365 Ways With Words

Impulse

The spheres in the corner of the room bounced menacingly – would they come to get him this time? He could not surface from this dream: no, not a dream, but a nightmare of skittish, shit-bricking proportions.

Steam arose from the tea and he sat, pondering. What does it all mean? The recurrence took on stronger and stronger importance. My God, he finally said, these are becoming real!

His hand was steady this night. On other occasions the tremors –big fat shaky things–would not calm, no matter what approach. He’d tried the lot: deep breathing, a bath, painkillers, going for a run, booze, masturbation, food, focus, reading, weed, in fact anything. Sometimes his whole body shook. He realised it was fear. His body clearly showed what was happening inside his head.

And yet, it did not, for although he shook and sweated and awoke with dread, glad to be gone from the realm of somnambulant torture of these impulsive things, he was also fascinated. More recently, on those mornings when he awoke without the tremors, he felt he was missing something. Could it be that he was so attached to something so awful?

That was ludicrous – the sort of febrile imaginings of addicts, of perverts who craved pain, and not the sort of things to affect the manager of a coffee shop. His daytime world was one of showmanship, people managing, paperwork and business. He was a nuts and bolts kinda guy, or so he liked to believe. It was his baby, and his life sank or swam with it; all the bills were paid, holidays enjoyed, respect garnered, relationships centred on his main source of income. He was The Coffee and without that cement the rest would undoubtedly fragment and crumble.

He glanced around the glum room. Each possession carried a story, of travels and interests far removed from his small town and his origin. On one wall framed photos of smiling faces and event handshakes mixed stylishly with Sarah’s more acclaimed pencil drawings and on the other sat high above his sofa a large poster of Miro’s Woman with Child. It had been one of his first buys at university, but was so much a part of him that he no longer noticed it. The silvery 80s-style metallic frame he’d bought to keep it from curling had lost a little of its lustre. It had unwittingly become the motif of his life – an abstraction removed from daily reality: pretty, and engaging, but now ultimately useless.

And in the corner, the same corner that he knew from his nighttime imaginings, there was a powerful stillness. Time and again he’d looked for some symbolic reference in the objects in that location – a chair, a side table, a light, and above it one of the photographs, from a gap year holiday to Perpignan…

He took it down from the wall. It was he and Judy and Paul sitting beside a plastic table at a leafy campsite, several bottles of Cahors wine before them and snacking on best Languedoc saucisson. It had faded a little over the twenty years or so since that happy occasion. He did not particularly know why he’d kept the photo; Judy and Paul both having disappeared into the ether of the long lost when university towns are left behind and successful careers are driven. Where were they now?

He finished his tea. But instead of replacing the photo back on its old nail, he took it into the kitchen with him. Under the striplight he looked again at the faces. All three held carefree expressions, minds uncluttered by normalcy and the devotions to moneymaking that kept parents, bank managers and doctors happy. Maybe it was the wine, or the sun, or even the saucisson.

He glanced at the clock – 3:59. He had so many daily cares that if he didn’t go back to bed and at least try to rest, then he’d be screwed for the rest of the day. Although he sold the stuff, his stethoscoped GP had told him midway through listening to his old ticker that he needed to keep off the espressos, or at least keep them at bay. Caffeine and stress go together like nails and coffins.

He carried the picture back to his bed. The duvet and pillow had dried off and although he would need to wash the sweat from them sometime soon, he was not expecting the company of Sarah for another week. So they’d do until then, and he pulled the duvet back over him, enjoying the sensation of proximity from the slow weight of the settling down.

Reaching over to the switch, his eyes fell on the camping scene once more. They’re probably rich and happy, living half the time in their London townhouses, the rest in Berkshire, or New York, or even Paris. Hell, they might even have a little place in the south of France they call home.

Living With The Little People

                                        Living with the little people –

                                        All their lives interwoven, for good or ill.

                                        An assortment of perplexing powers and cowardice

                                        Padding around the patrol, skirting the scene of scents

                                        It is mishmash—pot-au-feu—mandala—flesh meld

 

                                        Of skill and sharp point, run and run in double time

                                        Such sport plays havoc, the fat pigeons alift,

                                        Adding play to the squirrel tree,

                                        And down by the shadowbank a fat vole sits

                                        Waits then swims, the musk anew on runs and stone

 

                                        A still life in fur, there’s a campaign voice,

                                        Calling, for any and all, get up – it is the time

                                        The worktop dish may be full, but not right

                                        And I have to go to hunt to prove you wrong

                                        When you bring an empty hand

 

                                        For the day is long, and full of careless sleep:

                                        A stirred footcreak, a sandblasted memory on twitchy limbs,

                                        The combatant worthy, in muzzle-bound bark,

                                        Drink full from empty streams, follow lost in mind.

                                        Then surface, to sigh deep, stretch and recover in sleep

 

                                        It behoves the strong armed –

                                        Meet their accomplished routine, the good and ill,

                                        Withal they bring, without damned egos,

                                        To shepherd, a pelaged family on 18 inches and 10 eyes,

                                        We are unconquerable—the legion of leads— ‘til death us do part

Laughter – Part 12

He viewed the scene – two young people, probably students, were standing before him, still clothed for outside, probably in the very midst of something, the thing that had made them all so very jolly just a moment or two ago. To his left, and sat on the bed, was an older man, dressed very stylishly, perhaps in his early 50s, perhaps a little younger. He seemed to be guarding a bright white suitcase. He knew it was most likely this man that was going to be the focus of his attentions.

“I’d like to see some ID.” Sergeant de Acuña declared.

The obliging pair found their fashion wallets and dutifully removed their ID. He noted Miguel’s and Floria’s surnames and dates of birth. They had to be siblings. The man on the bed slowly reached around to his back pocket, silently withdrew a thin leather wallet that looked new and expensive. He also removed his ID: Frank McNeill, naturalized but Irish-born. That would do for now.

Standing with his arms folded he spoke: “Can I ask who made the call?”

“Me.” – a pathetic apology.

“And do you mind telling me why, Mr del Rey?”

Miguel looked stupefied. Less than one minute ago he had in his mind agreed to let Michael Collins not only pay for the extra night in the room, but also to take the white case full of antique timepieces for him in order to evade the attentions of exactly the sort of agent of the law that stood before him now. This wasn’t what he wanted. But if he came clean, there would be terrible implications, both now and in the future.

“I… I…”

Floria intervened. “It was my fault.”

All eyes turned to her. Miguel was horrified: she was going to make things worse.

“You see, I thought someone was in the room. An intruder. So I asked reception to call police.”

“You did, did you?” The policeman’s voice expressed sufficient incredulity to call her last remark into question.

Floria thought she had to justify herself. “Yes. My brother agreed.”

“He did, did he?” He paused and they both vigorously nodded. “So you both noticed someone was in the room. Was it this gentleman?” He looked over at the Irishman sitting uncomfortably on the bed.

There was a pregnant pause. Of course it had been. But they were hiding something in their glances at Mr McNeill.

“No! No-no,” came Miguel’s answer, “we knew it was Mr Collins.”

“Who, sir?”

“Mr Collins.” The young man nodded towards his new partner in crime, expecting him to understand the situation and… do something.

“This person is Mr Collins?” The officer seemed to need this information confirmed, staring the while at the seated man.

“Yes, yes it is.” And then Miguel remembered what it was he was going to tell Floria when he’d rushed out of the room that morning, about how he remembered in the Irish Moss looking up from their table and seeing on the TV that the Liam Neeson film Michael Collins was being shown the following day. And he felt he was an idiot that he hadn’t mentioned it.

Floria added, “Mr Collins is a friend. We had arranged to meet here.”

“But Mr… Collins was already in the room?”

“Yes,” she continued, “because he’d found a chamber maid or someone to open up for him.”

Sergeant de Acuña kept his eyes on the man. This was decidedly not right, and if his instincts told him properly then to have closed a hotel bedroom door behind him, an experienced officer, and walked into this scene without backup had been a foolish thing. Although he had to tread carefully, it would not take him long find out exactly how foolish.

“But I am a little confused, still, so please bear with me.” He unzipped his jacket and stood with his hands on his hips. “Let’s go through the situation from the start. You came into the hotel at about what time this afternoon?”

“Before 4.” Floria continued. To feign confidence she even flashed a smile.

Sergeant de Acuña reflected the smile. “And came straight up to the room?”

“Yes, I mean no. We asked at reception first.”

“Asked for what?”

“For Mr Collins.”

“So you had agreed to meet him here at 4?”

“Yes. He was not here.”

“I see. So you then went up to the room?”

“Yes.”

“And met Mr Collins here?”

“Yes.”

“And so why did you call the police?”

She was unsure about what exactly to say next. She glanced at Miguel, who looked at Mr Collins.

“Did you make the call, Miss de Rey?”

She had to answer, but couldn’t. She shook her head. It reminded her of the polite questioning for having lied about coursework at school. She blushed. Miguel had to intervene, if only to save her.

“I did. I said I did.” He frowned.

“So, you both came up to the room, opened it, saw your friend Mr Collins here and then decided to call the police? At that point you came downstairs and asked the receptionist to call the police?”

Miguel was also lost for an answer. If only he would question Mr Collins.

Mr Collins was deep in his thoughts. He had already decided what to do, but wanted to see what would happen with the questioning. It had all unraveled, and much faster than he’d thought possible. He knew he was about to face the question of his name.

Sergeant de Acuña, hands still on hips, approached the bed, but kept the other two in his field of vision. “Mr Collins, before I entered this room, I thought I heard some English poetry. Are you very much interested in poetry?”

He sat not wanting to answer the policeman’s playful question. Eventually he gave a begrudged, “Yes.”

“Oh that’s very nice. I myself am fond of Bécquer. Do you know ‘The Dark Swallows Will Return’?”

The dark swallows will return

their nests upon your balcony, to hang.

And again with their wings upon its windows,

Playing, they will call.

But those who used to slow their flight

your beauty and my happiness to watch,

Those, that learned our names,

Those... will not come back!

Mr Collins heard the famous quotation with seething patience.

“I like this poem, Mr Collins. I like Gustavo Adolpho Bécquer. There’s a certain honest quality about him. He says things the way they are. Without any obfuscation. Without any lying.”

Mr Collins sat waiting for the question, but Sergeant de Acuña was not yet done.

“Is this your suitcase?” He turned to the two children. They worriedly shook their heads.

“It’s a very fine piece of luggage, isn’t it, sir? Is it yours?”

“It is.” Mr Collins looked hard at the officer.

This was clearly the focus of the man’s thoughts. He knew he had to press the point, but wanted to understand the situation more.

“And you were here to pick it up, I suppose.”

The Irishman elected not to answer.

“And, no doubt, this is where the confusion lay?”

There was no response from any of them, but he turned to the young people.

“In seeing Mr Collins as a thief in your room?”

They agreed, but they did not know why.

“Even though he was delivering the suitcase to you.” He swiftly turned his head and in the same breath demanded, “Open the suitcase, sir.”

Mr Collins remained still. He would not.

“I’d like to verify the contents of the suitcase. Open it for me, sir.” de Acuña’s voice was much firmer; it turned the request into a demand.

Mr Collins said and did nothing. The Sergeant turned to the children.

“Do either of you know what’s in the case?”

“Clocks.” Said Floria, sensing the rising tension, “That’s all. Just clocks! Antiques. Show him.”

Sergeant de Acuña paused. Each answer begged more questions, especially about this man before him. Because of the lack of back-up, procedure and etiquette was about to be dispensed with.

He turned to face the man on the bed again. As he did, Mr Collins reached over to pull the suitcase onto the bed. He carefully undid the padlock, unzipped the case and opened up, just as before, except all humour was removed from the situation. de Acuña’s heart raced a little as he watched carefully for awkward movements.

“There!” Mr Collins said holding the same timepiece in his hands, “One antique clock.”

“It’s all verified, isn't it Mr Collins?” came the lovely female voice from over his shoulder. “You have the paperwork, don’t you?”

Mr Collins nodded.

“And the rest are the same? I think I’ll take a look at them too, please.”

There was a pause. But Mr Collins picked up another box, unwrapped and withdrew the horologic contents and placed it next to the smaller one. The policeman came over, picked up the smaller brass one and held it.

“A very fine piece.”

He picked up the other.

“But this one is much heavier.” He turned it over in his hand and saw that the inside of the cavity had been stuffed with what looked like tissue paper. He began to remove it.

“DON’T!” shouted Mr Collins, “It’s very delicate. The mechanism.”

But it was too late. Into his astonished hands fell a lumpen white shape – a stiff plastic bag stuffed full of soft white powder.

As he looked up at Mr Collins’ face a large fist entered his vision.

The two children stepped back in horror: they had never seen a policeman assaulted before. They instinctively held each other.

Sergeant de Acuña, reeled, and fell backwards onto his bottom. The clock left his grasp and rattled across the pinewood flooring. He instinctively made a grasp for his gun. In quick succession three very loud explosions rang out. The policeman seemed to jolt backwards, as if punched again, and then fell onto his back. He was stone dead. Before him was Mr Collins, sat as before on the bed, but holding out a black automatic pistol, a little smoke still escaping from the barrel. He turned it to them.

“I suppose this is where we say our goodbyes.”

“NO! Wait…”

Floria’s words were interrupted by three more shots from the gun. She instantly slumped and fell to the floor. Miguel stared with horror and rushed down to her.

There were alarmed German voices outside the door. Michael Collins put his gun back in his pocket, reached over for the clock, re-packed with the contents, and hurriedly put all the clocks back into the suitcase; within a minute he was standing on the balcony throwing it out into the snowy darkness. Then he jumped.

Miguel held his sister in disbelief. She was not moving. He talked to her, trying to get her to open her eyes. There was something there, but it did not respond to his attentions. His sister's face was still, as if she as feigning sleep.

Then it was all quiet. The cold from the open balcony door began to chill the entire room. Floria’s face twitched, but there was no more. The silence was truly awful. It was the kind of silence that in the past had made them jitter into fits of the giggles, filling the air with laughter.

Laughter – part 11

Sergeant Ernesto de Acuña had joined the Policía Nacional at the tender and impressionable age of 19. In the twenty-three years since he proudly donned the brown –now black– shirt of the force, he had not been responsible for any particularly significant crime busting in this quiet corner of Cantabria between the mountains and the sea. He had become content with the lot of a country policeman and public servant. Apart from the usual thefts and attendance of official events, the most exciting thing in a week would be the odd domestic bust-up, or a few drunken foreigners spoiling the quiet nights of the locals (or a few locals spoiling the quiet nights of the foreigners). He had a nice job, a nice patrol car, the love of his family and friends and respect of his peers.

‘The Parador’ at Fuente Dé, situated at one end of the vast car park, was not permanently occupied. Little more than a wooden hut outside of which hung an emergency phone, it was used as more of a rest stop for the police on their rounds. With a basic office with coffee-making facilities, and mug shots on the wall, it functioned as a place for removing hats and sitting around, to talk things over with a suspect, to take complaints, to comfort the wounded or the lost, and spend the time of day with those friendly locals who were free to talk. Ernesto, like five other policemen in the district, had the keys to open up the doors and filing cabinets and, because the diminutive dimensions of the office could not justify cleaning staff, to give the place a bit of an airing in the summer’s heat and ensure the floor was occasionally given a wipe over in the winter. Paperwork, should there be any, was duly filed, and copies would be taken to divisional headquarters once each month, his job, unless the matter was serious enough to warrant a senior officer’s attentions.

The heavy snowfall had meant his round had been something of an epic contest of man against the elements. There had been moments when he’d nearly lost the car, particularly on the mid-afternoon struggle up to Fuente Dé, even though he had doggedly followed the snowplough. He had only just set foot inside ‘The Parador’, turned on the lights and kicked the snow from his boots when the desk phone rang – an unusual occurrence, even during the summer season.

“Hello! Sergeant Acuña.” His telephone voice was always matter-of-fact.

The voice on the end was Gloria, at Div HQ, hoping he’d had a nice Christmas. The call had not been put through to his mobile, the standard procedure to officers on duty when the car two-way was too deep in the mountains to pick up anything other than static. As they talked of cakes and presents for the kids, he checked his mobile – no signal. That was unusual, but had to be down to the weather. Gloria continued to tell him that a call had been placed from the hostel. It was vague: suspected intruder or theft.

“OK. I’m there!” he’d said, his hand on a particularly distinguished looking face marked ‘Interpol’ recently put up by one of his colleagues – but of course he was there: he’d answered the damned phone! She said as much.

It was not unusual for him to answer calls without back up. The procedure was to always wait for another officer, but it had already taken him hours to do half of his beat. Besides, there were few police matters in these mountains that he had not already come across or that could not be sorted out with a little straight talking.

As Gloria had indicated on the phone, the receptionist was confused. It was a guest in the large chalet room at the top, a young panicky man and his girlfriend: something about an intruder, something about theft. She didn’t know any more. Still in the throes of mid-afternoon paperwork she shrugged, raised her eyebrows and pointed at the lift with her pen. Taking the name of the occupant, the policeman casually sauntered towards the lift’s doors, but when she glanced up again he had gone.

The rattly lift wheezed its way up the shaft at the same pace as a swift walker on the stairs, and declared the job done with the same pronounced ‘ping’ that the receptionist on the ground floor comprehended as an early warning for approaching guests. The only noises on the floor were the happy ones from room 404. They certainly did not sound like that of a scene of crime, potential or otherwise. Then something aroused his interest – words in English, enunciated in the theatrical form of performance poetry. Questions began to arise. He knocked, declared and things became still. Something –he wasn’t sure exactly what– was not quite right. He unclipped the button on his holster.

The door opened. A young man in a red puffer jacket filled the frame, gulping somewhat. “It’s all right. False alarm.”

Sergeant Ernesto was not a sergeant for nothing. “There’s been a call made? About a theft? And an intruder?”

“No, really – we’re all right. It was a mistake.”

“We? Who’s we? Do you mind if I come in, sir?”

There was mild panic on the young man’s face. “Erm…” The delay added to the officer’s suspicions.

“Mr del Rey, isn’t it?” The young man nodded. “Well, Mr del Rey, perhaps we can continue this discussion on the inside instead of in the doorway?” His tone was firm, the kind that got things done and, unbeknownst to him, at least as firm as that of the other occupant in the room as silent as a trapped animal could be.

Having no option, Miguel opened the door fully, stepped back and the officer noisily walked in, closing it behind him.

Laughter – Part 10

“You gave me the wrong number!” He smiled, that charming smile of acceptance, of one who is too gracious to remain peeved at a minor misdemeanour.

The door remained open, and they hovered.

“There isn’t a 405! But the receptionist was good enough to help me out.”

She hadn’t thought of that: of course, how stupid! It was the time for action – some sort of damned action that would resolve their predicament. But neither of them could think of anything. Mr Collins had pre-empted them magnificently, and graciously, on the only card they’d played. He spoke very softly, but with a determination that neither of them mistook for anything other than an order, a powerful elder instructing a pair of dim-witted juniors:

“Now, why don’t you close the door and come in?”

Silently, they did exactly that.

“That’s better.” He moved, towards the centre of the room. “Now I haven’t paid the bill for you yet. Like I said, I have something I’d like to say to you first.”

They stood in their cumbersome jackets in the spacious room’s entryway beneath the hot bare gleam of the tungsten downlight.

“What is–” Miguel’s voice barely held his fear at bay, and he coughed before repeating and completing the short sentence, “What is it, Mr Collins?”

“Oh, Michael please, Mr del Rey.” He opened his arms to display his palms. Visible on his wrist were the edges of a large waved tricolour tattoo – the orange, white and green contrasting powerfully with his pale skin.

“What is it, Michael?” It at once sounded contrived.

“Well, why don’t we all sit down? We can talk about it.” He gestured to the furniture, withdrawing a chair for himself from the little table beside the window.

They promptly sat unblinking, still in their jackets. Things were going about as well as he could expect, but he had to ease them in: vanity, greed or excitement?

Michael started. “I think you have misunderstood my motives. And perhaps with good reason: it’s not every day that a perfect stranger asks you to take one of their cases home with them for his wife. And I can see there’s no pulling the wool over your eyes, if you’ll excuse the expression. The case, you see, is really my business.”

They looked at each other. At least they’d got that bit right. But what would come next?

“And my business really is in antiques, watches and clocks, wine, and a whole host of other things that tickle my fancy. What I don’t like is the taxman.”

He waited for a response. None came.

“You see, in order to… circumvent the inevitable duties, I’ve had to be creative in my approach to transportation. I therefore carry things with me. Sometimes I carry too much and have to send some of it onwards or home or even out of the country – with a little assistance from friends.”

He smiled. Again, they sat and listened without moving.

“And that’s the position you find me in – unable to carry this case another mile without your assistance. You offered, Floria, –very kindly I might add– but really there’s no need to worry. I’d gladly pay you, for your efforts.”

“Pay?” Floria frowned. At last, a glimmer.

“But of course. Would anyone expect you to act in this way without recompense of some sort? It wouldn’t be right.” He gave a small laugh. “And I don’t mean by last night’s meal, or the coffees, or even for this room. That was a pleasure. No, it would be for taking the case with you to Valladolid – I would pay… €100?”

He held the silence. Were they so easily won? Perhaps they were savvy and would hold out for higher, or suggest a figure of their own.

“No.” Floria said in the same emphatic way she had earlier in the day spoken to her brother.

Miguel looked over at her. Did she know what she was doing now, or was she playing again? “Floria?”

“No, not for money.” Her face remained stony. She was not finished, but also left the emphasis of her words hold the tension as she thought on.

“Not for money? Then what, dear Floria? How can I repay you –the both of you– for your assistance?” He looked over to Miguel.

Miguel instantly knew what she meant. If they accepted payment, then he had leverage over them – some sort of control.

Floria continued: “No, but we won't do it unless we first see what’s inside the case. Just what is it we are taking home?”

Michael erupted into laughter. He paused, tried to contain himself, but shook his head and laughed again. He was enjoying the moment. He flipped over the case, played with the padlock, pulled on the long zipper and separated the upper from lower, like the opening of a giant white mouth.

“Here! Come and see: both of you. You are right, of course.”

Within the case were several white cardboard boxes of different sizes, each wrapped in bubble wrap. He reached for the nearest one, pulled on the tape, slid the box out, opened out the lid, and withdrew a heavy object wrapped in white tissue paper. It was an aged and weighty carriage clock, burnished brass and glass. He handed it over to Floria.

The two stared on in astonishment. He really was a dealer in antiques. In which case he really was trying to avoid tax. So, perhaps he wasn’t quite so crooked after all. At least it wasn’t drugs or some such. She handed the pretty clock over to Miguel. He nodded and changed his scowling face to an appreciative smirk. Now he realised. Now he knew why Mr Michael Collins was so friendly. Now he knew why they were being helped out. It would be a conveyance to their mutual benefit, if he could convince Floria to take the hundred, or maybe more. His taper of greed was lit.

Michael Collins received the clock back, and proceeded to wrap it and fitted it back in its place in the suitcase, which he then padlocked and left upright, just as it had previously been. He sat on the bed next to it, putting his hand on the handle as one might place a comforting hand on a favoured child’s head.

“So, what do you want?”

Miguel looked at Floria. They could do with the extra income. After all, he began to reason, it wouldn‘t be like they weren’t paying taxes. All they were doing was taking a suitcase of clocks from one place to another. But he had a nagging thought, which Michael anticipated with a wagging finger:

“And they’re not stolen, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“No-no, I was just…”

“It's all right,” Michael said, winking. “You are right to be suspicious. I have all the paperwork for each item here, if you would like to see it.” He tapped a bulge in his jacket pocket, as if to indicate the location of bills of sale and certificates of authenticity.

“No, Mr Collins,” interrupted Floria, now much more comfortable with the whole idea, "I'm sure that won't be necessary." She began to like him again. Maybe he wasn’t that bad after all. “I think we can help you. And thank you for paying for another night for us here.”

He was delighted. And it showed. Beaming a huge smile, he laughed. “Then it’s settled! I’ll go downstairs right now and pay for your room. And I'll throw in the extra 100 for you, just because I like you.” He stood up and recited again,

“The room was suddenly rich and the great bay-window was

Spawning snow and pink roses against it”

The siblings were slightly taken aback by this spontaneous performance in unknown Anglo-Saxon hissing tones, but they couldn’t help but laugh at his silliness. He shook them by the hands –a powerful shake that nearly hurt poor Floria– and continued,

“World is crazier and more of it than we think,

Incorrigibly plural. I peel and portion

A tangerine and spit the pips and…”

The loud knock at the door stopped them all dead and their smiling laughs dropped. A commanding voice from outside announced itself:

“Police!”

Laughter – Part 9

“You’re nicked, Paddy!”

He imagined those abrasive London words – of the ill-educated against the unlucky. But they were also the words of a magician that spelled out his future in big fat letters. Picked up by the boss himself at the ferry, he was feted for having got things sorted things out so well. He even permitted himself a smile, not only doing a grand job, but also for making himself rich in the process.

He’d been in England only three weeks, keeping his head down working on sites, as well as on his cover. In effect, he had only one job: infiltration. He’d been sent by divisional HQ to see at first hand what was being done with the funds – not the day-to-day stuff of takeaway receipts and cab journeys, but the really big cheques that would account for spectacular acts of terror. And he’d been trusted with this job for two reasons: he had pedigree –both his father and grandfather had been provos, his father had even done time– and he was relatively young and inexperienced, which meant he would never have been considered a risk. It also meant he would do the job merely because they’d asked him, and not just because he believed in the cause. He was obviously a bright lad who wanted to get on within the organisation. He shown interest even in the daily, ultra-secretive business of the I.R.A. He’d said all the right things with the correct invective and had even volunteered to do some of the dirty tasks, those distasteful tasks that many others may have second thought about, with women or teenagers, and set to it with an ultra-steely determination that made some wonder if he was not a little warped. His reply was the well-rehearsed line that desperate times call for desperate measures, an argument that at various times he probably believed.

The cell had been successful in only one way – it had eluded the watchful eyes of the authorities. Other than that, it had achieved precious little. Several lock-ups had been rented for cash more than a year prior to his arrival, and one or two modest bedrooms in seaside guesthouses had been booked for the August bank holiday weekend, the planned date of the attack, but the truck and nitrate explosives, the detonators, Semtex and the necessary hardware were all unaccounted for.

In the third day of their acquaintance he’d gained their trust enough to drink with them, Mick and Julian, and noted their habits, interests and contacts. They clearly weren’t short of a bob or two, one using a shabby Merc, the other a Mustang. Their covers, if they’d even taken them seriously, were as subtle as a clown at a children’s party. But they didn’t seem to care. These fellas were up to something all right, but it wasn’t explosive chaos and political mayhem. They’d gone feral, and were now dealers in Class A drugs. Julian enjoyed knocking heads, sometimes more, Mick made the connections and dealt with the finances.

“Take it!” Mick eventually said to him at the end of the night. “Do the fookin’ job. We’re out. Out for sure.”

They didn’t let on just how long they’d known he’d been sent to spy on them, but they seemed so sure of themselves on their South East London patches that they could ignore their original instructions, even the true cause, and were happy instead to turn the funds into personal gain.

“Ah, we’ll pay it back, all of it, sure – no worries there. Besides, we’re doin’ well – we like it here. Think we're gonna go back to days of diggin’ ditches and workin’ the fookin’ roads?”

These were not the words of a committed terrorist, but of a lax criminal, one without the intelligence to realise exactly what he had got himself into by playing with funds. But Mick and Julian were not just dealers. They had become importers: nothing major yet, but they’d found a route, made connections, and had begun distributing through friends and friends of friends. Even he, however, could see that if one of their contacts went down, the rest would likely squeal and either one of them would be picked up in a drug bust before the delete contacts button could be pressed from their ever-ringing Nokias. They were, therefore, not only dishonourable to the cause, but because of their dalliances on the wrong side of the law were now wild liabilities. And organisations such as his had always eagerly and ruthlessly sought opportunities to shed their liabilities.

They’d been surprisingly open with him, perhaps because of his credentials, but maybe more so because of his perceived youth and congeniality. It was only another day or so before he was made privy to the Spanish connections, shown how they’d imported under cover using small sailing craft, and how in return it was possible to legitimately divert the ‘exports’ from Ireland back to Spain thereby dodging customs altogether – a perfect loop that needed only a regular supply of cash to keep the wheels turning. It was only afterwards that he realised the real reason they had allowed him in was to turn him and use him. And if he did not turn, then they would most likely have had to kill him. He was latterly wooed, therefore, with promises of future riches and expansion, of foreign trips and of girls on the make who would do anything for a photo shoot and a chance at the big time, the sort of fantasy empire building that has been the downfall of so many. Their biggest fault lay in their over-confidence. The deal was surely flawless: who could refuse? All three drank to success that evening. But they hadn’t reasoned on his steely determination, or in his appreciation for the odd desperate measure.

Taking matters into his hands, he spirited their Nokias, and hurriedly made an anonymous call from the phone box by the gents. Outside, the pub appeared instantly awash with blue lights, body armour and the sort of panicked shouting that comes from too much training – a scene from a cheesy film. They may have thought they were ‘out for sure’, but would likely remain inside for ten years or more, not that he cared. And as ‘men of violence’ amidst others of their kind, they would be unlikely informers, either about him or even their little business.

Returning to Belfast that night, he put in a request for a ‘holiday’ to Spain. It turned out to be permanent.

–

 “I hope you don’t mind. They let me in.”

The two children stared with mouths open – quite a picture, he thought to himself.

“I thought it was best to wait here – didn't want to miss you.”

Floria tugged on Miguel’s sleeve in an attempt to pull him out of the doorway.

“Don’t just stand there, come on in! I have some things I’d like to say to you.”

Meadowsweet

                                                        Long flows hair river meandering

                                                Nut brown full as best beer – bread con brio, in anima vitalis,

                                                        Meadowsweet spreads the eternal fragrance of Persephone

                                                Risen, way past the thin blue gate to the underworld,

                                                        Now merciless, machine-gunning down the heart

                                                And many fall on sight within a footstep of a downy poppy,

                                                        A lightness of hand, a perfusion of incorruptible essence

                                                Strikes the striped down in soundless, forceless distance,

                                                        Where slipshod music and cruelty stop

                                                For she is lit by the honest flames of a hawkweed

                                                        Beyond a leopard’s care, steeped in mouse-eared courage

 

                                                Down into the starless time, full of tuneless song and flying girls

                                                        A thousand nighttime pinks search for their consoling moths

                                                But one, who allows none to approach – none

                                                        In fragile sangfroid daily to meet the mess left by others

                                                Paper-thin armour suffices; there is a care in carelessness

                                                        Debit payment to Hades has summer surfeits

                                                In tempered chicory blooms, in a hold, over a solid night or two’s liquidity –

                                                        Keeping a kicking and screaming Demeter at bay for another day

                                                Pleasureless void of taken pleasures, beguiling in cherry cheer heartache

                                                        Undeterred, feet again carry on a wave a-brim with renaissance tresses

                                                Of course the river will reach the sea, and then it can all be let go

Laughter – Part 8

Miguel paced for a further two minutes, and then began to worry. What was Floria doing? Of course – she was keeping Mr Collins occupied! But within a few seconds the doubting seeds of the hydra had arisen about it all – as soon as he dismissed one with a swift recourse to logic, another lifted its head to engage him: everything was going according to plan, wasn't it? But what plan? Perhaps he had merely imagined what she had hinted. But no, she definitely said it – Room 405. He remembered correctly. Why else would she have deliberately given out misinformation? But did she really know what she was doing? And was she able to do it alone? Did he miss something – a call for help, perhaps? Should he go ahead and call the police, regardless of the consequences? After all, this Mr Michael Collins was a going to be trouble, wasn't he?

And all the time, this great white suitcase, obviously brand new and not bearing a single scuffmark, sat silently before him – a enemy sentinel guarding watch. What the hell was inside? He went over and touched it, lifting it to feel the weight. It was certainly heavy, and full. Whatever it was had been packed firmly. He considered throwing it from the balcony, to break it open, but the snow would soften the impact. He searched the apartment for something to smash it open with; he found a hair dryer, a small crown cap bottle opener the plastic toilet brush. His backside perched on the apartment chair and a leg bounced in agitation. He reached the end of his deliberations when Floria knocked at the large oak stained door.

She was flushed – a combination of caffeine, the walk in the cold and not having removed her black puffer jacket. She sat down on the bed beside the white suitcase. Then flopped back, arms outstretched sighing loudly.

“So, Flo, what happened?” He shook his head.

“We’re safe! At least I think we are.” She sat up again.

“What do you mean? What happened? Where’s Mr Collins?”

“I don’t know. He left me back at the bar. He’s gone home, back to his hotel.”

“And he’s going to come here? To pay?”

“I don’t know. I think so.”

“You think so? What time did he say he was coming?”

“I don’t know. We didn’t arrange that. But I said we’d take the case for him.” She shrugged.

“Yes, all right, maybe that was good. But why give him the wrong number if he’s going to come here some time later and pay for our room?”

“I don’t know. It just felt like the right thing to do. Like we had to keep it a secret.”

He stopped. This was worse than he imagined. He had assumed that she’d contrived some great plan in mind, that she had been able to figure out a way to get them out of here, but no; she was only his stupid sister after all, blundering her way from moment to moment. And right now he felt no cleverer.

“A secret? So, what do you think will happen when he comes around to pay our bill? When he finds out? Don’t you think he’s going to be… bothered, I mean angry, even? I mean, we have his suitcase, you remember? And we still don’t know what’s in it.”

“I don’t know, Mig, I really don’t know! I was just trying to make things work out. What are we going to do, Mig?” She held her face in her hands, as if about to cry. She was her mother.

He sat down again, opposite her. “OK, OK. Let’s think.” And they sat silently wondering what to do. They had done nothing but think since this morning, their minds were now a-whish with stupefaction and non-ideas. He asked about her motives. She replied about the modelling scam. Then, using his hands like his father, they went through their options. They could meet Mr Collins and do as he said. That would be safer for now, and their bill would be paid, but it might get them into all sorts of trouble later on if there was some sort of problem with the contents. They could phone their parents and explain everything to them, but they would be worried out of their wits, immediately call the police and then try desperately to get to them. They could run away – but to where? There were no buses and to get down the road they would have to get past the Fuente Dé hotel where Mr Collins’s was sure to see them. And then where would they go – walking around at night in the snowed-up mountains? They could call the police, a potentially dangerous situation if they had to wait around with Mr Collins  until they got there. Or they could just act normally, go skiing and think of something during the day, as if they knew exactly what they were doing.

As predicted, by midday the snowfall had lifted. From rooftops light flurries whirled in the light breeze. They could not see the end of the cables through the cloud, but were able to get onto the second cable car. The snow was soft and prone to drifting. In the treeless, skyless landscape of the glaciated cols above the top station there was little pleasant skiing to be had, but it felt good to be out of the confines of their predicament. The urgency of their situation focused the mind and the skiing made them nearly forget their row that morning. They persevered, quite happy together as brother and sister, and were only unhappy at the prospect of returning to their room and that dreadful white suitcase.

By three they were hungry. Miguel was down to less than ten Euros – for the rest of the day and the next. By the time the snow had begun to fall again, they were returning in a packed cable car and the picturesque valley-bound world had opened up before them through the steamy windows. Each tree was laden with a Christmas card covering of white that contrasted with the black green of their foliage, and the low-angled rooftops of the buildings supported a metre or more of thick multilayered snow. As they neared the terminal, they were pleased to see that the snowplough had made it to the base station; the driver was resting up with a cigarette. The doors opened and each passenger stepped out, making his or her way down the steps to deal with his or her situation – hotel rooms, drinks and dinner reservations, or chains on tyres and a tricky skidding drive back down to civilization. The siblings were amongst the last to leave. They still hadn’t figured out what to do. They had not talked about it, for it was quite beyond them both.

“What if he’s already there?” Floria voice was quiet, full of guesswork.

“Then we say thank you, hand back the suitcase, and leave. I think we can get the bus now.” But this was a forlorn hope. He knew there was little or no chance that the local bus could make it through the drifts on the mountain roads, even to the nearest village.

Skies aloft, they stepped into the lobby. As they did, the receptionist called them over.

“A Mr Collins has called. He says you have his suitcase.”

Miguel nodded.

“He is waiting in the dining room.”

They each peered one eye around the doorframe until they took in the whole room. He was not there; it was still and empty.

Floria took his hand. “Oh God, I’m afraid, Miguel.” She needed a wee, and rushed to the toilet. Miguel went back to reception, but they had not noticed or not noticed the man since he'd come in. He asked her to call the police.

–

Mr Michael Collins stood in the bedroom –their bedroom– silhouetted against the window, staring out across the balcony like a stern father patiently sifting in his mind how best to deal with two errant children. He stroked his day's beard growth; it rasped noisily on his big shovel hands. Quite what he would do next very much relied on what happened when they turned the key in the lock.

Laughter – Part 7

Miguel Arsenio Francisco del Rey readied himself to enter the Irish bar, like some fighter preparing for the ring, clenching his fists, breathing in deep cold breaths, closing his eyes. And then, before he was ready, he found he’d pushed the door open.

He saw the two sat together by the window. His sister looked a little peeved not so much at his presence, but with the attitude he’d brought with him – antagonistic, ready for a fight. She’d seen him look that way when he’d challenged papa on his choice of university away from home. On that occasion he’d gritted his teeth and got his way; inside she had cheered him all the way. Only this time she was not happy with his interfering. The expression on Mr Collins’s face was a blank: what could he expect from the young man?

It was Floria that began.

“Miguel! Mr Collins has kindly offered to let us stay another night.”

That took the wind right out of his sails.

“What? But why?”

“I agreed we should take his case with us. He asked it as a favour. And because we’re stuck here and have little choice in the matter, and that he has so generously offered to help us out, I agreed that we should help him. Besides, Mr Collins has been so kind to us; it would be wrong of us not to accept his generosity.”

This had also been news to the Irishman. He had said no such thing. And now he was to pay for their stay. But they had his case now. Besides, there was something very bold about what the young girl had said.

Both Miguel and Michael stared at Floria. She raised her coffee and continued:

“So, I hope we can go skiing later today, Miguel. Have you been up yet, Mr Collins?”

He shook his head. What an idiot he had been. This young girl, this black-haired maiden who appeared so innocent and hapless, had played him along this whole time. How much had she really known? Was she some sort of quiet amateur detective who weighed every word and every nuance for meaning and corroboration? He doubted it. Yet she left him feeling very vulnerable – exposed, almost. He had to recover; get back, even.

“No, I’m not much of a skier. Not much snow in Ireland.” His nervous chuckle rang hollow – intended to sooth the information imparted, it had the opposite effect.

“Will you join us for a coffee, Miguel?”

He stood down. He did not understand what Floria was doing, but somehow she seemed to be in control of the situation. Somehow.

“No, thank you. I just…” And he couldn’t think of excuses for being where he was, for having the attitude he had displayed upon entry, or for staying a moment longer. “I just wondered where you were.”

She smiled. “Hmm. Well, Mr Collins suggested another coffee earlier.” She turned to him, “Thank you again, Mr Collins.”

Mr Michael Collins nodded and picked up his own cup, desperately thinking. Had he really walked into a trap, or had she merely grasped at an opportunity; should he play along, and wait for his own to arrive, or just do it her way? He wondered how difficult it would be to find them again should they do a runner with the case.

“It’s nothing. I am passing through, and like to help whenever I can. You must let me have your room number. So that I can pay.”

Floria glanced up at Miguel again. “405”

Now he knew. Thank God! He desperately tried not to let the wave of relief display itself right on his face. For now, he knew that even if he left and walked away that she would be all right. For when the time came for the Irish businessman to pay for their room, they would be gone. This was the plan – surely. He saw it in the way she sipped her coffee and the little smile on her lips.

“OK, I’ll be going. See you back at the hostel.” He pulled open the door, put his hands in his pockets and confidently walked out onto the crispy crunchy snow back towards the hostel and their room. He reasoned that they needed to be cool and play for time.

He sat in the room, staring at the white reinforced structure of the suitcase. What the hell was in this thing? Drugs, no doubt: contraband of a serious nature. He’d earlier thought of calling in the police, but weighed it up and considered that even if he did they could not make the journey up the road to Fuente Dé until the snowploughs had done their work. No engine of any sort had been heard in the past 24 hours. He’d also thought of informing the hostel’s management, but it would result in the same outcome – their being stranded without access to police. He reasoned that if he was a dangerous man, and he thought he was, then once alarmed by oncoming police, he would be cornered he would do anything to get away. He didn’t fancy them being hostages. And this must also have been Floria’s courageous thinking. That she had been able to get close enough to Mr Collins, to be admitted into the place where he was vulnerable, made him actually very proud of her. It was certainly a risky manoeuvre, to win his trust, to play for time, but it was essential they had to do it. Like his father, he began to pace.

–

They had their second coffee and talked lightly about living in Spain, about places he had visited both in Spain and abroad, even a little about his early life back in Ireland, which had a faint whiff of ridiculousness about it – all horses and mountains. Nevertheless, she found it interesting. There was little she could add to such a conversation outside of school experiences, having only ever once been to Madrid, to the funeral of an aunt, and travelled on a school trip to Paris in her early teens and London last summer with her parents. Of most interest over their half-hour together, however, was that he did not continue with his proposal of her glamorous potential at modelling.

Finally, after their coffee had been long-drunk and their conversation began to lilt into longer stretches of pause, he decided to pay up. Before putting on gloves, they shook hands outside.

“Thank you again, Mr Collins. You have been most helpful to me, and my brother. And for the dinner, and the coffees now. Are you are sure we cannot pay you back for it?”

He shook his head. “I only want to help you out. I was young once.”

This was something she’d heard all older people say. “And we will make sure your suitcase is delivered to your wife in Madrid – Elvira? You must give me her address and I will pass it on to her.”

“Yes, that’s her. So, it’s I who should be thanking you.”

And with that he left and walked down the road toward his residence, wherever that was, and she slowly tramped back to her hostel and her brother.

–

“So, at what point did you decide?”

“Decide what?” she seemed not to know.

“That it was me rather than him?”

“Do you really think I could ever choose anyone over you, Miguel? You are my brother – my brother! I actually did like him, to begin with. A bit. And I took the case because you were being totally... stupid! But later this morning he tried to tell me I could be a model.”

Miguel shrugged. “So what? Wouldn’t you like that?”

She frowned. “It’s still me you’re talking to – your sister. Do you really think I could be a model?”

He didn’t know how to answer that.

“A model? Me? Come on, Miguel, me? I knew then that he was not nice. Not at all.”

“Why?”

“Because I’ve heard about scams like that. And he was appealing to me, like I was a little girl. I could easily have listened more, but it felt like I was being taken in by him. In the end I could see myself getting into a lot of trouble. Something told me I was not going to enter a career in modelling.”

“So you gave him the wrong room number?”

“As soon as I saw you, I knew what to do. He had to go away thinking we were going to do what he wanted.”

“And we aren’t?”

“No. We’re not. We only need to make sure that he pays for the room.”

–

In the lobby of the nearby Hotel Fuente Dé the Irishman tapped his fingers on the edges of the sofa’s arms. He was now unsure, like he’d lost his foothold. What was he thinking – perhaps giving the suitcase away to these two innocents had been a mistake. He didn’t trust either of them now. He’d lost his hold. He felt a fool. He decided, there and then, he had to get the case back.

Laughter – Part 6

By the time he had gone downstairs the breakfast area had begun to empty of the eager skiers, each anticipating their turns high up on the mountains. The cable car’s sporadic journeys up through the heavy snow into the clouds and back down again gave them all the hope of a jilted lover for whom things are not quite done, dead and buried, or over. One or two of them had already gathered their skis and were hanging around the lobby.

It was not fiercely cold outside, for there was no wind down in the deep valley, but everyone knew that higher up the conditions could be anything – wild blizzard, broken skies with occasional blue, or miserable dank fog. Until they went up, they couldn’t be certain. Given the opportunity, all of them would be willing to chance it, rather than be stuck down on the ground with little or nothing to do. With such minds accidents and misadventure are sure to follow.

The intercom broke into chimes to announce a name needed at reception: indeed, the whole hostel had the feeling of a miniature airport concourse. The double doors constantly swung as puff-jacketed guests came and went, others –passports in hand and with trolleyed cases inconsiderately huddled mid-lobby– formed a queue in an attempt to check out, others still sat in the uncomfortable chairs beside the big window and radiators, reading, waiting and talking.

He momentarily stared at the place where he had last seen his sister and Mr Collins. They were gone. He scanned the room, then the lobby, then outside, and came back to reception. He ran back upstairs, to check the room. It was empty, but beside the bed was the suitcase. It stood upright, ivory white as a tombstone, resting on four matt black wheels. He went over to it, at first unwilling to touch it, then sought the zip lock. The whole thing was firmly secured with a six-combination padlock. There was no way he would be able to get in without busting the whole piece open. But what was of more importance to him was the location of his sister. He had to find her.

–

The town of Valladolid has many historic sites, all built of the magnificent white stonework that almost painfully reflects the summer sunshine. One of the most impressive of these buildings is the old Cathedral of Our Lady of the Holy Assumption, an unfinished baroque masterpiece. As such, it gives an incomplete air to the locale, as if the intention hundreds of years ago was to add a tension into the tiny pedestrian streets and make the pretty houses that surround it on all sides seem that much more complete and perfect. It is ever-present, so that those taking their morning’s chocolate y churros in the shade of the Berlin bar behind the massive white sarcophagus do not notice it before them, even though it absorbs most of the precious sky above their heads.

The apartment on Calle Arribas was always a noisy place, especially at night, and spectacularly so on feast days or festivals when bells would ring and shouts and applause would go up. Although this sometimes felt like an obvious drawback, the one big attraction of city centre living was exactly that – other balconies of the surrounding apartments would also be full of families, ready to watch things from a distance, the spectators comfortable in their homes and yet away from the heat of the excited crush and beyond the incessant click and whirr of tourist cameras. They were somewhat aloof, yet still part of the occasion.

As a young boy Miguel would be overly excited, staring through the balcony bars down at the street processions. His younger sister would hold his hands as the hooded members of the brotherhoods passed slowly beneath, their long pointed hats in red, blue and black indicative of humility, service and anonymity. To their young hearts these strange men were terrifying, and they would grip each other’s hands like their lives depended upon it.

And then one Good Friday Miguel became a big boy. Without word, he joined his friends down on the street, leaving Floria without support for the entire time. When he returned, triumphant at having scadded between the processions like a naughty boy, he found Floria at her wits end. Although mama and papa were happy to give consent, having given responsibility for him to their neighbour’s older boy and, as in previous years, had assumed their lofty balcony position throughout, Floria had been worried sick about him. She rushed to him and held him, not letting him go until bedtime, and then only so that they could occupy separate beds.

He lay awake, the streetlights and sounds flooding in onto the ceiling above, unable to sleep for the fresh feelings of adventure, but giving occasional glances to his sister in her bed opposite, for whom the night alone would dry her tears. And he wondered, right there, whether it had all been worth it. And he decided, right there, that it was not – not even for one tear.

 –

The walk back down to the Irish Moss took less time than she had remembered. Even in the morning’s whiteout she could make out the neon signs for Guinness and Jamesons. They were not the first there, as the Germans from the hostel had already put in an appearance and sat beneath the large TV watching Bundesliga football. The fire was already lit and a ready supply of coffee was making its way to their table.

They took the only available window space, a louvered effort behind which was another neon sign for Estrella. At least they could keep an eye on the weather, or so Floria thought.

“I’m interested in what you said just now, about there being few jobs for young people in Spain. As you might imagine, I’ve done a bit of travel, and I know a thing or two. I know people who have jobs – openings for young people just like you.”

He winked at her, something she took as beguiling, like a kindly uncle.

“You do?”

“Of course! And the beauty of it is that you don’t need a degree to take advantage. All you need is determination and the ability to work hard. If you know of someone in particular…”

“Actually, I was thinking of…” At that moment the barman came over to take their order.

“Coffees, and maybe something to eat?” He looked at Floria, his hand raised as a conductor in mid-baton weave.

She shook her head, but her mouth remained open, ready to continue with her sentence. This was exciting – a job offer!

“So, what sort of work is it?”

His mouth curled under into a crescent moon. “Ooh, a little bit of pizzazz, a little bit of show. Do you ever watch the Grand Prix?”

She shook her head again, her long black hair weaving a snaky trail down one side of her body.

“If you watch the winners come into the paddock, they are always met by a line of beautiful women, all applauding and leading the way towards the rostrum where they act as hostesses to the champions. Those women are there for a reason – the glamour, the excitement, the beauty. But those women are no different to you, Floria. They are just as beautiful.”

She blushed. No one, other than papa, had called her beautiful, even indirectly. But she recovered quickly.

“You mean, a job with the Grand Prix?”

“It could be.” He sat satisfied with his pitch. “You can never tell. The important thing is that you must be willing to travel, to work hard and to be beautiful. Do you think you could do all of those things?”

A little frown crossed her forehead. “It’s really that simple?”

“Yes!” He shrugged his shoulders. “Yes, it is! I mean, you’d have to go through an interview process, agency fees, some photographs and a modelling session, but… yes!”

“And you do this for a living?”

“Oh, no, it’s not my forte, but I have a very good friend who I help out from time to time. And if I meet a beautiful girl, such as you, I ask her for him and he, er, pays me back – in his own way.”

The barman brought over the espressos with water and she sat and thought on it. So, her childish imaginations could become reality? A model?

“You said earlier about your wife being in Madrid. Why doesn’t she come with you? On your trips?”

His mood turned, but he momentarily recovered. “Ah, that– ”

But his attention was arrested. For out of the louver he saw a figure in a red puffer approach the bar. It sported a striped beany and shuffled determinedly through the snow towards the steps of the bar. He knew it was Miguel.