The Young Wan Read Online Free PDF Page B

and while Constance went back to work, over the next couple of months Joanne began her transition to invisibility.
     
     
    Bosco sat on a hard kitchen chair by the open window, looking out to the lane below. His leg was propped up on a wooden Guinness crate. The wound had healed well, and although Bosco could walk with a slight limp he found he tired easily. Spring had arrived, and the sweet April air drifted in the window. He leaned forward out of the window and looked down. Pascal was standing outside the door of the flat, as he had been for the last thirty minutes. Waiting. At the far end of the lane another young man stood in a tweed suit and cloth cap. Just as Bosco looked toward the man, he turned and whistled to Pascal. Pascal acknowledged his whistle with a wave and promptly took the cigarette from between his lips. He threw the butt on the ground and stood on it. He straightened his suit just as a bicycle ridden by a very large man turned into the lane. Within seconds the man on the bicycle was below the window. Bosco watched as he casually swung his leg over the saddle and freewheeled the last few yards, to where Pascal stood. The man was wearing a long brown gabardine coat and trilby hat. He exchanged a few words with Pascal, and then the big man looked up at the window, meeting Bosco’s gaze. Pascal held the man’s bicycle, and Bosco could hear the downstairs door slam, then the heavy trudge of feet coming up the stairs. The door of the flat opened, and the man seemed not just to enter but to invade the room. His huge form made the already small flat now seem tiny. The man made no announcements or introductions. He took off his coat, held it over his arm, took his hat off, and brushed back the fringe of hair that dropped across his forehead.
     
    “How’s the leg, son?” His voice was deep and flat.
     
    “Better,” Bosco answered.
     
    “Good,” said the man. He now took one of the other kitchen chairs and sat. From the inside pocket of his jacket the man took a brown manila envelope, and handed it to Bosco.
     
    “You take the mail boat tonight, at eight o’clock. From Liverpool get the train to Crewe; change trains there for London. When you get to Euston Station you’ll be met by a young man who will take you to your digs.”
     
    “What’s his name?” Bosco asked.
     
    “It doesn’t matter,” the man answered. He continued: “In this envelope is your mail-boat ticket and your train tickets, along with fifteen pounds in cash. Once you are safely in your digs you’re on your own, son.” The big fella went quiet and held Bosco’s stare. Bosco turned away and looked out the window.
     
    “Yeh, I know,” Bosco said to the evening sky. There was silence for a few more moments. The big man stood. He dropped the envelope on the table and put his coat on. As he placed his hat on his head and adjusted it with the tips of his fingers, he gave a nervous cough.
     
    “Your father was a good man, son,” the man said and made for the door.
     
    “My father’s dead,” Bosco answered.
     
    “Aye, he is that,” the man said with his back to Bosco. The man opened the door as if to exit but turned to Bosco. “Son,” he called. Bosco turned and looked at the man.
     
    “We all die sometime, son. When doesn’t matter, how doesn’t matter, all that matters is why.” The big man winked and closed the door. Again Bosco could hear the heavy bang of the footsteps descending the stairs. The man arrived at the downstairs so quickly that Bosco thought he must have taken the steps two at a time. As he took the bicycle, no conversation passed between him and Pascal. The man simply took the bicycle, put his foot on the left-hand pedal, scooted along, cocked his leg over the saddle, and vanished around the corner. Bosco never saw Michael Collins again.
     
    That night, Pascal left Bosco to the mail boat. There were no fond farewells, just a simple shake of hands.
     
    “Thank you, Pascal,” Bosco