
HOLIDAY OF RELUCTANCE
  by Patrick Curry
    
    In the dark, her hands gripping tightly the iron railing 
of the heavily rolling ferry, Clare stared out across the dark 
sea. She lifted her face, closing her eyes, and stood there in 
the salt spray. Her face looked peaceful as she enjoyed the 
moment, unaware she was being watched.

    Not fifteen feet away, Kenny O'Brian watched her from the 
thick shadows of a companionway. He might not get a better 
chance than this; she was alone, unaware . . . an easy target. 
He had followed her from Belfast, Northern Ireland, all the way 
south to Rosslare Harbor, where she had booked passage to France 
aboard this auto and passenger ferry. Four days now, and he still 
hadn't finished his task. He was conscious of the pistol holstered 
under his right arm. He was also conscious of his churning stomach. 
First time at sea and he was seasick. That is why he hesitated now. 

    He wasn't sure if he could do it -- kill her. At the moment he 
had trouble just keeping his balance. If he shot her from behind, 
he could push the body overboard. But there would be blood. His 
Control had seen to that when he had given Kenny the Browning 
automatic with custom rounds. They were low charged to serve two 
purposes: if a shot went amiss, the round wouldn't travel far, and 
it'd be unlikely for it to travel through an interior wall and hit 
someone else; also, the low charged round would do more damage at 
close range. The bullets were meant for one job only: to kill a 
person at close range. 

    Fifteen feet was close enough. "Just do it," he told 
himself. Yet he made no move, only stood there watching, sweat 
beginning to trickle down his back.

    Kenny took a step forward, out of the shadows, and into 
the cooling breeze of the deck. He licked his upper lip, tasting 
salt. Was it the sea spray coming over the side of the ship, or 
his own sweat that brought the moisture to his lip?  He reached 
with his left hand into his jacket, grasping the gun's cold grip. 
It felt natural, good, to hold the weapon. Then he crossed his 
right arm across his left, over his chest, appearing like only a 
man warding off the chill sea air. Hardly realizing it, Kenny 
took another step unto the deck. He stood in the open now. 
Exposed.

    He looked around, searching for other passengers on deck. 
No one else could be seen. They probably were in their quarters, 
lying on their bunks, fighting with their own cases of seasickness. 
An hour earlier, Kenny had even seen a crew member become violently 
ill in one of the public heads. The captain had spoken over the 
intercom, apologizing for the rough trip, blaming it on unusually 
strong equinoctial tides, or some such blarney.

    He looked back to Clare. She hadn't moved. There was 
enough lighting on deck to illuminate her features. Kenny had 
seen photographs of her, and had followed her for the past four 
days, but he had never been this close to her before. Perhaps it 
was the lighting, or the way she held her head -- whatever it was, 
Kenny suddenly thought how attractive she looked standing there 
alone, her face peaceful, a faint smile upon her lips. She 
didn't seem affected at all by the heavily rolling ship.

    Kenny wasn't so lucky. Weak knees and basic nausea made 
even standing hard for him. Yet this might be the best chance he 
would ever get. "_Do it now, get it over with_."  His Control 
wouldn't wait forever. "It's a simple thing," Control had told 
him. "We're worried about you, Kenny . . . there's been talk."  
Kenny knew what the talk was about, and didn't want to think 
about it. Maybe his Control enjoyed irony. Maybe that was why 
Kenny was sent to kill Clare.

    Clare, a bar maid in a pub in Belfast. But also an 
informer against the IRA, responsible for leading British forces 
in capturing 6 fellow IRA members. It wasn't a clean take; two 
guys were killed in a brief firefight. That was why an IRA man 
was sent out against her. Clare had left Belfast, just to play 
things safe. Kenny was chosen by his Control for reasons Kenny 
could only guess at.

    Kenny shrugged the thoughts away, advancing forward, his 
grip on the gun tightening. Something moved off to his left, on 
the edge of his sight, a sound, a distraction. Two passengers 
came down a nearby stairway from an upper deck.

    Clare heard them too, and turned sharply to look, as if 
she had been startled. Kenny, now only a couple of steps from 
her, wasn't sure what to do. If she turned and saw him so 
close . . . . 

    He was already walking and couldn't seem to stop, so he 
turned slightly and walked faster, past Clare, toward the couple 
coming down the stairs. He could almost sense something as he 
past by Clare so close, maybe fear or surprise. He felt her eyes 
upon his back as he reached the stairs and the two newcomers, a 
couple of young lovers blocking his way on the narrow stairs.

    Kenny coughed once, loud, to get their attention. The young 
man stepped aside and Kenny hurried up the stairs, two at a time.

                              * * *     
    
    On his way back to his cramped and sparse cabin, Kenny 
stopped at the ship's duty free shop, and bought a small bottle of 
Bailey's. Sitting on his bunk, pouring the drink into a styrofoam 
cup taken from the ship's cafeteria, Kenny watched his slightly 
trembling hands, and mumbled a soft curse. Underlying his seasickness, 
he felt a thinness inside.

    The cup was heavy in his hand, and he swallowed the drink in two 
noisy gulps. Maybe if he got drunk enough the nausea from the seasick-
ness could be forgotten along with everything else he felt at this 
moment.

    He poured another cup and held it up in a silent toast, not to 
himself in self-spite, but to his Control. The manipulative bastard. 
It was just his bad luck to get hooked up with someone like that, 
someone who know Kenny's past and even knew Kenny's father. "My dear 
old Da . . . husband, grocer, informer."

    He downed the second drink, and fought to keep it down. "_Are 
you enjoying your stroll on deck, Clare? What were you thinking about 
as you stood there watching the sea? Did you think of the six good men 
you informed on, maybe the two who got shot by the Brits when they came, 
armed to the teeth?_"

    He shook his head and poured another drink. He wished the 
business was done with, wished he hadn't hesitated, but that's what 
he had been doing for the past four days. Control knew what he was 
about; this was all a test, to see if he could measure up, be one 
of them. Damn it, he loved his home, and wanted it for his people 
as much as anyone, but maybe getting involved with the IRA was just 
a mistake, just a means of crossing his Da . . . young rebellion. 
But he didn't feel so young anymore, and a lot the IRA just didn't 
sit well with him -- like the drink in his stomach right now.

    He put the bottle away, no longer wanting it. "The sins of 
the father . . . ", the words came unbidden to him, as he lay back 
on his bunk. He reached out and slapped the light switch off. 
In the dark he kicked off his shoes and spoke softly, "I'll see 
you tomorrow Clare . . . but you won't see me."

                              * * *

    Kenny took breakfast early, and spent the rest of the day 
relaxing and trying to enjoy the sunny day. The ship still rolled 
beneath his feet a great deal, but it didn't seem to bother him so 
much. He caught glimpses of Clare from time to time, but didn't bother 
to shadow her; she wasn't going anywhere until the ship docked later 
that day at Le Harve, on French soil.

    He had made this journey once before while on holiday, and knew 
the routine. The French immigration and security at the port was 
slack. There would be no problems keeping the gun with him. What he 
was dreading was the call he would have to make to Control, updating 
him on what was happening.

    Around two in the afternoon, the captain announced over the 
intercom system that their arrival at Le Harve would be delayed by 
over an hour, blaming the bad news once again on those mysterious 
equinoctial tides.

    This changed things possibly. He assumed Clare would be heading 
straight on to Paris by train, but now with the schedule awry, she 
might be forced to stay the night in Le Harve. 

    Kenny had planned on finishing things up soon, in Paris, but if 
she stopped in Le Harve and made an unexpected move, he might not 
be able to follow her. There was nothing he could do about it now 
-- no way to finish things while aboard; the cleaning women had 
chased every single passenger from their cabins so they could tidy 
all the rooms in one nonstop sweep from bow to stern. The decks, 
shops, lounges, and companionways were filled with people. Witnessing 
eyes were everywhere.

    Sometime later, a final message from the captain reassured the 
passengers that the French Railroad was trying to make special 
arrangements so that those continuing on to Paris would be able to 
do so this very same day.

    Another half hour and the ferry docked at Le harve. Anxious 
passengers disembarked with haste, not wanting to miss the last train 
to Paris. Kenny followed Clare down the long, enclosed gangway, not 
thirty feet behind her. The end of the gangway stopped at the stern of 
the ship, which was opened up, revealing the large onboard car park. 
The cars from Ireland were still being deployed across a short steel 
ramp connecting the ship to the concrete dock. Kenny caught a glimpse 
of water beneath the ramp, a yellowish-brown layer of foam, churned 
from the ships propellers, bobbed sickeningly on the dirty water.

    The passengers on foot moved alongside the passengers in their 
rumbling automobiles up a section of concrete ramp next to a large 
terminal/customs building. The ramp turned sharply right, cutting 
underneath the building and forming a short tunnel, dim except for 
the sharp daylight at the end.

    When Kenny turned the corner he glanced first to find Clare and 
then noticed two things in the light at the tunnel's end: first, he 
saw that there wasn't a single border guard to check the entering 
travelers; second, he saw the tunnel split -- one larger branch for 
cars and a slightly narrower one for foot traffic. The path for the 
pedestrians ended in a bank of metal detectors. No guards were in 
sight at the present, but following Clare through those detectors 
would send off the alarms, and guards would come quickly. He made a 
snap decision and turned around, moving quickly back down the ramp, 
back to the ship. He glanced around quickly. No one watched. Taking 
the gun from his shoulder holster, he tossed it backhandedly into the 
foamy water at the ship's stern. That done, he moved even faster back 
up the ramp.

    Clare had just passed between the metal detectors, and Kenny all 
but ran to follow. When from a side door in the tunnel out stepped a 
border guard who hastily blocked the tunnel to detain the nearest 
group of passengers and check passports. Another guard appeared to 
help the process. Kenny pushed as far ahead as he dared without 
drawing the guards' attention to himself. A minute later a tall guard 
with 5 o'clock shadow passed him through with little more than a 
cursory glance at his passport.

    Finally out of the tunnel, Kenny made towards three large busses, 
operated by the French Railroad, waiting to transport the passengers 
directly to the railroad terminal.

    Clare sat on the first bus which was now full, so Kenny found 
room on the second bus. Ten minutes later he was holding second 
class tickets to Paris and watched Clare, an overnight bag slung 
over her shoulder, board the train. He waited until the last possible 
moment, watching carefully, before he himself boarded the train. A 
conductor at the car door gave him a disgusted look as he slammed 
the door shut. Kenny walked through the passenger cars once to find 
where Clare sat, and found a seat in the very next car. The trip 
lasted three uneventful hours. Night had come by the time the train 
pulled into the Paris terminal.

    Grabbing his own overnight bag, Kenny followed Clare out of the 
terminal onto the busy Parisian streets. He'd follow her to whatever 
hotel she planned on staying in, find a place to stay himself, and 
then make that dreaded call to Control.

    Clare had stopped at a crosswalk, waiting with a group of people 
for a break in the heavy traffic. The odd yellow headlamps of the 
Parisian automobiles rushed by almost blurringly in the night. 
Kenny walked up and joined the group. He looked to Clare, standing 
so close to the speeding traffic . . . A single push from behind 
could end it all right here. It'd be easy to disappear in the 
confusion and shock that would follow.

    Kenny looked to the left, watching the oncoming traffic. 
He could do this.

    He looked back to Clare. She looked down at a small wristwatch 
on her left hand, almost impatiently. Then standing up on tip toes, 
she looked off to the right for traffic. "_She's checking the wrong 
way,_" thought Kenny, as he watched transfixed as the Irish girl 
stepped onto the street. The left side of her body suddenly lit up 
in a bright yellow cast from an auto which Kenny could not see 
directly because of the people blocking his view.

    Startled, Clare turned to see the approaching auto. Unable to 
act, she just stood there. She felt something at her left shoulder; 
her overnight bag fell from her right hand to the pavement. Her world 
was filled with yellow light, exhaust fumes, a blaring horn. Then 
sudden darkness, as someone pulled her back to the curb.

    She felt a breeze as the auto sailed by only a foot away. A moment 
later, when her eyes had readjusted to the night, she looked into the 
face of her rescuer. It seemed a kind face, though it wore a startled 
look -- as must hers, she realized.

    "Are you OK, Miss?" he asked in English.

    He was Irish, like her. "Yes," she answered. "Yes, I think so."

    "Wait here. I'll get your bag."  He darted past her to the street, 
before the next auto came, and snatched up her overnight bag. It 
hadn't fared as well as she. It was torn open at the top, a white silk 
blouse inside had ugly black marks across the front, and her personal 
journal book was torn as well.
    
    She looked up into his face. "Thank you."

    He smiled briefly, almost a sad smile. "Let me escort you to 
your hotel."

    "I think I can manage."

    "I must insist," he said. "My name is Kenny."  He extended a 
hand to her.

    "Clare," she said, taking the offered hand.

    "We'll get a taxi, if your hotel is far."

    "Um . . . actually, I don't have one picked out yet."

    "No matter," he said. "I can recommend a couple. Reasonable, clean 
and neat -- like a slice of life from home. I'm sure you'll like it."

    "Depends on the slice, I think."

    "Only too true, Clare."

    On their way to the hotel they chatted for a time, but just as 
she was beginning to get comfortable with him and really start to 
enjoy the conversation, he seemed to withdraw. By the last five 
minutes of the taxi ride, hardly a word was spoken between them.

    At the hotel she stepped from the cab, turned, and shook 
hands with him once more.

    "I guess this is goodbye," she said. "Thank you again."

    "I'm glad I happened by."  He smiled and let her hand go.

    "So that's it," she thought, and taking her overnight bag, she 
walked to the hotel's door. She was almost inside when he called 
out to her. She waited to see what he would say.

    Leaning out of the open window of the cab, he suggested they meet 
beneath the Eiffel Tower (if she thought she could find it on her own) 
in the afternoon, and he'd show her some of the better cafes of the city.

    "That might be nice," she said.

    "Tomorrow then . . . at . . . four?"

    "Ok."  She went inside.

                            *  *  *

    Kenny watched her disappear into the softly lit lobby, then 
asked the driver to take him to another hotel. Once in his room he 
sat down in an uncomfortable looking wooden chair and cursed himself 
as he stared at the telephone sitting quietly on the end table. He 
considered calling his Control and telling all the details; the 
bastard would love the irony of it. Kenny couldn't believe he had 
done it, even now. He had made direct contact with his target, and 
she was still alive. Control would perhaps point out how Kenny could 
use that to his advantage, but he didn't want an advantage over 
anything now -- he just wanted out of this whole business.

    He reached for the phone.

    He dialed a number in Dublin. A voice answered. "Yes."

    "It's me, in Paris now."

    "I see . . . how soon before you come back home?"

    "Ah, tomorrow night or the next. I can't say."

    "It should have been done by now, Kenny. We're counting on you. I 
am counting on you. You're not loosing your courage, are you?"

    "No."

    "You're not turning out to be like your father are you?"

    "No."

    "Then what's going on?"

    "I . . . I lost the hardware, at the border. And haven't gotten 
any good chances to tie things up here."

    "I see. Well, first thing you do, tomorrow morning, go and find 
yourself a good straight razor. A man isn't quite himself until he's 
had a good shave in the morning. A good sharp blade is what you need. 
Am I right?"

    "Yes."

    "Then do it. You'd be surprised how much brighter the day will 
look after a good, close shave."

    "Right."

    "Kenny."

    "What?"

    ". . . Just do it, then you can come back home. If you don't do 
your job, you won't have many friends left back here. I won't be able 
to stand up for you, so just get it done."

    Kenny hung up the phone and went to bed. Somewhere around 2 in the 
morning he drifted into an uneasy sleep.

                              * * *

    At four the next day, he watched Clare arrive at the park, in the 
middle of which stands that majestic, if less than beautiful, tribute 
to engineering: the Eiffel Tower. 

    Kenny had shaved twice that day. Both times with his electric razor.

    He found her sitting on a bench near one of the tower's massive, 
supporting legs. After a simple hello, he showed her many of the places 
he had discovered when he was here in Paris a few years ago, on a true 
holiday. He almost enjoyed the day, but too many of his smiles were 
forced. Still, they had spent hours together before Kenny got the 
impression that Clare began to want the evening to end.

    The sun had set, as they walked along the Seine, very pretty 
at night with the streetlamps on the far bank reflecting off the 
water's surface. They stopped at one point along the stone embankment, 
and Kenny looked down at the dark water. He felt Clare's small hand 
sneak its way into his. He felt her closeness, smelled the sweet 
fragrance of her hair, heard her soft breathing. But he never would 
recall if her hand felt warm or cold in his.

    Just by their feet a set of stone stairs, built off of the 
embankment wall, led down to a small landing at the water's edge. It 
would be so easy to push her down those dangerous steps. No one was 
around to see.

    He turned to face her. "_Just do it,_" he heard Control in his 
head, "_then you can come back home._" He moved closer.

    "_Just do it,_" the words rang out.

    He reached for her. She closed her eyes and lifted her face, 
just like he saw her do on the ship.

    "I'm sorry," he said.

    Her eyes blinked open, searching his face. Her arms came up, 
touching his own. She leaned forward to kiss him. Her lips pressed 
softly against his for a sweet moment.

    "I'm sorry, Clare," he said again, breaking the kiss, pushing 
her away -- not far, but a single step was all it took.

    Her foot found only air, and she stumbled backwards on the first 
stair. She grabbed for him, calling his name, but she fell, tumbling 
down the stone stairs. At the bottom she lay motionless.

    Kenny could hear his own pounding heart, his breathing harsh and 
heavy. But over that he heard another sound, and he could not mistake 
its source. From the bottom of the stairs he heard a soft groan.

    She still lived!  He raced down the steps to her curled form. Her 
eyes were closed. He saw blood near her temple. She looked so frail 
and broken. The water of the Seine lapped steadily against the small 
landing, hardly a foot from where she lay. She was light, and the 
water so near.

    "_Finish it Kenny,_" he could hear his Control's voice. "_Do 
you plan to turn out like your father? An informer like her? Betrayed 
us, Kenny, both of them!_"

    Kenny reached out for Clare. "I am not my father," he said aloud, 
and took Clare into his arms. Gently.

    "It hurts," she told him, her face tight with pain.

    "I know. I'm sorry. I wish it hadn't happened. I'll. . ."

    "Shh . . . Please, Kenny, even my head hurts."

    Kenny smiled a moment. She couldn't be as bad off as he had 
thought if she could joke with him like that. "She thinks it was 
an accident," he told himself, wanting to believe that she believed. 

    "We'll get you back to your hotel, and clean you up, and take 
things from there."  She didn't answer him.

    Carefully he picked her up and carried her up the stairs.

    "Set me down please, I think I'll walk. It's only my head that 
really hurts the most."

    "You're brave, or stubborn. I'm not sure which it is," he said, 
as he set her down gently, his hands resting lightly upon her upper 
arms in case she wanted support.

    She took a few painful steps and said, "See, I'm fine. Besides, 
if you carried me into the hotel in your arms, what would people think?"



    "Clare," he said, "I'm not sure I care anymore what people think. 
I have more than enough to think about, myself."


Copyright 1994 Patrick A. Curry
=========================     # # #    ===============================  
Patrick Curry, a self proclaimed renaissance man (or at least professes 
that he was born in the wrong century), Patrick's latest brain child 
was the revolutionary concept of Call Faking, he denies any affiliation 
with such groups as the company that invented "The Clapper" tm. He's a 
sailor, writer of music, lyrics, poetry, and other wordstuff. Currently 
married to his BBS, he's seeking a good lawyer.
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