darren hurried back along the trail, his arms wrapped around himself in an effort to keep warm. Shivering as he went, he couldn’t wait to get back to put on some nice warm clothes. Unfortunately for him, that wasn’t going to happen immediately. He stood once more in front of the old girl, allowing her to inspect and approve of him - which she didn’t. As she approached him, she sniffed the air, spat, and shook her head once more pointing across the yard.
‘What the bloody hell is she pointing at now?’ he wondered aloud. Poking him along with her stick she herded Darren into a small fenced area. Around twenty yards farther and he stopped dead in his tracks, his jaw falling open when he saw what faced him. ‘Oh no, Jesus woman, no, no, no, you can’t be serious. That’s a - a fucking sheep dip!’
She pointed again then poked him with the sharpened stick and followed up with a well-aimed slap. He jumped as he felt the sting across his buttocks, but tried to remain defiant.
‘Shite, no way am I getting in that. No fucking chance you old bitch,’ he protested, but she kept prodding and slapping until he had to admit defeat and climb in. The dip seemed even colder than the sea.
A large, oblong block of carbolic soap hit him squarely on the forehead. The boss-lady’s mood seemed to have improved as she stood tittering away, clearly pleased with her well-aimed shot and highly amused by the sight of him standing dithering in a sheep dip. Then the shouting started again. One minute she was congratulating herself on her perfect aim, and the next she was screaming what, he could only assume, meant ‘wash, wash, wash!’
He scrubbed and scrubbed until he was certain, he knew for sure, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that he was finally, spotlessly, thoroughly clean. So, after a final rinse, he climbed out and waited once more for the old crow’s approval. She sauntered over and began sniffing him again. She gave him a thorough inspection, lifting his arms and checking behind his ears. Then, though she continued gabbling on and on, she actually nodded and smiled. He could hardly believe it.
‘Have I passed inspection now?’ He looked across to Steve.
‘Yep, and you can go into the house for a proper bath. She says so.’
The old lady cast her eye over Darren for a moment. Then, taking
him by the hand as she would a child, she led him into the derelict-looking old farmhouse and up to her bathroom. She opened the door, whilst still holding his hand, and he stood rigid as his mouth dropped wide open. Staring into the room Darren was stunned. Here, in the middle of nowhere, in a rickety, old, seemingly falling to bits and dilapidated farmhouse, he was gazing on a bathroom fit for a king. It simply oozed luxury. The huge sunken oval bath was filled to the brim with steaming, foamy water. The floor was tiled with marble in an intricate pattern of wild flowers, and the fittings looked as if they might be real gold. Pushing him towards the bath, the old dear smiled again and said something else he couldn’t work out. Then she handed him another bar of soap, which was a great improvement on having one thrown at him – and this one smelled nice too. She offered him a few more words in her very foreign voice, blew a quick kiss, winked and left.
He eased himself down into the scalding hot water. Sitting and relaxing in the sweet smelling bubble bath felt really good after being cooped up for so long. He closed his eyes and slowly ducked his head below the surface. When he came up again he sighed and started softly singing a few lines of “A Wild Colonial Boy.” After his escape from the cold transport yard in Kinsale, a swim in the frigid sea and the freezing sheep dip, this bath felt like Heaven.
He had been soaking for around half an hour when a knock came to the door. Darren opened his eyes and shouted for the visitor to come in. The old girl was back again. She stood at the doorway with a huge white towel, a pile of clothes and a friendly smile on her wizened old face. She said something else he couldn’t understand, put down the towel and clothes, and left again. He took a much-needed shave, doused himself in loads of fresh smelling deodorant and aftershave, dressed and left the bathroom.
He was out in the main hallway and he could hear voices. Following the sounds he eventually ended up at the doorway of a large dining room. Looking around the lavishly furnished room he saw the old woman seated with her family, and Steve. As he entered, the chatting stopped as they all stared at him.
