She was as tall as the men stood at the bar. One bared shoulder displayed a greeny-blue tattoo; on the other, hung her empty rucksack. As Irish hodcarriers vied for position with Italian plumbers, Carrie commanded the bartender’s attention with a simple flip of her head.
“Guinness,” she stated, placing coins to the left of the copper line marked ‘Solo Camereros’.
She drank the pint in slow gulps, savouring the malty weight. Wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, she hooked up her leather jacket from the floor and swung herself into it, dispelling a cloud of sawdust into Quinn’s pint. He harrumphed, but drank it anyway.
As she turned to the door for another shot at the motorway, Big Paul stopped her.
“Let’s see that tattoo.”
She studied him for a moment, chewing her lip, and then slid one arm from her jacket. A crowd gathered, craning necks.
The tattoo was a remarkable design – a bubble reflecting two worlds. One, the interior world, was a desert island with palm tree and exotic blooms. The other, was a reflection on the exterior of the bubble, revealing a bar-room and a figure in silhouette at a window.
“Hey, that’s some pretty shit!” Big Paul declared, and heads nodded approval. “Where d’you get that? Looks Polynesian.”
Guffaws broke out among a table of heavyset men. Big Paul silenced them with a wave.
“It’s Marquesan, ain’t it?” He squared his shoulders, anticipating her reply.
“Too right. You been to
“Nah. Me mate did a tattoo convention though.” He glared at the hangers-on until men peeled away to tables, stools and the pool table.
“Is it Enata?” he asked, in a lowered voice, his eyes furtively finding hers.
“It’s unique. Enata AND Etua. Look, can I get a lift outta here? There’s trouble following me down the road and I need to outrun it. But if you’re chickenshit…”
She left the words in the air, where they spiralled in clear sight.
“I got a rig out back.”
He grabbed a checked shirt from a chair back, and they exited, squaring their shoulders in unison.
Opening paragraph of The Answer, 2007.
