Allen felt as if his chest was being squeezed. From the recesses of his mind, he observed himself there in the car, slowing. He saw the soldier bulked with a flak jacket step into the light. Allen wondered where the RUC were. The soldier was holding the automatic rifle almost level. Off to his left Allen caught a glimpse of a vehicle in the ditch, a Land Rover. Where were the RUC?
Agnes turned around and looked out the back window.
"Do you see it?" she said.
Allen was rolling down the window. She looked at him and he turned to her. He saw her frown and her face go loose. Now she knows, he thought. This is it, all of it. She tried to say something but couldn't. Her back pressed into the door, looking across at Allen.
There was no traffic. The car was rolling to a halt, endlessly. Allen felt blood rush around his head. He looked out at the soldier who was not moving toward the car. Allen could see the kid's face clearly. He was no more than twenty-five. He wore his beret low on his forehead. Allen grasped the slicked wheel with both hands. His upper arms began to tremble. He thought something passed behind the car, a flicker in the mirror. The car stopped and rocked back slightly as the suspension returned it level after the braking. All Allen could hear was the regular infuriating tick over of a well-tuned car.
"Switch off the engine. Then step out of the car," the soldier said. Allen couldn't take his eyes off the rifle.
"Surely-" he began.
The soldier looked over the roof of the car. He glanced at Allen again.
"Out."
"Really," Allen said. "Is this neccessary? Don't you-"
"There's something out there," Agnes whispered.
The soldier backed away from the car and levelled the rifle.
"Out of the car!" he shouted.
Allen saw the soldier look behind the car again, frowning. Time stopped for him. A rush of understanding settled on him. He felt a finality, close. Something was wrong. He could feel Agnes' alarm. It was dark outside this bowl of light. Was there nothing outside this terrifying oasis? He laid his hand slowly on the gearshift and looked to his right.
Minogue wondered why nobody had stopped him. Each of his feet was landing flat and heavy now. His breath was in hoarse gasps. Maybe if he shouted, they'd hear him from there. A stitch like a cold knife was slicing under his ribs, jabbing. He saw the man with the stick move back from the car. Another two men came up behind the car, sticks raised to their shoulders. Minogue stopped. He was within a hundred yards of the car. He saw the back of the car dip. The tires squealed. Minogue shouted with all the wind he could hold. The light was pulsing in front of him. He swayed with the effort.
"Wait! Police!" he shouted. "Wait!"
The soldiers turned and crouched. Minogue shouted again. One of the soldiers turned back and Minogue heard the pop pop, a staccato. Minogue dropped to the ground. Seconds ticked by. He heard more shots. The car lights were moving from side to side. Then, lazily, the tail-lights straightened out their course. Minogue heard shouting. The lights leaned to the left and followed, shuddering, the grass highlighted by the beams ahead of the car. Floodlights froze the slowing car in their glare. Minogue leaned on his elbows in the road, dumbfounded. The red lights leaned more as the car mounted the ditch and came to a standstill.
Figures ran to the doors and pulled them open. Minogue saw them pull the two passengers out to the ground. He heard more shouting. Suddenly he was blinded by light.
"Stay where you are," he heard the English accent through the loudspeakers. "Do not move or you will be fired on."
Minogue heard the siren warbling stronger from behind. He felt completely vulnerable, spreadeagled on the road. He waited for the whack of a bullet. Minogue thought of all the minute indentations in the tar. It smelled of petrol and rubber and farms. He closed his eyes. A car pulled up behind him.
"Police!" someone shouted, an Irish voice. "One of ours! Police!" Minogue heard footsteps in the ditch next to him.
Again the voice, "Police, don't shoot!"
A faint blue light swept around in the glare. To his left Minogue saw a British soldier. He looked around and saw Scully cupping hands to shout again. The soldier's face was blackened. He was squinting down the sights of the rifle. Under his eyes, the small black hole of the muzzle seemed to rest on his hand. Minogue wondered if this boy was going to shoot him. He couldn't miss. Minogue could hear the boy's breathing.
The soldier said, "O.K." and lowered his rifle. "O.K."
"He's one of ours. He's O.K."
"O.K.," the soldier said. "Just get the bastard out of here. Just get him out of here."
Minogue elbowed onto his knees. The soldier was shaking his head. Another soldier appeared from outside the glare.
"Get up, Minogue," Scully's voice, thickly.
"John fuckin' Wayne," the soldier said.
The boat train to Dun Laoghaire was only three minutes late. It emerged from between the houses and gardens by Merrion Gates at a rush, rumbled over the level crossing and seemed to relax as the bay opened up to to east. Howth with its necklace of lights shouldered out into the sea across the bay from the swaying train. Three men sat ahead of him. They looked like navvies on their way back to England. They smoked constantly and spoke little.
He tried to maintain the appearance of a tired tourist. He had held off the bouts of panic, but the effort left him jittery. He tried to block out images which were coming to him constantly now. He saw the playwright, that expression of disdain on his face, talking to a policeman. Then he saw that cop's hands reaching for his chest as he lay on the ground. It looked like he was trying to pull the slug out. The cop's head arching back, digging into the ground and then falling back as the hands went limp.
"That's the end of the holidays now, hah?" a navvy said. "Back to the grind, hah?" he added, and returned to staring out through the grass.
The tanned man tried to smile and he nodded. He was relieved to have escaped wordless from this. Then it occurred to him that he might be passing up something. In his caution he might be losing out on an advantage. If he got in with these men, it might help him. They might adopt him if he bought them some drink. It would take effort, but it would be worth it.
"Excuse me but are we close to Dun-Dunleery?" he said.
"I'm telling you now, Minogue. When we go over you better mind your p's and q's. You're bloody lucky you didn't collect another hole in your arse off those fellas," Scully said.
Minogue's legs were cramping, but his breath was back. He felt like an errant schoolboy sitting in the back of the car with the big detective eying him.
"Seems to me it's your arse is in the sling, Scully," Minogue said quietly. Scully turned to look at Minogue. His eyes flickered to the detective and then back to Minogue.
"You've said enough, Minogue. You're a loose cannon. Bloody ujit, you nearly banjaxed the whole thing."
"You're forgetting something, Scully. I have a mouth on me. You're just the pot-boy with the piss-bucket here along with these cowboys. The arrest should have been made here. You know and I know that the Brits are trigger-happy. They've been given the green light. They're just itching to have a go at anyone. You threw those two to them," Minogue said.
"Watch who you're calling a piss-boy, Minogue. We heard about you." Scully's voice rose.
"This was a planned operation-"
"— And you're just here to execute it. Or them," Minogue said.
"— so get it through your head!" Scully shouted.