Adrian McKinty: Hidden River

“But the boat’s not plugged in,” I said, a tear of panic starting to go through me.

“I plugged it in, out there, on the dock, I’ve been on a boat before, my uncle F—”

“Jesus. A light goes on in the marina office to let them know what boats are powered up,” I said, and ran to the back of the cockpit. I looked up and across the three rows of boats to the office. Sure enough, the security guard was coming over to check why no one had signed in for the boat but its power was on.

“Jesus Christ, get your shit together, bloody hell.”

I grabbed her by the arm as she desperately tried to get her trousers and T-shirt on at the same time. I fumbled into my jacket, scrambled on deck. The guard probably thought it was routine. Just starting down the ramp, not exactly racing, eating crisps, but regardless we were screwed because there was only one way in and out of the marina — past him. We would have to hide in another boat, or swim to the jetty wall, or walk by him and brazen it out.

“Look respectable,” I said, helping her on with her sweater.

“Ha, coming from you—”

“Shut it, he hasn’t seen us, come on.”

We climbed over the safety rail and stepped onto the wooden dock. The guard two aisles over, munching his crisps, lost in thought. We began walking casually.

“Talk to me,” I said.

“So Mother and I decided to go to the same psychiatrist but he said—”

“Talk sensible,” I interrupted.

“In English I have to write an essay on a personal hell. We’re reading No Exit, the Sartre play. You know — hell is other people,” she said.

“Other French people, certainly,” I said.

“Well, yes, so, what’s your personal hell?” she asked.

“I don’t know. Um, being trapped in a lift with Robin Williams?”

We turned the curve on the dock, past the guard. He gave us a look, but one of relative unconcern. We hastened our pace and walked fast to the exit. We were nearly at the turnstile when the guard yelled at us to stop. Or at least our translation of a strangled “Hey, youse, get back harble garble, trabba dap.”

We ducked through the turnstile.

“This is where we split,” I said.

“Sex, drugs, a brush with the law — you certainly know how to show a girl a good time. How can I get in contact with—”

“You don’t until you turn eighteen,” I said.

“What’s your name at least?” she began to say but I was already jogging across the park.

“Wanker,” she called after me.

I didn’t reply.

I realized what I’d forgotten. I reached into the inside pocket of my jacket. I had left one of my baggies of ketch on the boat. It had gotten wet in last night’s downpour and I’d left it somewhere on that bloody chart table to dry. Now I had only one small bag left. Damn it. And I had been trying to avoid Spider. Just enough now for a couple of days: I’d have to go crawling to him. Have to get some money somehow. Have to show up at that pub quiz and of course Spider would be there too.

Bugger. I cursed myself for five minutes. Finally calmed down.

Take care of the day at hand, Alex, I told myself. First things first. I had to get my free supply of needles, using John’s dad’s diabetic prescription. A different drugstore every week just to erase suspicion.

Today: Smith’s Chemist. Ok, do that. I went in with my prescription, browsed the newspapers while they took their sweet time filling it.

“Hello, Alex, how’s your dad?” a voice behind me said. Mr. Patawasti.

“Oh, he’s fine, how are you?”

“I’m fine, the knees, you know, but still have to get out. I’m just getting the papers, The Times for me, Guardian for the wife. Poison and antidote, I like to call them. Though I never let on which is which,” Mr. Patawasti said in that upper-class Indian accent of his.

I laughed but before I could reply the clerk said that my prescription was ready.

“See you another time, Mr. P.,” I said.

“Another time, Alex,” Mr. Patawasti said.

I walked out of the drugstore, satisfied that at least I had needles for another week. I suppose I should have asked Mr. Patawasti about Victoria. The last I’d heard, she had some new job in America. Still, it would keep. I’d see him around.

I walked home. I had things to do. Plans for the coming day or days. But no further than that. I couldn’t live further than that. A sensible policy, for I didn’t know that it was done now. Done. Events set in motion that would carry me away from this depressing little scene, to Belfast Airport, Heathrow Airport, the brand-new Denver International Airport, to Boulder, to Denver, to a gun battle in Fort Morgan, to a bloody mess in a ballroom, another flight, the Old Continent, the Hidden River….

Aye, it was done.

The.22 was being walked to the frothing waters of Cherry Creek, where it would be cast in and would remain for years before being nudged along to the South Platte River. From there it would make its sliding way to the Platte, from the Platte to the Missouri to the Mississippi and finally the Gulf of Mexico. From there to some deep trench in the Atlantic. The seawater would break down the steel into its component molecules, the molecules would break down into their component atoms, the sun would expand, the oceans would boil off, the Earth would fry, all the stars would go out, the last remnants of intelligence in the universe would cobble together light from somewhere, but the second law of thermodynamics always wins and eventually blackness would reign in perpetuity, all remaining atomic nuclei disintegrating, electrons losing their spin and dissolving and the whole of creation a void of nothingness, a few faceless neutrinos separated by oceans of night.

Perhaps.

I was being tailed. He’d been on me since I’d left the house. I’d tried to give him the slip by going out the side door of the Joymount Arms but he was wise to that. Bastard. Maybe Internal Affairs from the peelers following me to see if he could get me on anything — but I’d made a deal with the cops, so that seemed unlikely. Maybe one of Spider’s goons after his dough. Maybe that seventeen-year-old from yesterday had told her father or brother or uncle and he’d come to knock me into next week. Maybe a lot of things.

He was good, so I decided to ignore him. My maneuvers had already made me late.

I hurried up, arrived at Dolan’s breathless.

Dolan’s, our local pub, a coaching inn back in the sixteenth century. Low ceilings, timber frame, whitewashed walls, nautical theme in the public bar, and the highlight of the pub — the large open-plan front room containing a huge fireplace, originally used for roasting spits. The fire always lit except in the very warmest days of summer, which tonight wasn’t.

I walked in. It was nine o’clock. The quiz had already started. Facey fumed at me for being late. John smiled and patted me on the back.

“How do, mate?” John said.

“Not bad,” I said.

“It’s Facey’s shout,” John said. But Facey was too pissed off to buy me a drink at the moment. Facey was a reasonably good-natured guy who played prop forward — the enforcer — in rugby, so obviously the good nature only went so far. Facey was the only one of the three of us that had a real job, though. He was in the full-time Reserve of the Royal Ulster Constabulary, which meant he worked about twelve days a month. John was also a peeler, but he was in the part-time Reserve, working only two or three days a month. John worked so little they allowed him to claim unemployment benefit.

I’d been the real supercop of the bunch. A high flyer in the RUC. A detective. John didn’t care about rank but Facey, desperate to get out of the Reserve and into the real cops, had always been envious of me. For the last six months, since my resignation, the positions were, if not reversed, at least more complicated.