‘Thank you.’ I turn on my heels as smartly as I can and make my way back over the lawn towards Frank. I wonder what Hattie would have said if she had seen me, making tracks like this. Most likely she wouldn’t have let me get away with it. Whether she was at the front door greeting guests, or in amongst the middle of the party, she would have seen me and come over and fetched me, and made sure I did my duty as a host. I know as I walk away that I am letting her down. Perhaps she would have understood. She always knew I liked to find moments of quiet in the middle of these kinds of days whenever I could.
We meet by the mounting block in the shadow of the house. Frank’s face is ashen and, of course, he has changed: he is older. I take in the alteration, surprised to find it falls on me like a blow, as if I am losing a friend, not an old, uneasy acquaintance. Perhaps my appearance unsettles Frank as well. He speaks first.
‘Robert, I had no idea. You should have said. I’m so sorry to be calling today. What’s the occasion?’
‘My eightieth birthday, in fact.’
‘I’m sorry that I’m taking you away from it all.’
‘I’m sure we won’t be all day, will we? It’s been a long time since I heard from you.’
Frank looks down at the gravel beneath his feet, nodding, grinding idly at the stones under his right heel. ‘More than twenty years, I think.’
‘Indeed. Is it too early for a drink?’
‘Not today, I don’t think, no.’
‘Why don’t you come with me to the office then, and we can carve out some quiet for ourselves.’
I lead Frank across the lawn and through the back door into the house, then pass quickly through the kitchen, where I am glad Laura doesn’t turn round in time to see us. Once Frank is inside the office I close the door behind us, and feel relief. Perhaps that will be the hardest thing I have to do today, getting past Laura in the kitchen, and it passed off without incident. Now, Laura having been evaded, no one will notice my absence for a little while. Once they do, it will be some time before anyone finds the courage to knock on this door.
I feel again the weight of what it means to commit one’s life to public service, and accept that one might be called on for help at any moment, for any reason imaginable under the sun, right up until the very last day of one’s life. That is a responsibility you never quite understand, unless it happens to you. How much you give away to join the club.
I gesture to the tray on the desk I prepared this morning. ‘Good whiskey. I thought you might appreciate it.’
‘Wonderful. Thanks.’
We make our way to the desk. I feel the ghost of friendship standing at my shoulder. It’s strange, because Frank and I never really knew each other, and I have no idea even now whether we were really on the same side, when you get down to brass tacks. But it is so difficult not to become sentimental once the past is involved.
‘I hope you’ll understand I felt I should alert Geoffrey to our meeting. You remember Geoffrey? He was very junior in Dublin, but he’s now very important in London. The days are gone when I can be of any use to you, Frank, if someone else doesn’t know that we’re talking.’
Frank nods. ‘I thought you would. Glad if we can keep this relatively private though, for the time being.’
‘I’ve told Geoffrey as much. Now. I assume this is about these tapes they’ve made in Boston?’
Frank takes a first sip of his whiskey, watching me carefully. I watch him in turn over the lip of my glass.
‘That’s right.’
‘I was surprised to hear from you, Frank. I’d wondered whether someone from the old days would be in touch, but I didn’t think it would be you. I thought you were out of commission.’
Frank sighs, and holds up his hands. ‘It appears this is a moment for bringing all kinds of people out of retirement,’ he replies. ‘I’ve been contacted because people thought I’d still have your phone number, really. Or that’s my reckoning, anyway.’
I feel a momentary disquiet at the thought that I might have been asked for by name, sought out by some faceless stranger far away among the old days and over the water. ‘Why would I be of any interest to anyone?’
‘Anyone who ever stated a preference for dialogue between the different sides is of great interest right now. People need to be talking. We need to sort this out.’
I nod. ‘You know I’m retired, Frank? You know I’m out.’
Frank smiles. ‘Of course. I’ve always followed what you’ve been up to, Robert. Kept track of things. In case we were needed again. And out of respect, I suppose, for what I feel we achieved together. We have a legacy to protect.’
‘I think that would be overstating things,’ I say abruptly.
Frank holds up his hands again in concession. He looks like a man at gunpoint. ‘Forgive me. I don’t want to overstep the mark. I just want to have a conversation. Because you know, for all that you’re not in the swim any more, Robert, everyone knows how it works. You’re a respected individual. A phone call from you might still go a long way in clarifying what the hell is going on.’ Frank frowns deeply as he speaks, an attempt, perhaps, to look angry, though it seems somehow his heart isn’t quite in it.
‘You make it sound like something outrageous is happening,’ I say.
Frank shakes his head. ‘I have no opinion of these testimonies. I’m just passing on what I’ve heard.’
I steeple my fingers in front of me, as if I am praying to something. ‘So what have you heard?’
‘My contacts are alarmed that the British government are going after these tapes like this, with such determination. Surely you understand, Robert, this could be seriously destabilising. There are things in the world which were understood to have been buried. And now there is a project to unearth them.’
Can that really be all that Frank has come to say; surely he knew the answer to that? Surely it can’t be so empty as this, the dialogue between us?
‘The thing is, Frank, that a group of individuals who are very well known to the police service in Northern Ireland appear to be confessing to serious crimes on tape. Crimes which have cost lives. British lives, Irish lives. How could we do anything other than pursue those confessions? At the most fundamental level, that’s what everyone involved in this is paid to do.’
‘But this isn’t only a matter of law, Robert, it’s politics.’
‘And can you imagine the political ramifications of being seen not to pursue these tapes? What would that look like, at home and abroad, to our people and to others? Legally, politically, however you want to look at it, it’s essential for us to go after these confessions.’
Frank raises a finger in warning. ‘They’re not confessions in the eyes of those making them. They’re statements of record by men who believe they were combatants. Not criminals. And they’ve been given on the understanding they’ll stay private for the rest of their lives. A trust was established. And your government is undermining that trust. So I need you to do something about it.’
‘What do you expect me to “do about it”, Frank? What on earth do you want us to do?’
Frank leans forward in his seat. ‘I need to know the agenda. That’s all. If this is just people following protocol, and we’re not expecting any consequences from all this palaver, and all of it’s just a sort of show, all right then. I can take that message back. But I’ve been sent because people wonder whether there isn’t some intrigue. People wonder whether the whole thing wasn’t set up from the start. All these old soldiers lured into talking just so the coals can be raked over by lawyers a few years down the line. And a few key people embarrassed or even charged with things we all thought were best forgotten.’
I incline my head gravely, but I am glad. I don’t have the authority to give real answers about any manoeuvre my successors might make, but I still know how things work. ‘The most likely story here is that there’s no intrigue around these tapes at all. Come on, Frank. The British don’t care about Ireland, that’s the truth. They
don’t think about it at all, you know that. But the police are obliged to investigate things like this, so they’re doing it. So probably there’s no great conspiracy, no.’
Frank slumps back slowly into his chair. I wonder whether he’s reflecting now on how old he has become, the way being at the centre of things has passed him by, the same way that I have been all the morning. I can feel all of that, heavy in the room, so Frank surely must be able to taste it as sharply as I do.
‘You don’t think it’s anything more?’ Frank asks.
‘I can’t be sure, of course. I’m retired, I don’t know what’s going on. But I can tell you what’s overwhelmingly likely to be the case. The whole thing hasn’t been a trap ten years in the planning – of course it hasn’t. If it had been, I think it would have been planned better. It’s just noise, that’s all.’
‘You can’t say the arrest of Gerry Adams is just noise.’
I nod. The news of that arrest was what really led me to expect I might receive some kind of contact from someone. It was undoubtedly an escalation. ‘That arrest will have no meaningful impact on anyone whatsoever. There will be no charges. There is no real proof. It’s one word against another, Frank: we won’t get any convictions out of that. It’s probably just police officers being bullish.’
Frank shakes his head. ‘But surely you see that this is still a disaster in terms of what it means for all of us.’
‘The disaster, Frank, was the catalogue of murders that are now being itemised on these tapes. We can’t do anything about that now. The police are aware of alleged confessions. They are obliged to investigate.’
Frank holds up his hands in concession again. ‘I hear what you say.’
‘Do you need something to take back with you?’
Frank stirs, uncomfortable, and studies the carpet. ‘Well, look, it wouldn’t hurt. The man I heard from this morning – we’ve not been on each other’s Christmas card lists for quite some time, you know? I’m here sitting and talking to you because a man who once told me he’d like to see me shot called me up today at five in the morning. And he didn’t sound all that much warmer to me now than the last time we spoke, and it’s not a nice feeling, to know they still know where you are and what your phone number is, you know? It’s an unnerving feeling. So it wouldn’t hurt if I could do a bit of a job on this, and have something to tell him when I call him next, because at the moment I’m feeling quite far out on the limb.’
I suppose I should call Geoffrey now, and find out what exactly I am supposed to say. I have no information to work from, only instinct. Who knows, perhaps the whole thing really is a plot and I am wrong? But I think not. They used to have a phrase for these situations. In Whitehall they used to say the system operated on the principle of ‘autonomous wankerdom’. Things were separated out into different jurisdictions and it wasn’t possible to pull enough strings to cause an intrigue like this, it was just some autonomous wanker doing his job. ‘Perhaps I might make a phone call in order to seek a little clarification? Would that be all right?’
‘Of course. I’d be grateful to you. I am grateful to you, Robert.’
‘It would be good if I could speak with Geoffrey privately, as in all honesty I don’t know what he’s going to say.’ Perhaps I should suggest Frank wait in an upstairs bedroom for a few minutes – but he speaks before I can continue.
‘I don’t mind exploring the fauna on the lawn for a bit, that’s fine.’
‘Good.’ I had hoped to keep Frank from meeting anyone else, but perhaps that was unreasonable. It certainly seems too abrupt to ban him from going out there, so I shall just have to stop myself worrying. He is unshakeably discreet, after all. It will be all right; he won’t talk to anyone.
‘I worry that it could have implications for me, if all of those tapes are seized,’ Frank says suddenly, halfway to the door, as if he hadn’t meant to speak.
I frowned, surprised. ‘Oh yes? In what way?’
Frank shifts uneasily. ‘I’m not saying I’ve ever been party to anything criminal. But there are men that I used to deal with who’ve given interviews to these guys. God knows why they felt the need to give an interview; it’s madness really, it’s madness. They must have known the law would get after them.’
‘Perhaps they miss the adrenaline,’ I say.
‘Perhaps they do. Anyway, I’m worried some of them could name me. As someone who used to help pass things on. That’s all anyone could say, mind, I’ve never been involved. Just passing things on. But it could be compromising for me, if that ended up being said in open court.’
‘I understand, Frank. No one wants to be named in court proceedings against suspected terrorists.’
‘Suspected terrorists is one thing. If you grew up in Derry when I did, of course you know a few of them. But setting up meetings with the government of this country’s something else, you see. It could look an awful lot like collaborating, to some people back in Ireland. And there was a time when I was doing that and it wasn’t exactly universally popular. Back when your lot were the enemy.’
‘So what you’re worried about is being too closely connected to us, then.’
‘No offence, but yes, that’s the way of it.’
‘I understand. I don’t know what can be done about it, but this country owes you a debt just as Ireland does. So if ways can be found to make sure your privacy is respected, of course they’ll be found. We could look after that.’
‘You think that could be done?’
‘We wouldn’t allow the naming of an agent in the field. You were never quite that, but the principle holds, I think.’
‘All right then. That’s a great reassurance, I must say.’
Am I imagining it, or do I see in Frank’s face the relief of a boy who is going to get away with a bad school report? It’s affecting to see him as vulnerable and as worried as this. It deflates me slightly to know Frank was so anxious to keep the history between us secret. His anxiety reminds me of how grubby the whole thing always was, our work, all my relationships from back when I was in Ireland. All of it was muddy and uncertain and mixed in its motives. I thought I was doing good work when I sat down with him, after Enniskillen. The few occasions we drank whiskey or wine with each other, and shared a smile and a guarded joke or two. But to Frank those conversations are something that need to be covered up. There is nothing ever to be really proud of in a world like this one. Someone else is always compromising themselves, even in the very same moment when you believe you are at your best, you are making a difference, you are getting something right.
Frank smiles. ‘It feels a bit like something real is happening again, doesn’t it?’ He lets a silence grow before he speaks again. I carefully avoid filling it. ‘It’s good to be needed. Almost like rolling back time.’
I shake my head. ‘But I think it’s a phantom, I think we’re like those people who feel things in limbs they’ve lost, you know.’ Frank’s face becomes sadder, and older, as his smile ebbs away, and I know we are in agreement. I gesture to the phone on my desk. ‘Give me ten minutes and I’ll have something for you.’
from Interview 60
I got six-packed in 1992. That’s when someone shoots you in your knees, elbows, ankles. That’s why I’m in this chair, see, the shatter never healed so well. I can see now that I brought it on myself. I was a drinker. I mean I still am, but those days I was a real drinker, and I used to get a bit rough, you know? I’d start fights. And I picked on the wrong guy, who was IRA, and that’s what did for me. Even though I was IRA myself. It was decided that I was out of control, and something had to be done. So I got a knock on the door one night, and they took me outside, and I got my six pack. At first, in hospital, I was angry. Raging. I was gonna find a way to kill the people who’d done that. Then I had a visitor. I didn’t know him, no one from the usual crowd. Well spoken. Not a man I thought knew his way round a gun. They’ll send a mate to give you a message sometimes if that’s what they think’s gonna work, and
other times they’ll send a stranger. There’s a lot of thought goes into how things get passed on. This guy sat down and started me on the road to seeing that being angry did no good. He told me: The IRA will look after you, they’ll look out for your family. You’ll have that protection like you always did. So there’s no use being angry, in the end. You’ll end up losing the safety you have. He said to me: Armies have their discipline, they have to keep their discipline. That’s why this had to happen to you. And have no doubt, it did have to happen to you. I didn’t accept it at the time, of course. But eventually I saw the wisdom of what he’d said. Because I was out of control with the drinking. And armies need their discipline, you know?
Kate
IT’S LIKE DOING the Twelve Steps Programme, coming back here today; Re-engaging With the Ones You Shut the Door On. I hate it. All these people who know what happened to me, all these people whispering behind my back. But I decided I had to come here after three years away because I felt I was letting people down all the time I didn’t take part in the life of my family, and so here I am, and now I have to deal with it.
I thought people would start to hate me if I didn’t come back to them. They would say I didn’t want them any more. The real problem is feeling like I don’t deserve to be here with the living and the smiling. I thought I couldn’t put it off any longer now the new year is starting to bloom, but that doesn’t mean I’m ready; I don’t know whether I would ever have been ready for this, whenever it happened.
Now I’m here it feels harder and more frightening than I expected. But I thought I’d be facing the day with Sam, and once again he hasn’t turned up for me. Maybe that’s what’s shaken me. I knew what the day would entail, after all. That I would be out of control of my environment, and might well end up seeing Mum. I knew all that could happen, but it seemed less overwhelming from the comfort of my room back in Bristol. Now I’m surrounded. I gaze out over the lawn as it becomes busy with bodies, in outfits that range from jeans and T-shirts to pearl earrings and light suits, and remind myself: You asked for this, so there’s no use complaining.
Turning for Home Page 11
