Now and in the Hour of Our Death

by Patrick Taylor

  The moon’s path had silvered the sea where a freighter ploughed its way to the Port of Belfast and the spray from its bow wave shimmered.

  “Isn’t it beautiful, Davy?”

  He stood beside her, holding her hand, staring over the scene. “I never saw the sea like this before,” he said. “It’s as if the ship was swimming in quicksilver.” And she kissed him gently, loving the poetry that he didn’t know lived in him. “I wish,” he said, “I could conjure up a ship like that so we could sail away from the Troubles.”

  She’d not sailed away; she’d flown. And soon—please, soon—Davy would fly here to her. And he would come. When, she wasn’t sure, but she knew he would. Perhaps—and she smiled—she was fey, possessed of the gift of second sight. The gift wasn’t for everyone, but those who had it could see the future, and her grandmother had had the ability. Perhaps she’d passed it on? Granny said it only worked when you thought of someone you loved, as Fiona was thinking of Davy now.

  She was surprised how her certainty about her love for him had grown in five days, but recognized it wasn’t really a sudden growth like the thrusting of a new daffodil shoot in January. Just as a bulb in winter lies dormant, love had been in her all along, waiting for something to force it to the surface. Bulbs needed moisture, the warmth of the sun. Had she really needed Jimmy’s support, Siobhan’s confession? Not at all. It was and always had been her choice to make.

  As she walked along Whyte Avenue, the moon broke from the cloud, and its light filtered through the trees’ leafless branches to throw whorled and tormented shadows on the sidewalk. She came to her apartment and, not ready to face its emptiness, walked on to the Korean corner store. The little shop’s entrance was flanked by bunches of cut flowers—roses, carnations, lilies, irises.

  On laden stands tomatoes, oranges, brussels sprouts, apples, peaches, pears, and carrots jostled each other, all in their own separate trays. The boxes of fruits and vegetables were arranged with no apparent logic. Mr. and Mrs. Kim, the owners, had used the sprouts to segregate the green apples from the oranges. The alternating patterns of orange and green made her think of the emblems of the political divide back in Ireland.

  The peaches looked delicious. She picked through the fruit, squeezing each to determine how ripe it was, selected six, popped them in a paper bag, and took them inside.

  Mr. Kim smiled and bowed to her from behind the counter, where chocolate bars lay in racks beneath. The shelves on walls behind him bore stacks of cigarette packets. She wondered if Davy still smoked. She hoped not, but if he did, that was part of Davy, and she’d have to put up with it.

  “Evening, Miss Kavanagh,” Mr. Kim said in his accented English.

  “Lovely night, Mr. Kim.” She handed over her purchase and a ten-dollar bill and waited until he made change from a mechanical, bell-ringing cash register.

  “Thank you.” She took her change and her paper bag and headed for home.

  The night was dark now that the moon had gone behind thick clouds, and she wondered if it was dark in Abbotsford, where Becky was staying at her mother’s. Her dad had died peacefully three hours after the doctors turned off the life support, and when Becky had phoned, she’d sounded almost cheerful; certainly she seemed to be surviving her crisis.

  Becky was a strong woman, brought up with the English disdain for weakness, for shows of emotion in public. Fiona hoped she herself would be able to be brave tomorrow, to be resolute when Tim came, to tell him she was sorry, but it was over, her love for him wasn’t all-encompassing, all-giving with no holding back, no reservations, no secrets. It never could be as long as Davy was there between them.

  In front of the house, she fumbled for her key and heard McCusker’s yowling. All that bloody animal worried about was his stomach. His calls grew more insistent as she closed the front door behind her and opened the one to her apartment. She stooped to pet him while he wove against her shins. “Davy’s going to be surprised when he hears what I called you, cat,” she said, closing the door behind her. “Come on. Supper.”

  She set the peaches on the counter and poured pellets into McCusker’s bowl.

  The buzzer rang.

  She wasn’t expecting anyone, so it was probably someone collecting for a charity or a couple of earnest young Mormons with their Bibles, spiky brush cuts, and neatly pressed, dark suits. She’d chase away whoever it was, politely of course, and then—she relished the thought—she was going to eat one of the peaches and have a long, hot bath. She went to the living room and hit the intercom button. “Who is it?”

  “G’dye, darling. It’s me.”

  Holy Mary, Mother of God. Tim.

  “Come on. Open up. The bloke who was sick got better, and he wants to work tonight. I tried calling you, but nobody answered. I didn’t bother to leave a message. I thought I’d just pop over.”

  She tried to control her shallow breathing, lost for anything to say. She must look a mess. Old jeans, sweater, hair all over the place; she patted it with one hand, wondered if her lipstick was smudged before realizing her appearance was irrelevant. What mattered was how to tell him.

  “Fiona?”

  “Just a tick.” She unlocked the outer door.

  She heard his footsteps, then Tim was standing there, grinning from ear to ear.

  “Surprise,” he said, and with a flourish produced a bunch of red roses from behind his back. “Useful place, that store on the corner.”

  What would she have done if she’d bumped into him when she was buying the peaches? They must have missed each other by minutes.

  She swallowed, took the bouquet, and said, “I’d … I’d better get these into water.” She stepped back and avoided his attempt to kiss her. “Won’t be a minute. Sit down.” She saw him frown and lower himself into an armchair. Should she offer him a drink? Yes, she decided. His catching her by surprise was no excuse for rudeness.

  “Can I get you a beer?”

  “Too right. Dry dingoes don’t know the half of it, and I’m knackered.”

  “Coming up.” She went to the kitchen and placed the cellophane-wrapped flowers in the sink.

  She stood, clutching the tap, the metal cold under her hands. She put the plug in and ran the water, knowing that she was finding something to do, anything, to avoid going back to him.

  “Where’s my beer?” he called from the living room.

  “Right,” she said, opening the fridge, thinking how tired he looked. The shadows under his grey eyes were darker, the furrows on his forehead deeper, but this wasn’t the time for the sympathy she automatically felt.

  She found a glass and poured clumsily, making the beer foam and the head rush over the rim to drip on the kitchen floor. She grabbed the dishcloth and wiped the glass, threw the cloth on the counter, and, trying to stop her hand from shaking, carried the glass to the living room. “Beer,” she said, handing it to him and stepping back one pace.

  “Thanks.” He took a long pull and wiped his lips with the back of his hand. “I’d not want to be all frothy when I kiss you,” he said, starting to rise.

  “Sit down, Tim,” she said. “I’ve something to tell you.”

  “Aaw.” He sounded disappointed but sat, still holding his half-empty glass.

  She folded her arms and looked directly at his face, seeing puzzlement, concern. “I’ve had time to do a lot of thinking…”

  “You’re lucky. I’ve not had time to think. The hospital’s been like a zoo. I’m glad to be off call now and over here with you.” He frowned at her. “I thought you’d be pleased to see me. You all right?”

  She shook her head. “No. I’m not all right.”

  She heard his concern. “What’s up? Is it Becky’s dad?”

  She shook her head harder. “He died. Becky’s with her mother.”

  “I’m sorry. You’re upset. I understand.”

  “I suppose I am, but … that’s not what I’ve been thinking about.”

  “Oh?”

  “Tim. It�
�s … it’s about us.” She stared at him.

  “Us?” He lowered his beer to the coffee table. “Us? What about us?”

  “I was going to tell you tomorrow night.”

  “Tell me now.”

  She tightened her arms across her breasts. “I … I don’t think we should go on seeing each other.”

  “Jesus Christ.” He turned sideways. She couldn’t see his face, couldn’t judge how he was reacting.

  He turned back and looked directly at her. She saw no pleading, no anger, only raw hurt. “Say that again.” His voice was controlled.

  Her eyes prickled. She told herself not to cry. “I said, I don’t want to see you anymore, Tim.”

  He stood. “I know why you’d say that.” His shoulders slumped and his hands hung limply. She saw his left lower eyelid twitch. “I’ve seen the news about the Irish jailbreak. Your Ulsterman’s escaped, hasn’t he?”

  She nodded.

  “You can’t lay his ghost, can you?”

  “No,” she whispered. “No, I can’t.” Tim knew Davy’s name, and she understood why he wouldn’t say it.

  “He may not come to Vancouver, you know. You could be making an awful mistake.”

  “I know that, but…”

  “You can’t help yourself, can you?”

  She felt her throat constrict. “No.”

  “I see.”

  She wondered if it was his years in practice that allowed him to speak so calmly. It would be easier if he lost his temper, even struck her, but she knew Tim Andersen would never raise a hand to anyone, and yet she deserved his ire, not his understanding and the effort he was making to spare her.

  “How can you be so … so…”—she struggled for the word—“accepting?”

  “I’m not. But if that’s how things stand, I’ll be buggered if I can see what else I can do.”

  For a second, her mind roared, fight your corner, you stupid man. Don’t give me up without a struggle, but deep inside she knew it was her woman’s pride speaking. His refusal to rear up was an affront to her ego. “I’m sorry, Tim. I really am.”

  He sighed. “So am I, Fiona. For a while I was beginning to believe we might have something very special, you and I. I thought I’d be good for you. We are good together. Very good.”

  She blinked and sniffed, determined he would not see her cry. She looked down and waited for him to speak but—God damn his medical training—he still had the knack of letting a silence hang, deadlier than any shouted words.

  What had he just said? “We might have something special”—the way they laughed at the same silly things, reveled in taking Windy to sea. “I’d be good for you”; he had listened to her fears, never judged her, tried to help her face the reality of what she had been forced to survive in Belfast. “Good together,” and she thought of last Saturday, in her kitchen, in her bedroom, and despite herself felt her nipples rise.

  There was no mention of his hurt, no suggestion she hadn’t played fair with him, no blame. He’d spoken as if his feelings were irrelevant. He was trying to hold on to her, but in his own, more subtle way.

  “I’m not being fair, Tim.”

  “No,” he said, “you’re not. Not one bit…”

  By the look on his face, he had just managed to stop himself adding, “you bitch.” So there was anger inside him, and Fiona waited, ready to welcome it, knowing there must always be atonement for sins.

  “But it’s yourself you’re being unfair to.”

  Dear God, she could have borne it if he’d sworn at her. She might have sworn right back and seen the affair die there and then. A yelling match would have hurt, but the pain of this was worse. How could she be angry when the man was being so patient?

  He rose, and she felt his hand on her shoulder and turned to him the way she’d done so many times, expecting to be comforted by him putting his arms around her. She held her face up ready for his kiss. His lips brushed hers and she tasted beer.

  Someone had told her that smell was the most evocative of the senses. The yeasty taste brought her back to Conway Street and kissing Davy after he’d been to a soccer game and then to the pub with wee Jimmy for a pint or two. In her head, she heard Davy singing “My Lagan Love”: “… and hums in sweet, sad, undertone, the song of heart’s desire.”

  She pulled away, out of Tim’s reach, seeing for the first time the pain in his eyes, reflecting what must be his sure knowledge that he had lost her. And, God, it must be hard for him to know that he had lost her to a ghost of a man who might never materialize here in Vancouver. Tim had lost to her dreams.

  “I am sorry, Tim, truly sorry, but it’s for the best.” The next words came hard, but they had to be said. “I’m still in love with Davy McCutcheon. I’m not being fair to you.” Fiona despised herself for that last sentence, the words of self-justification of the thousands who, for their own selfish motives, jilted a lover yet needed to cling to a fragment of self-respect, but she couldn’t help repeating, “It’s not fair to you.”

  Tim said nothing.

  “I think,” she said, “you’d better leave.”

  He nodded, turned, and slowly walked to the door.

  Damn him. How could he accept her rejection so easily? “I am truly sorry, Tim.”

  “So you said, and I believe you. I appreciate your being honest.”

  Did he mean it, or was he saying that for her sake, so she could try to persuade herself she had done the right thing, the honest thing? “Thank you,” she said. What else could she say?

  He opened the door and turned to look at her. “Fiona,” he managed and she heard his voice crack, “I love you.”

  She wanted to run to him, to scream, “I didn’t mean it, I love you, too,” but she had meant everything she’d said. She didn’t love him enough, and now it was too late.

  “I’ll miss you, Fiona Kavanagh,” he said. “Look after yourself.” And he closed the door.

  The gentle click of the lock sounded to her as loud and as final as the slamming of a jail gate.

  She sat limply, her head bowed, and tasted the salt of her tears. Oh Tim, Tim. Do you know what you’ve done to me? In his kindness he had unwittingly taken his revenge. She’d thought she’d hear him saying, “I love you. I’ll miss you. Look after yourself” forever.

  She’d been dreading the scene, steeled herself to face bitterness, anger, harsh words, recriminations. They would have been easier than his patient acceptance, his consideration for her feelings, the kind of gentlemanly respect he’d shown from the day she’d met him.

  God damn the rainstorm that sent them to Bridges. God damn Bridges, where Jimmy took her photograph to send to Davy. God damn you, Fiona Kavanagh, for being such a fool.

  She dashed the tears away, told herself that how she felt now was no one’s fault but her own. She’d no reason to be angry with Tim, with Bridges, with Jimmy. The only one to blame was herself. Perhaps instead of feeling guilty, she should take some pride from having been truthful, for not having tried to play both ends against the middle. To keep up a pretence in case Davy didn’t come would have been using Tim in the worst way. And Davy would come. He would.

  She went to her shelves of records, half-pulled a disc of Irish ballads from the shelf, changed her mind, took down Puccini’s Madama Butterfly and put it on the gramophone. The overture started, and she sat in a chair. Butterfly, with its dark story of love, deceit, and rejection, suited her mood far better than would Liam Clancy’s songs of simple love.

  McCusker came in, jumped up onto her lap, and curled into a ball. She knew the animal trusted her completely, and she fondled his head and told him she loved him. She listened attentively until the geisha, Cio-Cio-San, sang her final, despairingly hopeful aria as she watched her lover’s ship sail away. “Un bel di vendremo”—one fine day he will return.

  CHAPTER 46

  TYRONE. SATURDAY, OCTOBER 1, 1983

  It would be a few minutes before McGuinness returned from the latrine. Davy stood in his sleeping a
lcove, out of sight of the room at the head of the grave’s main chamber. He took the .25 from under his pillow and slipped the revolver into his pants’ pocket.

  He fished out the remnants of Jimmy’s letter to make certain her number was still legible. Not that it really mattered. He’d committed 604-555-7716 to memory. Because it was important to them, priests learned great chunks of the Bible by rote. Davy made sure he had Fiona’s telephone number well remembered. He chanted it to himself like a mantra. Although he’d no idea how to get a call through to Canada, he was sure Sean Conlon would know. The first thing Davy was going to do when he was safe in Dublin was to call her.

  He wrinkled his nose. The grave stank of damp and mildew, dead spiders and excrement. It was only a small chemical toilet. Davy ached to be out in the daylight, away from the O’Byrnes’ farm and away to hell out of Northern Ireland.

  “Are you not ready yet?” he called to McGuinness.

  “In a minute.”

  “I’m off. Don’t forget the lights.” Davy went to the tunnel, dropped onto his hands and knees, and started to crawl. Christ, but spiders were persistent buggers. He brushed gossamer away from his face. How many times had someone torn that web apart in the last six days?

  He heard McGuinness coming behind, so he crawled more rapidly and shoved aside the blanket that covered the entrance. The sun dappled the ground beneath the brambles.

  Davy waited at the edge of the briar patch, made sure he wasn’t being watched, and stood. He could see Cal and Eamon in the farmyard loading the van. Erin was walking toward them from the barn, Tessie at her heels.

  He didn’t wait for McGuinness but went through the back gate and limped quickly across the yard.

  “Morning, Father,” Eamon said as he shoved what must have been the last of the rucksacks into the back of the van. “Just about all set. Here”—he handed Davy a set of car keys—“you’ll need these.”

  Davy took the keys, wished they were going to be driving straight across the border, knew bloody well they weren’t and there was fuck all he could do about it. He went to the front of the van and climbed in. He glanced behind and saw three stuffed rucksacks and an old wooden chest. It must contain the four folded ArmaLites and a coal-dust-stained khaki rucksack. He knew too well about the rucksack—he’d made the bloody fuses hidden in it. The box would provide concealment of its contents if the van were stopped by a random patrol.