We come downstairs and out through the lobby, still blowing like two whales in the North Atlantic. The boss rips the sign from the wall as we leave the building and folds it delicately into a pocket square for his destroyed shirt, the crisp white paper in contrast to the brown-spattered shirt. Outside, a car screeches into the empty square and pulls up alongside us.
The man in the passenger side, taking us for two farmers – or hobos; locals in any case – shouts, “We’re looking for the library.”
The boss takes the lead, leaning in with his full girth to block the building behind him.
“Tenders, is it?”
The man nods.
“Right, well do you see that street down there?”
Again, an anxious nod from the car and a glance at the watch.
“Well, it’s just down there. Past the old fish factory, you can’t miss it.”
The car screeches across the square and in the direction of a factory that isn’t there. The boss stands on the step a moment and watches the disappearing vehicle contentedly.
“Rookies,” he says, and shoves away from the railing.
We retrace our steps towards the gate into the field. Passing a bar, we take two cool beers outside and rest against a wall warmed by the last of the evening sun.
He leans back against the wall, red face flecked with spittle and muck, clothes beyond repair, beer in hand, and I swear I’ve never seen him look happier. Once more, he had faced the impossible odds and beaten them down.
Having recovered my breath and a little courage, I manage to enquire about the crossbow. He throws me a quizzical look.
“And tell me,” he says, “what use would the gun have been?”
What use, indeed. I really can’t think of anything to say in response, so I just nod sagely and turn back to my beer. When we’re done, he pushes away from the wall.
“Come on, we’ve to get you home.”
As we traipse back across the muck towards our submarine, he says, “You know, we cut it a bit fine today. Maybe next time, we’ll get started on the tender a bit earlier.”
But I know he doesn’t mean it. He knows it too.