Brendon Pennyridge waited for the widow and the blind child to depart, and slipped into the vacated seat, still buttock warm. He hoisted a bulging travelling bag onto his lap, and wiped a view through the steamed up window, as the town he knew so well and was seeing for the last time, slipped by.
There was something sticking into his hip, and he dug out from between the edge of the seat and the metal side of the tram, a narrow wooden box. He opened it and inside was an acorn, polished and smooth, an ivory carved comb, a soft piece of blue winceyette with rabbits printed on it, two cubes of fudge wrapped in greaseproof paper, and dried rolled up rose petals, which gave off a memory of their scent. The child must have left it behind. He was about to tuck it back into the seat, and suddenly thought it would hold his documents together, so pushed it in amongst the shirts and long johns in his leather bag.
The tram took him all the way to the dock. He found a rubbish bin, and emptied out all the crap from the box. The passport, visa, and birth certificate all fitted in neatly, and he was glad they weren't crumpled up in his pocket anymore.
It was the largest boat he'd ever seen docked up, black smoke pillowing from the funnel as it worked up a head of steam. Pennyridge joined the long line of families and single men, all struggling with suitcases and boxes, possessions they could not bring themselves to leave behind. Conversation was mumbled between families, but otherwise they shuffled silently along, all knowing they were leaving their home forever, though most of them had little desire, beyond need, to do so.
A few hours later, they were at sea. The weather had taken a turn and was rolling the boat in high waves and lashing rain. Pennyridge left his bunk in a shared berth with three other men, who had begun to groan and look at their shoes, desperate not to be the first to start throwing up. Pennyridge, lucky to be born with sea legs, left them to their misery and swayed his way along the swinging, twisting corridors, for his rendezvous on deck.
There were two of them, protecting their cigarettes in cupped hands hung loosely at their side, taking the occasional puff. The collar of their jackets turned up, so they touched the baggy sides of the large caps they wore. Pennyridge asked for a light and the nearest man obliged.
"Do you have the money?" He whispered as Pennyridge leant close. He did indeed have the cash, rolled up tight in his trouser pocket, but he wasn't about to hand it over so easily.
"Do you have the address?" He asked.
"You'll be met at the port." The ship took a sudden lurch and the two had to catch onto the railing, Pennyridge stood firm, his legs locked out, suddenly feeling he had the upper hand.
"How do I know that?" One of them poked him with his cigarette, wanting to get down below out of the rain.
"They'll be there, just give us the pissing money." Pennyridge still baulked. It had taken a lot for him to get to this point, he'd done all they had asked, and now they were mucking him about when they had no need to.
"Give me the address, you must know it."
"Of course we do, but that's not our job. The fella at the port decides." Pennyridge frowned, wiping his wet face.
"Decides what? It's all arranged."
The two exchanged a look.
"Are you giving us the money or what?" One asked in a bored tone. Pennyridge paused just too long, and the one nearest punched him hard and low, so he jackknifed into their arms. They dragged him off, behind the swinging lifeboat, and gave him a kicking. As he lay coughing blood, they emptied his pocket of the money, and his neck of a gold crucifix.
Then they threw him overboard, watching him splash into the wall of a wave, and be swept away behind the boat towards death.
(For Part 1 see 'Madigan')
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