In This Bright Future

by Peter Grainger

  ‘No, sorry. That isn’t how this works.’

  ‘What are you talking about? I’ve just said-’

  ‘Sorry again. It’s very much in your interest to meet up and talk, Mr Quinn, but it’s going to have to be on my terms. I have to think about health and safety.’

  ‘Health and safety? What in God’s name are you talking about, man?’

  ‘My health and my safety. You might not know this but last night I had something of a close encounter with an old mutual acquaintance of ours. On the other hand, you might know more about it than I do.’

  ‘Might I? The only thing I know for certain is that I have no idea what you’re talking about.’

  ‘OK. I’ll put that on the agenda for when we do meet.’

  In the pause, Smith looked at the number showing on his phone, and it was not one that he recognised – Quinn had only called him once before, on Cave Hill, and maybe he had not registered it properly then. Worth a check when this was done, though. He waited on – the next move had to come from Quinn.

  ‘Don’t make a bloody meal out of this, Smith, or you might find there’s no meeting at all. Health and safety my arse…’

  ‘That’s just the point, though. It’s mine on the line, not yours. Not yet, anyway.’

  Another wait while Quinn brought himself around to handing control of the meeting to Smith.

  ‘Right. Tell me a time and a place. It’ll need to be no later than lunchtime.’

  ‘That suits me. I’m not far from the centre, so I’ll set off now. I’m assuming you’ve got some wheels and can get to where I suggest fairly quickly. I’ll ring you on this number in thirty minutes and let you know the place.’

  ‘Seriously? Do we need all this cloak and dagger stuff?’

  ‘Yes. Funny you should mention daggers…’

  More colourful language directed away from the phone, presumably to thin air, before Quinn repeated ‘Thirty minutes it is’ and ended the call. Smith found the Alwych in his travel bag and wrote down the number showing on his phone, the number from the call that he had just received. Then he went back into ‘Recents’ and found the call he had had from Quinn on the Friday afternoon – the numbers were not the same. Two different mobile numbers. One of them, at the very least, was a burner, and Waters would be proud of him for thinking the thought and using the word. No need for this cloak and dagger stuff, Quinn had said, but he was being careful not leave any sort of phone trail himself.

  Smith wrote down the second number. Then he tore out a page as neatly as he could – an annoying thing to have to do but needs must – and wrote on it a brief account of where he was going and whom he was meeting. If, after all, they managed to nail him, they would not do so without some sort of consequences for themselves. He folded the paper into a note and tucked it under the edge of the coaster on the bedside table – a picture of a fountain above the words ‘A Gift From Lourdes’. Smith murmured to no-one in particular ‘Say one for me’, picked up the notebook and the walking stick, and left the room.

  Out in the street, he had a thought. If Mrs Greene was the nosy sort, she might decide to read that message anyway. It didn’t give too much away, but Lorcan Quinn was a name known to all in the land. Funny if something leaked out in that way some time after the meeting they were about to have… He shrugged it off and continued on his way.

  ‘Something silver is a traditional gift when a baby is born, sir. Do we know yet whether it’s a boy or a girl?’

  He said that we did not, and glanced again through the window and across the pedestrianised street outside. Then he turned his attention back to the object in his hand.

  ‘Well, that sweet thing you have there will be perfect for either. It’s an antique, of course, late nineteenth century – Victorian. The rattle is the silver and that little teething ring is ivory.’

  ‘Is it? I take it that it’s CITES cleared, then?’

  He had meant that as a joke but the lady took him seriously.

  ‘It most certainly is, sir. I can see you know what you’re doing when it comes to the law! Now I can wrap it and put it into a lovely little box. It’s a gift that will last a lifetime and it will only increase in value.’

  Smith shook the rattle gently again and turned it around in his fingers, wondering, inevitably, how many tiny hands had held it in the last one hundred and twenty years. It was a beautiful thing.

  ‘I take it I can pay by card?’

  ‘Of course – we have all the modern conveniences here, sir!’

  She took it from him and returned to the counter, busy then with finding a suitable box and a sheet of tissue paper. The rattle would have needed more cash than he had left in his wallet but the card should be safe enough now – he would be gone within two days at the most. One way or another, he thought.

  He went back to the window display and looked out at Joy’s Entry again. The Sunday market was busier than when he had first arrived but he could still see easily enough into Lorraine’s Café – there were still seats and tables available near the window, and that’s where he had told Lorcan Quinn to wait for him.

  The suggestion had not gone down too well.

  ‘I’m not making a spectacle of myself. People recognise this face…’

  Exactly, Smith had thought. That was just one part of his insurance policy, that Quinn would be recognised and remembered after sitting in such a place on a Sunday morning. ‘Meet me in the car park behind the derelict cinema’ or some such? No chance.

  ‘There you are, sir. All done. You say the happy event is any time now?’

  ‘Within the next week or two, I believe. I’m not really au fait with the details of that sort of thing but it’s soon.’

  ‘None yourself, then, sir?’ as she took the card from him.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well,’ with a smile that seemed perfectly genuine, ‘that makes this one all the more special. It’s a lucky child that has someone else to look out for him or her from the very beginning.’

  She offered him his card in one hand and the little box tied with a red ribbon in the other. He took the card and said, ‘I’ll leave it there with you for a moment – you have so many good things. I’ll have another browse around.’

  Back at the window, it was barely a minute before he saw Quinn, coming from the left and looking around as if the place was unfamiliar to him. He was wearing a track suit and trainers as if doing his best to appear different to what people were accustomed to see on the screen but he was still six feet tall, still had the short, thick beard, was still an imposing figure. Smith watched as Quinn passed Lorraine’s, looking in and then around the street, the eyes passing over the front of the antiques and fine gifts shop but not seeing the man that he had come to meet watching him from within it. The Irishman was not happy at being moved around like a minor chess piece, that was apparent and that was good, too; the more rattled he was, the better. Smith waited for him to do as he had been told – to go inside, order two coffees – one black – and sit at a table that could be seen from the street. Any moment now that’s what he was going to do.

  Smith looked up and down the street as far as he could from inside the shop. One burly man in a suit but with no tie seemed a little out of place. He came from the same direction as Quinn, and the closer he got to the shop window the more dishevelled he appeared – someone whose Saturday night had gone on much longer than anticipated, most likely. There were no looks passed between Quinn and the man in the street, and Smith watched him until he was out of sight and then out of mind.

  Lorcan Quinn was at a window-side table now, and Smith had to smile when he saw the two coffee cups. The fact that the Member of the Legislative Assembly was here at all spoke volumes – to see now that he was behaving himself so well only confirmed that he was worried enough about something to humiliate himself a little, too. Smith breathed in, straightened his back and brought his chin in a touch – it was almost time. Do not be smug, he told himself – be careful. Do not forg
et that he will have questions for you also. Do not underestimate this man.

  When he entered the café and saw the proprietor’s face he remembered what it was that he had forgotten – her political affiliations. There were two people in front of Smith waiting to order, and he saw her glance going towards the table by the window every few seconds as she worked. Looking around, Smith could see that she was not alone; three or four other people were plainly aware of their distinguished visitor, and at least one couple were talking about him in lowered voices. Quinn himself was staring resolutely out of the window, and it was Smith’s guess that he had been spotted as soon as he arrived at the café’s entrance.

  ‘Oh, it’s you,’ Lorraine said.

  ‘Indeed. The draw of the blueberry muffin is irresistible. I can fight it no longer.’

  ‘OK, that’s what I like to hear! One with a black coffee?’

  ‘I’ve already got a drink, thanks. But I’ll take two muffins, just in case my friend is hungry.’

  She was still smiling, looking about for his acquaintance.

  ‘That’s fine. I’ll bring them over to you. Where are you sitting this time?’

  He pointed and said, ‘Over there, by the window. Thank you.’

  As he turned away, he saw her face falling as her understanding grew, and then he was by the table where Lorcan Quinn was waiting. Smith pulled out the other chair and sat down. The Irishman continued to look across the street, and neither of them spoke. Eventually Quinn’s head turned and he was staring down at the package on the table.

  ‘There was no need for that, Stuart.’

  The use of the old name was intentional – Quinn had already used his proper one more than once. Smith did not respond to it.

  ‘Someone’s birthday?’

  ‘Yes. Literally.’

  ‘Grandchild?’

  As if there was any imaginable circumstance under which he would reveal a personal, family detail to Lorcan Quinn.

  ‘No.’

  Quinn looked around the café, clearly not oblivious to the fact that some of the clientele were very much aware of his presence.

  ‘A nice choice of venue, I have to say. I like a dash of irony with my coffee. And it’s decent coffee, too. I might make this a regular place of mine. I can see that lady behind the counter is just praying for me to do that very thing.’

  Smith was already feeling a little guilty, and so he avoided looking in her direction for now. But Quinn hadn’t quite finished his opening remarks.

  ‘And you’ve bought me a muffin as well. I’d say that makes us all square, wouldn’t you? We can just shake hands now and go our separate ways, eh?’

  Quinn had always been difficult to read. There appeared to be genuine amusement in his face, even around the eyes that were now looking directly at Smith for the first time – he seemed for all the world like a man who was actually taking some pleasure in meeting an old adversary after thirty years. But he, Quinn, had been the most fanatical of all those that Stuart Reilly had known, as well as the cleverest and most calculating. The first of those three things could conceivably have changed but the other two would not have done so. The safest approach would be to keep things as simple as possible.

  ‘Going our separate ways sounds good to me. I just need you to tell me one thing, and then we can do that.’

  ‘And the one thing is?’

  ‘Where Brann O’Neill is buried.’

  Smith had spoken the words quietly enough, but not so quietly that someone nearby and intent on listening could not have heard something of interest. It was intentional, and Quinn’s face lost a little of that amused, ironic expression. When he responded, his own voice was lowered.

  ‘What makes you think that I have any bloody idea where he would be?’

  ‘Several things, including the fact that you’re here in the first place. Do you want me to go through the others one by one?’

  The smile had returned but only to the mouth. Then Quinn picked up the coffee cup and drank from it, looking away from Smith, looking at the busy Sunday market. He nodded to the scene as he spoke again.

  ‘Who would have thought it, eh? People going about their business, people setting up businesses, tourists and visitors like yourself, trade fairs, international conferences… We’re in the future now. It’s a future nobody ever dreamed of in those times. Yes, there’s still the sectarianism,’ drawing a circle with one finger to indicate Lorraine’ Café, ‘but we’re going forward now, side by side almost all of the time, not face to face, not fighting each other. That’s all done with.’

  It wasn’t at all difficult to see why he had been elected – the words came easily, fluently even, and the voice that delivered them was rich and convincing. Smith said nothing.

  ‘And now you’re back, thirty years on, hunting ghosts. What’s the point of that now?’

  ‘I don’t believe in ghosts.’

  ‘What do you believe in?’

  Smith took a sip of his own coffee before he answered, and Quinn watched and waited.

  ‘Justice.’

  ‘Oh, I see – as an officer of the law.’

  ‘As the minister responsible, that shouldn’t be too hard for you to grasp. But not justice for me. I know what I did back then and I’ll take my chances. Justice for the innocents like Brann, and justice for his family, who only want to bring him home and bury him themselves.’

  Giving Quinn that opening was deliberate. The Irishman knew that it was so, and he shifted in his seat, facing Smith more directly now. Around them the café was quiet – Smith looked and realised that it was almost empty, and why - only the couple remained. Lorraine was behind the counter, watching.

  Quinn said quietly, ‘And what exactly was it you did back then?’

  ‘I think you know.’

  They had come to it much more quickly and directly than Smith had anticipated. Two uniformed policemen were talking and laughing with a stallholder out in the street; Quinn followed Smith’s gaze, and then looked back at him for a long time before he said it.

  ‘Was it you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You yourself?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Quinn reached for the coffee cup again, raised it an inch or so and then paused – his hand was shaking, and he lowered it slowly.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘You must know that, too. If you want the details, I’ll give them to you. Perhaps I should say, if you need the details, I’ll give them to you.’

  ‘Go on.’

  Telling this now after those thirty years felt like an exhumation in itself. He had written it all in the reports over the following days, and then buried it deeply within himself. Even Sheila had never known of it, though she had, he knew, suspected that there was more hidden beneath the surfaces of those times than he had shared with her. But as he spoke now, he kept his voice level and his tone factual, as if he was giving an account of it to a fellow officer at Kings Lake.

  ‘You know most of it. I had made a phone call after getting away from Tommy Blake, and then I went up to the haulage yard to wait for them to pick me up. It was a pre-arranged place. I never discovered how he found it or knew about it. Did you tell him? Did you send him?’

  ‘Aidan? No, for God’s sake. He was a kid.’

  ‘Lots of them were. It didn’t seem to bother you at the time.’

  It wasn’t easy to judge how likely Quinn was to lash out now but Smith was not going to pretend any more guilt than he actually felt – Quinn had encouraged that fan club of young men and had known that his own brother was a leading member of it.

  Smith said, ‘Well, we had our undercover people, and so did you. Someone told him where to look for me.’

  ‘And he found you?’

  ‘Eventually. I could see him looking about the place. I kept out of his way for as long as I could. I thought he’d assume it was a waste of time and leave. Then I kicked over a fuel can and he knew there was someone after all. He shouted out my name. When I m
oved again, he started firing.’

  Quinn was listening intently.

  He said, ‘And you had a gun as well. Where did that come from? They must have searched you.’

  ‘It was mine. I kept it hidden near Rourke’s in case I ever needed it.’

  Quinn acknowledged that with a nod.

  ‘What happened next?’

  ‘He fired eight shots in total – I don’t know how many he had left, I never checked, but it was a Browning like mine. He was too wild with it but there were a couple of near-misses. I kept moving away but the place wasn’t well lit. Eventually he had me backed into a corner. I shouted a warning several times, and I fired shots over his head.’

  ‘How many?’

  ‘Four shots over a couple of minutes. He had enough time to realise that it was serious if he kept coming.’

  It was important to stop there and allow Quinn to take that in. He lifted the coffee cup again, this time managing to take some of it. All the time his eyes were fixed on Smith’s face, looking for the shadow of a lie but if he thought he had found one, his own face never gave the thought away.

  Quinn said, ‘But Aidan, being Aidan…’

  ‘What I hadn’t realised was that he had a torch. He hadn’t used it until then. When he switched it on and kept coming, I was out of options. There was a doorway into a workshop behind me but it was locked. I called out a final warning to him.’

  ‘What did you say?’

  Smith could see why it mattered but that didn’t make it any easier to go through it again line by line.

  ‘I said “Back off. I’ve only fired over your head up to now. Do not make me shoot you.”’

  ‘And what did he say to that?’

  ‘He laughed and started firing again. He was still coming forward.’

  ‘That’s when you shot him?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How many times?’

  ‘You already know the answer to that. I fired once.’

  Now there were people out in the market place looking into Lorraine’s Café – just three or four aware of the presence of Lorcan Quinn, MLA. For all the world it must look as if the member was out having a morning coffee with a friend; it might even seem to them that he had chosen this particular establishment to make a statement as part of the ongoing process of improving community relations.