“So when are they sending you to London?” his father asked.
“Any time now. Tomorrow, maybe.”
As he said this, he saw Rory Burke come to the bar entrance, look round, and hurry toward him. “Michael,” Rory said. “Glad I found you. Listen, the contractor’s here and I don’t know what plans you made about the repairs.” He turned to Dillon’s father. “Hello, Mr. Dillon. Sorry to interrupt.”
“That’s all right,” his father said. “Don’t worry about me. I know what these things are like.”
“Can you come now?” Rory asked.
“Go ahead, Michael,” his father said. “And give us a ring before you go off to London. Your mother will want to talk to you. Don’t forget, now.”
Normally, when he and his father met or parted they did not embrace or exchange handshakes. But now as he rose to leave, his father stood up and gripped him by the shoulders, pressing him close. “Take care of yourself,” his father said, his voice shaken with emotion. “And where can I reach Moira? I want to talk to her.”
“Try our house. Goodbye, Daddy. Thanks for coming.”
“Keep in touch,” his father said. “God bless.” There were tears in his eyes.
As they left the bar Rory said, “Are you worried? I suppose you must be. By the way, they say your wife was terrific on TV this morning. Everybody’s talking about it.”
“Is he here himself, the contractor?” he asked, changing the subject.
“McAnally? Yes. He’s out at the back. I don’t even know if it’s a fixed bid or what, on the repairs. Is it?”
“No, it isn’t. I should have filled you in on it. Listen, Rory, I realize now I can’t hand over without spending at least a day with you.”
“Good. I’m relieved,” Rory said.
They went out to the car-park. The English reporter who had tried to interview him earlier came up. “Mr. Dillon? Perhaps you can give me a few minutes now?”
“I’m sorry. I’m very busy.”
“Have you spoken to your wife, yet? You remember you promised me an interview after you’d spoken to her?”
“I don’t remember promising you an interview.”
The reporter looked at him. “As a matter of fact, I came right over to see you, because I’ve just been talking to your wife. She told me you actually saw one of the IRA men. I mean, saw his face. Is that correct?”
Dillon looked over at Rory. Oh, my God, he thought. Everybody will know it now.
“Did she say that on television?” he asked.
“Not as far as I know. She just told it to me. So, I wanted to verify it with you before we print anything.”
“I don’t know what she’s talking about,” Dillon said.
“What are you trying to do?” Rory broke in indignantly. “Are you trying to get this man killed?”
“I just asked him a question,” the reporter said.
“Look, I can’t talk to you now, I told you, I’m very busy.” Dillon walked on toward McAnally, the contractor, who was standing near the bomb damage, giving orders to two of his men. The English reporter turned and went back to his car.
Rory, hurrying along beside Dillon, looked at him sideways. “None of my business,” he said, “but she’s taking a lot on herself, isn’t she? Your wife, I mean? What do the police say.”
“Look, Rory, I don’t know. Let’s drop it, OK?”
“Sorry, now,” Rory said. They had reached McAnally. The talk turned to the work to be done but Dillon found himself unable to pay attention. When they had finished with McAnally they went upstairs to Dillon’s office where he was to show Rory the personnel files. In his office, the phone was ringing. He picked it up.
“It’s for you on line two,” the operator said.
“Who is it?”
“They wouldn’t say. They said it was private.”
“Right,” he said. “I’ll take it.”
“Mr. Dillon?” a girl’s voice said. She spoke with a Belfast accent.
“Yes.”
“Hold on, please.”
“Michael Dillon?” It was a male voice.
“Speaking.”
“You’ve been speakin’ a bit too much,” the voice said. “Is it publicity, you want, the pair of you? Because, if it is, we can give you more publicity. You mightn’t be around to read about it, though.”
There was a pause.
“Did you hear me, Dillon?”
“Yes.”
“Right, then.”
The line went dead. He replaced the receiver. Rory looked up from the desk. “Everything all right?”
He nodded. “Are you all right?” Rory said again.
It was then that he realized he was shaking. “Yes,” he said. “Yes. But, listen, Rory. I have to get in touch with Moira. Maybe we can do this a bit later on in the day?”
“Sure. I’ll be here,” Rory said, rising to leave.
He found his address book and dialed a number. “Peg, it’s Michael Dillon. Has Moira come back yet?”
“As a matter of fact she just walked in the door,” Peg’s voice said. “Do you want to speak to her? Here, I’ll pass her over.”
“Who is it?” he heard Moira ask before she picked up the receiver. Then she said, “Michael, I’m busy now. I told you I’d come up to the hotel later. All right?”
“No. I have to see you now. It’s important. I’ll come over.”
“Wait a minute,” Moira said. She put down the phone, then came back. “We’ll be next door, Peg and I. We’re going to have a cup of tea. It’s a place called the Bon-Bon.”
“I want to speak to you alone.”
“I haven’t had any lunch,” she said crossly. “Do you want to see me, or don’t you?”
“I’ll be there.”
To enter the city’s central shopping area he was forced to leave his car in a car-park three streets away. As he passed through the security check at the entrance to the pedestrian malls a teenage boy wearing a T-shirt with “U2” blazoned on it waited at the other side of the security gate. The boy looked at him, and as he went down the crowded shopping street he saw the boy follow him. The Bon-Bon was a tea shop, next door to the large toy shop which he had passed that morning. As before, a number of children were peering in at the display of moving toy cars. Dillon stopped by this window and, looking back, saw the boy idling by a sports shop further up the street. He kept looking at the boy. The boy turned slightly and looked in his direction, then, realizing Dillon was watching him, he went in at the entrance to the sports shop as if to make a purchase. At once, Dillon ducked into the Bon-Bon tea shop.
It was a large place, crowded with women having afternoon tea, and a long line of customers at the counters, buying cakes and pastries. There were a number of children in the shop, so it was noisy. Ignoring the hostess’s offer to seat him, Dillon searched around and saw Moira at a table by the window. She was alone. She did not look up when he came to her. A half-empty teacup sat at the place opposite hers. “Is Peg here?” he asked, indicating the cup.
“She just left,” Moira said. In the center of the table was a plate of cream pastries and at Moira’s place was a half-eaten slice of chocolate cake. “Sit down,” she said. “What is it you want?”
He sat, facing her. “I just had a phone call from our friends of the other night. Warning me that we’re talking too much.”
“So?” she said. “They don’t like it. Good.”
“Look, Moira, what are you trying to do? Get us both killed? Didn’t that police inspector warn us not to tell anybody that I’d seen Kev’s face?”
“I’m not taking orders from the police,” she said, and, with her fork, cut herself another mouthful of the rich cake.
“That’s not the point. If the police are trying to catch them, you’re just tipping them off. They’ll hide him now. They’ll send him down South or out of the country.”
She paused, the forkful of cake in the air, then put it down, untasted. “You’re right,” she said. �
�Damn it, I didn’t think of that.”
“Did you mention it on telly? I mean about Kev?”
“No, I just told that one reporter. An English one. OK, I won’t tell anybody else.”
“It’s too late,” he said. “What do you think they called me for?”
“Did they mention that particular thing?” she asked.
“No.”
“So it wasn’t that,” she said. “I’ll tell you why they rang you up. Because I was on telly. Because this story about what they did to us is going to be all over Europe and America.”
“Great. More publicity for them. Just what they want.”
“Wrong,” she said. “I’m speaking up against them.”
“Who are you kidding? You’re doing it because you love all this—people seeing you on the box and your picture in the newspapers.”
“You are stupid,” she said. “And I used to think you were bright. I’m doing it because, for the first time in my life, I have a chance to change things. Maybe that’s why people go into politics.”
“Or why they go into the IRA.”
“Look, Michael, let me ask you something. What do you think my life’s been until now? It’s cooking meals for you, doing teaching jobs I didn’t want to do and worrying about my looks and why I’m losing them. That’s been my life, hasn’t it? And now, finding out that you don’t give a damn about me, that you’re like every other man I’ve ever known, you don’t care whether I have a brain or not, you don’t know me, you don’t want to know what makes me tick—all you ever wanted to know was what am I like in bed, what do other people think of me, do they envy you because you sleep with me? Isn’t that it?”
“Yes,” he said. “Yes, I suppose it is. But, Moira, anything you say on the telly or in the newspapers isn’t going to change things here. The only thing it’s going to change is your own life. All this blathering on telly has already cost you your job with Peg.”
“Who told you that?”
“Peg did. This morning. And I don’t blame her. Why should she have to be worrying that a couple of IRA men are going to walk into her shop and kill her?”
As he spoke, he remembered the boy outside. He looked out the window. The boy was still there. He was now standing behind the peering children at the toy shop next door, pretending to watch the display of moving mechanical cars.
“Look over there,” he said to her. “See the one in the U2 T-shirt. He’s following me. This is the IRA we’re mixed up with. You know very well we could be killed. Is that what you want?”
“That’s a good question,” she said, “coming from you. What do you want? Did you want to see me killed the other day? Supposing it had been your girlfriend the IRA were holding in the house? Would you have picked up the phone and called the police? Would you?”
Suddenly, the tea shop noises seemed unbearably loud. Women’s voices, the clatter of dishes, children crying. “Yes,” he said.
“You’re a liar. You wanted me dead.”
“I did not.”
“Tell me. Is she going with you to England?”
“Yes.”
“So, it’s serious,” she said. She turned away from him and looked out the window, her face, in profile, still as the image on a coin. “You want a divorce, then?”
“Yes.”
She sat, still looking out the window. “I hope they shoot you,” she said. She bent down and picked up her handbag which sat on the floor. She stood up, caught her breath in a sudden gasp, and then, at last, looked at him. “No,” she said. “I hope they shoot me.”
She walked away, going to the cashier, pulling a five pound note from her purse. She handed it to the cashier, did not wait for change, and went out into the street. He got up to go after her, but, when he came out into the street and looked left and right, she was gone. As he stood, searching for her in the moving mass of people, he saw the boy still standing outside the toy shop. A young girl came running up the street, running toward the boy. The boy smiled and they kissed. He put his arm around her and they walked off, innocent lovers, disappearing into the crowd.
EIGHT
At first, seeing the two men standing by the reception desk, Dillon took them for guests. They were speaking to the desk clerk, but then one of them, seeing Dillon, came up to him, smiling. This man was middle-aged and well turned out in gray flannels, a navy blazer with a white handkerchief tucked in the breast pocket, a gleaming white shirt and a club tie. “Mr. Dillon,” he said, as though he expected to be recognized. When he saw that Dillon did not know him, he added quickly, “Detective Inspector Randall. We met yesterday at your house.”
“Oh, of course,” Dillon said. The second man, who stood behind Randall, was tall and bald. He wore a gray tweed suit and thin round-lensed steel glasses which emphasized the nakedness of his skull. “This is Chief Detective Inspector Norton of the Special Branch,” Randall said.
“Sorry to disturb you,” the Chief Inspector said. “I’m sure you’re very busy.”
“No, no.” Dillon remembered that Rory was using his office. He gestured toward the bar. “What about a drink?”
“The bar looks a bit crowded,” the Chief Inspector said.
“There’s a lounge on the mezzanine,” he told them. “We can talk there.”
In the mezzanine lounge, the policemen moved as by instinct toward a corner banquette where they settled in with their backs to the wall. They refused a drink and ordered coffee. The only other customers in the lounge were a noisy family group and a middle-aged man who sat up at the bar watching the television screen overhead.
The Chief Inspector glanced over at the television set. “I hear your wife will be on the six o’clock news.” He looked at his watch. “Maybe we’ll see her.”
“She was on earlier today,” Randall said. “I missed it. And she’s in all the papers. Did nobody ask to interview you?”
“I didn’t want to be interviewed.” He saw them exchange glances. “I’m sorry about her mentioning that I’d seen that boy’s face,” he said.
“Who did she mention it to?” the Chief Inspector asked.
“A reporter from the Independent. The English paper.”
“When was that?”
“This morning.”
“I haven’t seen anything about it in the papers,” Inspector Randall said.
“The Independent,” the Chief Inspector said, as if noting it down. “Was that the only time she said it?”
“I’m not sure.”
“The fact is,” the Chief Inspector said, “we have a good notion of who the one called Kev might be.”
“Oh.”
“You’re going to be here? In Belfast?” the Chief Inspector asked.
“No, I’ve asked for a transfer to one of our hotels in London. I’m to leave tomorrow, or the day after.”
The Chief Inspector leaned his bald head against the leather back of the banquette and stared up at the ceiling. His long, flat-tipped fingers stroked his bald skull as though he were concentrating, trying to solve some mathematical problem. “Well, that’s all right,” he said at last. “We could always bring you back over again. Yes. Your wife’s going with you, I presume?”
“No, that’s not settled yet.”
“Is that so?” the Chief Inspector said.
“Well, it’s a personal matter. Besides, she’s never wanted to live in England.”
The Chief Inspector smiled. Again he leaned back, stroking his bald skull. “I know how she feels,” he said. “The quality of life over there is not as good as it is here. The ordinary schools are far below ours in standards. And they have more drugs and mixed populations. And it’s crowded over there, isn’t it? I can understand her.” He sat up now, looking at Dillon. “You know, you never can tell about these things,” he said. “But, based on the bad publicity the IRA’s been getting lately, killing innocent bystanders, women and children and so on, I think you’d be the one who’s at risk, not your wife. It wouldn’t look well for them to be s
hooting her, a young woman like that, who people have just seen on television. I’d say you’re the one they’d want. You’re the one who phoned us. And you’re the one who saw that boy’s face.”
“They rang me up today to warn me,” he said.
“Did they?” Inspector Randall said.
“When was that?” the Chief Inspector asked.
“This afternoon.”
“And what did they say?”
He told them. They looked at each other and then the Chief Inspector said, “Of course, that might not have been the IRA.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, in the past, we’ve found that quite a few of those calls come from some fellows in a pub, maybe IRA supporters just deciding to ring up on their own. They do it for badness.”
“I see.”
“Anyway,” the Chief Inspector said, “what we came around to ask you is this. If we do bring a suspect in, would you be willing to identify him and testify at his trial?”
They both looked at him. “Well, I only saw his face for a moment,” he said.
They were still looking at him, waiting. “Well,” he said. “Yes, I suppose I could.”
“Good. Thank you.” The Chief Inspector stood up. Inspector Randall also stood, smiling now. “Thank you, Mr. Dillon,” Randall said. “We’re grateful for your help. By the way, do you have a London address?”
“You can reach me at the Ormonde Hotel.”
“Very nice, too,” the Chief Inspector said, and laughed.
“Oh, I’m not living there, I’m working there. I don’t have a home address yet.”
“Well, thank you again,” the Chief Inspector said. He looked at his watch, then at the television set. “I’m afraid we can’t wait for the TV news, but, as I said, we hear your wife’s going to be on. Thanks for the coffee.”
Lies of Silence Page 14
