Lies of Silence

by Moore, Brian;

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, she’s going to be the woman of the hour, and all that. The media will all be after her. But do I want her working here? I mean, it’s all very well to play Joan of Arc, but I don’t want to be sitting here waiting for some gunman to walk in the door of this place and blow us all to smithereens. You see my point?”

  “I do,” he said. “Have you told her that?”

  “Not yet. But I think I will.”

  In the lobby of the Clarence, Rory Burke met him as he came through the door. “Where have you been? There’s two reporters waiting for you and the phone’s been ringing for the last hour, ITV from London, and the BBC, and even the Americans, CBS Television, they’re all after you. What’s going on?”

  But even as Rory was telling him this two men came out of the bar and came up to him. “Are you Mr. Dillon?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m from the Independent. I wonder, could we talk to you?”

  He saw now that the other man had a camera. “Just a minute,” he said to them and, turning to Rory, led him aside. “Rory, I was talking to London earlier. They want you to take over as manager here. It’s temporary, mind you. Anyway, we’ll talk about it later. But I won’t be working here anymore. All right? You’re manager pro tem. OK?”

  Rory’s eyes widened in joy then narrowed in caution. “You’re not leaving us?”

  “I’ll tell you about it later,” he said again and turned to the waiting reporters. “All right, gentlemen. If you’ll come up to my office?”

  The reporter had an English accent, so Dillon deduced he was from the London Independent, and not the Irish newspaper of the same name. The photographer was local. He spoke up as they went toward the mezzanine stairs. “I wonder, could I just take a picture of you now, sir? Maybe outside the hotel?”

  “I don’t know if I want my picture taken. What’s this about?”

  The photographer looked at the English reporter, who gave him a warning stare. “Sorry, now,” the photographer said. “Whenever it suits you, sir. No hurry.” They went upstairs in silence and when Dillon showed them into his office the photographer walked to the window, and stood, looking out, as though divorcing himself from any further involvement.

  “Your wife was on television a little while ago,” the reporter said. “I suppose you know about that?”

  “I heard she was on television. I don’t know what she said.”

  “Well, it’s an extraordinary story, isn’t it? I mean, it must have been a terrible dilemma for you, mustn’t it?”

  “What dilemma?”

  “I mean, as she said, your having to choose between her life and a lot of other people’s lives. She—she just mentioned it, of course, on television. Didn’t really go into it. It was a news broadcast, there wasn’t time. I wonder if you could tell us more about it now?”

  “I don’t think I want to discuss it,” Dillon said. “I don’t want to say anything until I’ve spoken to her.”

  “I see. Yes, of course. And when will you be speaking to her, Mr. Dillon? Could we, perhaps, talk after that?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t know where she is at the moment.”

  The photographer turned back from the window. “They were taking her over to the BBC on Ormeau Avenue,” he said. “That was just a wee while ago.”

  “Thanks,” Dillon said. “Well, if you’ll excuse me.”

  “Are you going over there?” the reporter asked. “Could we, perhaps, give you a lift?”

  “Thank you. I have a car.” He went to the door and waited while, reluctantly, they took their leave.

  As they went out Maggie Donlon came in. “What’s this I hear about your leaving us? Is it true?”

  “Did you get your car back all right?” he asked.

  “Yes, thanks, Michael. Listen, I heard about your wife being on TV. What a story! Are you leaving here because they’re after you, is that it?”

  “Who said I was leaving?”

  “Our new manager.” She laughed. “Mister Burke.”

  “He doesn’t waste any time,” Dillon said. “Listen, Maggie, I have to run. What was it you wanted?”

  “I just wanted to ask you, because if he’s going to be the manager I’m leaving now.”

  “It’s only temporary,” he said, “don’t worry,” and, waving to her, he went past her and ran down to the lobby.

  “Mr. Dillon, you’re wanted on the phone,” one of the desk clerks called out, but he shook his head and ran outside to his rented car. The BBC on Ormeau Avenue was only minutes away. There, uniformed commissionaires put him through a security check before admitting him to the entrance lobby.

  Once inside, he realized he did not know who to ask for. When he had been here before it had always been to see Andrea. Would Andrea know where to find Moira? He had no other choice. At reception he asked for Miss Baxter. They telephoned, then told him, “She’s in a meeting, sir. Who will I say is calling?”

  “My name is Dillon,” he said. “Actually, I’m looking for my wife. She’s supposed to be here for some show or other.”

  The middle-aged woman on the reception desk looked up at him with new interest. “Is that the lady—? Oh, yes, of course. I think they took her to Studio Six.”

  The other woman on reception said, “I think she’s in makeup now.”

  “It’s urgent,” he said. “I have to see her right away.”

  The women looked at each other, then one of them said, “Do you have any identification, sir?” He showed his driver’s license.

  Both of them looked at it, then the older woman signaled to a commissionaire. “Harry, will you take this gentleman to makeup? It’s for a guest called Mrs. Dillon.”

  “Thank you,” he said. He followed the commissionaire to the lift and went up. The commissionaire, an elderly man, said that it was a nice day but the forecast was for more rain. Then, with the lift still moving upward, he said, “You’re that lady’s husband, then?”

  Dillon nodded.

  “I heard her on the news on telly,” the commissionaire said. “She’s dead right, you know. Somebody has to speak up. I mean against both sides—the UDA as well. Them and the IRA, there’s no difference if you ask me.” The lift had stopped. “This way, sir.”

  He followed the commissionaire along a corridor past a seedy-looking room containing a coffee machine, sofas and a table with magazines. At the end of the corridor he saw the makeup room, a sort of barbershop, with swivel chairs facing lighted mirrors. In the makeup room two young men and a girl who carried a clipboard were clustered around a woman in a white coat. When Dillon entered the room they separated, looking back at him. At that moment, he saw that the woman in the white coat was putting makeup on someone seated in one of the swivel chairs. The someone was Moira.

  “There you are, sir,” the commissionaire said. “I’ll be waitin’ for you when you’re ready.”

  He went in. Moira saw him in the mirror, but did not turn around. She leaned back in the chair as the woman dabbed suntan makeup on her brow. The people who were with Moira eyed him cautiously.

  “Can I speak to you for a moment?” Dillon said to her.

  One of the young men at once came forward, looking at him suspiciously. “Excuse me, sir. What is this about?”

  “I’m her husband.”

  At once the girl with the clipboard came up, smiling and excited. “Mr. Dillon? We’ve been trying to track you down. How do you do, my name’s Meg Harris, I’m the producer, we’re just about to do an interview with your wife. We’re also taping this segment for CBS, in America; anyway, I’m sure you’re not interested in all that. What I’m asking you is, will you join Mrs. Dillon in the interview? That would be super.”

  He looked at Moira who had her eyes closed as the makeup woman dabbed powder on her eyelids. “If I could just talk to her for a minute, in private?” he said to the girl producer.

  The makeup woman at once said to Moira, “I’m nearly done, love. Just one
more wee touch. There you are, love.”

  Moira sat up and the makeup woman helped her remove the smock which protected her dress. The girl whispered something to the two young men, then said, “Well, we have a few minutes, if you want to talk. If you’ll come this way, there’s a visitor’s waiting room.”

  He looked at Moira who did not look at him, but turned back to the mirror, inspected herself, then said to the makeup woman, “Could I have a brush?”

  “Certainly, love.”

  Intent, as though she were alone in her own bedroom, Moira took the brush to her long hair, tugging it, fluffing it out behind.

  “That’s lovely, now,” the makeup woman said as Moira handed back the brush. Moira thanked her and then they went down the corridor to the seedy room which Dillon had passed earlier.

  “We’ll wait outside,” the girl producer said, shutting them in. Through the glass panel of the door Dillon could see them waiting in the corridor, the two young men laughing at something the girl producer said, the elderly commissionaire standing a little off from the others.

  Moira walked over to one of the shabby sofas and sat down. “Did you see me on the news?” she asked. Her voice was neutral.

  “No, but I heard about it. I notice you didn’t bother to ask me before you got us into this.”

  “Got you into what?” She had taken her mirror out of her bag and was looking at her lips.

  “What Peg Wilton calls your Joan of Arc bit. Are you trying to become a martyr, is that it?”

  “I thought you were the one who wanted to make a martyr of me?” she said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “When you rang up the police about the bomb.”

  “All right, all right,” he said. “Look, that’s done, it’s over. But think about what you’re doing now. Are you trying to get yourself killed?”

  “I’m doing what I think is right. Just as you did when you phoned the police. Are you going to come on this interview with me, or not?”

  “No,” he said. “Listen, my transfer’s come through. I’m going to London tomorrow.”

  “Are you, now?” she said sarcastically. “Well, if you do, I suppose that’s the end of us.”

  “Look,” he said. “I want to talk to you about that.”

  “About what?” she said, and suddenly he saw fear in her face.

  “About us.”

  She looked down at her bag. She put the mirror back in it and shut the bag with a click. “What was her name again? The one you were holding hands with this morning?”

  “Her name is Andrea Baxter.”

  “Is she going to miss you?”

  He did not answer. Suddenly, she began to sob. “Oh, Christ,” she said. “Go away, will you?”

  Ashamed, he turned and looked at the glass-paneled door. The young men and the girl producer were talking to each other but it was pretend-talk. They were watching Moira as, sobbing, she took a Kleenex from her purse. The girl producer caught his eye and mimed, pointing to her wristwatch. He went to the door and opened it.

  “Is everything all right?” the girl asked.

  From behind him Moira answered, “Fine. Are we ready, then?”

  The girl looked at him. “Are you joining us, Mr. Dillon? If you are we’ll have to send you to makeup for a moment.”

  “No.” He signaled to the elderly commissionaire who waited further down the corridor. “Will we go, then?”

  “Right, sir,” the commissionaire said.

  “Sure you won’t change your mind?” one of the young men asked. “The interview would be much stronger with both of you.”

  He shook his head, then looked back. Moira, standing behind him, said to the girl, “Am I all right? My face, I mean?”

  “Yes, you’re grand,” the girl said.

  The young men had moved ahead of him and he realized that they were all going to the same bank of lifts. As they waited for the lift to come, he turned to Moira. “Where will you be tonight? At the house?”

  She hesitated, then said, “I might stay with Peg, if she’ll let me.”

  He thought of Peg’s remark, an hour ago. Peg would not be keen to have a guest who might have a visit from the IRA. “And, if not,” he said, “where else could I reach you?”

  “At Mama’s. Are you going to the house?”

  “No,” he said. “I’ve taken my clothes.”

  He was aware that the two young men, the girl producer and the commissionaire were listening to every word. We have become somebody they will talk about. We are in the news.

  The lift arrived. When the lift door opened, Moira walked in, and stood, with her back to him. The young men followed. The girl producer bobbed her head at him apologetically. “We’re going up,” she said.

  The lift door shut. The elderly commissionaire looked up at the clocklike indicator. “There’s just the one lift workin’,” he said. “It’ll be back down in a minute.”

  They stood in silence, watching the indicator ascend. “So it was Pottinger they were after?” the commissionaire asked.

  “It seems so.”

  The indicator stopped, then began to descend. “That’s the thing of it, isn’t it?” the commissionaire said. “It’s not the ones that ought to get hurt who gets hurt.”

  At the security gate of the hotel, Jack McGowan, one of the security men, came out to open up for him. “Your father’s waitin’ for you, sir. I let him park in the front. Is that OK?”

  It was not “OK” but his father, like a dog marking its territory by urinating, insisted on claiming some special privilege each time he set foot in the hotel. His father craved recognition. He would prefer to eat in a bad restaurant which gave him the best table than in a good one where he was not known. Now, when Dillon entered the lobby, the doorman came up to tell him that his father was waiting for him in the bar. He went into the bar which was crowded with lunchtime drinkers and saw his father at the far end of the bar counter, trapping Mickey, the head barman, as audience for one of his tales.

  “Ah, there he is,” his father said, waving to him. Mickey, relieved to be released from listening, also waved and said, “Will you have something, Mr. Dillon?”

  “Could you order me a sandwich and a beer?” he asked Mickey, then turned to his father. “Have you had lunch, Daddy?”

  “Not hungry,” his father said and beckoned to a table at the far end of the bar as though he, not Dillon, were in charge here. They sat. His father wore his usual country squire costume of ancient tweed suit, checked shirt, wool tie and polished brogues. In his hand he held a small whiskey which he had not touched.

  “Didn’t you get my messages?” he asked. “You might have called back.”

  “I’m sorry, Daddy. It’s been bedlam here the last twenty-four hours.”

  “I can imagine,” his father said. “Anyway, when we didn’t hear from you I decided to come to town today and do a few errands. And there I was, sitting in the car, driving in from Derry, when I heard Moira being interviewed on the car radio. My God, what a story!”

  His father had always loved a drama. This was a tale he would tell in years to come. But he sensed something else, some disquiet in his father’s manner. “What an awful business it is,” his father said. “But, Michael, do you think it’s wise to be telling it to the whole world the way she is?”

  “I didn’t hear her. I’ve no idea what she said.”

  “She didn’t consult you?”

  “No.”

  “Why not? Is it because of what you did?”

  His father’s rosy-cheeked, bonhomous face gave no hint of what his father knew. Does he know about us, how can he? “Because of what I did?”

  “Well, I mean ringing the police. Saving Pottinger’s hide. They could have killed her. I think if I were Moira I’d have mixed feelings about that.”

  “What are you talking about? I wasn’t just saving Pottinger’s life. The bomb was under the dining room of the hotel. God knows how many people would have been killed.”


  “Still,” his father said. “Not to belabor the point, but she might be angry with you.”

  “No, she wasn’t angry. She said she thought I did the right thing.” But, as he told his father this, it came to him that Moira had done the interview after she saw him holding hands with Andrea. “What did she say? I mean when you heard her on the radio?”

  “Well, she told the whole story, more or less, about the two of you and how they treated you that night. And she said that the IRA are thugs and so on, and how everybody’s afraid to speak out. She ended up saying that if Catholics are calling for ‘Brits out’ they should also call for ‘IRA out,’ because we’ll have no peace until we get rid of them.”

  “Well, she’s right about that,” Dillon said.

  “That’s got nothing to do with it,” his father said. “It’s your life she’s risking.”

  “What about her own life? She’s as much at risk as I am.”

  “Nonsense,” his father said. “It’s you they’ll come after. You double-crossed them. They might want to get back at you.”

  One of the waitresses had come into the bar and now approached them, carrying a tray on which there was a beer and a sandwich. “It’s for you, sir, isn’t it?” she said, placing it in front of him. As she did, he saw his father at last take a sip of his whiskey.

  “They’re transferring me to England,” he said. “As a safety measure.”

  His father seemed stunned by this news. “The Yanks … Well, yes, that’s … I suppose it’s wise. Where are they sending you?”

  “The Ormonde in London as one of the assistant managers.”

  “But you were manager here. That’s quite a step down. What a bloody mess. Bloody Pottinger.”

  “It’s all right, Daddy,” he said. “I want to go back. It could be a step up eventually.”

  “How does Moira feel about going?”

  “I don’t know yet,” he lied. He began to eat his sandwich. His father, agitated, lit a cigarette and watched him eat. Bloody Pottinger, his father had said. As usual, he had found someone to blame. His father, although a Northerner, had chosen to live in the Republic of Ireland because, there, he was no longer a member of a Catholic minority which his Ulster Protestant acquaintances looked down on and despised. His father, like most Ulster Catholics of his generation, held no brief for the present IRA but reserved his true enmity and ingrained bigotry for Pottinger and the extremists of the Ulster Defence Association. The IRA might be planning to murder his son but still, in the last analysis, his father, irrationally, felt that Pottinger was to blame.