The sign on his desk said, “Arthur McKenzie. Coxswain.” He was a tough, grizzled man with a Scottish accent. He held a report in his hand as he glared at Declan across his desk. “You stole the boat from Bowen Island.”
Declan said nothing.
“Where do you live?”
Declan stared at him.
“What’s your name, son?” McKenzie’s tone softened.
“Do you think I could have a drink of water?”
McKenzie called to one of the men in the next room to bring some water. Declan drank the water quickly; his mouth felt so dry.
McKenzie resumed his questioning: “What’s your name?”
Declan held out the empty glass. “Could I have some more?”
McKenzie gave a sigh. “More water for Oliver Twist!” he yelled into the other room.
Declan drank the second glass of water and put the empty glass on McKenzie’s desk.
“Well?”
Declan said, “Thanks.”
“I was asking about your name.”
Declan said nothing.
When Declan would answer none of the questions, McKenzie called the police. Five minutes later they were marching Declan out of the coastguard station and into their police car. There were two of them, uniformed. They pushed him into the back seat. There were no handles on the insides of the doors. By now it was getting dark. They whisked him to headquarters in downtown Vancouver where he was handed over to a big man with a badly pockmarked face. He chewed gum. His dark jacket was badly crumpled. The sign on his desk said, “Detective Sam Gore.”
Gore’s office was small, barely room for the desk and two chairs. Declan sat and hunched his shoulders. Gore sat back and stared at Declan with hard unfriendly eyes, his jaw chewing rhythmically.
Declan sat, relaxed, eyeing the big detective.
Gore stared and chewed.
Declan allowed his gaze to wander about the office, but there was nothing to focus on, no notices, no pictures of Most Wanted Men, no pictures of any kind: the room was completely featureless. He brought his attention back to Gore.
Declan’s indifference had made Gore angrier, his chewing jaw tighter, his stare now a hostile glare. He spoke, forcing the words out slowly between his teeth. “What’s your name?”
Declan said nothing.
Gore stopped chewing. His eyes protruded. “You hear me, boy?” he growled in a strangled voice. “I asked your name!”
Declan said nothing. He watched the detective calmly.
Gore, barely controlling himself, gripped the edges of his desk with his big paws as if he were about to hurl it aside and attack Declan with his fists. “It’s all the same to me, boy,” he rasped, “but you could end up spending the rest of your life behind bars. So you better start talking, you hearing me?” He leaned forward over the desk. He was boiling. “You steal a boat from Bowen; you get near killed by a ferryboat; you got no ID, and seems like you’re deaf and dumb. Who are you, boy? What’s your name? Where do you live? Why’d you steal a boat? You better spill it, before I get mean! And when I get mean, I’m like mean, man!”
“Up yours!” said Declan calmly.
Gore howled with rage. “Why, you little snot!” He reached over the desk for Declan’s neck.
The door opened. “Everything okay in here?” It was another detective. He stepped in quickly and held Gore by the arm. “Take it easy, Sam, he’s only a kid. Look, why don’t you go get a cup of coffee.” He wrestled Gore out from behind the desk and pushed him out the door. “Leave the kid to me, okay?”
He came back, smiling, and put out his hand. “I’m Jake Ball.” He had bad teeth. He also chewed gum.
Declan ignored the outstretched hand.
Ball kept smiling. “Let me help you, son. You’re in a heap of trouble, but it’s nothing that can’t be put right. I want to help you, okay?” He had a very friendly face. He offered Declan a stick of gum.
Declan ignored the gum. “I’m not your son. And I’ve been through this bad guy-good guy routine before. With professionals. So save your breath.”
Ball threw up his hands. “Okay. If that’s the way you want it. If I let my partner in here again, he’ll murder you, I know it. He’s mean. But if that’s what you want . . . “
“I’m trembling,” sneered Declan.
Ball went out and closed the door behind him.
Declan sprang to the door. It wasn’t locked. He opened it and walked through. He could see Ball talking to Gore in another room. He hurried down the stairs and out the door into the dark street. He ran.
His legs were cramped from all the sitting in the boat. Running was painful. He jumped on a bus, not knowing where he was going, but it did not matter; he wanted to put some distance between himself and the police station.
He handed the driver his ten dollar bill.
The driver gave back the ten and said, “You have to have the change. Seventy cents.”
“Huh?”
The driver jerked his head. “Forget it. Siddown.”
He sat down beside an old man. “Does this bus go to the airport?”
“You want to get to the airport?” The old man seemed surprised that anyone would want to go there. “There’s a bus goes every hour, on the hour . . .” He consulted his watch. “ . . . you should just about make one.” He pointed ahead. “Get off at the next stop, and walk over one block to the Vancouver Hotel. Bus goes every hour.”
Declan thanked him.
Forty-five minutes later, he was at the airport terminal, scanning the monitors for information on flights to Britain. There was one going to Prestwick tomorrow morning at eight. The name was familiar. Prestwick was in Scotland. Or England; he could not be sure. But it didn’t matter which; either one would do, for Ireland was but a few hours away on the ferry. He drank from the water fountain. Then he bought two bars of chocolate and a bag of crisps—potato chips they called them here.
It was late and he was exhausted. It had been a long day. The waiting room was full of sleeping bodies. He would have to be careful: Matthew knew he would be making for the airport. Would he be here searching for him? He drank from the water fountain again and then went to the washroom. He washed his hands and face and dried himself with paper towels. After that he lay down on the hard terminal floor with the other overnighters. He ate his crisps and chocolate, and wrapped himself up in his uncle’s coat and slept.
He had not slept well. The floor was hard, and he woke often, pulling his coat over his head, worried that his uncle might be looking for him among the sleepers.
He got up and went to the washroom, had a long drink from the water fountain and bought a packet of peanuts and a bottle of Coke. He ate the peanuts and swigged back the Coke.
By six o’clock the terminal was busy and alive again. He noticed a crowd of school kids wearing identical blue and orange sweatshirts with the name of their school, “Windermere.” Many wore jackets over their shirts. He asked one of them where they were going. “Scotland,” she said. She was about his own age and looked like Ana.
“What time is the flight?”
“Eight o’clock. Where are you going?”
“Scotland will do fine.”
The girl laughed. “Are you serious? Do you have a ticket?”
“No.”
“Well then?”
“Maybe I could smuggle onto the plane with your group.”
“It’s a charter flight,” said the girl. She didn’t look like Ana, really, now that she was up close. But there was something about her that was like Ana, maybe the combination of blondness and boldness, and the way she had of frowning so two vertical furrows appeared above her nose.
“Is that the teacher in charge?” said Declan, nodding toward a large, bearded man who was talking to some of the children.
The girl nodded. “Mr. McManus.”
“Would you stay with me and talk to me as you move onto the plane? I’m sure I could sneak through.”
She frowned. “You’re really serious, aren’t you?”
He said, “What’s your name?”
“Lisa. What’s yours?”
“Declan.”
“We’re a school band. Touring Scotland for two weeks.”
“That’s nice.”
“If you like I can get you one of our shirts. Then you’d look like the real thing.”
“Thanks.”
Lisa moved away through the crowd.
Declan looked around. No sign of his Uncle Matthew. It was hard to outguess his uncle. It looked like he had not reported him to the police as a runaway. And he didn’t seem to be here, though you could never tell.
Lisa was back with the shirt. Declan slipped it on over his T-shirt. It was big on him.
“Thanks, Lisa. If I get caught I won’t tell where I got this from, so don’t worry.”
Now he looked like one of them. All he had to do was keep away from McManus. He would keep his own coat on for now so it covered the Windermere shirt.
The Windermere group started moving into the departure gate at 7:30. Declan moved with them. He had no bag, so he walked quickly through the baggage checkpoint into the waiting area. Lisa sat beside him. The Windermeres were now mixed in with several hundred other passengers. Declan kept his coat closed.
The call came for boarding. As he approached the boarding pass checkpoint, Declan slipped off his coat. He now looked like a Windermere. He stayed slightly behind Lisa. As Lisa handed in her boarding pass, she gave a cry and fell to her knees. The startled checker bent to help her. Declan slipped through without looking back. He clenched his jaw, expecting to hear the checker yell, “Hey you!” but Lisa’s little trick had worked. He was free to board the airplane.
He shrugged his coat back on in case the teacher should spot him. He was on the plane, the flight attendant at the doorway smiling at him, welcoming him aboard.
He moved in with his head down. Damn! His coat caught on a seat arm in the narrow aisle and exposed his shirt. McManus was watching him from one of the aisle seats. Declan’s heart skipped a beat. Had McManus seen the shirt? Declan would soon know. He took a seat at the rear of the plane, ready to move if someone else claimed it.
He stared out the window.
His heart was beating wildly. Another twenty minutes or so and he’d be on his way home.
He closed his eyes and said a prayer and thought about Brendan Fogarty’s face and all the others in the Holy Terrors when they saw him back home in the Falls Road. And Tim O’Malley next door, and Tim’s ma and da, their eyes wide with shock and surprise. “Is it back you are?” Unbelieving, like seeing a ghost.
“Could I please see your ticket and your passport?”
It was a flight attendant, a dark man in a navy blue uniform.
His stomach sank.
What rotten luck! McManus had seen him. There was nothing he could do. He felt suddenly very weary as though a great weight were pressing him down.
They took him to the immigration office.
It was the same man as before. Raghavji.
His eyes popped. “I know that boy!” he cried.