Now and in the Hour of Our Death

by Patrick Taylor

  “You must be worried sick.”

  Becky tried to smile but failed. “I’m worried about Dad, but he’s eighty-two. He’s had a fair innings. I’m much more concerned about Mum. If he goes…”

  “He won’t. I’m sure he won’t.”

  “It’s kind of you to say so, but we have to be realistic. If he does, Mum’s going to be utterly lost without him. They’ve been married for fifty-six years.”

  “That’s a very long time.” The four years she’d been with Davy, even the nine they’d been apart, were nothing. Her few months with Tim seemed like a one-night stand compared with this lifetime’s commitment.

  Davy, Davy, why did you have to go on that mission? If you hadn’t, the pair of us would be here, growing old together like Becky’s folks. I’d never have met Tim, wouldn’t have any decisions to make.

  Becky drove ahead. “I’m not sure she’ll be able to manage without him.”

  Fiona knew what being alone was like, having someone you loved taken away, and remembered how lonely she’d been in her first years in Vancouver. Poor Mrs. Johnston would be devastated.

  “What are you going to do?” Fiona asked.

  Becky changed gear to slow down behind a dump truck. “What am I going to do?” She blew out a long breath. “To tell you the truth, I’m not entirely sure. There’s probably not much I can do until we know what’s really wrong with Dad.” She stopped the car and waited for the truck to turn into an alley. “I’ll have to have more to go on, so I’d like to get to the hospital as soon as I can.” She moved ahead.

  “Unless you can speak to one of his doctors, the staff’ll probably just tell you he’s ‘comfortable’ or ‘critical,’ or some other meaningless line.”

  “I know.” Becky sighed. “But I still have to try.”

  “Would you like me to give Tim a call? See if he can use his connections to find out exactly what’s happening to your dad?”

  “Would you?” Becky pulled into the school parking lot. “Would you really?”

  “Of course,” Fiona said, although she already regretted having made the suggestion. She didn’t want to talk to Tim. Not yet. Not until she’d had time to think. “If I call straightaway, perhaps I can catch him before he goes into his meeting.”

  “I’d appreciate that,” Becky said as they left the car for the short walk to the school.

  Fiona strode along the corridor straight to her office. As Becky flopped onto a chair, Fiona dialed Tim’s number and was surprised to hear his voice. It was usually his receptionist who answered the phone.

  “Tim, sorry to bother you, but I’ve got an emergency. No. No. I’m fine. It’s Becky’s father.” She explained the situation to him, and he promised to call right back. “Tim’s going to phone the chief of neurology at VGH. They’re sailing friends. He says he knows how bloody awful it can be hanging about waiting for the phone to ring, so he’ll call us right back either with the information or at least with some idea of what time he will have some news.”

  Becky nodded and hunched forward, staring at the telephone.

  Fiona sat behind her desk, fidgeting with a pencil, searching for words to comfort her friend, but there didn’t seem to be any. Poor Becky. It must be terrible having a parent so ill.

  It was something Fiona hadn’t had to face—yet. Earlier this morning, she’d been thinking of her parents. She hadn’t spoken to them in all these years, but her sister Bridget occasionally wrote. One day she’d phone to say one of the folks was ill, or had died, and family was family, so she’d have to go back to Belfast. Perhaps she should try to heal the old wounds before it was too late. Perhaps she should go back there soon and see if she couldn’t persuade them that what was done was done and over?

  The phone rang.

  Becky stiffened and stared up at Fiona.

  Fiona picked up the receiver. “Hello? Tim?”

  “Yes, it’s me, love.”

  “Right,” she said. Just like the man. Punctual to the second. “And…?” She heard him sigh. “And…?”

  “I’m afraid it doesn’t look too good.”

  “I see.” Fiona deliberately kept her voice flat. “Would you like to speak to Becky? She’s here.”

  “Christ, I hate this, but, yes, put her on.”

  Fiona passed the receiver over and watched her friend’s expression change from hope when she said, “You did get hold of your colleague,” to sadness as she muttered, “I see. I see. It is a stroke. Thank you.” Becky sniffed and swallowed before saying, “I appreciate your honesty, Doctor Andersen … Yes, I’ll put her on.” She held the receiver to Fiona. “He wants a word.”

  “Hello, Tim?”

  His voice was very businesslike. “I have to run. I’m late for the meeting. Becky can explain about her dad. I have to tell you, my on-call’s been buggered up; one of my colleagues is sick, so I can’t get free until Saturday. I’ll call you tonight, and I’ll see you then.” He whispered, “Love you,” then hung up.

  So she’d not have to face Tim until Saturday, but she needed to set that aside, think about it later. “What does Tim say about your dad? Has he had…?”

  “Not good, I’m afraid. Yes. It’s a massive stroke. He’s on life support.” She turned, stared at the drawn curtains, and said very quietly, “They’re not sure if he’ll live.”

  Fiona rose and hugged her friend. “I’m so sorry, Becky. Is there anything I can do to help?”

  “I don’t know.” Becky looked bemused, drifting, lost, shrunken. “Mum’s with him.” She clasped one hand with the other, then said, “I must get up to the hospital and see how Mum is.”

  Fiona took Becky’s hand. “Of course you must. I’ll rejuggle the others’ assignments, see if I can get a substitute teacher, so you can have the rest of the week off.” She smiled grimly and let Becky’s hand go. “It’s one advantage of being vice principal. I can do that.”

  “I’d appreciate that. Mum’s going to need me.”

  So do I, Fiona thought, but once she’d worked out a new timetable, she knew she’d be lucky to see Becky for at least a week, and it wouldn’t be right anyway to ask for her help when Becky had a crisis of her own.

  “I’m sorry to be putting you to so much trouble, Fiona. I really am.”

  “You get along to VGH right now and don’t worry your head about me,” Fiona said. “I’m quite capable of sorting things out.” And how she wished it were true.

  CHAPTER 34

  TYRONE. MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 26, 1983

  Davy shuddered but was glad they’d soon be getting on. He’d grown even colder since the light had faded. When it still was bright enough for him to see his fingertips, they’d been slate grey. They were probably purple now. He blew into his cupped hands. For all the good it did, he might as well have dunked them in ice water.

  Eamon had managed to drift off shortly after the Puma helicopter burst out from over the trees, but now he was going to have to be wakened. It was time to get moving.

  Davy glanced to where McGuinness lay. If the bastard had frozen to death, tough titty. The arrogant little prick and his, “I’ve done more for the Provos in a week than you’ve done in twenty years.” Och, for Christ’s sake, if it suited him to believe that, then fuck him. Davy knew exactly what he’d done, and what he was going to do, and that was of no concern to the Provos or to McGuinness. But if Davy was going to get out of Ireland, the first step had to be leaving this wood and finding shelter. Soon.

  Davy shook Eamon’s shoulder. “Wake up, Eamon. Come on. Up.”

  Eamon stirred, yawned, rubbed his eyes, and sat up. “Jesus Christ, I’m foundered,” he muttered. “Have the screws turned the heating off?”

  Davy managed to chuckle in spite of the cold. “We’re not in the Kesh anymore.”

  “Unh?” Eamon stared around. “Right enough. For a minute there…”

  “Are you wide awake now?”

  “Aye.” Eamon stood. “It’s blacker than the hobs of hell out there.” Davy heard the
excitement in his friend’s voice. “Time we were on the move, Father, before the moon rises.”

  Thank God, Davy thought. He wanted to be somewhere, anywhere, dry and warm. At least the rain had stopped and the clouds had drifted off. He heard Eamon say in a low voice, “Are you ready, Brendan?” and McGuinness’s grunted, “Aye.”

  “Right,” Eamon said, “give us a hand to get this tarp hidden. I’d not want anyone to find it and wonder what it’s doing here.”

  Eamon could always be trusted to consider the details. Davy helped fold the canvas. “Should we not take it with us?” Davy asked.

  “Nah,” Eamon said. “It would just get in the way.”

  Davy gathered armfuls of bracken and spread them over the tarpaulin. The effort brought a tiny bit of warmth to his chilled body. He sniffed. Jesus, but that rank, pungent smell was ferocious. God, but it was strong. “What’s that stink, Eamon?”

  “That? It’s just a fox. A vixen used to have her den near here. She probably still does. The O’Byrnes never let the gentry hunt on their lands.”

  “Oh.” No wonder Davy hadn’t been able to recognize the odour. There had been no foxes on the Falls Road.

  He could make out Eamon as he stood, flapping his arms across his chest. Davy heard squelching of boots hitting damp vegetation and reckoned McGuinness must be stamping his feet.

  Somewhere to Davy’s left a shriek tore at the fabric of the night. He felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise. “What the hell was that?”

  “Barn owl,” Eamon said. “Out looking for mice or rabbits.”

  And who, Davy wondered, is out there looking for us, wandering round in this bloody awful darkness like—like the three blind mice?

  Davy sensed rather than saw Eamon stride forward. “Follow me. We’ll be there in no time,” he said.

  Davy limped to the edge of the wood, leaving McGuinness to bring up the rear. In the distance, Davy saw a glow from farmhouse windows. Eamon was heading in that direction. The going was heavy. It must be muddy, and, by the weight of his feet increasing with each step, Davy knew that he’d be clabber to the knees by the time they’d left this field.

  Once they were away from the trees, Davy could see the sky. He wondered if Eamon knew the names of any of the multitude of stars that glittered like bright tinsel on a black velvet-felt board. He could only recognize the Plough, hanging its handle to the earth, its pointers there to lead a man’s gaze to Polaris.

  He hesitated, trying to see the North Star, the constant, fixed point for navigators since the dawn of time, just as Fiona was his lodestone, drawing him to her.

  He was nearly knocked sprawling when McGuinness blundered into him.

  “Get the fuck out of my way, McCutcheon.” McGuinness lumbered past.

  Davy plodded on. McGuinness had turned, and Davy followed, walking at an angle across the swaths of mown hay. His foot snagged in the sodden harvest, and he stumbled, landing heavily on both hands. Jesus Christ, the last time he’d fallen in a field, a ploughed field, had been on the night he and Mike Roberts had carried sixty pounds of Semtex to the Ravernet Bridge.

  Davy shoved himself back to his feet. He’d not forget that earlier fall. He’d been carrying fulminate-of-mercury detonators. A sudden jar could make them go off. Anyone who’d watched Lawrence of Arabia wouldn’t forget the scene where Lawrence’s Arab friend, young Faraj, had done just that with a detonator in his shirt.

  Davy had no detonators this time. Only a small .25 revolver in his pants’ pocket.

  He limped on, stared ahead, and could barely make out Eamon’s shape, which was limned by the welcoming glow from the farmhouse. Davy had earlier imagined he could smell peat smoke. He wasn’t imagining it now. It would be great to be going to that fireside.

  By the light of the stars, he could make out his breath as it hung in little clouds. There was condensation in the hairs of his moustache. Surely to God they didn’t have to go much farther?

  Eamon had stopped. McGuinness was nowhere to be seen. As Davy approached, he saw that Eamon was standing beside a tall hedge.

  “Not far now, Father.” Eamon showed Davy a gap between the plants. “Go on ahead. There’s only room for one to get through. Watch out for the thorns.”

  Davy sidled through the hedge, pricking his palm near the scar of the wound he’d made with the chisel. Had that only been ten days ago? Ten days in the past seemed to be as far away as the Ice Age. He heard branches being forced apart.

  As he waited for Eamon, Davy watched a waxing moon slide up over distant hills, its cold, silver-shining light etching the dark crests against the ebony sky. He could make out the loom of moving headlights coming from somewhere between the hills and where he stood. Would that be locals in a car—or Security Forces in an armoured personnel carrier?

  Eamon arrived at Davy’s shoulder and pointed. “Down in there, Davy, and we’ll’ve made it.”

  Davy looked ahead to a hollow, where he could see nothing but a tangle of bramble bushes, snarled and intertwined like the coils of barbed wire outside the Kesh. There was no Skeet Hamilton to flatten them this time. Davy’d thought they were heading for the farm and its turf fire. He couldn’t stifle his disappointment. “Christ Almighty, we’re going to hide in more bloody bushes?”

  Eamon simply laughed, said, “Come on,” and started down the hill.

  Dear God, not another night out in the open. Davy wished they’d brought Dermot’s tarpaulin instead of leaving it in the wood. He took a deep breath and followed Eamon, who had walked round the side of the bushes and stood waiting.

  “You’re going to have to be a rabbit, Father,” Eamon said as he knelt and carefully parted bramble stems. “Brendan’ll’ve gone in already. I explained it to him before I sent him through the blackthorn. Can you see that there path?”

  Davy peered in and could just make out a narrow animal track. “Aye.”

  “Get in under here and follow your nose. I’ll be right behind you.”

  “Right.” Davy dropped to all fours and scrambled under the briars. He could hardly see where he was going and had to feel his way. He drew a rapid breath and pulled his hand back as bramble thorns pricked it. He could hear the noises Eamon made as he followed.

  Davy nearly crawled headfirst into a large rock. To its left he saw what might be an opening. Was that the entrance to something? He stretched out his hand. There was nothing in front of it, until he felt some coarse material. He pushed it aside and blinked as pale yellow light shone from the entrance to a narrow tunnel.

  “In there?”

  “Aye, and get a move on. We don’t want that bloody light shining out over half of Tyrone.”

  * * *

  Davy rose to his feet and looked around. The light coming from a couple of overhead bulbs was much brighter in the stone-walled chamber, and, thank God, it was warm. He could hear a low hum that had to be coming from a heater. He blessed whoever had thought to put the thing in here. He barely took notice of the crouched form of McGuinness and hoped they’d not have to stay long with the man. McGuinness was planning to head for the Republic, wasn’t he? The sooner he went, the better. The space was smaller and mustier than Davy’s cell in the Kesh. It was going to be a tight fit for three men.

  He felt movement at his shoulder, stepped aside to let Eamon enter, and watched as he glanced round the room.

  “Here we are, Davy, home sweet home for the next wee while. We’ll do rightly in here. Look”—Eamon pointed to a heap on a table—“towels.” He nodded to the elements against one wall. “A cooker and”—Eamon bent and opened an ice chest—“grub.” He stood and grinned. “Not badly equipped for an old Celtic grave. Erin’s done a grand job.”

  So that’s what this was. An old grave. Davy was glad he wasn’t a superstitious man. When the lights were put out, it would be easy to imagine the ghosts of the original inhabitants being angry with whoever had disturbed their peace.

  “Your Erin set it up?”

  “Aye.” Davy coul
d hear the pride in Eamon’s voice. “And she’ll be here soon, wait ’til you see.” There was more pride there than longing, and that didn’t surprise Davy. Not one bit.

  “I see Brendan’s already made himself at home,” Eamon said.

  “Too fuckin’ right. I thought I’d never get warm ’til I got here. You give your Erin a big kiss from me, Eamon. She has done a grand job, so she has.”

  Davy stared at McGuinness, surprised to hear the man praise anyone. Perhaps even that hard bastard had a soft side. He might have, but tidiness didn’t seem to be part of his makeup. A crumpled towel lay discarded at his feet. His clothes were carelessly thrown over the back of a wooden chair beside a folding table. Mud from his pants had made dirty marks on the table’s top.

  The man himself was draped in a blanket that must have come from one of the camp beds Davy could make out in two side alcoves. McGuinness was crouched over the heater, but again surprised Davy when he moved to one side and said, “I won’t hog all the heat.”

  “Right,” said Eamon, picking a towel from the heap and passing it to Davy, “get you out of those sodden clothes and get yourself dry.” He turned back to the ice chest, pulled out a plastic container, and opened the lid. “Great,” he said, “chicken soup. I’ll get this heated up.”

  “Are you not going to get yourself dried off first?” McGuinness asked.

  “Nah,” Eamon said. “We all need something hot inside us. It’ll only take a minute.”

  Davy, silently admiring Eamon’s toughness, put his towel down and peeled off his soaked shirt and vest. As he took off his shoes and pants, he noticed that his arms were covered in goose flesh. He laid his clothes, except for his pants, on a chair and, ignoring how cold he was, reached into the pocket and left the .25 there but pulled out Jimmy’s letter and Fiona’s picture. Both were soaked. He smoothed them with his hand. Some of the writing where the ink hadn’t run was still legible, and, praise be, that included the phone number.

  Her picture was a soggy mess of crumpled paper. All he could make out was the brightness of her eyes. No matter. He’d be seeing her whole face soon. He put the papers on the table, noting as he did that someone had left a vase of flowers. A nice touch, he thought.