John Brady - A stone of the heart

When the navvy reached the stairs, he grasped the rail and stopped.

"Look, mister, it's none of my…"

The tanned man nudged him with the gun and stepped down after him.

"Slow down." The navvy stopped at the bottom of the stairs.

"We have to go inside now," the navvy said quietly. "It's the only way off without breaking your neck. If me mates see me, what'm I going to say to them?"

"Tell them you're looking after me."

The two men stood four steps from the door. The tanned man looked around and listened. He looked toward the stairs they had come down.

"The door opens out, so no funny stuff," he said to the navvy. As the navvy grasped the handle, the tanned man hid his gunhand under the left side of his jacket. The navvy yanked the door open with ease and lifted his leg over the jamb. The smell of cigarettes and the opep-opep of a video game came through the door. And something else: the tanned man turned and looked back up the stairs. He knew instinctively that he had to hold out his hand to stay the closing door, but it would have to be his left hand. The sound from inside drowned out the voice from the top of the stairs.

Someone had knocked the navvy over inside. The heavy door had snapped almost shut. It was hissing slightly in the closing gap. The tanned man stepped back from the door and fired up the stairs. More shouting inside, the door clicking shut and the huge daanng as the bullet hit off a rail, whining off into the dark. The figure at the top of the stairs stayed flattened against the wall. The tanned man began backing away on his toes. A face appeared in a window next to him and reflexively he squeezed off a shot. The glass webbed instantly. Someone screamed. He watched the door where the navvy had been swallowed up. Overhead he heard footsteps running along the upper deck. Things were happening too fast, at least three men. Turning, he ran.

Quigley waved O'Rourke on toward the stairway forward of the ship. He heard O'Rourke's crepe soles squeak softly as he began running down the wet promenade. Quigley started down the stairway slowly. Three steps down he saw the two men at the doorway below. Quigley shouted as the navvy opened the door. The Yank turned toward the stairway as the door closed abruptly ahead of him. Quigley heard muffled shouting from indoors. He saw the flash as his back pressed into the plate which formed a wall section to the upper stairway. The second shot was from further away, Quigley guessed.

He eased himself down one step, then another and took aim at the doorway. Outside the door at the bottom of the stairway, the promenade deck was empty. Drizzle had gathered into droplets at the rims of the overhang, and they fell off slowly onto the railing beside him. Quigley strained to listen: the hush of sea, a breeze, drizzle. His arms were hurting. Images of passengers walking into a line of fire flashed on and off in his mind. He crouched near the railings, still pointing the gun at the doorway.

"Gibbons?" he called out, still pointing.

"Sir!"

"You got your man in?" he shouted.

"I have him here!" Gibbons shouted back.

"Where's the target?" Quigley didn't care that the edge of panic in his voice was quite plain now. He looked down the promenade. He thought he saw a flicker of movement, a shadow in the dimness beyond the lifeboats. Running? Gibbons' head appeared in the doorway. Quigley looked in at the navvy still sprawled on the floor, pale.

"Looks like he's headed for the stairs up ahead. Go inside, now and quick. O'Rourke's up there, maybe ahead of him, up above. Don't let the Yank inside!"

Quigley went forward in a crouch, his left hand on top of his right to keep the barrel down when he fired. He felt the beginnings of a cramp grasp the palm of his right hand. As he passed a window, a glance showed him some passengers on their knees, others running for doors from the lounge. The ship swayed very slightly from side to side. Faintly, a siren, two. Quigley swore aloud.

The tanned man stopped abruptly. Ahead of him was the other stairway descending from the deck above. It ran against him. A perfect spot to command entry to the doorway at the foot of the stairs. He strained to hear footsteps above him. Nothing. He looked behind. There was someone or something moving quickly around the lifeboat stanchions. He felt the ship's engine at idle, resonating underfoot. And something else, he sensed: the slightest tick, a vibration nearby. A footstep on the stairway? Through a window he glimpsed a figure running inside. Another one. Had to move now.

He stepped abruptly to the foot of the stairway and aimed up. The figure had one foot tentatively on the step down and he was already turning sideways. The first shot staggered O'Rourke. The tanned man saw something fly up from the head with his second shot, as the head jerked. The arms flopped and O'Rourke fell, as a puppet dropped. He tumbled down the stairway flopping loosely, without any attempt to slow. O'Rourke's pistol clanged, fell down a step, then another, and lodged. His leg caught in a support and the rest of him fanned bumpily against metal, pivoting around head first.

The tanned man had three steps to the doorway. He was through the second and reaching for the handle when a blow to his left side danced him sideways. Shot, he thought remotely. Must be the one coming up behind me. This is what it is like to be shot? No pain yet, why? He almost lost his balance.

The shout from behind seemed to be coming from the far end of a playing field. Must have been the guy behind. The other one inside would have reached the door by now too… yes. He felt himself swaying. Dizzy a little, but things were clear, not like being drunk even.

He turned and fired, wondering. He heard the shot ricocheting angrily off metal. The ejected shell pinged and rolled lazily along the deck toward the door. He felt hot, things were loud. Can't even try to go up the stairs, he thought. He wondered if he had spoken aloud. He tried to grasp a railing again, but he couldn't feel it. Another shot, but this didn't hit. He strained to see where the one who had shot him was. The after-image of the flash wavered as his eyes scanned dully along the deck. Someone crouched by that big box near the stanchion…? Not sure, keep looking, a movement… For a moment the tanned man was back in the water again, a child, listening to the voices of people on the beach, so far away, a plane droning overhead in the blue Florida sky. Ah, shot. Mistakes but tried, tried hard. Yes, there was someone crouched down there… The tanned man levelled his pistol. A chance, he thought. Done tougher shots on the range a couple of times anyway… He thought of his father's face turning back to the newspaper, tight lips: his mother kneading her hands at the door, always defending "He couldn't help it Seamus, he's only a boy"

Out of the corner of his eye, the tanned man saw the door fly open. He started to draw his gun arm around toward the doorway, knowing he was too late.

Already braced in the doorway, Gibbons fired. The shot caught the man behind the ear and his chin rocked onto his chest as he fell forward. His knees hit first and Gibbons heard the thunk of his forehead hitting the deck. A spray of blood flicked onto the deck around the head. The body rolled slightly but then seemed to right itself, face down. Gibbons stared at the gun next to the right hand, and he walked slowly over the jamb of the door. He looked up the stairway at O'Rourke. The side of his head showed purple in the light. A steady stream of blood had run across two steps and was draining onto the last step. Gibbons could see it moving like there was no end to it, edging and pouring over onto the deck now, mixing with the wet gleam left by the rain. Quigley was running toward him, shouting. How could people have so much blood?