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In the Back of the Lorry

Jack sat between two boxes and hugged himself against the cold. The wind blew in through the gaps, whipping loose cords and flaps as they sped through the deserted streets. It was pitch black in the back of the lorry; only the occasional streetlamp or ray of moonlight filtered through the sailcloth. Jack's eyes were just beginning to adjust to the darkness when a spark of orange light made him blink. The small space glowed as Aidan cupped his hands to his face and lit up a cigarette.

"Should you really be doing that in here?"

Aidan shook out the match and took a long, lazy drag. The tip flared red and cast his face into relief. He grinned. "I'm not completely stupid, Glasgow," he said. White smoke drifted from between his lips. "There's only the gun parts in here. Someone else'll be getting the ammo." Looking at Jack's face, he plucked the smoke from his mouth and held it out. "Here. It'll warm you up."

Jack took the cigarette gratefully. It was a small, hand-rolled smoke, short but thick in wrinkled paper, smelling of sweet-spiced tobacco. Jack drew in a long pull and held the smoke in his lungs until his chest began to tingle with warmth. He handed the fag back to Aidan and exhaled into the air between them, white with smoke and warm breath.

"Cheers," he said.

They fell silent as the lorry jostled along. Jack curled around himself in his coat and pondered the things he had just witnessed. The German's words only confirmed what Jack already knew: this group knew nothing of the big picture. Jack watched Aidan smoke his cigarette. The boy was a leader, that much was certain. He had all three Cs—charisma, cockiness, and charm—but he was not the shady money-runner Jack had first taken him for. Jack thought of the bank notes on the bar that first night in the pub, the coins perpetually jingling in Aidan's pockets. He dressed smartly but not in finery; he bought the lasses flowers but not diamonds. He had money, and he was not using it. Where was it going?

"Why do you do this?"

Aidan had his knees drawn up and his elbows resting atop them, his cigarette dangling from one hand. He looked at Jack from beneath the brim of his cap; his head rested on the box behind him, lolling with the swaying truck. Jack shook his head, embarassed.

"I'm sorry. It's none of my business."

To his surprise, Aidan only smiled. He took a final draw off his cigarette, stubbed it out on the floor and flicked the end through an open flap in the tarp. He blew out a thin stream of smoke and regarded Jack with his calm gray eyes.

"Why do you do it?"

Jack looked at the stacks around them: unmarked crates of various sizes, reused boxes branded with Blum's Fine Grocery and Baked Goods. He thought of Sean and Michael laughing as they worked in the dark. He thought of Pat and Miranda waiting for them at the pub. He thought of the two-inch folder in Lord Christopher's drawer, and the brand new notebook beneath the floorboard in his room. He thought of David's quiet voice: It's the army you have to look out for.

"This is the only way I can make it worthwhile," he said.

Aidan's face was smooth in the shadows, but Jack saw the flicker in his eyes. He looked at the scar on Jack's neck, and Jack let him. The boxes creaked and shifted against the sound of the engine and the whistling wind. Then Aidan's eyes met Jack's, and he nodded, and let his head rest again against the box behind him.

"Aye," he said.