He moved back to the van to retrieve a shovel and sat on the tailgate, where he’d left his mobile phone. He took a deep breath and dialled the number. A familiar voice answered.
‘Sean, is that you?’ Kelly queried.
‘Is that his master’s voice,’ joked the older man. ‘How are you and Gerry?’
‘Champing at the bit, Kieran, boy,’ Callaghan lied. If the truth were known, he and O’Connor were shitting themselves about what they were volunteering to do. And yet, in some strange way, there was also a mixture of elation, a sort of adrenaline rush that he hadn’t had since accompanying their leader on his very last action, the dispatching of two informers who had been a thorn in their sides for a long time. The only thing that had left a sour taste was the fact that the victims were twin brothers. Kelly had insisted that they be executed within minutes of one another, but at different locations. It was a logistics nightmare, but Kieran had insisted that neither brother should know about the other’s demise. ‘I don’t delight in Schadenfreude,’ he had said. Callaghan recalled leafing through a dictionary to find out what the word meant.
‘Next Friday, Sean, my place,’ Kelly cut into his thoughts.
‘Do you want me to tell Gerry?’
‘Yes.’
‘How many days will it be, Kieran?’
‘A week.’
‘Not a couple of days then?’
Kelly thought he could sense reticence in his comrade’s voice. He prayed that they wouldn’t let him down at this late stage. ‘Five days’ preparation, two days’ action. Are you still game, Sean?’
‘Of course I am, man.’
‘My place, Friday, then.’
‘Friday it is, Kieran.’
Click.
Kelly felt a tingle of excitement mixed with a twinge of apprehension. He knew that he could rely on his comrades, but if anything went wrong before they were in the clear, he didn’t think he could forgive himself.
Apart from his children and his sister-in-law, he regarded Sean and Gerry as his only true family. It was funny how shared experience of violence tended to unite people whether they were perpetrator or victim. Old soldiers were always saying that friendships forged in war were everlasting, even though they might never see their former comrades for decades, if ever. The Irishman wiped the sweat from his brow and dialled another number.
‘Ja?’ came the Germanic reply.
‘Hi, Magda.’
‘Kieran, Liebling, how are you?
‘I’m okay. Look, I’m sorry I haven’t contacted you for a few days. Something came up at work.’
‘There’s no need to explain,’ she said, perhaps a little too quickly. She didn’t like the hint of desperation in her own voice.
‘Look,’ he said, ‘the weather forecast says tomorrow’s also going to be hot and sunny. I’ve got a day off, so why don’t we head off to the coast for the day.’
‘That’ll be nice, Kieran, thank you. My pain levels are always much lower in the good weather.’
‘I’ll pick you up at about ten. Is that okay?’
‘I’ll look forward to it.’
‘See you then.’
With this, Kelly turned off the mobile and stared at it balefully for a while. He could simply have written Magda a ‘dear John’ letter, telling her how much he’d enjoyed their short relationship. But he owed her more than that. He would tell her face to face that he’d decided to return to Belfast to take care of his kids. He missed them greatly, and that was the truth. It was all a bluff, of course, but, should he die, then they would all know that he remained true to his principles to the end. He lived his life in black and white. Shades were for the vacillators, the wimps who would never be found standing up for themselves, let alone for anyone else. And, anyway, he was doing this for the two women he cared most about in the world. If he succeeded, the damned disease that had killed one and haunted the other would at least gain the sort of world recognition that might lead to further research, and a possible cure. As things now stood, the only man who gave a fuck was Kieran Patrick Kelly.
‘So what do you think?’ queried Sharon Proctor, as she waved aside the obsequious saleslady and stood resplendent in the black, backless Versace creation with its howling price tag. Jewel-encrusted, with a bias cut and asymmetric floor-length hemline, the dress shrieked ‘buy me’.
‘Stunning,’ Fiona Harrington replied. ‘Simply stunning, but then you’d look good in anything, Sharon.’
The American smiled. ‘Flattery will get you everywhere, and let’s face it, I trust your opinion more than any of these people.’
The store’s saleslady, a bat-like matron with Bram Stoker make-up, visibly wilted at the barb. Sharon Proctor wasn’t the easiest of customers, but then new money never was.
‘You don’t know how important your friendship has been to me, Fiona,’ the statuesque blonde drawled. ‘There seem to be so few people one can trust nowadays.’
Fiona Harrington felt herself blushing, a dead giveaway for someone who could spot the difference between embarrassment and duplicity. Sharon Proctor continued parading herself in front of the full-length mirror. ‘You know, Fiona, Jack and I have been under a lot of strain lately, what with the takeover and all. You know all about that, don’t you?’
Fiona had to think fast. She could deny it, but then that might appear incongruous, taking into account that she was sleeping with the company’s chief scientist. ‘Yes,’ she said matter-of-factly, ‘Jonathan did mention it. He said you were trying to take over a company, KleinKinloss, I think he said.’
Sharon Proctor disrobed and handed the Versace to the bat. ‘Wrap it up,’ she said curtly, ‘and here’s my card.’ The saleslady took the plastic and dress and scurried from the fitting room, hoping against hope that her testy customer wouldn’t change her mind.
‘Fiona, my dear,’ the American continued, ‘how much do they pay you at that IT company of yours?’
‘Thirty thousand plus my Audi Cabriolet.’
‘Not much, really.’
‘I can’t complain. I’m still young and the prospects are good.’
The American laughed. ‘I bet they ain’t gonna offer you no share options, though.’
‘Maybe not, but I’m happy enough.’
‘You’d be a lot happier running public relations at Parados along with half a percent in share options.’
If Fiona Harrington was taken aback, she did not show it. ‘But I don’t know anything about public relations,’ she said quickly.
‘There’s nothing to know. You spout the party line and you look good. That’s about it. Salary seventy grand and a guaranteed bonus of another thirty at the end of the year, and, of course, your shares will probably be worth a million if this deal comes off.’
‘I-I don’t know what to say,’ Fiona stuttered. ‘It’s mind-blowing.’
‘It’s the least I can do.’
‘I just don’t understand.’
‘Look, you’ve been like a younger sister to me over the past couple of years. Whenever I’ve had problems, I’ve been able to discuss them with you. Strange, really, when you consider I’m six years older than you. But the thing I like about you is that you’re completely non-judgemental. Anyone the same age or older than me would have probably given me a hard time. Perhaps that’s why I’ve always liked to be surrounded by young blood. Maybe I hope some of that youth will rub off on me, or maybe it’s because I’m looking for a substitute for my twin sister. I don’t believe I ever told you this before, but Tracy-Lee died from meningitis when we were ten. I don’t think I’ve ever gotten over it.’
At that moment Fiona Harrington felt truly sorry for the American. She realised how desperately unhappy Sharon Proctor really was; that despite all the trappings of great wealth, her proposed benefactor was trapped in a loveless marriage, longing for a youth that had passed her by. ‘I don’t know what to say, Sharon,’ she said quietly.
The American put her arm around her young companion. ‘It�
��s simple, really. I believe loyalty should be rewarded.’
Again Fiona felt distinctly uncomfortable. Whatever dirt she could dig up on Jack Proctor was by its very nature going to smear Mrs Proctor. She would have liked to believe that Sharon was an innocent party in any conspiracy at Parados.
‘I need a couple of days,’ the younger woman lied.
‘There’s just one thing I’d like you to do for me, though,’ the Southerner drawled. ‘Your boyfriend’s best friend is Abe Klein. Tring seems incorruptible, but that damned little Yankee has got something on us that might ruin our company. Maybe you can work on Tring. If you can find out what it is, it’ll be worth millions to you, I promise.’
‘Wow,’ Fiona Harrington gasped. If she gave up her mission, she’d be made for life. If she swapped sides, she would never have to take an editor’s bullshit again. Regaining her composure, she looked Mrs Proctor squarely in the eye. ‘As I said, Sharon, give me a few days to think about it.’
It was perhaps because she hailed from a land-locked country that the sea held more of a fascination for Magda von Esterhazy than it did for her companion. Westcliff-on-Sea wouldn’t have won many prizes for resort of the year, she thought, but the blustery air was bracing enough. The tide was in, and the small boats were gaily bobbing about on their moorings as if glad to be free of the mud that had ensnared them for half the day.
‘That’s the Isle of Grain over there,’ said Kelly, leaning over the wheelchair to speak into her ear. ‘It’s a huge oil refinery. You see the flame atop that chimney?’
‘Yes,’ she shouted above the wind.
‘They say that if that goes out, the island would blow up and take the whole of Southend and Westcliff with it.’
Magda stared at the flame with rekindled intensity, almost wishing it to go out because she knew it wouldn’t.
‘You must be feeling cold,’ he said with concern, knowing that poor blood circulation was always a problem for those who could not walk well. Not waiting for affirmation, he pushed the wheelchair briskly towards a Victorian pavilion that acted as a windbreak. Both the pavilion and the promenade on which it stood were deserted.
She shivered. ‘Lift me out, Kieran, and let me snuggle close to you.’
Kelly gently lifted her from the wheelchair and placed her on the bench, which faced the sea but was recessed just enough to shield them from the elements. He then spread a thick tartan blanket to cover them both from the waist down. A few spots of rain began to fall, heightening their sense of cosiness, and at that moment the Irishman experienced an extraordinary and overwhelming feeling of peace. ‘I used to bring the wife and kids down here on summer Sundays,’ he said wistfully. ‘This place has always been a sort of refuge for east Londoners. In the old days before package holidays, it was about the only bit of seawater the working class would ever get to see. Back home, the sea was an integral part of our lives. Up until the age of ten, we lived n a little seaside village called Donaghadee. I used to look out over the North Channel and watch the ferries making for the Isle of Man or Liverpool, or returning to Belfast. Then, one day, out of the blue, my father has a massive stroke and our lives turned upside down. It took just a week for him to die. He was thirty.’
‘I’m so sorry, Kieran,’ she said. ‘It must have been terribly hard for you.’
‘Yes, it was. I was the youngest of three brothers and a sister. We had an elderly great aunt who lived off the Falls Road, a little back-to-back that you couldn’t swing a cat round. She invited my mam and us to live with her. I guess she was lonely and she would always say we kids gave her a new lease on life. She died when I was fifteen and my mam got the house. By that time all of us were working.’
‘So life became easier.’ ‘Financially, yes, but—’
‘Politically, no.’
‘How did you guess?’
‘You were a Catholic living in the Falls Road area. It was the time of The Troubles. I read up on it when you mentioned it soon after we met.’
What did it matter now, thought the Irishman? If he told Magda the truth about himself, it might make her despise him and make it easier for her to accept his going away. She would probably be appalled to learn the truth.
Magda snuggled close to him and sought to change the subject. ‘I never saw the sea as a child, you know. Boating on the Danube was about as close as we got, and it’s now making me feel Heimweh.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Homesick.’
The very mention of the word was like a dagger in Kelly’s heart. He missed his children so much, and the fact that he might never see them again filled him with a deep melancholy. ‘Magda,’ he said quietly, ‘there’s something I have to tell you.’
She turned her head to look at him, and even this slight movement caused a wave of pain to suffuse her lower limbs. The tone of his voice created a sense of foreboding that frightened her.
‘There’s no easy way to say this,’ he said, already hating himself for the pain it would bring her. ‘It’s just that the kids miss me as much as I miss them. I have to return home.’
Magda took a deep breath. Knowing how close he was to his children, she had secretly dreaded this moment. She knew he loved her, but she also knew it was too soon for him to introduce her as a replacement for his children’s mother. ‘I understand, Kieran,’ she said quietly. ‘You need your space, time to think. Anyway, if it meant that you could only get away to visit me a few times a year, I would have to accept that. I love you, Kieran, with all my heart and soul. You know that, don’t you?’
Ordinarily, her words would have found a positive response, but for Kieran Kelly the expression of her love instilled in him only unbearable guilt. Yet he knew that he would have to be cruel to be kind.
‘Magda,’ he said, his voice almost breaking, ‘I don’t know whether we should see each other again.’
The Countess gasped, the hurt suddenly exacerbating the pins and needles cascading down her legs. She remained silent, unable to muster the words that would do justice to the desolation she felt. As if in response to his declaration, the lowering sky began to darken further. Rain began to drum on the roof of the pavilion.
‘Is it because of my illness?’
‘Yes,’ he lied. ‘I don’t think I could cope a second time.’
‘I understand,’ she said dully.
‘Why do you understand, Countess Magda von Esterhazy?’ It was the first time he had raised his voice towards her. ‘For God’s sake, woman, be angry with me. Hate me, make it easy.’
She was frightened by his controlled vehemence. ‘What can hate achieve,’ she said quietly. ‘I have no strength to hate.’
‘I have more than enough hate for both of us. There’s so little you know about me, Magda.’
‘I only know what I see, a kind and loving man who has been torn apart by tragedy. My pain is physical and yours is mental, but it is still pain.’
‘My pain is caused by injustice, Magda. It eats away at me like a cancer. I must have revenge.’
She smiled wanly. ‘We have a saying in German: Rache bringt keine Frucht, revenge brings no fruit.’
‘No, Magda, when justice fails, revenge is the only option, and its fruit tastes very sweet indeed. To my enemies, I am nemesis.’
‘What do you mean?’ she asked, a twinge of apprehension knotting her stomach.
Dammit, thought Kelly, he had to tell her. Then maybe she would hate him enough to free him from the responsibility of hurting her. ‘I am a killer, Magda,’ he said almost in a whisper. ‘A callous murderer to some, and a hero to others.’
For a moment, Magda’s mind went blank. Then it began to reel with the enormity of his confession. The heaviness in her heart plummeted still further. She was in love with a man about whom she had known so little, a man who had brought her to an ecstasy she believed she would never feel again. Yet now he was confessing to the worst of all sins. What demons he must be suffering, she thought, what torture.
Kelly
held his head in his hands for a few moments, before looking into eyes whose hurt mirrored his own. ‘Magda, I have executed seven men in cold blood,’ he said baldly. ‘Can you understand what it’s like to look a man in the eyes and know that you are going to be responsible for snuffing out his life within the next few seconds?’ There, it was out. Hate me, Magda. Hate me.
Despite the dreadful nature of his revelation, the Countess found herself strangely composed. It was as if a steel curtain had been lowered to prevent further hurt. She was intelligent enough to realise that the Irishman’s actions had been politically motivated; that he had been an executioner for the IRA; that she would never be able to fight the twisted logic that people like him used to rationalise their appalling deeds.
Cradling his face in her hands, she gazed directly into his uneasy eyes. ‘The Troubles are over, Kieran. Whatever the merits of your cause, there is peace now, a new beginning. Life goes on.’
‘Life goes on,’ he repeated bitterly, ‘and one injustice gets replaced by another.’
‘There will always be injustice, Liebling, and no one can fight every war. Maybe it will be best for you to return home to your family. Perhaps you will find peace there.’ The hollowness of her own words suddenly frightened her. She desperately wanted him not to leave her.
‘Forget me, Magda. There’s a contract out on my life. There are still plenty of people like me in Belfast even if the conflict is over. But I must go back.’
‘I don’t want to hear any more. Take me home, Kieran,’ she said with calm finality.
The rain had ceased and there was a break in the clouds, but not even the warmth of the sun could dispel their mutual despair.
CHAPTER 15
Cry of the Needle Page 19
