He watched as they fetched the boy up on to the deck. Boy? Coran had told him the kid was twenty-two or twenty-three but to Stan he was still a boy. It seemed a long time since he’d been that age.
The kid was filthy, dressed in the same jeans and shirt he’d been wearing the day they’d taken him. Only the coat and shoes were missing and he shivered in the chill wind that cut across from the landward side; first time in weeks, Stan reckoned, that it had veered from that direction. That was the only reaction from the boy though, just a response to the cold. His eyes were unfocused and he had little control of his limbs, stumbling between the men that held him.
Stan looked across at Coran but it seemed the tall, blond-haired man was refusing to meet his eye. The rigidity of his pose told Stan he liked this no better than Stan did. It wasn’t, for either of them, an aversion to killing, it was the whole scenario. It left a bad taste and made Stan wish he’d walked away when Coran had offered a way to make easy money.
Easy money never was easy in Stan’s experience. There was always a complication. He’d have done well to have remembered that.
He still couldn’t figure out why the boy had been brought aboard; Haines was usually so particular about keeping a distance between what he called his work and this boat, which he regarded as his home base. Coran, when he could be persuaded to talk about it, had let on that the boss man was acting a bit odd recently. Not so on top of things; not so rational or in control.
Stan figured that whatever this kid’s family had done, Haines had taken it personally and now the boy was the one to suffer. Stan had chosen to know nothing about him, except that his name was Patrick Duggan.
He’d fought like a bloody maniac when they’d first brought him aboard. Haines told them to keep him quiet, give him something, he didn’t care what.
Looking into the boy’s blank eyes, Stan didn’t want to know.
Haines appeared, standing there, on deck, surveying them all with his usual measured disdain. He was dressed ready for bed, silk pyjamas and monogrammed robe.
He held a pistol in his hand.
Reflexively, Stan moved back out of his direct line of sight. He didn’t like the man and he knew it showed. Coran always said he was no good at playing politics.
A plastic sheet had been placed on the deck, close to the bow rail. Haines signed for the boy to be made to kneel, then he raised the gun and fired a single shot. Those that still held the boy pitched him over the rail and Stan heard him hit the water.
He turned away, disgusted. Haines walked past him and went below, as casual and unconcerned, Stan thought, as if he’d been somewhere in the suburbs and just put the cat out for the night.
Coran joined him, leaning on the rail.
‘That isn’t what we signed up for.’
‘No, we signed up for the money.’
‘You bloody know what I mean.’
‘And I know I’d rather not talk about it. Neither should you. He has a way of hearing things.’ Coran glanced over his shoulder. ‘Few weeks from now, maybe sooner, and I’ll be gone. You should think about it too.’
‘Oh, he’d just love that. You know how he feels about people quitting.’
Coran grinned. ‘By then he’ll have enough other problems,’ he said. ‘He won’t give the likes of me and thee a second thought.’