A Mad and Wonderful Thing by Mark Mulholland Page A

chests in oak and using complex and precise joints to ensure strength and durability. The chests have a deep space under a top-hinged lid, with various-sized drawers accessible behind a front panel. All the hinges, handles, and fittings are brass, and I fitted each chest with a secure lock. I lined all the internal spaces and drawers with a rich royal-blue felt cloth, and I finished the chests with a hand-rubbed Danish oil. So the chests could be pulled along like a trolley, I fitted each with a double-axle carriage and oversized wheels, and I attached a long foldaway handle at one end.
    The tool-chests are a familiar sight around the plant as Jack and I pull them about on our various jobs. The men appreciate the craftsmanship — Jack says the chests are a work of art — and many ask me to help them build their own. I don’t mind, and I am happy to help. In a way, it all adds to the deceit. All the tradesmen buy and maintain their own tools, so the bringing and the taking of tools to and from the premises is a common thing.
    Once every two weeks I take the tool-chest home, taking a lift in Big Robbie’s van. I make a point of stopping near the security office to open the chest and show off a new tool or some recent piece of work. Here, too, the tool-chest is a familiar sight: ‘There he goes with his box of tricks’, the men say as I pass. And they are right: built into the dry-wall of my station is a secret space, and in that space is a third chest.
    I take a large, folded felt cloth down from a high shelf. Slowly, I spread it out smoothly on the table I’ve built for this purpose. I take the third chest from the wall. I gather the lubricants, polish, and cloths required from the shelving. I have hidden them here in full view amid the fundamental supplements of an engineering workshop. Maintenance and care, the American taught me, are as essential as both bullet and gun. Before I open the chest, I walk to the steel door and check that it is locked.
    Is this what you choose for your life? To be a killer?
    I turn. Bob sits on the end of my bench, a red rag hanging loosely from a pocket in his green overalls.
    Johnny?
    I ignore him. I return to the table, open the top lid, and set to work.

Soldiers’ Point
    IN THE EARLY MORNING OF A JULY DAY, I WALK EAST ALONG THE embankmenton the southern shore of the estuary. Che runs on ahead, stopping at intervals to check on me before running on again. The tide is ebbing, and the river is low as it empties into the wide bay. Below me the broad grey mudflats stretch and glimmer north to Bellurgan, Jenkinstown, Rockmarshall, and on east along the mountain peninsula. Herons hunt in the low tide and pools. The rivulets are populated with prowling oystercatchers, plovers, egrets, and grebes, and islands of green marsh are highlighted yellow before the rising sun.
    I stop at the end of the embankment, at Soldiers’ Point. I pull at the collar of the Dunn & Co and then push my hands into the deep side pockets. Inland, there is a terraced crescent of coastguard houses. There is no movement around the houses, and there is no one along the river — it is too early for early-morning walkers. I am alone.
    Bob sits on a boulder that once belonged to a small jetty. Hello, soldier , he greets me.
    I remember a day we sat at his oil-store workbench. It was summer, the door was open to allow a warm breeze in, and the bright light of the yard was framed in the doorway of the dark store.
    Bob gestured to the doorway. ‘Out there, life — it’s just one impossible mountain.’
    â€˜A mountain, Bob?’
    â€˜Yes, son, a mountain. We all get born at the foot of the mountain, uncontaminated and ignorant. Our goal, young man, is to try and climb the mountain.’
    â€˜Why? What’s on the top of the mountain?’
    â€˜Who knows? The meaning of life? Answers? Happiness? Maybe … maybe nothing,’ he laughed. ‘Who knows? Nobody