tiptoe as best as a size ten countryman's feet can, to the little room over the stairs. An ammoniacal smell of piss, but even stronger was the curious baby breath warm air; a struggle to turn over, a frown; lips licked, maybe a grunt. He'd wait to hear the rhythm of breathing start up again. 'All right?' Kathleen would whisper, neither awake or asleep herself. 'Yes,' and back into the bed: will I sleep now? It's hormones is what it is, Minogue thought, time of life to be lusting after girls. Five minutes gone now, he realised. He was wrong about Loftus. Maybe Loftus didn't have a blind side.
'It's a matter of time really, Loftus. We know you're not going to open your heart to us. Don't forget Allen. He'll testify and you won't be able to get at him. Know a fella by the name of McCarthy, one of our playwrights?'
Loftus seemed to smile faintly at the mention of the name.
'Can't stop that man from yapping, I can tell you. I'll bet you a fiver he'll stick another needle into you. Ah, if only they were all as perfect as yourself, Captain Loftus,' Minogue said. 'But you can't deny me. They'll trip you yet. You know I was going to begin our interview here by getting right down to brass tacks, straight from the word go. I was going to ask you directly, 'Captain Loftus, did you murder Jarlath Walsh?' And I expected you to give me an honest answer, just like in one of those melodramas on the telly. You know, a burst of violins after it, the case solved. But I'm not going to a^k you that at all, because I know you didn't do it. All I will ask you is who you gave the key to.'
'What key?' Loftus asked.
'Whoever did it had to get out of the college at night after the gates were locked. Only higher-ups have keys to the sidegates. Whoever did in young Walsh could slip in and out when he wanted,' Minogue replied. Loftus laughed.
'You know, Captain, I have this picture in my head of the fella we want. We've started calling him the mystery man, but we know what he looks like. You met him or at least you've talked to him on the phone. He is a Yank, we think. The fella who killed the guard in St. Stephen's Green. In a sense I think he's like you. Went to the States, didn't you, and fell in love with the efficiency thing? They call everything 'problem solving' over there, don't they? Still I bet you came back a convert. Am I right? But what I don't get is when it all turned bad for you here, when you decided to get into this from the other side. What was it?'
Loftus' gaze rested on the wall behind Minogue. Thinking about it later, Minogue believed that Loftus was about to speak when Kilmartin stuck his head in the door and motioned Minogue out.
The four of them sat at a plastic-topped table bolted to the floor facing the bar. Underfoot he could feel the hum of the ship's engine. The three were anxious for the screen to come up from the counter.
'And what do they drink in Canada now?' the older navvy asked.
'Oh, beer and lager. I'm not much on them myself-'
'— No more than myself,' the smaller navvy added.
'— but I can toss a few back in the summer,' the tanned man continued.
''Toss a few.' Hah, that's a good one. We say'sink a few' so we do. Same thing only different. All goes the same way, amn't I right? I hear the pubs do be open until all hours in America, I mean Canada.'
'Longer than they should, people say,' the tanned man parried. He ached for some sign that the ship was preparing to go. A blast of the siren, a rumble below, maybe. He looked around at the passengers who had come straight to the lounge. Altogether about twenty-five people. Sitting opposite one another over a table by a window too big to be called a porthole, a young couple was the only exception to the general air of brooding tiredness which the men in the lounge had brought with them. Some sat on their own, watching the steward, yawning. The train from Holyhead would get the passengers into Euston Station in London by seven the next morning. A sense of loneliness gathered itself at the edges of his thoughts, surprising him. That Irish people have to do this, that the country is so bathed in this habit, he thought.
'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
