FEARLESS FINN'S MURDEROUS ADVENTURE Page 2

  In spite of my strange surroundings, and the pounding of the waves against the side of the trawler, I drifted off to sleep. I only surfaced when Kieran shouted down below.

  “Wake ya Finn, lively now, before my cretin nephews get here! I wouldn’t trust them to see ya! Ya never know with the likes of them!”

  I scrambled up on deck and jumped down to the quay. Without a goodbye, or as much as a wave, I slipped into the shadows.

  Next stop, the safe house…then, God only knows.

  2

  ENGLAND

  Getting to the safe house in Croxteth, Liverpool is like travelling through an urban war zone. The taxi driver only agreed to drop me outside Croxteth Hall.

  “This monstrosity was the home of the Earls of Sefton. Right posh it was then, but look at the state of the estate now.” The taxi driver sniggered at his double meaning of the word state as he pointed at the ornate red-brick edifice. “I’ll drop you here…it doesn’t do to take a motor like this in there, so it doesn’t. Around here they'd have the wheels off me car before I have the handbrake pulled, so they would. That’ll be six pounds two and six, what with the luggage. I take Irish money like, but I have to charge a bit extra, what with the exchange rate an’ all! All right Mick?”

  Feck him, I said to meself, leaving me a half kilometre short of my destination. I paid him every penny of the fare, plus his ten per cent exchange fee, in Irish florins – no tip. He zoomed off in his shiny new Vauxhall Victor estate car, leaving me stranded on the side of the road outside one of the roughest public housing estates in Europe.

  The safe house I’m heading for is a three-bed, two-reception terrace with a downstairs toilet kind of place, probably built in the 1930s. It’s nondescript, ordinary-looking and perfect for a safe house.

  I’m a good bit over six feet in height and I weigh in at two hundred forty pounds, but that didn’t discourage a gang of little shites from fronting up to me demanding money. None of them looks over fifteen years of age, and they haven’t a decent pair of shoulders between them.

  “Give us yer odds mister, go on. Give ’em to us before we effing take ’em from yous!”

  “Tell me you support Man U, and you can have all me odds, me change, the lot. Go on,” I whispered real quiet, slowly like, emphasizing every word. That seemed to do the trick.

  “Fuck off ya Irish twat! Keep your fuckin’ money you dozy big git!”

  They swaggered off down the road yelling, “They’ll never walk alone…Liverpool FC. We’ll see yous in the Kop…Liverpool FC. Man U, the slimy wankers!”

  I knocked hard on number fifty-five. The paint-chipped door was flung open by a serious, almost aggressive-looking girl with sharp blue eyes and flaming red hair.

  “Yeah, and who are you?” she asked, with a disarming smile and an undisguised Mayo accent.

  “I’m Finn, from home. Here on the Chief's order. OK?”

  No response. To fill the silence I lied to her.

  “There'll be no heat brought on yous by my presence here. God willing, I'll be gone in twenty-four hours, tops.”

  Her smile is gone.

  “I’m Mary, Mary McManus. And you Finn, you have a family name?”

  A male voice yelled from inside the house. “Jaysus Mary, bring the man through will ya? I told ya I spotted him coming down the road….I said it was him now, didn’t I? They’ll never believe it, so they won’t.”

  Mary took me by the hand and led me into a small living-room where two young lads, probably no more than eighteen or nineteen years of age, are sitting on an old couch. I remember the couch well – the springs are shot in it. I stayed here back in 1972, when Mac, meself and two Donegal lads were detailed to meet a consignment of Semtex arriving in a ship from Vancouver, Canada. The house hasn’t changed much.

  “You’re a bit of a legend with us new volunteers, so you are,” said the lad who was doing the yelling. His voice is much quieter now, which pleases me greatly. “Sit yourself down there,” he smiled, pointing at a comfortable-looking armchair I’d not seen before. “Fuck a duck! Finn feckin’ Flynn! Jaysus!” he said, poking the lad seated beside him.

  I’m embarrassed at the adulation from these lads. They evidently have the guts to join an ASU, and are likely to be killed, tortured or imprisoned for life. And I’ve just lied to them – lied because I’ve no idea if I’ll be gone in twenty-four hours. I haven’t even a notion where to go to next. All I have is thirty quid in my pocket and an order to disappear in a hurry…because the guards have my nickname.

  I took my leave of the lads and climbed up the creaking stairs – left so to act as a last-minute warning in case anyone, like the police or Special Branch, tries to creep up to the bedrooms undetected. The two lads are using the front bedroom and the girl is in the box room. That leaves the back bedroom for me.

  “There’s a chippy van down the road! You want a single and a bitta cod?!” the lads yelled up the stairs.

  “I’ve feck all money!” I yelled back. Another small lie – the thirty pounds in my pocket could be more than they have between them.

  “Don’t bother your head! We can afford a few fish and chips for a man like yourself!” they called back.

  And that’s what I got, along with a pile of buttered bread and a mug of tea.

  After refilling my mug, the youngest of the three put down the teapot. “Can I ask you something Mister Flynn? Is it right that you’re descended from Fionn mac Cumhaill, is it?” he asked, with a shy kind of grin.

  “You’ve the right build and hair for him, so you have,” chipped in Mary.

  “So they tell me. Some professor in Trinity College traced me back to himself, the mad fecker from the third century,” I smiled.

  “He was a right one for the Nordic women, isn’t that so?” gibed Mary, with a daring look directed straight at me.

  I reached across the table and grabbed her by the shoulders. “Jaysus, why didn’t I think of that meself?! You’re after giving me the answer. I’ll have to see if I can reach her. You’re brilliant Mary, feckin’ brilliant!” I announced, with as much joy as I could muster.

  Of course they haven’t a clue what I’m on about – and I’m not about to tell them. I’ve just remembered Anna, the Swedish girl I had a fling with back in Brighton. I don’t really know why, but I’ve a feeling she’ll come to the rescue and give me a bed until things settle down. I decided there and then that I’ll head across the road to the Stand Farm Pub and make a few long-distance calls in the morning…after I get my delivery from Mac.

  ———

  I’ve rung Mac and Anna, and I’m headed to Lime Street Station with my new passport. My plan is to quietly catch a train to Harwich, and then I’ll jump on a ferry to Gothenburg in southern Sweden.

  The station is swarming with police; I do not need this. There are cops – mounted on enormous horses – with serious-looking batons by their sides, and dog handlers with vicious German shepherd dogs straining at their leads. The steel-helmeted riot police are wearing anti-stab vests, and brandishing clear plastic shields that protect them from head to toe.

  “Are you catching a train?” a stern-faced sergeant asked me.

  “Yeah, hoping to. I’m trying to get to Harwich, sergeant.”

  “Catching a ferry are we, sir?”

  “Yes, to Holland,” I lied.

  “Follow me. The Man U supporters are due in any minute. They’re playing Liverpool FC and there’ll be hell to pay,” yelled the sergeant while clearing a path for me.

  It’s a funny auld world. I’m probably the most wanted man in Ireland, and here is a British police sergeant helping me on my way.

  Seeing the phone kiosks on the platform reminds me to ring Mac.

  “Mac, I’ve talked to Anna. I’m meeting her in Stockholm tomorrow.”

  “Good on ya…be sure ta keep a low profile…and keep yerself outa trouble. And enjoy those twenty-three hour Swedish nights tucked up in Anna’s arms. Don’t fret about the fuck-up in Tipp. The lad
s got clear and they’ve gone ta ground, just in case. The Yank ya had was interviewed on the TV and said he was well treated and never felt in fear of his life. So there ya go Finn. You’ve lost yer touch and ya can’t even put the fear o’ God in a wee little chemist. Mind yerself, and if ya come across Ingrid over there, tell her the bear says hello.”

  I stepped on the train for Harwich just as the Manchester United football supporters began pouring off their special train. I thought all the dogs, horses and shields were a bit too much…until I saw the hordes racing down the platform, straight at the waiting line of police.

  3

  STOCKHOLM and UPPSALA, SWEDEN

  It’s six a.m. and I’m huddled under a lifeboat stanchion, freezing my balls off on the Harwich to Gothenburg ferry. The kidnapping fuck-up was only three days ago, but it seems longer than that.

  An icy mist hangs over the sea as we creep up towards the River Gota. We slipped silently alongside the ferry terminal, arriving to a typical Gothenburg winter’s day. There’s just a hint of daylight in the grey sky, and it’s cold as a widow’s teat.

  The moment the gangplank landed on the ground I ran down to the wharf and trudged through the snow, trying to avoid the long queue waiting for taxis. I managed to flag one down before it turned into the terminal. The taxi man dropped me at the railway station and didn’t complain when I paid him in Irish pounds – the only money I have.

  The train is just about to leave the station. I ran past the ticket collector, yelling that I’ll buy a ticket on the train.

  I telephoned Anna from the first station on the journey from Gothenburg to Stockholm. We arranged to meet at four p.m. at Stockholm’s Central Station.

  I met Anna last year; she was a student at an English-language summer school in Brighton. I was a part-time waiter in a hotel we planned on bombing…along with the British prime minister and most of her cabinet. After unexpected peace overtures from the British government, and hints of prisoner concessions for our volunteers locked up in British jails, the bombing was postponed. The Army Council decided we shouldn’t be blowing up people we were negotiating with, and I was happy to agree. It meant I could hang around Brighton for the summer and fall head over heels for Anna. At least that’s what I told myself at the time. I did like her sense of humour, the eight freckles running in parallel lines across the bridge of her nose, and the sex.

  I’m hoping to hide out with her for a couple of months, until the heat dies down. Obviously, I’m not going to tell her I’m hiding out.

  Like I do all the time, I ran an imaginary conversation through my head – kind of practising for when we meet up again. Jaysus you look as beautiful as ever. No, more beautiful, if that’s possible. Tell me, have you got yourself a handsome fellah yet? Are you spoken for now, my lovely? Plenty of blarney…I do that all the time, practise it like. It works!

  I must’ve fallen asleep. We’ve crossed half the length of Sweden, and we’re pulling into Stockholm’s Central Station….I never bought a ticket.

  I spy Anna behind the barrier, waiting for me to appear. Her nose is bright red, her cheeks are rosy with the cold, and she’s stomping her feet trying to stay warm. She’s even more striking than I remember.

  Anna is five feet seven inches tall, which is short by Swedish standards. Her button nose – with a sprinkling of freckles – turns up slightly and gives her a mischievous look. She has eyes like blue ice and they sparkle when she smiles, which she does often. Her flaxen hair is cut in a bob, framing her high cheek bones and adding a golden glow to her face. She’s Everyman’s vision of a Swedish beauty, and she’s mine – it was obvious when she raced across the station concourse and flung herself into my arms. I won’t bother with my rehearsed blarney…I don’t need it.

  It’s a dark, bitterly cold December afternoon, and we’re catching a train to Telefonplan – a complex of high-rise towers adjacent to the Ericsson factory, where the company provides apartments for female workers. But instead of using the tunnel from Central Station to the underground T-Centralen Station, we decided to take the romantic route. Tramping through drifting snow, our breath freezing instantly in the icy cold air, we stopped just long enough to warm ourselves with piping hot cups of coffee from a stall.

  ———

  The door to Anna’s apartment was flung open by a six foot, grey-eyed Boudicca. It’s Ingrid, I can’t believe my eyes…I’m delighted!

  She grabbed me in a bear hug. “Wot the fook are you doing here, you big bastard?”

  “Nice to see you too, Ingrid,” I managed to whisper, once I got her woolly jumper out of my mouth.

  “Now you two, that’s enough lovey-dovey stuff. I know you’re thrilled to see each other again, but let me in to get the coffee on,” declared Anna from the hallway.

  The small apartment is like a page out of an IKEA catalogue – lots of plain pine furniture and brightly coloured fabrics. I like it.

  Over coffee and smorgasbord we covered the nine months we’d spent living together in a cottage in Kemptown in Brighton, after the aborted hotel bombing. Mac and myself were checking out Newhaven and Shoreham ports for a suitable place to land and collect a shipment of arms coming from ETA. The girls were attending English-language summer school, and working part-time in a Scandinavian-style cafe on Western Road, in nearby Hove.

  One night Ingrid and Mac got caught up in a fisherman’s night net off the shingles of Brighton’s beaches – trying to swim naked from the West Pier to Palace Pier. We were still giggling about that when Anna dropped the bombshell.

  “Finn, there’s something I have to tell you. I’m going to America in four weeks’ time and you can’t stay here. Ericsson owns the apartment and they want to let another girl stay here while I’m away.”

  Jaysus! This calls for a rapid rethink.

  “Why aren’t you staying with your parents, or in your own apartment?” I asked Ingrid…just in case there’s any possibility with her.

  “Because Finn, now I am an important person. I’m a teller in the foreign exchange department of a bank in Kungsgatan. And anyway, it’s easier to get there from here. My parents have moved to Uppsala and I could never commute all the way from there, but I suppose I’ll have to when Anna goes. Perhaps my brother would drive me to work when he visits his fiancée in Östermalm…some chance!”

  Back to square one. I’ll have to contact Mac to see if he or the Chief have any bright ideas.

  I phoned Mac; he said he’ll check with the Chief and to ring back later, which I did. They haven’t anything in mind for right now, but Mac said the Chief is working on something that might get me a bunk under canvas…if everything works out.

  ———

  We’re hanging around together like peas in a pod, and the girls are taking me to all the trendy joints around Gamla Stan in the evenings. I’m no lover of discos, but for the girls’ sake I do my best. I dance the slow ones with Anna and the fast ones with Ingrid…at least most of the time.

  The first chance Ingrid got to talk to me on our own, she told me that Anna confessed something to her when they returned to Sweden last year. Anna told Ingrid that she’d fallen madly in love with me; she said she’ll never lie with another man, and that she was saving herself for the day I come back for her. It’s flattering, if a bit old-fashioned, but I enjoyed hearing it all the same.

  ———

  We’re out in Gamla Stan tonight, and I’m keeping an eye on a big Icelander who’s been bothering Ingrid whenever we leave her alone at our table. He’s very drunk, but she says she can handle him.

  During a slow dance with Anna I checked out our table and saw the Icelander lunge at Ingrid and shove his hand inside her blouse. Abandoning Anna on the dance floor, I ran to the table. I smashed the Icelander’s nose with the heel of my hand and kneed him in the face as he sank unconscious to the floor. He’s lying motionless under the table, choking on his own blood. I turned him on his side and placed him in the recovery position.

  Fights are rare i
n Stockholm clubs, so there are no bouncers to control the customers. Even so, the bespectacled cashier is pushing through the crowded dance floor, heading in my direction. I dashed past him and swiftly disappeared out the exit, just before the police arrived.

  I’m waiting across the road from the club, frozen stiff with the cold. I only have on a light shirt; my jumper and anorak are still in the cloakroom. Thank God, I see Anna running across the road with a big woollen ski jumper. I’m so cold I can’t move my arms, and my teeth are chattering too much to speak, but Anna’s managed to slip the jumper over my head.

  “I borrowed it from the back of a chair and slipped out past the policewoman,” Anna explained.

  We’re waiting in the freezing cold for Ingrid, but at least I’m warming up with the borrowed sweater and Anna’s cuddles. An ambulance arrived at the club and the Icelander’s being carried out on a stretcher. Ingrid’s right behind him, and she’s carrying all our clothes from the cloakroom.

  “Ingrid, can you drop the jumper Anna borrowed back into the club?” I asked. “I don’t want someone freezing to death on their way home because of me….At forty-five degrees below freezing it’s not unlikely.”

  We took a taxi to Telefonplan and didn’t speak until we were back in the apartment.

  “Finn, the police were given a good description of you. The paramedics told me the guy’s nose and upper jaw are very badly broken, and he’ll probably need surgery to repair the injuries. With that much damage the police will take this very seriously and come looking for you,” said a worried-looking Ingrid.

  This is all I need – another effing police force on my case. So much for keeping a low profile as Mac advised!

  “So Finn, tell me, how did you learn to hurt someone that much?” Ingrid quizzed.

  “Oh, it was the military training I mentioned. You know…we got trained in unarmed combat.”

  “But you told me you’d no time for the Irish or the British armies,” Anna piped up. “So who trained you?”