"Any minute now," the older navvy said, nodding toward the bar.
"Are there delays on this trip fairly often?" the tanned man asked.
"The weather can slow you down, that's a fact. It can speed you up too though. I was on this a few times, and I'm not joking you, I was the only one not spewing me lights up all over the place. Even your man, the barman or the steward or whatever you call him, officers, the whole lot. All puking goodo all over the place. We were three hours late getting into Dun Laoghaire. Wait'til I tell you, they wanted to close down the bloody bar. 'Hold on there a minute, brother,' I says. 'I'm a paying customer and I can guarantee you that yous won't need to be mopping up after me. I was well reared. So hand me a pint of stout there and keep the oul flag flying.' Not a bother on me." The older navvy fisted gently on the tabletop and wagged his head with pride.
"Jack Tar," the red-faced navvy said.
"Yeah. Mutiny on the what-che-me-call-it," echoed the smaller one.
"Ah go on, yous are only jealous," the older man derided them.
The four men fell silent as if each knew that the talk only served to distract them from waiting. Another few passengers-again all men-trickled into the lounge. The tanned man felt his radar sense ease with each arrival. Then the sound of the screen sliding up returned him to the present.
"Aha. What'll you have," the old navvy said to him.
"Hold on, it's my twist" said the red-face.
"You buy later. I'm flush. A pint of beer?"
The tanned man wasn't listening. He was trying to supress any outward signs of the alarm that was yammering in his head.
The man had walked in just as the screen was going up.
Instantly, the tanned man was aroused. He felt his pulse push at his collar. The man had glanced at his group and then affected to look around. He was a tallish man with a full head of hair. His gait suggested an attempt to look slovenly, but it didn't come off. The face was a little too impassive, his glance a little too neutral. The man's coat was darkened at the shoulders by rain and his hair was stringing. His duffle bag should have bit into his shoulder but it didn't: it was probably half empty. Who would travel with a half-empty duffle bag?
"Beer. You can have Smithwicks, though personally I wouldn't drown a cat in it. How about Harp? That's a lager…"
"Yes."
"The Harp?"
"Yes. Please."
It was as if there was a stage director in his head pointing out all the moves. See how he is being too casual? Walking so slow? He's trying to look sloppy but look at the shoulders. Face is too bland by far, because he's not tired. He's trying so hard not to look… excited.
The red-faced man leaned over.
"Oi. We haven't got going yet. Don't look so thrilled."
"Pardon?" said the tanned man. He watched the man disappear around the corner, back out toward the stairway.
"You look a bit peeky so you do. Go out and stick your finger down your neck. Honest to God it works."
The tanned man looked directly at the red face. He saw a dissolute, loose face. Written on it were evasions and self-pity. The shallow banter was a poor attempt to mask the weakness. Instantly he loathed these men and the inanity which formed their lives. They were caricatures and they didn't know it, half-alcoholic, petulant children. Their humour had a manic, follow-on quality. The red-rimmed eyes above the bristles, puzzled and wary, the very pith, of the simian Irish peasant in Punch. He looked at the smaller navvy, whose face showed a mix of cowed agreement and resentment at the world, tempered with anticipation for the drinks on the way. He felt a rage against them. All he had risked and hoped and: not for these.
He left the table without a word. He didn't turn to the "Oi" from the older navvy who was carrying pint glasses of beer and stout to the table. He felt himself walking almost on his toes, ready to break into a run. The cop was not there. He unzipped his jacket three-quarters of the way and he opened the door which led out on deck. Immediately a spume of drizzle came in out of the night at him. Dun Laoghaire pier ran out alongside the boat.
He looked over the railing. The gangplank was still down. It was the only way off the ferry unless he was to jump into the water. He began walking toward the steps which, he supposed, led to the back of the boat. There was no one on deck. He passed portholes and windows where he saw passengers settling listlessly into chairs. A seagull flew through the lights and into the darkness overhead. Above the back of the ferry, he saw the lights of the hotels half hidden by the trees. Stepping closer to the railings, he looked down at the dock. Several porters and men in overalls stood around, sheltered by the roof of the railway terminal. A faint cloud of drizzle hung over the rail tracks in the light which came out under the roof. Two men appeared from a doorway and walked hurriedly to the end of the platform.
He thought about the lifeboats or storage, but they'd search them. The ship's engine droned up through his feet. Maybe the car decks, there might be a car open. Or a truck. They'd want to isolate him in a set-up like this. Dump the gun and brazen it out with the Canadian passport: the playwright… Trust in no one. Well, father, what would you do?
"Here come on. Is the job done?" he heard behind him. The older navvy stood at the door.
"In a while," he managed to say. Turning around again, he noticed a movement behind the navvy. The navvy made to step aside and let the person pass. The tanned man called out:
"Come on over for a second, would you?"
The navvy stepped over the jamb, scratching the back of his neck. As he began walking, the tanned man realised he might not have the time to put the silencer on.
"I'm a bit groggy," he said.
The navvy came over reluctantly. Whoever had been about to come out the door had not appeared.
With the navvy between him and the door, the tanned man turned back to looking at the town and reached into his jacket. He felt, rather than heard, the navvy's footsteps approaching him reluctantly across the deck.
"What's the story?" the navvy began.
The tanned man turned and brought the gun away from his chest.
"We're getting off the boat. Don't say anything, just listen to me."
Quigley saw the older man freeze, with his arm out a little from his sides. He heard Gibbons breathing close to his ear. Quigley's finger pushed out at the trigger guard, the muzzle touching the side of his knee. His arm felt heavy as if the gun were hanging from it.
"He has a gun on him," whispered Gibbons,
"He'll probably bring him down on the stairs outside as much as he can. There's no one on deck," Quigley murmured. Quigley tried to guess the distance from the door to the railing. Probably the best part of fifty feet. The door opened out and there was a jamb to jump over too. The Yank was right-handed. Quigley watched the Yank's hand come down on the navvy's shoulder, the navvy's arms go up almost horizontal. Must be an instinct, to raise your hands like that, he thought. Anything could happen here. This was what they had feared, a hostage. For a second he remembered the stoicism on O'Rourke's face, well in control of the skepticism. Even in broad daylight you couldn't shoot accurately at fifty feet with only one chance. So: the Yank had copped on when he had walked into the bar. Quigley leaned back against the wall, flattening his back.