The Ink Bridge (24 page)

‘Back again,' he said and unfolded his stool on the pontoon. He brought out his bottle and took a quick drink. ‘Who's yer mate?'

Hec simply raised his chin towards Silent Boy.

‘Yer a good match you two. Dumb and dumber. I guess it's all up to me again, is it? Good job I got words enough fer all of us.

‘So what ye doin down this way? You two boys got now-heres better t'be?'

He shook his head. ‘It's like talkin to a brick wall
. . .
two brick walls even.' The fisho pointed at Silent Boy. ‘You don't look like you're from aroun here.' He shrugged. ‘Then who does these days, eh? Used to be that everyone was the same. But times change and if we don't, then we get left behind.

‘Did I ever tell you about Stanko? Mate of mine. Croat bloke straight from the Balkans. That bloke had more life in his left toe than the two of youse put together. He would sing all day, top of his voice, all them terrible gypsy songs. We'd pelt him with rivets, but would he shut up, would he hell. He sang like the whole world was in those songs.

‘He got married one June, the
eejit
. Hailstones the size of gobstoppers for confetti. I was best man. Gave a speech and all. Mind, I was a bit pished and they couldn't understand a word. But Stanko slapped my back and said he loved me.'

The old man looked out at the river. At the swirls of oil like knots on a tabletop.

‘They had a wee-one in the summer. She was a beauty. Just can't remember her name.'

He scrunched his eyes as if he was trying to look into the past and it was causing him pain.

‘Why can't I remember her name?'

Shaking his head, he pulled out his White Ox and rolled himself a smoke. As he tucked it in the corner of his mouth, he patted his pockets for matches. Hec and Silent Boy waited for the story to continue, but it wouldn't be rushed. The old man drew deeply on his fag and released the smoke through his nose. He wiped the corners of his eyes with his thumb.

‘You see, mates are important. Next to family, the most important thing. I knew Stanko four years before the big drop. Would have protected him with my life.

‘I came here fishin after that. Every Sunday. Like my own private religion. About a year in, I caught a big bugger of a fish. A stoater. As big as one of them wrinkly dogs. You know the ones. Shar Peis, they call them. Big as that and twice as bloody ugly.

‘I opened him up. Stinkin, he was. Stuffed with mud and weed. But I saw somethin shiny in it.' He looked at the boys through his cigarette smoke. ‘Know what it was?'

He waited for a response. His boxer's head tilted as if to let water from its ear.

‘Stanko's wedding ring.' He raised his eyebrows at the boys. ‘No finger, ye ken. But it was his ring awright. No bullshit. Couldn't believe it. Took it to his wife, but she shouted at me to bugger off. Said I was mad. Mad, me? She was the one shoutin.'

The old man rubbed at the boards with his toe. When he looked up, his eyes were moist.

‘You'd think a big thing like that would go down quick, eh?' He pointed his wet fag at the bridge. ‘It dropped like a shot beast. Its knees buckled and crumpled into the water. I had walked back to get lunch from my car. That saved me. I wished for years that I had gone down with it.
Survivor
guilt
they called it. Like by putting a name on it somehow it'll be awright.

‘You mates need to take care of each other.'

Hec looked at Silent Boy. Was he really a mate? They hardly knew each other.

‘Now, you
eejits
can leave me alone to catch some fish.'

He bent over his bait bucket, dropping fag ash into his pipis. Hec and Silent Boy just stood there, waiting, as if the mad old man would give them the wisdom to fix all that was wrong.

‘Gawn. Piss off. I need to fish and you
teuchters
will scare them.'

He shoved Hec gently on the shoulder and turned Silent Boy around and faced him to the shore. They took the first steps and the fisherman called after them.

‘Take care of each other, mind.'

IT WAS NINE-THIRTY AT NIGHT when they got out at the station. Hec's heart was leaping about like a mouse in a bucket. It had been raining all day and the streets were slick and dangerous.

Hec didn't understand what was going on. He had gone to sleep early. There was work the next day. But Silent Boy had woken him and showed him Uncle Massoud's empty bed. Hec shrugged, but Silent Boy dragged him to the station and onto a train.

They stood in front of the candle factory. Its sooty face sneered at them in the blue dark. Silent Boy led Hec by the hand, round the lumpy courtyard and to the rear of the factory where the loading bay was.

The gate was wide open and there was a forty-foot container at the loading bay. Silent Boy put his finger to his lips. Hec could feel a bubble of laughter well in his stomach. It was like telling a blind man not to look or a deaf man not to listen. But then he saw Uncle Massoud and Merrick Hope at the rear of the container.

Merrick had a pair of boltcutters. Silent Boy and Hec crept along the loading bay wall until they were hidden behind the rubbish skip. Merrick snipped off the customs tags and Massoud swung the handles over. Even with the door obscuring their vision, Hec could tell it didn't release its vacuum as it was supposed to.

Hec knew it was drugs. Splinter would be ecstatic – all his paranoid conspiracy theories come true. The bag of white powder they had found on his first day wasn't a wax additive sample after all.

Then he heard Massoud saying something in Dari.

Hec looked at Silent Boy who nodded.
What is going on?
Hec shouted with his eyes. Silent Boy pointed back at the container.

In the gap between the door and the floor, Hec could see feet, shuffling. He counted ten pairs of sandals, one walking stick, a child's bare toes. Then the door swung closed again and the light from the loading bay exhaled into the night.

So it wasn't drugs. It was a group of tired people. Their clothes were dirty, long shirts stained with oil. They wore baggy pants, the child was dressed in a long tunic and a headscarf. Her eyes were dark and narrow, they flitted around the men as they talked; her small hand was held by a boy Hec's age.

A van pulled up at the loading bay and Hec and Silent Boy drew further into the shadows. A guy got out and stretched. It was the immigration guy, Fantapants from the raid at the factory.

‘Got a load for me, Merrick?' he said.

‘This is the first and last, Rudman,' Merrick replied to Fantapants.

‘Ah, if only life were that simple, eh, Merrick? If only.'

‘With the factory back on track, I'm out.'

‘Yeah, well.' Rudman scratched his chin. ‘Thing is you're involved now. You're an integral part of the operation. You and good old Massoud here.' He slapped Massoud on the shoulder and the man grinned until his small eye completely disappeared.

‘No, that's it. It's over. Once was enough. It's too dangerous.'

‘What I'm thinking, and tell me if I am off the mark here, is that it would be dangerous for you
not
to be involved. The way I see it is that if we are no longer business partners then it might be beneficial for me to have a chat to my mates in customs, so that they priority search
all
your containers. Stop the flow of illegal wax. It's a terrible thing, these cheap imports.'

He put his arm around Merrick and softened his voice.

‘Let's look at the whole thing another way. I'm a glass-half-f sort of guy and I think you are too, Merrick. You are helping these poor people to a better life. It's way too risky for them to come by boat now. The patrols are on the lookout. But this way, well they're hidden aren't they? And you, you are doing a humanitarian service. You're a modern-day Oskar Schindler.'

‘And what if someone dies?'

‘Merrick,
Merrick.
Be rational, mate, how are they going to die? Massoud here has taken care of everything. The team in Jakarta give them food and water, plastic tubs to crap in. They drill vents and give them battery fans. We are not heartless men, Merrick. Look at these people, we are helping them.'

‘I just want out that's all.'

Rudman coughed. He grabbed the little girl from the boy's hand. Held her up in front of Merrick by her arms. She began to weep.

‘Look at her, Merrick. Look into her eyes and tell her you don't care.'

‘It's not that I don't care—'

‘Shhh, now.' His face was next to the girl's, but he was talking to Merrick. ‘This conversation is over. We're not having it.' Rudman dropped the girl and she ran back to the boy.

The group of Afghans were starting to get nervous. Massoud muttered quietly to them, patted them on their arms.

‘They needs to go,' he said.

‘They do,' said Merrick. ‘But this is the last time, okay.'

Rudman opened up the back of the van and ushered the group inside. He shut the door behind them.

‘Not the last time. Not,' he said.

‘You can't make me do this,' Merrick shouted as Rudman got into the van.

But all he got in reply was a wave from the window as the van turned the corner.

Back at home, Hec and Silent Boy sat at the kitchen table and drank glasses of warm milk laced with a spoon of Blue Box honey. It was what Hec's mum used to make him when he couldn't sleep. She believed it calmed the mind.

Hec didn't know what to do. His dad would never believe him. It was easy for Merrick to lie. He had words. If he went to the police, then Silent Boy would get caught up in the whole mess. They'd nab him for sure and send him back. And hadn't the fisho told them to take care of each other? Why did he feel compelled to listen to a drunk old man?

The best thing to do was just stay out of it. No one was getting hurt and as Rudman had said, the Afghans were getting what they wanted. Then why did Hec feel so bad? Why did he feel responsible? It was ridiculous. And complicated.

Silent Boy had begun to sit with the others. Uncle Massoud still sat alone, his head bent low over a plate of rice and meat. Splinter skulked in the corner, seething, muttering curses, licking his palms.

Work had set into a rhythm for Hec. The early morning, before smoko, was a fog of noise, the tang of wax smoke, a greasy pall that clung to the skin and hair. Mid morning to lunch was quick and happy. Lunch to the late bell dragged itself, lead-eyed, round the clock. Smoko was for gossip. Lunch for philosophy.

Silent Boy and Hec shared
naan
and
kabob
leftovers from the previous night's dinner. Silent Boy took the flask of
chay
to fill at the urn. Hec loved this green tea, the way the leaves flurried, a storm in his teacup. He drank it all the time now. It had become his and Silent Boy's ritual. A glass of warm milk and honey in the morning then green tea throughout the day.

Splinter approached them as Silent Boy filled the flask.