tales from the long bar- the package

O'Malley was sweating, he was sure the package in his bag was doing the same. The words of Magill ringing in his ears, don't let it get too hot, or too cold, and keep away from vibrations. Most of all keep it level at all times. How can you do that at sea on the Cairnryan ferry? He went up on deck in the chill September evening, with a stiff breeze blowing over the bow, and found a seat at the stern. Around him were the seasick and the pretending well, jovial at the bounce of the wave. O'Malley was petrified.

Why had he mentioned he was going to England to O'Rourke? Surely he was not just showing off. The O'Malley's on the up, Brother John with a good job, not just labouring. There's John, living in a council house in Surrey. Would you believe Surrey, sounded posh. Surrey even had a cricket team, not that O'Malley followed cricket. Now here he was with some device wrapped in Oiled paper tied with string, on the deck, between his legs, in a rolling sea. If he said one Hail Mary he'd said a thousand, but still no deliverance.

It was O'Rourke that told Cargill he was sure of that. Cargill was an odd fish. Kept himself to himself. Cargill always had loads of money, paid in cash, few friends but he was always on the phone or at meetings. O'Malley thought he would shop him one day, but then he might get an invitation and that would mean the end of walking and no kneecaps.

“Could you collect and deliver a package for me to England” smiled Cargill. O'Malley knew that NO was not the answer.

“Be a pleasure. but money's short can't afford to go out of the way.”

“Not a problem.” Said Cargill handing O'Malley a crisp new five pound note.

O'Malley had read the papers, He knew the Ulster Bank at Portrush had been robbed and new bank notes stolen. This crisp new five pound note was bound to be one of them.

“Oh thanks” said O'Malley. “What's this for?”

“Taxi” smiled Cargill. “I want you to collect a package from this address on Creggan Heights and deliver it to Mr Joyce at Cairnryan, nothing more than that.”

“And how will I know Mr Joyce?”

“He will be looking for you, if some one approaches ask him how he likes Dubliners. He will say not quite an odyssey.”

“Not quite an odyssey” replied O'Malley “Not quite an odyssey, fine.”

O'Malley had taken the taxi but paid him with an old note. The crisp new note was hidden in his wallet only to be used in an emergency. He did not want to be arrested for passing stolen money, or Jesus forbid counterfeit.

Magill answered the door, not a well man.

“I've come for a package.” said O'Malley

Magill looked past him staring into the gloom. O'Malley though he was checking if he had been followed.

“Come in I'm just finishing the wrapping.” said Magill

The room was cold, a package of what looked like plastic was being wrapped in oiled paper.

“Sorry about the wrapping, but oiled paper keeps it dry, we don't want the insides damp do we?” chuckled Magill

“Spose not” said O'alley

“This is one of my better surprises, quite proud if it. It should cause quite a stir.” smiled Magill

O'Malley swallowed, and could feel his hands tremble. What was he to do?

O'Malley just took the parcel home, no questions, just did as he was told.

At the time it seemed the safest thing to do.

The ferry struck a vast wave and the whole ship shuddered. O'Malley touched the bag for reassurance. It was still there, the package. It was not a horrible dream. It was happening, he was on a ferry with a package between his legs and although he had a chance to notify the authorities he had done nothing. He was outside the law. A criminal doing the work of some splinter group or worse. He was bound to be on CCTV somewhere. Some one was bound to have seen him, they could even be following right now. He looked around him feeling guilty and vulnerable. The young fresh looking man looked back at him. The man was smartly dressed if a bit somber, easier to blend into the background. The man was quite athletic looking, possibly armed forces, or SAS. Merciful heavens O'Malley said to himself not an SAS assassin. The man turned away and walked below. O'Malley wasn't fooled the man would pass him to another, someone less conspicuous. O'Malley looked around for some one less conspicuous, and realised the whole boat was full of them.

The ferry berthed. O'Malley ever cautions did not disembark. He stood on the upper deck watching humanities stabilised stomachs sway to a movement not present on dry land. Lines of drunken people streamed into the distance of Scotland's terminal buildings. Whom would be waiting for O'Malley he thought, the mysterious Joyce, or an SAS assassin. He thought about throwing the bag overboard, but realised Joyce would be harder to avoid than the anti terrorist squad. He picked up his bag. He thought he could hear it ticking as he made his way to the gangway. He looked about him to see if anyone was waiting for him. The terminal was deserted, the cars rhythmically bumping over the boarding ramp and heading off to the sanctuary of Scotland. All the passengers had disembarked and filled up the buses for Stranraer, Ayr and Glasgow. He could see no Mister Joyce. He had a feeling of relief. He could just get on the bus for the nearest railway station and leave the package in the railway toilets. If Joyce was not there it was not his fault.

He felt a tap on his shoulder, and turned to see one of the dockers.

“Is that yerself?” he asked

“Do you like folk music?” blurted out O'Malley “Not the Chieftains the other fellers.”

“Is it the Dubliners you like?” asked the docker

“For goodness sake that's my line you eejit.” snapped O'Malley

“It might well be but I'm not Joyce, he asked me to meet you as I worked here. Do you have the package?”

“I might have a package, and then again I might not it depends who's askin.”

“You O'Malley then?”

“I might be, who's asking?”

“Have you got the package or haven't you?”

O'Malley looked at this scruffy man. He did not look like a hireling of the IRA, but then you never can tell. The two men stared at each other, just like in the western films, who was going to blink first.

“For goodness sake I'm Dillon, Joyce asked me to meet O'Malley to collect an important package. And you sunshine are the only person left on the terminal with a bag. So is you O'Malley or not?”

“Aye, I is O'Malley.”

“Good lets have a look at the package?”

“What here on the terminal?”

“And why not?”

O'Malley thought, big open space if any thing goes wrong only two injured or killed. The IRA are clever ruthless bastards.

O'Malley bent down and unzipped his bag and gently lifted the package out. Dillon took it gleefully and started to unwrap it. O'Malley could feel unreasonable panic beginning. Dillon had the wrapping off so fast O'Malley couldn't stop him. He prized open the plastic container, and stood in awe.

“Bejesus he said it would be good but this is brilliant is it not O'Malley”

“I never saw inside the package, I don't know what it is.”

Dillon turned the package round to expose the decorative cake with Irish dance figures made of icing, all dancing in line just like Riverdance.

“Oh yes he'll like that.” said Dillon

“Who?” asked O'Malley

“Wee Jimmy, Mister Cargill's nephew, He is in the finals of the National Irish dancing competition at the Exhibition Hall Birmingham. Are you going to Birmingham?”

“Surrey.”

“Well I'll give you a lift to Carlisle if you like you can get a train from there.”

“Thanks” said O'Malley

“You know O'Malley you're a trusting sort, most people wouldn't take a package without knowing what was inside.”