Brute Force

10

Dun Laoghaire, Republic of Ireland

December 2007

If I drank any more tea I was going to die of tannin poisoning, but how could I turn her away? Ruby was getting too much of a kick out of going up to the counter and ordering like a grown-up. Besides, it was fun watching the eight-year-old coping with the motion of the ferry as she waitressed the cups back to us.

She waved excitedly at Tallulah and me from the queue and then grinned and pulled a face at a girl behind her who seemed to be doing a Steven Spielberg of her trip with a handheld camcorder. They both laughed and fell into the kind of animated conversation that girls of any age seem to be able to have with complete strangers.

'How old is that girl behind Ruby? Or is she a woman? When do you start calling a girl a woman? Twenty? Thirty?'

Tallulah looked up from her magazine and followed my gaze. 'Depends, I guess. Some are women at twenty. Some are still girls at thirty.'

I looked out of the window. Only a few minutes ago all I could see was slate-grey sea and clear blue sky; now a frost-covered Ireland was filling it up fast. Last time I did this crossing by boat, I was a young squaddie aboard a Royal Corps of Transport ferry from Liverpool docks. The boats were flat-bottomed for beach landings, which turned the Irish Sea into a rollercoaster – and the ride usually lasted all night. Catamarans with jet engines were definitely the way to go. Stena Line's finest had whisked us here in ninety minutes flat. In fact, the crossing had taken us less time than it had to get from Tallulah and Ruby's house to the M4. The traffic leaving London had been so bad I wondered if I'd missed an announcement about an outbreak of the Ebola virus in Piccadilly.

Ruby delivered the latest two cups with a theatrical flourish as the tannoy announced we would soon be docking at Dun Laoghaire. Would all car passengers kindly return to their vehicles?

Or, in our case, Avis's vehicle: a supercharged Mercedes C Class estate, with all the bells and whistles. They were so proud of it when I collected it from the Mayfair office, I didn't like to trouble them with the news that I was taking it out of the UK.

'So what were you plotting and scheming with your new best friend up there?'

'She's nice. I said about the surprise. I said me and Tally don't even know where we're going for our holiday!'

'What did she say to that?'

'She said have a happy Christmas.'

'And that's exactly what we will do.'

'Where?'

I pretended to start spilling the beans but caught myself just in time. 'Nearly got me!'

'That's lovely! The whole family. Come on, Ruby, say cheese!' Up close I could see that Ruby's new friend looked more Eastern European than Irish, but the accent was pure Belfast.

Ruby turned and started waving at the lens.

I stood up and smiled apologetically. 'Just off to the toilet.' Old habits died hard; I just never felt comfortable in front of a camera.

'What's your mammy and daddy's names then?'

Tallulah wasn't impressed. 'Sorry, I feel uncomfortable about you filming my daughter. Please stop.'

By the time I'd got back Tallulah had gathered up the dozen or so magazines she'd bought at various motorway service stations yesterday and Miss Spielberg had gone.

Tallulah was on edge. 'I just don't like it. You never know where the footage could end up. There are some weird people out there.'

I wasn't about to disagree. Ruby's dad Pete had caught me on film not so long ago in Iraq, and when he was killed I'd ended up on a nationwide TV tribute to the guy. I was only on screen for a nanosecond, and I doubted I'd have featured in Gary Glitter's personal collection, but I didn't like it one bit.