'Are you still there…?'
'When did that other car go out, the one with the new tank?'
'Yesterday. Picked up, no bother.'
At least the main part of the operation was intact, the tanned man thought. He eased his grip on the phone.
'No hitches?'
'No. Your pal must have come over some evening and packed in whatever it is. All I know is I came in and there was a note saying bolt the thing back on, the thing is packed in and sealed. That's what I did. Dirtied it up good like I was told and left it parked on what-you-me-call-it Street, er… Nassau Street.'
The tanned man felt his body ease into the chair more. So that part had gone fine.
'Look. We'll pay you for your tools or whatever you can't get out of there in five minutes.'
'Five minutes?'
'The cops will look around the lane first probably, damn it! Just make sure there's nothing with your initials or that sort of thing. Go to the post office in Rathmines tomorrow. There'll be an envelope in your name.'
The mechanic's voice lightened.
'Right you be, chief.'
'And remember what I said. If I get so much as a ripple because of anything you do, the organisation will take care of that too. There's nowhere to hide.'
The tanned man hung up. He surveyed the hotel room. The problems amounted to little more than a few stones falling away. There would be no avalanche. Maybe in the future he might have the leisure to rethink this. By then he might even see that this series of mishaps was very functional. It plucked out the gangsters in the movement, the inept. If anything, the old guard in the movement would be discredited even more for not being able to control
the mobsters they brought south for R and R.
He didn't feel any sympathy for any of those men. In fact, it would have been better if the two were shot out of hand. As for the third one, he'd probably spill but he was just a gofer. He might even distract the Branch with a few yarns.
He rose and walked to the bathroom. He felt sweaty. While the bath was filling, he hung his jacket. He took out the gun and laid it next to the telephone. He unhooked the harness, cursing inwardly at the sweat dribbling through the Velcro. The phone was still warm as he spoke into it again:
'A beer. Any kind. Has to be cold.'
Such habits, he mused, as he put down the phone. Bathing at the first signs of sweat; a cold beer. He returned to the bathroom and laid the gun next to the handbasin. In the mirror he saw a strong and youthful man. His mother had said it well, 'If you don't look after yourself, no one else will.'
The bellboy wore an outfit that made him look like a New York leprechaun. He tipped him a pound at the door out of spite.
'Thanks very much, sir. Anything you want now, just give a little tinkle.' A little bow, the door closed.
He swallowed a cold draught from the neck of the bottle. Roll on the future, he thought, that we may never have servile Irishmen like him born here again.
Minogue stood aching in the telephone booth.
'Uh-huh, yes. A white Granada, newish. Yep. The new model. No, I didn't get it. Call me at home, so. Anytime.'
Agnes McGuire had heard police sirens at intervals while she studied in her room. It took little to distract her. By times, she awoke from a trance, exasperated that she had not turned a page in the book for ten minutes. She was thinking of her family and Italy. The two scenes alternated. She imagined herself walking with a packsack through dusty roads in Tuscany. It'd be dusk, an infinite orange world, glowing and washing into pinks. She'd stop at a farmhouse and be welcomed. She'd chat with the family for hours, listening to their stories. Agnes would be a pilgrim of sorts and people there would understand that.
Then Agnes was walking through streets in Belfast. It was raining, She had messages to get. Her arms ached from carrying groceries. Her fingers were numbed by the handles of the plastic bags which bit into them. Her mother was waiting at home. She was afraid to go out herself.
In the mornings, Agnes would bid goodbye and shoulder her bag now laden with home-made wine, bread and cheese. It would be no weight at all. She might even sit at the side of the road for a half hour and watch the mist dissipate, revealing an ancient land.
Agnes looked out over the sodden garden three floors below. Enclosed by enormous railings, Trinity resisted the bustle outside, Traffic was clogging Nassau Street. Agnes could see forms behind the steamed windows of the double-decked buses as they crawled by. A hand would work to clear part of a window, a face look out.
In Tuscany there'd likely be animals drawing wagons of some description.
Leaving the Belfast supermarket, an armoured carrier they called 'pigs' drove by like a sightless dinosaur and, gone by, the hard and challenging faces of soldiers appeared, looking to the wake of the vehicle's passage. Itching to play with their guns. Maybe somewhere nearby men were watching from a window too, deciding if they would shoot.
Piazzas at dusk, candlelight on the faces of the working men as they sat at tables, gathering in the cool of the evening.
Agnes was aware that Jarlath had no presence in these journeys. She could see him clearly, besuited, walking the streets of his own city here in a few years. He might wind up doing law or concentrating on economics. He'd work in an office. He'd be kind though. He mightn't get far on the ladder so his Da might pull him into the fruit business quickly to get him set up. Maybe Jar-lath would take the year off like he said he would. Still, Agnes could not see him so changed as to be out on those roads and streets in Italy, or leaning on the railing of a ferry leaving Brindisi…
Lights were now gathering strength out in the streets. Traffic was easing. Behind her, the room was obscured. Agnes switched on the light. It was time to eat. She returned to the table and sorted the photocopied pages. Agnes, who could not now summon up the golden landscapes of Tuscany, began to shiver. Her eyes salted as she worked. She made no attempt to stop the steady roll of the first tear.
What straightened Minogue out was the unforeseen arrival of Iseult for tea. Kathleen's mock chiding, now that she had to include Iseult in the pan, helped him to land.
'What happened to you?' Iseult said breezily. 'Ma, did he make improper advances, is it?'
Iseult turned to him and play-punched him in the shoulder. 'You're a bit of a divil I'm thinking, Da. At your age. Ma you did the right thing. Feminism is coming of age. Down with patriarchy. What's in the pan?'
'Hafner's sausages. Do you want an egg, lovey?' Kathleen asked,
'I think Da has the duck egg. Give me a look. Did she hit you with the pan or what?'
'Very smart, I'm sure,' Minogue said. He reached to touch the elastoplast and the lump which swelled it out from his forehead.
'Have a bit of sympathy now. Your daddy fell down in the carpark. A terrible day all around,' Kathleen murmured.
'Did you spill any out of the bottle, Da?'
'Any what?'
'Whatever it was. Powers or Jameson.'
Kathleen looked over from the cooker at her daughter.
'How well you know the names of all the whiskies. Is that the sum total of third level education these days?' Kathleen asked.
Minogue poured the tea. He was careful to keep his finger on the lid so it didn't fall off. This heartened him, this familiar precaution bedded into the rituals of the household. All the little idiosyncrasies of the house were shared knowledge. How to get the lawnmower started. How to tighten the shears and keep them sharp. How to get the garage door to close properly. Which ring on the cooker didn't heat up well. How to make sure you didn't bugger up the washing machine because the switch was contrary.
'Did you hear about the Garda being killed out in Blackrock?' Kathleen asked.
'I saw the headlines. Was it a fella you knew, Da?'
'No, actually.'
