by Flynn Berry
In the lane, Marian listens to me rant about our great-grandmother, then gives a small smile. “But you still don’t understand why I joined the IRA?”
“No.” The man who hired our great-grandmother was a Protestant, she was Catholic. I understand how things have traditionally worked here, but it doesn’t justify Marian’s decision. “I’m just saying someone like Maitland won’t understand what we’re doing for him.”
“It’s not about him,” she says.
Except it is, in a way. Some people are more unacceptable as victims than others. Eamonn has assured me that this murder cannot and will not happen, and I don’t know if he would have spoken with the same conviction about a police officer in Saintfield.
I think about my mother, working for the Dunlops for fourteen years, then being fired with no notice, no pension. They should at least have paid her two weeks of severance, but a contract was never signed, no one is coming to hold them responsible.
Seamus’s mother was in service, too, and his grandmother, and his great-great-grandmother died in the famine. He has good reason to want a socialist republic. All of us do. Maybe the problem is me, and people like me, for standing in the way of the rebellion, for believing this version of civilization can be improved.
If I tell someone this story in sixty years, they might consider Seamus its hero. They might hope for his plans to succeed, and they might be right. Seamus is willing to die to bring about a fair future. It’s hard to say anymore which of us has Stockholm syndrome.
33
The library in Greyabbey is open late tonight. In the children’s corner, Finn sits on my lap while I read him a board book. Our book has pictures of animals with tufts of fake fur. Finn doesn’t want me to turn past the page with the rabbit, and so we stare down at it together.
“Rabbit,” I say aloud. “Rabbit.” After some time, I attempt to turn the page, and he cries and grips the book until the rabbit is reinstated.
There are treasures on the other shelves, but for now they’re not for us. I can’t even guess which ones Finn will like, or whether he will enjoy reading. I can imagine how other children will be, but not him. All of my belief and faith lies with him as he is right now. Each month seems to bring the definitive, true version of his infancy, the zenith, arrived at through a great deal of effort on both our parts.
I can’t move ahead of him, and I don’t need to, either. He practiced how to crawl and to walk on his own. My job, it seems, is to follow him, without any hesitation or regret.
I always become suspicious when other parents tell me to enjoy every second of having a baby, to make the most of these years, since their enthusiasm never seems to extend to whatever age their children are now. Finn won’t disappoint me by being eight years old, or fourteen, or thirty-six. He won’t hurt my feelings by growing up.
“You have no idea how much you will miss this part,” said my mam. But that’s the job, isn’t it? Not to let on.
“Rabbit,” I say again, my voice falling into the silence, while Finn studies the page.
I borrow a stack of board books for us to read and return next week. Glenarm will be over by then. Earlier today, I ordered a rocking horse with a miniature saddle and reins for Finn. It will be his reward, I think, as though he has agreed to let me leave, or to any of this.
On the walk home in the November dusk, Greyabbey looks as simple and inviting as the villages in his picture books. Inside each house, families are preparing dinner, or studying, or playing. I buy two sheaths of pink roses from the florist, and put flowers next to my bed, and on the kitchen table, and in a vase in the baby’s room. They fill the whole house with their scent. Finn looks at home among them, equally new, equally beautiful.
While I cook dinner, Finn yelps to be lifted into my arms, where he can survey the kitchen surfaces, the cheese grater, the pots boiling on the hob. I’ve worked out how to grate parmesan and crack an egg with one hand.
I ring Tom while the pasta cooks. “Are you still okay with taking Finn tomorrow?”
“Sure,” says Tom.
“You’ll need to collect him from day care.”
Tom yawns. “Maybe I’ll work from home.”
“How?”
“He naps, doesn’t he?”
The evening seems to last and last. Eventually Finn falls asleep on my shoulder, his head fitted against me, the dip of his nose pressed to my neck. I don’t want to put him down in his crib. Instead, I make a wall of pillows down the side of the bed, and sleep curled around his body. In the night, he sometimes flings a small, warm hand against my face.
* * *
—
A sound wakes me before dawn. Rain is falling on the roof. I can hear it pattering on the tiles and the downpipes. In the kitchen, I switch on the radio for the weather. It’s Thursday, I’m meant to leave for Glenarm this morning. Seamus plans to assassinate Lord Maitland on Saturday, detonating the bomb as soon as he sails his boat out into the harbor.
The forecast comes on, and I listen with a hand at my heart. “A storm will bring heavy rain and strong wind across Northern Ireland, causing storm surges in coastal areas and flooding on low-lying roads. A travel advisory has been issued through the weekend, with weather conditions expected to worsen.”
The center of the storm is somewhere over the Atlantic, hundreds of miles away. This rain is only its opening salvo, and it will strengthen over the coming days. Seamus calls me to the safe house in west Belfast for an emergency meeting. When I arrive, Damian, Niall, and Marian look miserable. The safe house feels damp, despite the gas heater.
“They’re calling it a hurricane,” says Damian.
“It won’t be a hurricane,” says Marian.
“It might as well be.”
“Cillian would like us to proceed anyway,” says Seamus, and the rest of us turn to him.
“That’s mad. Maitland’s not after going sailing in a hurricane,” says Niall.
“No. We don’t know if he will come north at all, but we do know where he is today and tomorrow, so we’ll go to him.”
“How are we meant to cross the border?” asks Marian.
“You’re not,” says Seamus. He points at me and Damian. “They are.” My head drains, like I’ve stood up too fast. “Neither of you is known to the police. You’ll be a couple having a weekend away.” Seamus has already made a reservation for us at Ballyrane, a country house hotel near Mallow. “We know that Maitland’s group is going to be trout fishing.”
“In the rain?” asks Marian.
“It won’t be raining there. The storm’s coming across the north.”
“And what are we meant to do?” asks Damian.
“A sniper attack,” says Seamus, and I feel myself sink. Seamus turns over his watch. “It’s a long drive, you should leave now. Marian can lend you clothes, can’t she?”
I follow Marian upstairs, where she takes down a bag and begins to fold in jeans and a jumper. Through the open door, the others are talking downstairs. I grab Marian’s wrist. “I can’t do this.”
She hugs me, and I feel myself shaking. Tears stand in my eyes. “You’ll be fine,” she whispers. “Damian would never hurt you, I promise. You don’t need to be scared of him.”
“How do I tell Eamonn?”
“I’ll send him a message,” she says. “Do you have a charger?”
“No.”
She places hers in the bag. “Eamonn will be able to track your phone.”
She finishes packing for me, and then we are moving down the stairs. Damian is already outside, and he sets our bags in the boot.
We drive toward the Westlink, past murals glossed with rain. Our seats are very close together. I don’t know what to do with my legs in the footwell—they look strange straight, but also crossed, and every movement sounds loud in the quiet car. Ahead of us, a traffic light changes to red, and I
try to decide whether to get out and run. I can’t drive into the countryside with him, with an IRA sniper.
Damian clears his throat. “I fancy your sister.”
I turn to him, astonished, and he laughs. “Have you told her?”
“Not yet.”
“I had a suspicion, actually.”
“Did you?” he says, pleased, and I don’t tell him that I hope it’s not mutual.
We drive south. Dark veils of rain blow over the hills in the distance. This storm is a disaster. Glenarm would have been better, more intricate, easier to sabotage. I don’t know how MI5 can intervene now. If Maitland doesn’t appear outdoors, it will seem like he was warned, and Marian and I will be under suspicion.
At the border, soldiers circle the car. I will them to find the sniper rifle hidden in the door panel, but they wave us through into the republic.
The rain stops in Monaghan, and for the rest of the journey we drive under a blanket of white cloud. We cross Kildare and Waterford, and I feel myself to be passing out of a realm of protection, as if I’m not under the security service’s jurisdiction anymore. I’m on my own.
Once we drive over the Knockmealdown Mountains, the thread seems fully to snap. We’re far south, in a part of the republic I’ve never visited before. The satnav loses signal, and I watch the blinking dot of our car moving through a blue space without marked roads.
The satnav returns outside the village of Cappoquin. We’re in the Blackwater valley now, and turn west along the river, following it toward Mallow.
* * *
—
Our host at the hotel explains that the house, Ballyrane, has been in his family for three centuries. Five of the other bedrooms are occupied, and we will dine with the other guests tonight.
We follow him through rooms with broad oak floors and hand-painted wallpaper, striped silk sofas and ottomans piled with art books and tea trays. Ballyrane is similar to Maitland’s friend’s castle, though with paying guests, so not similar at all.
I watch the other guests move quietly around the house, sometimes breaking into laughter. None of us are careless with it. None of us expect this experience to be repeated at our will. An older woman and her adult daughter sit beside the large fireplace in the main room, showing each other pictures from the house’s ancient copies of Tatler. They joke softly, and I like them, and the air they have of taking the situation with a good deal of irony.
Our room has one queen-size bed. Damian gestures at the chaise under the window and says, “I’ll sleep there.”
I nod, setting down my bag. On the dresser is a wicker hamper with a half bottle of wine, biscuits, and sweets. Damian starts to open a packet of chocolates. “Are those free?”
He smiles. “Are you worried Seamus will be angry about the minibar?”
“Will he?”
“Not if this works.”
“What if it doesn’t?”
“He’ll lose his fucking head.”
Tomorrow, according to Seamus’s plan, we will run two miles through the woods and wait across the river for Maitland to appear. Damian will kill him with a single sniper shot, and then we will return here.
The police will be out on the roads after the murder, but they won’t search for the killers here. The guests are too wealthy, they wouldn’t be involved. Seamus was excited with this plan, the cleverness of having us stay in place instead of running, hiding in plain sight. “He reads Agatha Christie,” says Damian. “He’s fucking delighted.”
* * *
—
The hotel has an honesty bar by the back door. I peer at the dozen different bottles of spirits, vermouth, and bitters, the brass cups of lemon twists, green olives, and cherries.
I fix a gin and tonic and carry it into the garden. The light has started to change, and low, swift clouds move over the sky. The fruit trees in the walled garden are centuries old, massive figs, damsons, and quinces, an espaliered tree of bronze pears. My body seems to be reassembling itself after the past seven hours, winging back together. I take a long swallow of my drink.
Black crows fly up from behind the garden wall, like something I’ve seen before and forgotten. The atmosphere has turned dense, expectant. I stop with my hand resting on the wall, my ears pricked.
I’m desperate for someone to announce herself to me. MI5 might already be here. None of the other guests seem like spies, though that would be the point. The older woman and her daughter might be counter-terrorism officers. It would be such a relief for someone to say, “Tessa, hello, we’ve been expecting you, how are you, do you have any questions for us?”
When I told him about Glenarm, Eamonn told me not to worry, that with our information they would stop the attack. He told me that their presence would be invisible. I need a message from him that everything is still going to plan, that we will emerge from this unharmed.
The loneliness and homesickness overwhelm me. I left Finn only this morning, but it feels like I haven’t held him in weeks. When we said goodbye, I blew him a kiss and Finn tried to imitate me. He pressed his hand to his ear and pulled it away, making a kissing sound.
* * *
—
Damian and I spend the hour before dinner reading in armchairs by the fireplace. Other guests come in and either wander out again or join us. They understand us to be a couple. We don’t need to hold hands, thank god, or even speak to each other.
Damian has some scotch, and I watch him carefully note down each of his drinks in the ledger. He’s planning to murder someone tomorrow, but he won’t steal drinks from an honesty bar.
A gong is rung to announce dinner. We have chicken with plums and cognac, roast potatoes, and celeriac. Bottles of red wine are handed down the length of the table and poured into cut-crystal glasses. After the main course, we’re served a chocolate chestnut pavlova, then cheese and fruit.
Past the dining-room windows is a deep, countryside darkness. I feel every mile separating me from my home. The control required to accurately pitch my voice and expressions is about to desert me. I can feel it going, can feel myself starting to plunge.
A grandfather clock chimes in the hall. I remind myself that Finn is in his crib now at his father’s house. It’s easier to be away from him during the hours when he is asleep.
Some of the other guests are English or American. English and American tourists don’t come to the north anymore, but apparently they’ve been coming here, all this time. When the woman next to me learns where I’m from, she expresses astonishment that the postage is the same to mail a letter from her house in Oxford to London as to Belfast. “Well, we’re part of the same country,” I say, and she smiles politely.
Her husband turns to Damian. “How is the situation in the north?”
Damian pauses, finishing his mouthful of food. The whole table waits. “We’ve been lucky,” he says, placing his hand on mine. “The conflict really hasn’t affected either of us.”
The Englishman looks pleased, like Damian has supplied the right answer. He says, “Ordinary people stay out of that mess.”
“That’s right,” says Damian. “Very few people are actively involved.”
“Every place has some bad apples,” says the Englishman, and Damian smiles. “What’s your line of work?”
“Private investment,” says Damian.
“Oh, what sort?”
“Futures trading.”
* * *
—
Once the bedroom door closes behind us, Damian calls Seamus. “Did you talk to the ghillie?” he asks. There is a pause, then he says, “Grand,” and cradles the phone against his shoulder while writing down a note. Seamus says something on the other end, and Damian laughs. “Well, say a prayer.”
“What’s a ghillie?” I ask.
“A fishing guide,” says Damian. “Maitland’s group has been using one all wee
k, and we know where he’s taking them tomorrow. Seamus paid him a grand. He said he wanted to pap Maitland.”
“Pap?”
“Photograph. Royal paparazzi pay for tips all the time.” Damian sounds disdainful, like photographing Maitland would be more degrading than killing him.
The ghillie will bring the group to a certain point on the Blackwater, where the river broadens and underwater boulders form a natural pool, to catch brown trout. Lord Maitland will be exposed. And the sound of the river, the light on its surface, will distract him. He will be standing up to his thighs in water, and from the opposite bank Damian will shoot him with a sniper rifle.
Lord Maitland’s death will drive a knife through the heart of the establishment. His funeral will be a state event, with the royal family walking behind the coffin. The army will be humiliated, demoralized. A united Ireland, a democratic socialist republic, will have drawn closer.
That is one plan. MI5 will have a different one, but I don’t know theirs, so I can’t believe in it.
34
Breakfast has been set at the long table. I’m the first guest awake, and the banquet seems enchanted, like it has appeared on its own. A fire is lit in the hearth, and a silver rack holds the day’s newspapers. Twelve white plates have been laid down the table, and I choose one at the center. I pour coffee into a china cup. There are small speckled eggs, soft boiled, with buttered toast to dip into them, rashers and black pudding, kedgeree, porridge, blackberries and cut plums in honey, soda bread, and scones. I eat slowly, first a savory plate, then a sweet one, then one piled with fruit.
