CHAPTER 14
March–April 1994
‘I was thinking, Maire,’ David begins cheerily, walking over to put his arms round her neck. It’s a couple of weeks since the night flight from the North and their afternoon routine is regaining normality.
She peers over her shoulder. ‘Yeah?’
‘It wasn’t necessary to do that runner from your home.’
Alerted, she rises and breaks away to stand by the window, studying the traffic below. She whips round. ‘Whaddya talking about?’
‘I’m just thinking it was a pity, that’s all. I’ve nothing to hide, I can’t be blamed for being my father’s son. You’ve nothing to hide. We could have stayed on and said so.’
‘Christ, I get that. But these guys don’t. I tell you again, David Vallely, you have no idea. No fucking idea.’
‘What do you mean, I have “no fucking idea”?’ He repeats her words with sour emphasis.
‘Do you know the sort of people we’re dealing with?’
‘No, why should I? Except for your brother – and you told me he’s a windbag.’ She’s riled. ‘Your words, Maire, not mine.’
‘You shouldn’t have such a good fucking memory.’
‘As for Joseph Kennedy, the only problem there is that he’s obviously sweet on you.’
‘Let me tell you something.’ She’s shown him before her spikiness. Now she adds fire. ‘Forget about Martin and Joseph, I don’t wanna discuss them. But those other two – they’re called Sean Black and Brendan O’Donnell by the way if you wanna commit that to your brilliant fucking memory – they wouldn’t even need the evidence if they took against you. You’d be bundled up, shotgun to your kneecaps, cigarette burns in your eyes, and then two bullets in your head before they leave you to the wild animals in some distant bog.’
‘They seemed polite enough to me.’
‘How the fuck do you know how polite they are?’ She seeps suspicion.
‘Maire,’ he replies calmly, ‘the walls of your house are thin. I may not have heard the words but I could make out the tone. It seemed friendly enough.’
‘If you think that,’ she says, ‘you’re an eejit. You should be too smart to be that.’
He walks to the window. ‘OK. I touched a nerve I didn’t understand.’
‘No, you don’t understand.’ Her cheeks are flushed. ‘You don’t understand how corrosive it is, how people get sucked in. Christ, when I was a twelve-year-old kid, I was out there cheering my fucking head off when they nearly blew up Thatcher. Sure I was. I was a fucking teenager in West Belfast. Bomb the bastards. But then I began to use my brain. And I discovered something called the law. That’s what we came here to study, isn’t it?’
She glares at him, her passion and anger electric, laying down some kind of challenge.
‘I won’t mention it again,’ he says.
‘Good. Don’t. None of it. And you remember, it could have gone the other way for any of us. I escaped, so never remind me of it.’
She returns to her seat and her books. He approaches and she looks up warily, but all he does is put a set of keys on the desk. ‘I got these cut for you. Come and go as you like. I want the flat to be a refuge for you. To show our trust in each other.’ She looks into his eyes and feels foolish.
One evening in March she lets herself in, climbs up the stairs to the first floor, enters the narrow hallway and sees him silhouetted in his bedroom at the far end, holding the phone.
Not wanting to interrupt, she quietly pushes the door to and slips into the kitchen. Phrases waft down the passage. She tries to stop herself listening but the curiosity is too much. His voice floats over. ‘That’s great, at least he’s feeling better.’ ‘And how about you, my love?’ ‘And the job?’ ‘How’s that shit of a boss?’ ‘You should tell him where to get off.’ ‘I’m hoping to get back for a weekend in a few weeks, maybe.’ ‘There’s a couple of things to finish here, then it will be over.’ ‘OK, just remember, won’t be long. Tons of love.’
There’s a clunk as the phone is put down. She can sense him sitting for a minute or two, almost hear his brain whirring as he reflects on something. Then the slow beat of his footsteps speeding up as he notices the kitchen door ajar and a strip of light shafting through.
His voice precedes him. ‘Maire?’
She raises her eyes as his face peers around the door. He offers his most angelic look. ‘I didn’t hear you come in.’
‘I know. You were on the phone.’
‘Yes.’ She turns her back, puts the food she’s bought for supper into the fridge, and flicks the kettle on. She doesn’t look round. ‘Who is she, David?’
‘She? Why she?’
Now she does turn round to confront him. ‘Oh, come on.’
‘OK, if you’re really that interested, it was my sister.’
Her eyes stay locked on him, her bewilderment turning to a sad deflation amid an oppressive silence.
‘You don’t have a sister, David,’ she finally says.
For the first time she can remember, she sees fear in his eyes.
‘Shit,’ he says simply.
‘Yes, shit,’ she says.
His calculating is all too transparent – and he’s floundering. She waits to see what he’ll come up with.
‘It was a girl.’
‘A girl?’
‘She was nothing. Is nothing.’
‘The girl you left behind?’
‘Sort of.’
She scoffs. ‘That ghost of a girl you saw that time in the park.’
She detects something akin to relief – maybe because the secret he’s been harbouring is now coming out. ‘OK, yes.’
‘Called Susan, yeah? The girl you’re going back to. When you leave here. What was it you said? When it’s over.’
‘No. No.’ He’s beginning to shake, a tear forming in his eye. ‘It’s you I want to be with, Maire. You have to believe me. But I can’t tell her over the phone. Can’t hurt her like that. I have to do it face to face. Then it will be over. And I’ll be with you.’ He smiles. ‘And we’ll live happily ever after.’
‘And who’s the he who’s feeling better, David?’ There’s a millisecond of hesitation.
‘Her dad,’ he answers. ‘He’s been ill.’
She turns from him again, busying herself with slicing an onion, finding a pan, dripping oil into it. The sulphurous fumes from the onion bring her own tear.
‘You’ve lied to me, David.’
‘I’m sorry. Truly sorry. I’m telling you the truth now. I just always want to make it easy for you. Not to hurt you.’
She puts down the knife, rinses her hands, and takes a tissue to wipe her eyes. She swivels to face him.
‘Don’t ever lie to me, David.’ There’s a chill in her voice.
He winces. ‘I won’t, Maire, I promise.’
It may be a small lie. It may be she should take his explanation at face value. But she can’t help it – distrust lurks. Invisible, unspoken, silently polluting.
It’s been their pattern before to let tensions settle before resolving them. He consumes her far too much to allow one lie to break them so, a few days later, she refers back to it with a lilt in her voice.
‘OK, then, what’s she like?’
He’s puzzled, genuinely it seems. ‘What’s who like?’
‘Susan, you big fool.’
‘Oh, her.’ She feels him droop.
‘Yeah, her. Thought we might exorcise her.’
He perks up. ‘OK. She’s tall, willowy, fair hair, you’d say she’s posh.’
‘In other words, everything that’s not me.’
‘You got it in one.’ He’s beaming now. ‘That’s why you’re so adorable.’
‘Christ, it wasn’t that bad, was it?’
‘Course not. It was great for a long time. We met as students, kept together even while I was travelling, bit of licence on each side. But then, I don’t know why, she got possessive. Clammy.’
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�Perhaps she loved you,’ says Maire. ‘Wanted to marry you.’
‘If she did, it wasn’t the way to show it,’ he replies. ‘You’d never be like that.’
‘How do you know?’ she asks archly.
He ruffles her hair. ‘I know.’
‘So what was she doing over here?’
He removes his hands. ‘The interrogation continues.’
‘Not at all, I’m just interested.’
‘I have absolutely no idea.’ He reflects on the sighting. ‘I didn’t ask. I’m not even sure it was her. Maybe I didn’t need to take fright.’
‘What were you frightened of?’ He doesn’t answer. ‘That she was stalking you?’
‘Hey,’ he says, lightening up, ‘perhaps it really was a ghost I saw.’
She understands he wants closure and lays off. ‘Right, my turn if we’re exorcising,’ he continues cheerfully. ‘Your two nasties, Sean and Brendan, perhaps it’s just that you were pissed off with me for staying the night and they were your excuse to leave early. I still reckon they’re not as bad as you say.’
She glowers. ‘I dunno why you’d think that, David. The world would be a lot better place without those two evil bastards.’
‘I’m sorry.’ His switch to remorse is immediate. As before, he seems to want her forgiveness.
‘Don’t mess with what you don’t know.’ This time, she’s not granting it.
The reconciliation is only partial. Her mind tells her to freeze the relationship but whenever she looks at him with that thought – a thought he seems able to read – he looks so destroyed and the feeling he stirs in her is so powerful that she cannot bring herself to. But she’s beginning to see how it could end. The university year will wind down to its natural conclusion. Then won’t the differences between their worlds loom so large that he’ll go back to his and she’ll be alone again?
Work consumes both their days. He’s even told her he needs to get away occasionally to find the peace to focus on his thesis. He says it’s the most difficult thing he’s ever done – perhaps he’ll decamp for the odd day or two to Connemara and find solutions in mountains and oceans. She stops herself telling him that he should try being like her; just close the door, sit down and work.
She’s revising in the flat alone and the front doorbell rings. She leans out of the window to see a familiar figure. Her heart jumps but he’s spotted her and there’s no hiding. She pulls herself together, walks calmly down the stairs, and opens the door.
‘Martin!’ she exclaims, feigning pleasure at seeing her brother. ‘How did you know I was—’
‘I’ll come in, Maire, if I may,’ he interrupts. It’s not a request for permission. He’s already crossing the threshold and pushing the door behind him. He gives her a peck on the cheek. Peremptorily, she returns it.
Once inside the flat, she tries again to tackle him. ‘How did you know I was alone?’
‘I waited for him to go,’ he replies.
‘Have you been spying on me?’
‘No, Maire, watching over you.’
‘It doesn’t feel like that.’ He’s silent, biding his time. ‘Well,’ she says, ’what is it? Not Ma and Da, I hope.’ She looks in any direction but his.
‘No, they’re fine, Maire. Missing you, though.’
‘My last time home wasn’t great.’
‘It’s because we wanted to act in your best interests.’ He pauses. ‘That’s why I’m here.’
Now she engages him, steel in her eyes. ‘Whatever you’re gonna say, I don’t wanna hear it.’
‘I understand that.’ He sounds soft and conciliatory. ‘I know what you see in him. Good-looking, fun, clever, charming. But, for your own sake, I want you to end it now. I promise you no good can come of it. I’m your brother. I want you to have a good life. You know that from everything I’ve done for you. So, just on this, trust me.’
‘Why should I trust you? What was all that rubbish about his name ringing a bell?’ He doesn’t answer. ‘Was it to make me get shot of him?’ She’s never stood up to him like this before and fears his reaction. He does no more than sigh.
‘You’ll have to make your own judgement on that,’ he says.
‘OK. Is there something you actually know, Martin, that I ought to know?’
‘That’s not the point. I’m just asking you to disentangle yourself now, before it’s too late.’ He may be evasive but at least he’s pleading, not threatening.
‘What’s too late?’ She softens her voice too.
‘I can’t tell you. I’m not in control of it all, anyway.’
A terror grips her. ‘Christ, are they gonna do something to him?’ She pauses. ‘Are you?’
He shakes his head. ‘Jeez, Maire, whaddya think I am? Whaddya think they are?’
‘I sometimes wonder, Martin.’ Again he stays silent. ‘I won’t do it, Martin.’ She walks over to the window and leans against the radiator, peering down at her hands. She prepares her words and turns to face him. ‘Whatever his faults, I can’t just dismiss him without a proper reason. And an accident of birth is certainly not that.’
‘Whaddya mean,’ he asks, ‘“accident of birth”?’
Of course, she realizes, he doesn’t know about David’s father, unless he’s found out more. For sure, she’s not going to tell him.
‘I mean him being a Brit,’ she replies.
‘It’s nothing to do with him being an Englishman. You should know me better than that.’ This time, she stays quiet. ‘Do you love him?’ he asks.
‘That’s not the point. It’s about being fair.’
‘Does he love you, then?’
‘That’s not the point either.’
‘Jesus, Maire, you’re so fucking obtuse sometimes.’ It’s the first time he’s raised his voice.
‘You should go now, Martin.’ She’s imbued with a calm that surprises her.
‘If that’s the way you want it.’ He pauses. ‘Will you be home for Easter?’
‘After what happened that weekend, whaddya think?’
‘OK. Look, Maire.’ Now he’s pleading, voice softened. ‘You’ll never forget where you come from. It’ll always be with you. And I pray that one day, with all your talent, you’ll have the chance to make a difference.’ She says nothing. ‘I’ll give your love to Ma and Da, then.’
She turns back to stare blankly out of the window, his words jarring in her head. His brisk footsteps echo up the stairs, followed by the closing click of the front door. She sees him hurrying across the road and disappearing into the city. He has not even taken his coat off.
She decides never again to be alone in the flat without David. It’s no longer a refuge and she’d rather be in the security of the library or Mrs Ryan.
Saturday, 23rd April 1994
He’s been no less caring but has become more distant, sometimes fretful. Whenever she tackles him, just gentle questions as to whether anything’s wrong, it’s always the same answer. ‘It’s the thesis, Maire. Still so bloody much to write.’ He blames the deadline – less than a month to deliver – his lack of fluency, how it’s unlike any other writing he’s done before. Watching him suffer, she determines to banish Martin’s warning. To interrogate him will, in itself, be a breach of the trust she still hopes to restore. It’s unthinkable even to tell him about her brother’s visit.
He heads off on one of his escapes, then, three days later, reappears in the library. He sidles round her back and puts a note down over her shoulder on the table. She almost shrieks with the surprise, only the library walls enforcing her silence: ‘Meet 7 p.m., this Sat, BusAras. Fix away night with Mrs Ryan!! xxx’. She’s no sooner read it than he’s gone.
He’s already there, the grin as broad as she ever remembers it, and throws his arms round her.
‘You got round Mrs Ryan!’
‘Yeah, told her it was the Law Faculty spring sleepover.’ She breaks away to examine him. ‘I reckon she didn’t believe a word of it, not sure what’s come over her.’
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‘Who cares? You’re here.’ He links arms and heads away from the bus station.
‘Hey, where are you taking me?’ she asks with mock alarm.
‘Nowhere on a bus,’ he says. ‘We had enough of them.’
They head down Talbot Street towards O’Connell Street. ‘This is the way I walked when we went to Galway,’ she says.
‘We’re staying nearer home this time.’ He’s enjoying the mystery. They turn right into O’Connell Street and walk a couple of hundred yards, and he stops by a top-hatted commissionaire guarding a grand entrance. There’s a question mark in her wide-open eyes.
‘Come inside,’ he says.
He sweeps her past the commissionaire beneath the chandeliers of the Gresham hotel lobby and motions her to the lifts. They rise several floors and exit. He marches her down a corridor, finds a room number, produces a key from his pocket, unlocks the door and waves her in.
‘What the fuck is this all about, David?’ She walks over to a spread of window and takes in the cityscape. She’s never seen it like this. She turns to see him walk over to a low table, lift a bottle from a silver bucket, fire its cork into the ceiling and pour pale, bubbling liquid into angled flutes.
‘I’ll tell you what it’s all about.’ He grins. ‘I’m celebrating. I’ve cracked it.’
‘You finished the thesis!’ Her surprise is genuine: she never quite thought he would.
‘Almost,’ he says, ‘just dotting and crossing final i’s and t’s.’
‘That’s fantastic,’ she says.
‘Yeah, I think I finally found a solution.’
‘A solution?’
‘There were two propositions fighting each other, a kind of conflict. I found a way through. Just the conclusion to do.’
‘You’ll have to tell me about it.’
He rolls his eyes. ‘Maybe not tonight?’
She smiles. ‘OK, I’ll let you off.’
He orders dinner from room service – prawns the size she’s never seen before, foie gras she’s never tasted before, a chocolate tart to die for.
‘Christ, David, what’s this costing you?’ she asks, munching in a dream.
‘You only live once,’ he says. ‘I’ll never care what I’ll spend on you.’
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