by Chris Petit
Also in her own role of student activist she picked up hints of his unreliability – meetings cancelled without warning and growing rumours that some were making tidy profits out of the struggle – and she came to see that behind his glibness lay a profound cynicism. Nevertheless, she found it hard to break from him. She was naïve and besotted, and Breen, seeing that, broke the relationship in the obvious way, by sexual betrayal.
‘I was heartbroken, inconsolable.’
The end of the affair led to her dropping out of her studies and going abroad to Ethiopia to work in famine relief. When she came back fourteen months later she found her sister Bernadette married to Breen.
‘Which was a surprise, to say the least. You could have knocked me over with a feather. And not a word from Bernadette. If she wrote, which she said she did, I never got the letter.’
Molly found herself hardened by her time away, she said. Exposure to natural disaster made her less tolerant of what she found back at home.
‘I realized that, along with my ideals, I’d lost that sense of the good person I once thought I was. I hated Bernadette – passionately – because she had taken my man, never mind that I was done with him, and, yes, I wished her dead. I took up with Francis again, not because I wanted him, more to spite poor Bernie behind her back. I was jealous, there’s no two ways. The affair was my revenge against her and a way of getting back at Francis for undermining my youthful ideals.’
Molly watched Westerby in the long silence that followed. Cross studied her hands lying on the top of the table. They were large, practical hands, mannish almost. He thought of Breen lying dead in the road and tried to imagine him alive being caressed by those hands. Molly looked at him oddly, as if reading his thoughts.
‘Bernadette never knew about us,’ she went on. ‘So in the end the real damage was the harm I did to myself. Since her death I suppose I have spent the years trying to atone, a situation not made any easier by her making me the beneficiary of one of her life insurance policies. I’m living off the proceeds at this moment. It was Bernadette’s money that paid for the farm.’
She smiled wanly at them. ‘Sometimes I wonder if I haven’t grown comfortable with the pain.’
‘Do you know anyone who wanted Breen dead?’ Cross asked.
Molly threw her head back and gave a hoot of laughter. The darkening shadows emphasized the hollow of her cheekbones.
‘It was never easy to get to the bottom of what Francis was up to, but he did talk more towards the end. I think he was afraid of something.’
‘Or someone?’ asked Cross.
‘Or someone. When I came back he was very caught up in something. This would have been around the end of 1974. Do you remember the Planet of the Erps?’
Her face lit up unexpectedly at the memory. Planet of the Erps was the nickname of the Divis Flats headquarters of the Irish Republican Socialist Party. The IRSP, or Erps as they were known, had formed after a break in the ranks of the Officials.
‘When was that?’ Cross asked.
‘At the time I’m talking about, around the Christmas of 1974,’ said Molly. ‘A lot of Belfast Officials were dead unhappy. They regarded the ’72 ceasefire as a Dublin initiative and, as it was still showing no signs of being broken, they took away their toys and started their own party.’
‘And Breen went with them?’ asked Cross.
‘I’m sure Francis was his usual canny self and played all ends against the middle before making up his mind. He was certainly involved in the civil war that broke out between the Officials and the Erps in the New Year, though in those early days I don’t suppose anyone was quite sure which side he was on.’
The situation was complicated by IRSP denials of the existence of any paramilitary wing and the refusal of this new organization to declare itself.
‘At the start it was pretty much a free-for-all. There were God knows how many kneecappings in those first months. The Stickies carried out over forty in as many days, I heard. Then the Provos came to the help of the Erps because many of them had old scores to settle with the Officials. Any excuse for a pot shot. For a while there was some mob calling itself the People’s Liberation Army, which might have been dreamt up by Francis himself. It was a loose gang of ex-Officials and Provos looking for a bit of action. By then of course the Provos had also called a ceasefire with the Brits, which meant they had no one left to fight, so they did the next best thing and started scrapping with each other. Well, that was Francis, and no doubt lining his pockets all the while. Then of course there was the INLA.’
‘Which Breen joined.’
Molly stood up. ‘Started. Joined. Ran. Who knows? Francis had learned to move in deep waters by then. I doubt if you’ll find many who could say exactly what it was that he did.’
She went to turn on a light, a gas lamp on a wall bracket. Though there was electricity, the old gas lights were still there and she preferred them, she said.
While lighting the lamp she remarked casually, ‘Francis was the man who blew up that Tory Party MP in 1979 as he drove out of the Houses of Parliament.’
‘Airey Neave?’ asked Cross in astonishment.
‘So he said, but he may have been joking. Francis was quite capable of fibbing when it suited him. But he was always boasting that the Provos had never pulled off anything like that.’
Cross wondered why he was so disconcerted. Neave had been killed by the INLA, so Breen’s involvement should have come as no surprise. It was the unexpected mention of Neave, he realized. His name had come up recently after Miranda Ramsay had mentioned Warren’s claim that he had stumbled across something to do with a political assassination on the mainland. He wondered at the coincidence of the name cropping up twice in such a short space of time.
‘What else did he say?’ asked Westerby.
‘Always boasting is an exaggeration. He mentioned it twice. The second time he was nervous because several INLA people, including the man who had authorized the Neave operation, had been killed in retaliation, either by the Brits or by loyalist killers in cahoots with them.’
‘How do you know this?’ asked Westerby.
‘Francis. He was worried he was next, so when Bernadette and the boys got killed he must have thought it was him they were after and decided it was time to go. Francis was always well aware on which side his bread was buttered and he knew he was getting lazy and careless. He was drinking a lot by then.’
‘After he went, did anyone approach you or question you about him?’ asked Cross.
Molly shook her head.
‘Does the name Berrigan mean anything?’
Molly moved her head again, slowly from side to side. Her implacable stare told him how much her hatred of Breen still dominated her life. Cross was curious about the sharp focus of her obsession, and wondered if her hatred could have hardened enough to make her kill. She certainly looked physically capable of it, especially with Breen a drunken, physical wreck by the end.
When she shook hands goodbye Cross noted the firmness of her grip.
34
THEY were still well in the Republic when it started to rain so heavily that they had to pull over. When the storm showed some sign of letting up Cross suggested they push on at least to find a telephone to call home and explain their delay. He caught Westerby’s dubious look.
‘We’re still far enough south,’ he said.
She nodded slowly and pulled a face. The wide stretch on either side of the border was known as bandit country with good reason. It was staunchly republican and any member of the RUC who strayed into it was a target. Cross’s own English accent and Westerby’s Belfast one would mark them out for immediate attention. The rules were straightforward. In the run-up to the border and through South Armagh they were: stick to main roads and don’t stop. The alternative was spelled out for all concerned when an RUC man who had broken down in a lay-by had been found shot in the head. Cross looked at the map again. The nearest place appeared to be somewhere called Clonmel
lon.
The rain drove hard against the windscreen until even with the wipers on full they could barely see. Westerby’s face grew tense. Once or twice the lights of another vehicle splashed over their faces, otherwise they nudged their way forward alone.
They were almost through Clonmellon before realizing it was there. A few pinpricks of light blurred in the wet darkness. Westerby slowed to a crawl while Cross tried to see if any of the buildings was still open or, best of all, a police station. They drove down the main street twice before spotting a bar.
The place looked shut but turned out to be open and full. Beefy farm lads smelling of wet clothes and tobacco greeted their arrival with a heavy silence. Westerby, as the only woman in the place, was an object of sullen curiosity. Cross, painfully aware of his accent, asked the young barman for the phone. They were allowed to use one in a parlour behind.
Deidre sounded brisk and told him she was busy bathing the children. Cross wondered if his not being there made any difference. When Westerby made her call she sounded perfunctory and strained.
The bar fell quiet again as they made their way back. ‘Mind how you go,’ said a voice in a mock British accent. Laughter and a few cat-calls followed them out.
As Cross listened to Westerby trying to coax the engine back to life he sensed her blaming him for a day that was ending in disaster. He bit back his own irritation, at Deidre for taking the Volvo and at Westerby for having such an unreliable car. He sighed and told her to wait there.
Back in the bar he was greeted by another silence, more hostile than before, while he explained about the car.
‘You’re not from around these parts?’ said the barman, deadpan. He was a dark, handsome lad with an air of mischief that looked like it could turn dangerous. A few sniggered. Cross was aware of everyone listening.
‘I can’t remember when we last had a foreigner in here. Where’s your lady friend from?’
‘Belfast,’ said Cross.
They probably thought he was army. He tried to think what he would say if they asked.
‘At least you’re not in a ditch somewhere,’ the barman went on. ‘On a terrible night like this who knows where you could have ended up. But you’ll not get your car mended now. I think Donny’s the man for you, but don’t bend over if you drop your change.’
There were a few chuckles.
‘Oi, Tony!’ shouted the barman.
Tony came shuffling forward. He had the bleary look of a man who had been drinking since lunchtime.
‘Now, Tony, are you all right to drive?’
‘With my eyes shut.’
‘Take this feller down to Donny’s.’
The barman turned back to Cross.
‘Donny’ll put you up for the night, but any drink you’re needing, you’ll have to buy now because Donny’ll only send you back if you start asking for it.’
Cross settled on a quarter of whiskey and a bottle of wine. There wasn’t a lot of call for wine, the barman said, producing a dusty bottle of Valpolicella that he passed on for an exorbitant sum.
‘Is that the colour of your money?’ he said, inspecting Cross’s sterling note. ‘Are we taking the crown’s shilling tonight?’
Cross felt himself redden as the barman took the note.
‘I’ll call Donny and tell him you’re on your way,’ he said, handing Cross a handful of Irish change with a wink.
Tony went for his car while Cross collected Westerby and explained what was happening. She looked thoroughly fed up and even more so at the sight of the battered Datsun Sunny. Its interior smelled of wet dog and boozy breath. Only one headlight worked but that did not deter Tony from driving at sixty into a blind tunnel of driving rain.
‘Can you not drive so fast, man,’ ordered Cross, who immediately felt that he was being over-anxious.
‘Don’t you worry, sir, the road’s as straight as it’s long.’
Bloody comedian, thought Cross.
They drove several miles at the same breakneck speed before the Datsun pulled up at an isolated bungalow. When Cross protested at the size of the fare Tony muttered something about an excess charge.
‘What for, the weather?’ asked Cross.
‘Right enough, the weather.’
Again Cross had to hand over a British note. Tony had no change.
Donny was waiting in the porch, looking like a vision that had answered the wrong cue. He teetered towards them dressed in a cerise shirt and white jeans. He was florid, paunchy and pigeon-toed, with hair scraped up and over to hide his baldness, and was wearing what was probably the only charm bracelet in County Louth.
‘You poor dears! Welcome, welcome!’
He ushered them through rooms that were a defiant assault on plain good taste, all clashing colours and rioting fabrics, the customary Irish way of showing that poverty had been beaten.
Cross avoided looking at Westerby as they went upstairs. Donny proudly ushered them into a room not much bigger than its large bed with a quilted headboard. ‘Queen size!’ he exclaimed before manoeuvring an awkward concertina door to reveal a tiny pink bathroom.
When Cross explained that he would be needing a second room Donny wrung his hands.
‘I’ve none spare. Mooney’s boy said nothing about a second room. The other’s gone to a lad who’s decorating for me. Is sharing out of the question? I’ve got a little putu-up we can squeeze in here.’
Donny pointed towards the narrow space at the end of the bed. He was so outrageously camp that it was hard not to laugh. Westerby was evidently amused.
Cross told her to take the first bath and went downstairs with Donny to use the phone, which was in a little confessional-like booth beneath the stairs. He called Deidre again to say he was now stranded. Cross had the feeling she didn’t believe him. In Belfast it was a clear moonlit night after a sunny day.
‘Are you on your own?’ she asked.
‘With Hargreaves.’
He wondered afterwards if she had overheard him calling Westerby that morning, wondered too why he had lied. It was too late now.
As they sat down to dinner, he decided it was better to be in good humour, and he raised his glass.
‘Well, cheers,’ said Westerby.
Donny insisted they dine by candlelight, which made them amused in a self-conscious way. They were both too aware of being off duty, he thought.
Donny fussed over them with outrageous stories of his peripatetic love life, thanks to ten years in the navy.
‘Every dish a memory,’ he sighed, serving cous cous. ‘I can’t help noticing, dear, that’s a lovely lipstick you’re wearing. What is it, if you don’t mind my asking?’
Westerby said it was a Yardley.
‘The choice you have up there, it’s worth all the troubles. We’ve nothing like it, not even in Dublin. The last time I was in Belfast I spent the whole day in Boots. Paradise! And the pronunciations too, so fetching. Butes the Chaymist. Doesn’t she have beautiful eyes?’
Cross agreed out of politeness.
‘You’re very quiet.’
Cross realized Donny was talking to him. ‘Just tired.’
He was wondering about Westerby. He had not let himself notice her eyes before: the clearest of clear blues; cornflower, he thought.
Westerby appeared to be already asleep when he got upstairs. Cross had given Donny a hand with clearing up to allow her time to prepare for bed. She had taken the put-u-up, leaving him the large bed. He turned out the light and undressed in the dark. The sheets were cool and crisp. He was pleasantly surprised. He had been expecting nylon.
An hour later he was still awake, listening to a wind that had got up and the rain still beating against the window. Westerby stirred in her sleep, her presence an uncomfortable reminder of his loveless life.
He counted off the quarter-hours on the luminous dial of his watch, and fell to brooding. At some point he found himself wondering about Breen’s missing teeth. He saw again the dumped bodies of Breen, Mary Elam and Mary
Ryan, thrown out like discarded trash. His own negligence bled into the picture. His failure to resolve his relationship with Deidre. His casualness towards Vinnie, so like Heatherington. They would be the same age roughly. He wondered what Blair had in mind for Vinnie. He shut his eyes and tried to escape the confusion.
A quarter to three crawled to a quarter past. In his exhaustion Cross’s thoughts became a kaleidoscope of waking dreams and random thoughts in collision.
In his clearer moments he felt like a man trapped in a maze of the past – Mary Ryan’s murder, reminiscent of the brutality of the Shankill murders thirteen years before; Breen’s subterranean meanderings suggesting God knows what collusions; then there was Miranda Ramsay’s strange confession with its hints of a different labyrinth. How many mazes were there? And even if he found the centre how would he recognize it?
When he awoke something outside passed for daylight and Westerby’s bed was empty. He found her downstairs cheerfully tackling a full breakfast.
‘Sleep well?’ asked Cross, sticking to toast and coffee in spite of Donny’s protestations.
‘Like a top,’ she answered.
It looked like it. He wondered if his own appearance was as ragged as he felt.
The rain was still falling when Donny drove them through sodden countryside back to the village and Westerby’s car, which still would not start. A local mechanic who had reluctantly agreed to meet them there pronounced it sick.
‘It’s your water pump, which is a joke considerin’ all the rain like.’
The part would not be available until Tuesday, he said. Tuesday week, more like it, thought Cross.
Donny then drove them back to the guest house – which was called Donnybrook, Cross noticed – where he phoned about the trains and told them there was one in an hour from Dundalk.
‘You’re lucky. None ran yesterday,’ he said. ‘I’ll take you down there because you’ll not get Tony the taxi before three on a Sunday.’
The rain, which had let up briefly, returned during the drive to the station. Donny took them via back roads, which Cross would have avoided, and he grew more nervous the nearer they got to the border. Every few moments Donny wiped condensation off the inside of the windscreen.
