“Not Davy,” she said softly. “I didn’t really mean it like that.”
“Look.” He stared into her eyes. “Losing someone you love is like a death.” He lowered his gaze. “When Carol and I were divorced, that’s what it felt like.”
Tim hardly ever mentioned his ex-wife.
“And what do people do when someone dies?” said Tim.
“Have a funeral? Bury them?” Where was this going?
“That’s not all.”
“I don’t understand.”
He reached out and took her hand again. “They mourn. They grieve … and in time they get over it.”
It all sounded very logical. Very matter-of-fact.
“After my divorce, I used to find myself picking up things, like a drinking glass, and thinking, Carol used to leave lipstick on the rim, or looking in a mirror and remembering how she’d sit at it and brush her hair … and leave loose hairs all over the dresser. But after a while, the glass was just a glass with a clean rim. There were no loose strands on the dresser. It was like … like pulling apart a kid’s LEGO construction, piece by piece, until they were all gone and back in their box … as if the construction had never existed except in a faint memory.”
Fiona felt herself being jerked backward. Windy must have ridden up to her anchor and then fallen back to the extent of the anchor rope and been suddenly and forcibly pulled up short. The boat rocked as Fiona recognized Tim had rocked her.
“I don’t think you’ve done that … and when you saw Jimmy at Bridges…”
The old wounds had opened. Wide. Tim was right.
“It’s not just Davy. It’s Belfast. You’re right. I haven’t—what did you call it?—grieved for him … or for Ireland. And they both come back to haunt me.” She hesitated. “I had the dream on Thursday night.”
“Dream?” Tim put his head to one side like a robin looking for a worm.
“It keeps coming back. I was nearly blown up by a bomb, and I see the blast and the hurt and dead people. I smell the explosives. Taste them. And I go home to Davy and…” She felt a tear slip down her cheek and moisten her lip. “I’ve never told anybody about it.”
Tim stood.
She noticed that Windy seemed to be riding much more comfortably. The shrieking of the wind in the rigging had fallen to a muted piping.
He moved around the table and stood over her. Put an arm under her shoulder and lifted her to her feet. He held her, made no attempt to kiss her but stroked her hair and, with a finger, pulled the tears from under her eyes. He made soft noises in his throat.
Fiona held on to Tim. What had he said? “That anchor would hold the Titanic.” Tim was like an anchor.
“The dream’s awful when it comes,” she said. “It leaves me shaking.”
“I’m glad you told me,” he said.
And she looked up at him and saw the truth of it in his grey eyes. “Kiss me, Tim.”
He did, without heat, without passion, but with softness and comfort. She pulled away but remained in his arms.
He was smiling. It was a small smile.
She tried to smile back. “I’ve said a mouthful. You’ve given me an awful lot to think about … and … and you don’t mind? About Davy?”
His eyes became very serious. He lowered his voice. “I love you, Fiona. As I see it, your Davy is hanging between the pair of us like a bead curtain between two rooms. Not blocking the way, but there. He … and Belfast … are ghosts we’ll have to lay, but”—and his smile returned, broader than before—“between us I think we can manage.”
“I’ll try,” she said. “I promise … but I’m going to need a bit of time.”
His smile faded. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to give you at least a week. I have to leave tomorrow for a medical convention in San Francisco. But I’ll phone you. And we’ll talk about this when I get back.”
“I’d like that.”
Overhead, the rigging was silent. Sunlight coming through the port light made her screw up her eyes. The last tear fell.
Tim turned and said over his shoulder, “Feels like the squall has passed. I’ll go and start weighing the anchor. You fire up the engine.”
“Aye, aye, skipper.” She managed to force a smile.
“It’s two o’clock,” Tim said as he climbed up the companionway. “Time we were moving along.” The steps creaked under his feet.
CHAPTER 12
TYRONE. SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 18, 1983
The broken springs of the sofa creaked when Sammy McCandless moved. He balanced a half-eaten plate of fried bacon, eggs, and soda farl, a late supper, on his lap. The eggs tasted like rubber and the bacon grease had congealed. No bloody wonder. His three-roomed labourer’s cottage was always damp. The turf fire in the grate in the corner looked cheery but was bugger all use for heating the place. Sammy shivered.
He’d not be sorry to see the back of this place when Spud came through with that witness-protection business. Not if, but when he came through. He’d better get a move on.
From overhead came the sound of helicopter rotors. Bloody Brits. These days there were as many choppers roaring about over Tyrone as flies on a heifer’s arse.
The nine o’clock news ran on an old black-and-white television, the newsreader’s face blurred by horizontal lines that straggled in never-ending sequence from the bottom to the top of the screen. Reception was bloody awful tonight.
“… The body of a man was found in a construction skip on Cupar Street in Belfast. He had been shot in the head. The police suspect foul play…”
Bunch of fucking Sherlock Holmeses. Did they think the poor bugger had crawled in there and done it to himself?
“… A woman was admitted to the Belfast City Hospital with gunshot wounds to both knees…”
Sammy rose, shoved his plate into the sink, and switched off the television. He had to live with this shite every day, and the last thing he needed to be reminded of was the punishments handed out by the Provos to people they decided had committed a crime against the organization. That woman might have done nothing worse than have a bit of slap and tickle with a British soldier. The bugger in the bin? Had he been a “source”—like Sammy?
The folks round here said, “You can rape your best friend’s wife and be forgiven, but if your grandfather informed to the British it would never be forgotten.”
Sammy turned on the tap over the sink and waited for the warm water to make its way through the rusty pipes.
Memories were long in Tyrone. He’d been taught as a child about the history of insurrection against the British that went back centuries, to the times of the great Irish patriots, the O’Neills of Tyrone—Tir Owàin—the land of Owen.
And he’d learned the history of treason.
In 1681, Redmond O’Hanlon was betrayed to the British for one hundred pounds by his foster brother, Art O’Hanlon, who shot Redmond as he lay in bed; in 1744, Mollie MacDacker, for fifty pounds, sold Seamus McMurphy to the English constable John Johnston.
Mollie MacDacker had drowned herself because she could not live with the shame. He could understand how the woman must have felt, and he knew, too well, that today the Provos didn’t rely on remorse to put paid to touts. The Provos took care of informers—permanently.
Maurice Gilvarry, Belfast Brigade, January 19, 1981, shot dead at Jonesborough—informer. Seamus Morgan, East Tyrone Brigade, March 5, 1982, found shot dead on the Carrickasticken Road—informer. Eric Dale, May 7, 1983. Sammy could recite the list of names—a list he did not wish to join—as well as he could say his Hail Marys. If he was found out, “Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and in the hour of our death” would be his last words—the Provos were very decent about letting a man make his peace with God—just before they “nutted” him.
Sammy had to get out of Ireland, and he wasn’t going to do that on his fucking Raleigh bicycle. Spud had to deliver—and soon.
The water from the tap was, as usual, lukewarm. Sammy put the plug in th
e sink, squeezed in a few drops of detergent, and waited for the sink to fill before turning off the tap. The dishes could soak for a while. He needed a drink. Badly.
There was a nearly finished bottle of John Powers whiskey in the cupboard. He took it out along with a chipped glass and poured until the bottle was empty. The spirits were sharp on his tongue. Bloody drink. That’s what had got him into this mess in the first place. Ever since the night he’d got into that stupid fight in a pub.
Sammy remembered how the peelers had lifted him and taken him to the Strabane police station. There wasn’t a day that he didn’t remember.
He fished a Park Drive out of a packet on the counter and lit up, returned to the couch, and sat.
The peelers had charged him with grievous bodily harm. They’d left him alone in a cell for hours, and then a man in plain clothes had come in. A big man. All smiles. Open packet of Silk Cut in one hand. He’d sat opposite Sammy. The plainclothes man had CID written all over him.
“Have a fag, Sammy.”
Sammy had been well indoctrinated by Cal about what to do if he found himself being interrogated. You never said nothing to one of those bastards.
He refused to meet the man’s gaze, and turned away.
“I’m having one.” The man lit up, smoked the cigarette until it was finished, then crushed it out.
It seemed as if a lifetime passed before the stranger said, “You’ve six months coming.”
Sammy stared at the ceiling. He stared at the floor, the drab green walls.
“I could get you off.”
Sammy couldn’t help himself. He didn’t want to go to jail. He let himself look at the big man’s eyes.
“Easy as pie. You’d be out of here in no time.”
Sammy bit his lower lip. Say nothing.
The man offered the packet of smokes. “Go on, man. They won’t bite.”
Sammy knew he shouldn’t, but he took a cigarette, accepted a light, and fixed his gaze on the acoustic tiles of the ceiling. He counted the holes. One hundred and ten. One hundred and eleven …
It was awkward trying to smoke with his hands cuffed. They’d handcuffed him after they’d taken away his jacket and shoes, and the belt that held up his trousers. The cell was cold and damp. The only warmth there’d been in that cell was in the big man’s voice—at first.
“You don’t have to go down, you know.”
What was the bugger after? One hundred and thirty-one …
“Not if you’d do a wee job for me.”
For a peeler? No fucking way. One hundred and fifty-six …
“Of course, if you don’t want to…”
Sammy didn’t. Six months with time off for good behaviour would soon be over. Once he got involved with the coppers … one hundred and … shit. He’d lost count. One, two …
“I could make things a lot worse for you than doing a bit of porridge.”
What the hell was he talking about? Sammy glanced at his tormentor.
“Got your attention?”
“Fuck off. What could you do?” The words slipped out. Say nothing.
“You don’t think it was just bad luck that you got picked up tonight.”
Sammy did think that.
The big man laughed. “It wasn’t bad luck, Sammy. I know you’re a Provvie, so I wanted to have a wee word with you. I arranged to have you lifted.”
Balls. If this fucker had any proof, Sammy knew he would have been nicked and charged. The big man was bluffing. Sammy folded his arms across his chest and smiled. Bluff away, you big cunt, you’re getting nothing from me.
“You think it’s funny?”
Sammy inclined his head as if to say, “What do you think, you Prod git?” but he reminded himself, Nothing, Sam. Say nothing. He stared up. One, two, three …
The man’s words were slow. Measured. “Sammy, you’ve been in here for six hours. Your mates know you’ve been in here. We’d a young lad like you in here about a year ago. We knew he was a Provo … just like you. Kept his mouth shut. Just like you. It’s a dead giveaway. Man up on a GBH charge? Offered an out and he says nothing? They teach you to keep your traps shut, don’t they?”
This shite was on a fishing expedition. He didn’t know that Sammy was a Provo, but the thick peeler thought he could trick him into confessing. Twenty, twenty-one …
“Pity about the young fellow. Nothing I could do would persuade him to work with us.”
Good for him, Sammy thought, and you’ll not turn me neither. He took comfort from the thought. Counting the holes had helped, but he didn’t need to do it anymore. He knew this shite couldn’t get to him, no matter what he said.
“Didn’t matter. We used him anyway.” The man lit another smoke. “Just put the word out that he’d turned.”
You bastard. Sammy didn’t need to be told what would have happened after that. “His friends interrogated him for seven weeks.”
Sammy shuddered. The handcuffs bit into his wrists. He glanced back to the ceiling, but there was no solace to be had in telling his rosary of tile holes.
“He signed a confession … and the poor bugger was innocent.” The big man inspected the lit end of his cigarette. “I suppose when they keep on hurting a man, he’ll do anything to make them stop.”
Sammy knew.
The man’s voice turned cold. “Now you think about it, Sam. You can work for me, or we’ll keep you here for another forty-eight hours, then let you go. That’d be long enough to persuade your mates that we might have got to you. They’ll debrief you, Sam.”
Of course they fucking well would. The Security Forces weren’t the only ones with effective interrogation units. He’d be taken to a safe house, questioned, maybe for days, but, he reassured himself, his mates would soon see that he’d been loyal—wouldn’t they?
“One of our blokes is round at your house now. He’s leaving you a wee present.”
The cell grew suddenly colder.
“Then a little birdie’ll put out the word. Your mates pay a lot of heed to evidence that a man’s working for us.”
Despite the cold Sammy felt, his palms were sweating. Could the bugger do that?
“If they think that, Sam … and it won’t be a kneecapping.”
Sammy shuddered. In a barn, last year, he’d had to hold a young lout down. The youth had been convicted by the Provos of selling drugs. His howling as a Black & Decker drill had torn into his kneecaps had been masked by the screams of pigs being butchered in the barn.
“I’d not be in your shoes, Sam.”
Sammy looked into the big man’s eyes. They were cold. Unrelenting.
He lit another cigarette. “It’ll be like the other fellow I was telling you about. It wasn’t pretty what they did to him.”
Sammy wanted to run, to get out of the fucking cell, to get away from the big, relentless man who sat back in his chair, smoking. But Sammy couldn’t run, not from the cell, not from the trap the big man had set. He didn’t want to listen. Tried to shut out the man’s voice, but he couldn’t put his hands over his ears. Not while he was wearing handcuffs. The man’s words drove into Sammy’s soul as viciously as the electric drill had ripped into the knees of the screaming youth in the barn. But the big shite was bluffing. He’d never set anyone up. Wouldn’t be able to set Sammy up either. All that talk about planting evidence. Bullshite. It had to be.
The man let smoke trickle from his lips. Sammy would have killed for another cigarette. “You remember Finn McArdle?”
Christ Jesus. Finn. That fucking turncoat had got his last Easter. He’d been lifted for a petty crime—just like Sammy had. Been in the pokey for three days, then let go—like this bastard was saying he’d keep Sammy and then let him go. A few weeks after Finn got out, rumours started. Sammy had heard that the Provos’ intelligence men had found money in Finn’s mattress … telephone numbers … no one saw Finn for a couple of months.
“Friend of yours, was he?”
Sammy shook his head. He wasn’t going
to admit to having known anyone in the Provos.
“He’s … no, he was the young lad I was telling you about. The one who refused to help me. I hear your lot found a stack of money in his mattress.”
Sammy jerked back in his chair. How in the hell could the big peeler know that … unless…? Holy Mother of God. Sammy knew how a fox must feel when the jaws of the leghold slammed shut.
The man stood, then walked round and stood behind Sammy’s chair. He bent and whispered in Sammy’s ear. “I told you, Sam, one of my lads is at your house now.”
Sammy felt his tears start.
“If you don’t help me out, Sam, your lot’ll do to you what they did to Finn McArdle. I’ve a strong stomach, but I had to go out to the road where they’d dumped him. A .357 Magnum makes a hell of a mess of a man’s head. I bloody nearly threw up.”
Sammy did. The puke burned his throat. The stench filled his nostrils, stifling the stink of his fear. He heard the man’s footsteps, felt a hand on his forehead, forcing his head back, forcing him to look into eyes that smouldered.
“You’re stuck, Sammy, but if you work with us, there’s a way out.”
Sammy still said nothing. His eyes held pleading enough.
“Bit of information here and there. I’ll look after you. If things get a bit dicey for you, I’ll get you over to England into the Witness Protection Programme. They’d hide you. Give you a new identity. Money.”
Sammy wiped his lips with the back of one shackled hand. No. He’d not turn. He’d not. He sat up straight, jerked forward, and spat at his tormentor.
The big man pulled out a hanky and wiped the spittle from his shirt front. “Maybe you need time to think it over.” He tossed the handkerchief to Sammy. “Here, clean yourself up.” He turned, left, and slammed the door behind him.
The crash sounded to Sammy like the closing of the gates of purgatory. The lights in the cell went out. He’d been left alone in the dark with only the stink of his own puke and his thoughts.
If he didn’t go along with the CID man—Sammy’s stomach heaved at the thought of what would happen to him if his friends thought he was grassing. He knew he couldn’t face that. Couldn’t. He was deathly afraid of physical pain. And he had no doubt that his police tormentor would carry through with his threats. He’d been the one who’d fucked Finn. He’d not hesitate to fuck Sammy.
Now and in the Hour of Our Death Page 11
