Lies of Silence

by Moore, Brian;

He watched them as they walked toward the staircase. Randall could be a bank manager, the Chief Inspector a country schoolteacher. The men they hunted also wore the masks of normal life. That middle-aged man sitting at the bar, who eyed them as they went past, could be someone who had spent years in Long Kesh prison, who had ordered other men to be shot or crippled, who had planned the botched assassination of Pottinger, who, seeing him with these policemen, might now decide that he should be put to death. It was a world of men in masks whose true identity could not be guessed. And now, to one of them, he had been asked to put a face.

  The bar waitress came to take away the coffee cups and Dillon heard the familiar voice of the television newsreader announcing the six o’clock news. He got up, went to the bar, and sat two stools away from the middle-aged man who was still its only occupant. As he did, Tommy Spence, the barman on duty, came out from his pantry. “Can I get you something, Mr. Dillon?”

  “Thanks, Tommy. I’ll have a gin and tonic.”

  There had been another earthquake in Mexico, a Japanese Prime Minister had resigned because of a scandal, a government inquiry had been set up to investigate the latest incident of football hooliganism. Two men, a young businessman and an older one, joined them at the bar. A group of six people came into the lounge and were seated. The men in this group wore rented morning clothes and were a little drunk. The women, carrying crushed bouquets of flowers, were bridesmaids and attendants in what had been a wedding party. Laughing and ordering drinks, the group paid no attention to the television news.

  And then, the familiar voice said, “In Northern Ireland today …” At once the room became quiet. It was as though that other world of television did not exist. Now they watched in silence, as the screen showed the actual hotel they were sitting in, then the bomb-damaged car-park. The newsreader said that the bombing had now been established as an attempt to assassinate the Reverend Alun Pottinger and that the wife of the hotel manager had been held hostage in her home while her husband had been forced to drive to the hotel with a bomb in his car. “The wife, Mrs. Michael Dillon,” the newsreader’s voice said, and suddenly on the television screen, seated in a studio, was Moira, looking beautiful and distraught and, at the same time, angry. A woman television reporter asked her if she had been frightened and Moira, in close-up, looked at the camera and said, “I was but I’m not anymore. I want to see them caught and punished. I think it’s time for ordinary people to stand up to the IRA and get rid of them.” Abruptly, the screen flashed to a picture of the Houses of Parliament and the newsreader said, “In the debate today in the House over short-range nuclear missiles …” At once it was as though the rest of the news had been turned off. The room swelled with excited talk. A voice from the wedding party said, “Imagine sittin’ here in the hotel and it on television.” Another voice said, “She’s good-lookin’, the wife.” Dillon saw Tommy, the barman, look at him as he overheard this remark. Tommy shook his head and smiled. The middle-aged man next to Dillon leaned over. “Excuse me, did I hear that you’re Mr. Dillon?” Dillon nodded. He looked at his barely touched drink and decided to leave it. “It must have been a terrible experience,” the man said. The two businessmen further down the bar had been listening to this and now studied Dillon as though he were a celebrity. Dillon signaled and said, “Thanks, Tommy. Put that on my chit.” He got up and walked across the lounge. By the way they looked at him, he knew the wedding party had also learned of his identity. The room was now quiet, the only sound the unlistened-to voice of the television newsreader continuing with the unwatched world news.

  Leaving the lounge, he went down the corridor to his office. She had only been on screen for a moment. She had not mentioned that he had seen Kev’s face. It was not a big story. Nobody had been killed. By tomorrow it would be forgotten. Then he remembered the English reporter. He is the only one she told. It will be his exclusive story, so of course he’ll write it up. I must get the evening papers.

  But when he went into his office he saw a British tabloid and two local newspapers lying on the sofa. Rory, who was on the phone, waved to him as he sat down. The tabloid on top of the pile had a large headline and Moira’s photograph, “IRA OUT, SAYS HOSTAGE HOUSEWIFE.”

  The story was short. There was no mention of what he feared. He picked up the first local newspaper, reading at speed, looking for the telling sentence. Rory, who had finished on the phone, called over. “You’re in the news, all right, aren’t you?”

  He nodded. He finished the story. There was no mention of his having seen Kev’s face. He picked up the other local paper, did not find it there either. Perhaps the police had managed to keep that statement out?

  “Are you OK?” Rory asked. “You look as if you could do with a drink.”

  “No, I’m all right. I’m just going down to get the English papers.”

  But by the time he reached the newsstand in the lobby he realized that if the English papers carried the story it would be in tomorrow’s editions. He would have to wait till then.

  As he turned back from the newsstand, Andrea came into the lobby and saw him. “Are you all right, Michael? What’s the matter? You look terrible.” She kissed him. “Listen, I’m going to take you home,” she said. “I’ll cook supper. Can you come now?”

  He nodded. He went to the house phone and called Rory. “Rory, I’ll see you in the morning. I may not be able to leave for London for a day or two.”

  “Oh? Why’s that?” He sensed Rory’s unease at this news.

  “Nothing important,” he said. “I’ll talk to you later.”

  He went back into the lobby and was again aware that people were looking at him. He said to Andrea, “Let’s get out of here.” Jack, the doorman on duty, pushed open the revolving doors for them. He thought he saw a knowing smile on Jack’s face. Was it already a subject of gossip among the staff that he had spent last night in the Jacuzzi suite with a girl? Until now, he and Andrea had been careful not to be seen when they spent an hour or two together in one of the rooms here. Until now, his private life had been unknown to others.

  When he came out of the hotel with Andrea, Peggy Harris, one of the receptionists, was coming up the driveway. She nodded to him. “Good night, Michael.” She then looked at Andrea with great curiosity.

  Maybe Peggy knows. But what does it matter? It did matter. He had not thought of it before. Once people knew he was having an affair, they would suspect his motive in risking Moira’s life.

  “Night, Mr. Dillon,” said Billy Craig, opening the security gate. “Night, Miss.”

  Does Billy know? If the others do, he does. Everyone knows.

  Andrea had arranged that they would spend the evening alone in the flat. She had never cooked for him before and now he watched, surprised, as she made a béarnaise sauce for their steaks, moving in the cramped kitchen with the assurance of someone who knows exactly what she must do. She had bought wine, prepared a salad, and set the table, and when he complimented her she turned to him, smiling, and said, “Aren’t you relieved that I can cook? We’ll be doing this all the time from now on.”

  “I hope so.”

  “What’s the matter? What’s wrong?”

  “Well, I was thinking,” he said. “Moira saying that I could identify one of the IRA men. That could put you in danger, I mean, being with me.”

  She turned back to the grill, busy, as though she had not heard him. “Come on,” she said. “Open the wine.”

  When they went into the dining room which was a makeshift alcove off the hall, she lit two candles on the table and said to him, “Now, stop that, will you? You said yourself it wasn’t on television and it’s not in any of the papers. I’ll bet the police have managed to keep it out.”

  “We won’t know until the morning. I suppose that’s what’s getting to me.”

  “Remember, this is part of Great Britain,” she said. “And the powers that be in Britain are pretty good at keeping the press in line. Look on the bright side. Moira knows about us n
ow. You’ve told her. It’s over. You’re leaving, you’re getting away from here, and we’re going to be together. We should be celebrating.”

  “We are,” he said. He got up, came around the table, and kissed her. “Sorry.”

  “You can stay here tonight,” she said. “It’s a single bed, though. I’m warning you.”

  Shortly after 1 A.M. a summer thunderstorm filled the night sky. Sheet lightning flashed like strobe lights in the long, low-ceilinged attic where they slept. Dillon lay with Andrea in his arms, seeing her face ghost-white in the lightning’s blaze, her eyes closed, her breathing as steady as a patient under ether. In the room below he could hear her flatmates moving about, closing the windows against the coming rain. In the pallor of the storm he stared at the walls; they were like the walls in a nursery, taped with drawings, posters, photographs. Old overcoats and an umbrella hung from pegs behind the door. Metal shelves held rows of cassettes, a teddy bear, a tape recorder and a player. Books and magazines were scattered on a long table under the large skylight window. In this room, with Andrea in his arms, it seemed to him that he was already in another country. But thunder, contradicting him, shook the room with a noise like a bomb exploding. He thought of Moira, lying in what bed tonight? At home, or at her mother’s, or where? Was she awake now and thinking vengeful thoughts? Again, the pallid lightning filled the room, blazing on a poster tacked to the attic beam above him. It was a poster for U2, the Irish rock group. Wild youths in silhouette, a ghost image, gone. Again, in the dark, he listened for the second barrel of thunder. He thought of the boy he had seen earlier that day, wearing a U2 T-shirt, the one who had waited for his girl outside the toy shop, the one he had feared was a scout for the IRA. That was the real damage in all this. Never to know. Try not to worry, Andrea said. But how can I not worry? Not to know. This is the real fear.

  The thunder came. Rain fell, heavy as pellets on the attic roof. At last, Andrea stirred in her sleep. He held her, wondering would she wake, wanting her to wake, wanting her with him. But she slept on, far away, in a peaceful world that had shut him out.

  Next morning, unexpectedly, the seesaw of his emotions lifted him high. When he drove Andrea to work, he stopped and bought the English papers. The Times, The Guardian and the Daily Telegraph carried stories saying the police believed the hotel bombing had been an attempt to assassinate Pottinger, but gave no details of his or Moira’s role in the affair. The Independent, whose reporter had tried to interview him yesterday, carried a longer story which described how he and Moira had been held hostage overnight and said that he had notified the police at once when forced to drive to the hotel with a bomb in his car. The tabloids turned it into a small human interest story, “HUSBAND’S AGONIZING CHOICE,” with a picture of Moira looking beautiful, and smiling at the camera.

  But none of the papers made any mention of Moira’s saying he could identify one of the terrorists. “I was right,” Andrea said, as they sat in the car, riffling through the pages. “Official secrets, D notices, whatever it is they can do here to muzzle the press, they did it again.”

  “Wait a minute,” he said. “Whose side are you on?”

  She laughed and threw aside the newspaper. “So, stop worrying,” she said. “It’s over, it’s already yesterday’s news. Forgotten. Listen. Do you think you could leave tomorrow?”

  “Friday? I think so, yes.”

  “Good,” she said. “Because I have a nice surprise for you. Friends of my parents, he’s a professor, they have a flat in Hampstead. They’re in Canada just now and when I rang my parents the other day they told me I could use the flat any time I want to in the next six weeks. So, I was thinking. Why don’t we use it? My interview’s next Monday. We could leave tomorrow afternoon and have a quiet weekend in London before we both start work.”

  “It sounds great.”

  “All right, then. Let’s plan on it.”

  When they reached the BBC on Ormeau Avenue, she hugged him before getting out of the car. “Try not to worry,” she said. “I’ll see you tonight.”

  He drove back up University Road, passing Queen’s, where on this the last day of graduation, students and their parents again caused traffic jams outside the university gates. He sat, slow in the crawl of cars, and thought of two days ago when he waited with a bomb in his car, the white Ford waiting patiently behind him. And again looked in his rearview mirror. Was he being followed now? In sudden guilt, he thought of Moira. Was she all right? Where did she spend last night?

  At the hotel he went at once to his office and rang the familiar number. Of course, she might not be there. But, on the third ring, he heard her voice. “Yes?”

  “It’s me,” he said.

  “What do you want?”

  “I just wanted to know if you were all right.”

  There was a silence on her end of the line. Then she said, “I spoke to a solicitor this morning. Eamonn McKenna. He’ll be in touch with you.”

  “About a divorce?”

  “That’s what you wanted, isn’t it?”

  “Yes,” he said. “Look, in the meantime I don’t want to see you stuck. I’ll put some money in your account today. Are you still going to work for Peg?”

  “No, that’s off.”

  “What do you think you’ll do, then?”

  “What do you care?”

  “Of course I care,” he said. “You wouldn’t think of going back to teaching, would you?”

  “What I’m going to do from now on is none of your business. I’m going to do something about the IRA. I’m going to find something, some group, to get me started.”

  “Moira,” he said. “For goodness sake, you can’t make a career out of that. Besides, you’re not political, you never were.”

  “Do you know how many phone calls they got at the studios after I appeared on telly? You could ask your friend at the BBC. She’ll tell you.”

  “Look,” he said. “Getting rid of the IRA—even if you could do it—won’t solve the problem. The Protestants here are never going to share jobs and power with the Catholics unless they’re forced into it. And the only ones who can force them into it are the British Government. Who haven’t got the guts.”

  “And who won’t have the guts unless we get rid of the IRA first.”

  “I see,” he said. “So Moira Dillon is going to get rid of the IRA?”

  “No. But we’ve got to start something like this. At least, I’m going to try.”

  “Well, good luck!”

  “Thank you,” she said. “And good luck to you too.”

  He sat at his desk, in a boil of angry thoughts. At least, judging by her past enthusiasms, it won’t last more than a month. She hasn’t the first idea about how to go about organizing a political action group. It’s spite, it’s getting back at me, it’s an effort to make herself into a heroine, with me, the cowardly husband, slinking off to England with his girlfriend. What do I care? What do I care what they think here, I never want to see this place again. Why should I feel guilty about her? Isn’t she the one who’s putting us at risk?

  But at the end of this silent tirade, he felt hollow and ill. If he had not been mixed up with Andrea, would he have been able to persuade Moira to stop this nonsense? With her, he could never be sure. But if anything bad happened to Moira now, he, Andrea—everyone would believe it was his fault.

  He looked up. Rory Burke was standing in the doorway. “Morning,” Rory said. “Listen, I have a question. Will you be here this afternoon?”

  “Yes. Actually, this will be my last day at work. I’m leaving for London tomorrow afternoon.”

  “Good. I don’t mean good. We’re going to miss you. But the staff wants to give a wee bit of a party for you before you go.”

  “No. No, really.”

  “You haven’t any say in the matter, Michael. I don’t think you realize what a big hit you’ve been here. I know they’ll never love me the way they love you.”

  “Oh, I’m not sure about that,” he said.
“You’re lovable. But, please. No party.”

  Of course, he was wasting his breath. At three o’clock that afternoon while he was going over some estimates with McAnally the contractor, Maggie Donlon came in, pinned a carnation on his lapel and led him off to the Dalriada Room where between fifteen and twenty people were assembled. Drinks were poured and he was toasted. Collis made a speech saying that he had turned the Clarence into a first-class hotel. Mary O’Hara, the assistant housekeeper, burst into tears, telling how he had given her her start. Those staff members who were on duty ducked in and out, keeping the hotel running, but anxious not to miss the party. No one asked him about the bomb or why he was being transferred to London. It was as though he were leaving because of some illness which it was not good manners to talk about. He was one of them, born here like most of them. He understood their way of joking, their way of working, the things they left unsaid. He wondered if he ever again would feel so close to and inspire such affection from people who worked for him. He had left this place and had come back unwillingly, but now, looking at the people around him, hearing the familiar Northern accents, he knew that this was home, that no matter how far his travels, how long his absence, this was the one place where he would not be a stranger, the one place where no one would ever ask, Where are you from? This city, with its ugly streets, its endless rain, its monotonous violence, its Protestant prejudice and Catholic cant and, above all, its copycat English ways, incongruous as a top hat on a Tonga king—all of these things he had wanted to flee now lost their power to anger him. Instead in this crowded room filled with Ulster men and women he felt, as people must have felt in wartime, the fellowship of the besieged. Filled with emotion, he held up his hands for silence and thanked them for the party and for the things they had said. He thanked them for making the Clarence into a first-class hotel. He made a joke, saying that it had taken a bomb to get him out of here, and knew from the silence that followed this remark that they did not think of it as a joke at all. He, at once, said awkwardly, “Well, anyway, God bless, and thanks. Thank you,” and stood back, shy, as they clapped their hands. Collis began to sing, “For he’s a jolly good fellow,” and the room filled with singing, the hotel guests staring in at the opened door. Suddenly, he felt he was going to weep. He signaled McAnally, the contractor, who had come in a few minutes earlier, and they left together, people clapping him on the back as he went down the corridor and out to the bomb-damaged site. It had been raining and the sky was cloudy and dull. McAnally’s men were clearing off the last of the rubble and, when he looked at the place where he had parked his Renault that morning, the wrecked cars were gone, the parking spaces showed again and on the cracked concrete pavement where his car had been there was his name, “DILLON,” in white painted letters that had somehow survived the explosion.