The words bounced back and forth between the two men like the ball in a tennis match, then Mr. Giorgiou said, “He say, please, perhaps little more time to do all things you say to them last time?”
“Well…” Would a little more time help? Despite her intention to concentrate on the problem at hand, she couldn’t help but be reminded of how she was procrastinating before telling Tim about Davy. “Perhaps it might, in fact, I’m sure it will.”
The cousin translated her words.
“Kalo pedi,” Mrs. Papodopolous offered.
“But I honestly believe we should be considering other options, too.”
She watched Mr. Papodopolous shrug and stretch his hands forward, fingers spread wide. His lips were set at twenty past eight, his head tucked down on his shoulders. She understood what he was expressing. I give up. You’re the expert. Do something.
Fiona picked up a pencil from the blotter on her desk. She’d make a point of discussing her ideas about Dimitris and what recently had been termed “culture shock” with the euphemistically titled “visiting teacher.”
She tapped the eraser end of the pencil on the blotter, glanced from the mother to the father, chose her words with care, and said to the cousin, “I believe we should arrange for Dimitris to see the visiting teacher.” She knew she was deliberately avoiding any reference to the fact that Ethel Nelson held a Ph.D. in behavioural psychology.
How would they respond? She waited until the translation was finished.
Mother twisted the hanky between her reddened fingers and whispered, “Kalo pedi,” as if it were an invocation to some unknown god, a prayer to keep the evil eye away from her son.
Mr. Papodopolous puffed out his cheeks and blew out his breath. She caught a whiff of garlic. His words directed to his cousin were slow and measured.
“He ask, what is visiting teacher, please?”
Damn. She’d been hoping to avoid this part of the discussion, just as she knew she was hoping, even though she knew it was a doomed hope, to find some way to avoid hurting Tim. Fiona watched the father’s face closely as she said, “A special teacher who’s had extra training to help children with their … difficulties.”
Mr. Papodopolous sat rigidly and fired a question.
“Teacher is not, I am sorry, I don’t know right word, he is not … a head shrinker?”
Fiona couldn’t suppress a laugh. The cousin looked so serious.
“I’m sorry. It’s not funny, and no, she’s not a psychiatrist. Not a medical doctor.” But it was a half-truth, and the parents were entitled to a full explanation. “Doctor Nelson is a psychologist.”
Mr. Giorgiou translated.
Mr. Papodopolous frowned, talked rapidly to his wife, who rolled her eyes and clutched her hanky, then clearly struggling to express himself, spoke through his cousin. “He say, it is difficult for him and wife to understand. They do not think Dimitris is crazy in head … but you are teacher. In Greece, we have much respect for teachers. He say, we believe you doing best for Dimitris. Not Greek best, Canadian best.”
“Thank you,” she said. “I appreciate that.”
Mr. Papodopolous smiled, relaxed, and said, “OK. We do. Thank you.”
“My cousin is learning English,” the interpreter said with a hint of pride. “I teaching him.”
“I am teaching him,” she corrected without thinking. “That’s wonderful. Keep up the good work. It’s not an easy language.”
She was happy to change the subject and retreat from the potential minefield she could have found herself in having suggested psychological help for the boy. She also felt a tinge of guilt, knowing full well by suggesting counseling she had shifted Dimitris and his difficulties to someone else. She’d not miss having to deal with them.
“Good,” she said, rising. “Then if we are agreed, I’ll make the appointment for Dimitris.”
The cousin translated.
“OK,” the father said, and rose, motioning for his wife and cousin to do the same. “We thank you, Miss Kavanagh.”
She opened the door, and as Mrs. Papodopolous left, Fiona dropped a hand on her shoulder and said, “Dimitris kalo pedi,” and was gratified to be rewarded with a smile.
Fiona closed the door and looked at her watch. Ten o’clock. She was free for an hour before her next class and should start writing the report for the visiting teacher, but she sat and rested her head on her hands. God, she was tired. She’d taught an extra class to fill in for the absent Becky, had precious little sleep last night, and the pressure of the just-concluded interview had sapped her.
Someone knocked on her door. “Come in.”
Becky poked her head into the office.
“What are you doing here?” Fiona saw the bags under Becky’s bloodshot eyes. “How’s your dad?”
Becky flopped into the nearest chair. “Not good. I went home for a few hours last night, and I’m on my way to VGH, so I thought I’d just pop in and see you. I need your advice.”
Fiona sat upright. Usually it was the other way around. “I’m listening,” she said.
Becky folded the fingers of one hand through the others and for a moment rested her chin on the cradle. “I’m very fond of the parents,” she said, “but Mum’s still not willing to face up to things.”
“About your dad?”
Becky nodded. “The doctors at VGH have told us they’re as sure as they can be he’ll never recover. He’s being kept going by the ventilators and all the other gadgets.”
“I am sorry.”
“I think,” Becky said slowly, “I think I’m going to have to take the bull by the horns and give them permission to”—she grimaced—“pull the plug. Gruesome expression, I know, but I can’t think of a better one. I’m just not quite sure if I can bring myself to do it.” She looked questioningly at Fiona.
Fiona waited. It was as if she had become Becky and Becky her. Usually her friend had no difficulty making decisions. “I think,” Becky said, “in fact I’m pretty sure it would be the kindest thing to do for Dad, but I’m not sure how Mum would take it.”
“Have you asked her?”
Becky shook her head. “There’s not much point. The doctors already have. She says she’ll not forbid it, but she’ll not give the go-ahead either; it’s not for her to decide. It’s in God’s hands.” Becky managed a wry smile. “I very much suspect that I’m going to have to act in loco Domini.” She leaned forward and picked up the pencil that, moments before, Fiona had been tapping on her blotter. Fiona watched as Becky clutched the little yellow stick between her fists.
“I’m not sure I can tell you what to do.”
“I wouldn’t dream of asking you to,” Becky said, “but I would appreciate hearing what you think.”
Fiona leaned forward. “I can only suggest we try to look at the facts. It sounds as if your dad isn’t going to make it. I’m sorry, but it’s true.”
“I’m afraid so.”
Fiona saw the pencil bend.
“So if you leave him on life support, it won’t do much more than prolong the suffering, perhaps for days.”
Becky sighed. “I don’t think he’s feeling anything anyway.”
“No. But you and your mum certainly are.”
Becky pursed her lips. “I’m all right. It’s Mum who worries me.”
“But she’s going to have to…”
“It’s all right. Just spit it out.”
“Accept his death sooner or later.”
“I know.”
Fiona took a deep breath. “It seems to me you’ve two choices.” And what had she been dealing with since Monday? Her own two options were so black-and-white on the surface: Tim or Davy? But whatever she decided would lead to a death of a kind inside her, a death of something precious to her, and one that would bring its own guilt and grief. “Becky, you can either make a decision or simply choose not to decide, if you follow me.”
Becky nodded.
“I can’t tell you what to do, but I hav
e a suggestion. It’s worked for me. You can drive yourself nuts haggling over options, consequences, details. Why not ask yourself how you felt in the very first minute you realized you were going to be asked to deal with this? You might have been right then.”
“Turn off the life support. It’s the kindest thing to do.”
Fiona heard the pencil snap. She saw Becky nod to herself and throw the broken ends of the pencil on the desktop before she said, “I suspect I’ve known it all along, but thanks for listening, for helping me to see straight.”
“I’m sorry there’s not more I can do.”
Becky rose. “You’ve done a lot. And thanks for arranging for me to have a bit of time off to sort things out. I’ll get back to work as soon as I can. I promise.”
“Take all the time you need. We’ll manage.”
“Right.” Becky moved toward the door. “I’d better be running along.”
Fiona rose, stood in Becky’s path, and enveloped her in a great hug. “It’s going to be difficult, but I think you’re making the right choice.”
“I hope so,” Becky said, “but you were right, too. It has to be mine, nobody else’s, and I should have trusted my instincts.”
“I know,” Fiona said. “Believe me. I know.”
Becky opened the door. “Thank you, Fiona. I’ll be in touch,” she said as she left.
Fiona returned to her chair. Poor Becky. Fiona picked up the broken pencil and threw the pieces into a metal wastebasket. “Pulling the plug,” was a gruesome expression, and yet there were occasions when everyone would have to—on a job, a love affair, and, yes, a dying parent. It took courage, but Fiona knew she had that kind of strength. She’d not hesitated when she’d had to tell one lover, the married one with the ponytail, to get lost. That had been cleaner than watching her affair with George Thompson, the Protestant civil rights worker, shrivel and die.
It was all because of him that she was now estranged from her parents. She’d come to understand how convenient their anger had been. She’d needed an excuse to divorce herself from their world of ancient, inbred hatreds. In some ways, it had been a relief to “pull the plug” on them. She’d never tried to patch up the differences between them. Then she’d met Davy and had found herself dragged once more into that world of bitterness and intolerance. It seemed the harder we tried to run away from things, the faster they pursued us. Would it really hurt now, after twenty years, to stop running, to write to her folks, even make the trip back to Belfast? The old reasons for keeping them out of her life were dead. It was strange, but with Davy on his way here, the notion of returning to Belfast felt possible. Perhaps she’d do it once Davy was safely here with her.
Somehow it felt as if he was here already. Talking to Jimmy and Siobhan, seeing the Irish pictures in Jimmy’s apartment on Beach Avenue, smelling the scones cooking.
And it all meant she was going to have to end things with Tim. Talk about “pulling the plug.” When he came to Whyte Avenue, she must face him and tell him the truth.
CHAPTER 42
LONDONDERRY. THURSDAY, SEPTEMBER 29, 1983
If he told himself the truth, he was more than anxious; he was worried as hell. Inspector Alfie Ingram (aka Spud) sat in the briefing room waiting for two senior officers to arrive. Merely being in the presence of upper echelon always made him feel uncomfortable, but there was more at stake today. His career.
Alfie’d risen early, shaved with extra care, and put on his best shirt, sports jacket, and trousers before driving to Tasking and Co-ordination Group North (TCG[N]) headquarters in Londonderry. This organization had been formed after the early years of the Troubles, when army and police worked independently, the one often to the detriment of the other.
Now the combined group was responsible for collating the intelligence gathered by all branches of the British Security Forces working in a defined geographic area of Ulster and for acting in concert when mounting antiterrorist actions.
The TCG(N) was housed in a collection of nondescript police and army offices hidden behind a grey concrete wall surmounted by a high metal fence. The briefing room was in a Portakabin in the middle of the complex. The windows were curtained with thick material to hide the occupants from any prying eyes.
Alfie fidgeted on his folding wooden chair. He was proud that he was the one who would take the credit for this meeting being called, yet terrified in case he’d been misled by his informant. If he had, today’s efforts and all they would lead to would be a colossal waste of everyone’s time. He knew the Provos were effective in running double agents whose function was to mislead the police or army intelligence units. He didn’t think Sammy was smart enough to be playing that game, but still, the wee man hadn’t phoned on Wednesday as he’d promised with the final bit of the puzzle—the date. Maybe there’d be a note under the cross in Ballydornan churchyard.
He picked at the skin around the base of one fingernail and longed to light a cigarette. It was a bugger having to work with incomplete information, but that was the nature of his trade. A scrap here, a suggestion there, a good hint could lead to a planning session like this one to discuss the mobilization of forces. If it all paid off, he’d be in clover. If it didn’t, he could see himself posted to desolate Rathlin Island off Ulster’s north coast, hanging about in the rain, forgotten by his superiors, keeping an eye on the island’s sheep, with nothing to look forward to but his pension.
The thought that his informant could have been wrong or Alfie might have misinterpreted what he’d been told niggled at him. He polished the toe cap of his brightly shined black shoe against the back of his neatly pressed pants. He was going to look a right Charlie if all this morning’s planning, based solely on his word, led them on a wild-goose chase.
He ran a finger inside his collar and wished he could unknot his tie. The room was close and muggy, too small for the group of men who were present. Besides himself there were majors of the regular army and the volunteer, part-time Ulster Defence Regiment. Their units would provide ground troops to set up a cordon and block escape routes. An RUC inspector from the Headquarters Mobile Support Unit (HMSU) and a staff sergeant of the SAS represented their two forces, each trained in surveillance and, more importantly for this operation, weapons skills.
It was going to be a hell of a show, and—Alfie managed to smile—he’d been picked as the Special Branch (E4A) liaison officer for the combined army/RUC operation, code-named Joan. His selection was a mark of his boss’s confidence in the intelligence Alfie had provided, incomplete though it might be.
Chief Inspector McMaster, Old Mac to his men, but never to his face, had been skeptical on Sunday when Alfie reported the short telephone conversation he’d had earlier with Sammy. “Your man thinks there’s to be an attack on Strabane Barracks? Not much to go on, is it, Ingram?” Old Mac was not one to be on Christian-name terms with his subordinates.
“No, sir, it’s not, but Sunshine’s always been reliable. He gave us the Ballydornan arms cache, tried to warn me about the Kesh breakout. I just wish to hell he could’ve told me when that was going to happen.”
“So do we, Ingram, so do we, by God.” The chief had a mole on his left cheek and a habit of stroking it with his index finger when he was concentrating. Alfie watched as Chief McMaster poked at the thing. The poking stopped. “Right. I’ll take his track record into consideration … and yours.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“I’ll have a word with TCG(N) on Monday, but I suspect they’ll need more to go on.”
Someone laughed at the back of the Portakabin. Alfie turned to see the two majors, both with faces split in enormous grins. One must have told the other a joke. It was as good a way as any to pass the time, Alfie supposed, but he would have had trouble raising a smile at that moment, even if Frank Carson, the “It’s all in the way I tell ’em” Belfast comedian, had been performing.
The chief inspector certainly hadn’t been laughing when he’d spoken to Alfie on Monday evening and told
him that the consensus at TCG(N) was that, if Alfie was right, there could be an opportunity to deal—for good—with certain Provos who’d been a thorn in the Security Forces’ side for a long time. As he’d predicted, they needed more info. That’s what had prompted Alfie to visit Sammy on Tuesday.
Old Mac had managed a small grin on Tuesday afternoon when Alfie reported the new details: his agent’s certainty about the target, the extent of the preparations, the uncertainty about the actual date. It had been enough for the chief to take the file personally to TCG(N).
He’d summoned Alfie last night, right in the middle of the fish and chips he’d been looking forward to all day. They’d have to wait. No one kept Old Mac waiting. Alfie had driven straight to the chief’s home in an old manse outside Newtownstewart. After his credentials were scrutinized by one of the uniformed bodyguards, he’d been ushered into a spacious lounge and told to sit.
Old Mac had paced back and forth across what Alfie recognized as an expensive Axminster, fiddled with his mole, and spoke deliberately. “You’d better be right about this one, Ingram. TCG(N)’s approved. They support your idea that the attack will come soon. So, rather than wait for your source to confirm the exact day, the SAS and HMSU will go in after dark on Thursday night. There’ll be units of the UDR and the Green Army, and I’m sending you and your men. I warn you, there’s going to be a lot of very pissed-off senior officers if this turns out to be tying up forces for nothing while we should still be after Kesh escapees.”
So they were going ahead. It meant that Sammy’s cover would be well and truly blown. Alfie hadn’t forgotten his promise to the little man. The question was when to broach the subject.
“I know he’s right about the target, sir.”
“I hope to God you are.”
“I will be.” He glanced at the chief inspector’s face, saw no disapproval there, and decided that now was as good a time as any to press his request. “When I’m proved right, sir, there’ll be another wee thing.”
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