A Traitor in the Family

by Nicholas Searle

  Three nights was all they had but it was surprising to Bridget just how easily they had settled into a domestic pattern that resembled permanence. A suspension of reality, she thought, but Ireland and Francis nagged at her and conscious effort was required to push them into the background just for the moment. She knew, however, that this trip concerned how her very real life might unfold.

  This was not like a dream, Bridget felt. Over the years she had dreamt frequently of other possible lives, usually while asleep, often while fully awake, hanging out the washing or shifting the venerable cylinder vacuum cleaner over resistant, bobbled carpets, or walking in the rain to the village to buy food. But this was better than a dream, this alternative reality out of reach but not entirely absurd, a distance but a measurable one from the place where every action, innocent and guilty alike, was prone to condemnation, where blind certainty was everything, where in the midst of apparent normality even the most innocent of people could be seconds from a brutal death.

  She felt for Sarah a warmth she continued to try to suppress, a bond that had, however, become undeniable.

  It was on the third evening that they spoke of it. She’d packed her bag, leaving out only her toiletries and a change of clothing for the morning. They would need to be up and out of the house early, Sarah had said.

  In the afternoon she had walked down the hall, cool in contrast to the terrace’s fierce heat, and caught sight of her reflection in the mirror. I’m pretty, she thought, or at least attractive, and was surprised and at the same time pleased. She wondered whether Francis would notice she had a tan. She would not know how to explain it; but Francis hardly looked at her these days, and besides it would almost certainly have faded by the time he returned to the cottage.

  Back on the terrace, she resumed her reading. They swam at some unremembered point and prepared citrons pressés so bitter they pursed their lips. It seemed as if the day would last for ever. Bridget tried to read again but could not concentrate. She looked up and saw that Sarah was, it appeared, focused completely on the paperback in her hands. She set down her book and saw Sarah looking at her, suddenly serious.

  ‘We have to talk,’ said Sarah.

  ‘I know,’ she replied.

  ‘I’ve been psyching myself up to say something. We both know what’s going on.’

  Bridget nodded.

  ‘When did you work it out?’

  ‘I’m not sure there was a moment. It gradually dawned on me. Even then I couldn’t be certain.’

  ‘Well, you are now.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You’re an intelligent woman, Bridget. Did you not have an inkling when we were in Singapore?’

  ‘No. It was odd that a stranger should show an interest in me. I suppose I thought that that kind of thing happens to other people all the time. So why not me for once?’

  ‘I’m sorry. The subterfuge …’

  ‘No. Before you say anything, I can understand. In a way. You had to …’

  ‘Find a way. Yes. If I’d come out with it straight away you’d have …’

  ‘I’d have run a mile. I still don’t …’

  ‘We’ll come to that later,’ said Sarah hastily. ‘You’re not angry with me, then?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Because I’ve not – until now – been honest with you. Don’t think I’ve enjoyed being deceitful –’

  ‘I thought that was it. I thought you people did enjoy it.’

  ‘No. Not me, anyway. It was just the only way.’

  ‘Not angry, no. More …’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Worried. Do you realize just how dangerous this is for me? I have to be so careful.’

  ‘I know. That’s why we did things in this way. I’ve done everything I possibly could. There’s no chance your husband knows.’

  ‘Who does know?’

  ‘I’d be treating you like a fool if I pretended it was just me. We need a number of people precisely in order to protect you. But it’s genuinely only those who need to know.’

  ‘Put a number on it.’

  ‘Seven people,’ said Sarah without hesitation. ‘I know precisely because I keep a very careful track of it.’

  ‘Seven people. Seven people who have my life in their hands and whom I don’t know. And that’s if I believe you.’

  ‘And do you?’

  ‘It’s irrelevant, isn’t it? What is, is. But yes,’ said Bridget with a sigh, ‘I suppose I do believe you.’

  ‘It seems a large number. But these people are completely trustworthy. They’re colleagues and I would – I do – put my own life in their hands.’

  ‘No police, then?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Bridget considered for a moment before saying, ‘It’s cold. Let’s get inside.’

  It was artificial, she knew, to postpone the conversation. But it required instalments; she was not certain she could cope with everything all at once. Sarah seemed to welcome the fact.

  Should she feel resentful at having been taken for a fool? Sarah had taken advantage of her gullibility and actively duped her. Why had she talked to her in the first place? Why had she, uncharacteristically, sat down with her? Drunk those gins and tonic? Gone to the Orchid Garden? Borrowed that dress? What had been the turning point? When, really, had she known?

  The truth was, there probably had been no turning point. A gradual realization was what it had been. Sarah’s story, now she considered it, had been extremely thin, almost preposterous. Deliberately so, possibly. Francis, if he came to hear of this, would be scornful. That, though, would be the least of her worries.

  They ate quietly and it was Sarah who resumed the conversation.

  ‘I had to,’ she said. ‘I hope you can see.’

  ‘I can. But it doesn’t make it any easier.’

  ‘We know each other now, Bridget. I like you. I really do want to do the best for you.’

  Bridget drank long and slow. ‘It’ll be Francis you want to know about.’ There was some comfort in stating the obvious. It made things somehow graspable. But, she thought, not really.

  ‘Whatever you think of him, and I can understand your loyalty, he’s involved in things I’m sure you don’t like.’

  Bridget looked at Sarah. ‘I know my husband. I know what Francis is.’

  ‘I’m sure you do. For all I know, he may not want to be involved. He may just be in too deep. These are the kinds of things I need to know.’

  ‘Why don’t you just talk to him? He can tell you what he’s thinking.’

  ‘I know you’re not that naive, Bridget. I’m talking to you because I can talk to you.’

  ‘I don’t know what he does.’

  ‘But you can help me understand him. To know what’s going on inside his head.’

  ‘You’re wrong if you think I have any idea. But why do you imagine I’d want to tell you if I did know?’

  ‘The fact that you’re here?’

  ‘That means nothing. You said yourself you tricked me into coming. What is it you’re wanting to know anyway?’

  ‘Anything and everything. The state of his mind. How he feels about the cause. Is he disillusioned? Who does he trust? Who doesn’t he trust? What are his plans, his movements?’

  ‘You’ve really no idea, do you? You think I know any of this?’

  ‘Well, let’s just start with the small stuff. Any small detail.’

  ‘You’re desperate, aren’t you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And why do you need to know all this?’

  ‘It’s my job to stop the people Francis is working for. As part of stopping it all.’

  ‘Stopping it all. And I’m supposed to believe that? Don’t you mean win? Beat us?’

  ‘No, I don’t. And you either believe me or you don’t. That’s up to you.’

  ‘And if I choose not to?’ Bridget wished she hadn’t asked the question. She dreaded the answer.


  ‘That’s up to you too. You go home and that’ll be the end of it. I won’t harass you.’

  ‘How do I know you won’t use what I tell you to get the SAS or the Prods to kill Francis?’

  ‘You don’t. But that’s what I’m saying. You can pass it all off as words if you like. I’m not going to have Francis killed. But sooner or later he’s going to end up in big trouble. You know that as well as I do, probably better. He’ll be lucky if it’s a long jail sentence. To his bosses he’s just another soldier.’

  ‘So you will have him killed, just like Paddy?’

  ‘No, I won’t. The only person likely to get Francis killed is Francis himself.’

  ‘But you want to put him in prison?’

  ‘If necessary, yes.’

  ‘That’s a bit blunt.’

  ‘I’ll not pretend. It’s important you know how things are. You want me to be honest, I’ll be honest. But be honest with yourself at the same time. Francis is involved in things that make my stomach turn. I’m guessing you feel the same way. Nothing’s going to change that or put right what he’s already done. I’m determined to stop him and see him prosecuted. I’ll not try to sugar the pill. But I won’t try to have him killed. He’s the one most likely to achieve that. There are no good choices. It won’t go away. All you have are terrible choices and slightly less terrible ones.’

  ‘And me? What happens to me?’

  ‘Let me ask you a couple of questions first. Do you believe, even remotely, in what Francis and his people are doing?’

  ‘I believe in a united Ireland, that’s for sure. And the Provos are just defending their people. The only way they can.’

  ‘But things are changing. It’s not the only way. Francis and people like him don’t change, though. With them doing what they do the violence will carry on for ever. I’m not offering to wave a magic wand but I am offering you a means of escape before it’s too late. We’ll take you away, to lead a new life of your own choosing, away from all this.’

  ‘Sometime in the future.’

  ‘Better than no hope at all.’

  ‘Meanwhile I take all the risks. Do you know just how dangerous this is for me?’

  ‘I think so. I’ll do everything I can to keep you safe.’

  ‘I’m expected to believe that?’

  ‘You’re not expected to. It’s a matter of your faith in me. I’ve been doing this a long time. I’m good at it.’

  ‘Do you have any idea of what they’d do to me? Any idea how many people are looking at me all the time, thinking: is she sound? Not just Francis and the boys. The other girls. Cathy, Anne-Marie, Patricia. How would I face them?’

  ‘I do know. And you’ll face them because you can. Because unless I’m wrong you’re an incredibly strong, resourceful human being.’

  ‘You may well be wrong on that.’

  ‘I don’t think so. You’ve hung on in there until now.’

  ‘If you’re saying I’ve already agreed …’

  ‘I’m not. And if you decide you don’t want to help we’ll not do anything that could harm you. But you need to say nothing to anyone else. Francis included.’

  ‘I’m not that foolish.’

  ‘I’m sure you’re not. And I don’t think you’re foolish enough to have come here without having a fair idea of what this was all about.’

  7

  Training. In the naughty corner. The incident in Bruges had been unfortunate. Very unfortunate. Nothing more. It was a setback to be sure; but they had to realize that accidents happen. No omelettes without breaking eggs etc. Not that the hierarchy had seen it that way. ‘You idiot, what came over you? Thank Christ they weren’t Americans,’ Aidan Murphy, nominally his commanding officer, had said. ‘Think what the big men are going to say. I’m going to be shat on from a great height. You don’t know what’s going on, fair play, but the timing of it.’

  Francis had seen the press, both sides of the border. ‘Atrocity’ – Irish Times. ‘Inexcusable’ – Irish Independent. ‘Get These Scum’ – Sun. ‘Betraying Their Cause’ – Guardian leader. An Phoblacht had offered nothing. There was little to be said in their defence, he supposed.

  It was all Brian’s fault, and now Brian was in custody in Germany. The lawyers reckoned he’d soon be released. Nothing to hold him on. Brian had spotted them up. Was up in Rheindahlen first thing in the morning. Saw the green Opel, four up, leaving the barracks and followed it along the motorway. John Boy and Francis were waiting up in the house, not sure how the day would go. Got the call from a breathless Brian from a service station near the border. Rushed on up there and phoned in to Dublin, where Brian had left a message. Bruges, it was. Targets on the canals. Get a move on.

  Except Brian had got his green Opels mixed up. God knows where the one with the soldiers in it went. Francis and John Boy caught up with him at a café in Bruges in sight of the Opel. Piece of piss. Just wait for the targets – two guys, two women in tow – to return and Bob’s your uncle. Easy-peasy, and they did return, at about four p.m. No one in the vicinity to cloud the issue, quick march up, Brian watching his back. Pop, pop, both men down. One of the girls decides to get feisty but a quick slap puts her down. And away. Job done.

  Or so he had thought. He’d not known that they were Canadians. What on earth had possessed them to have the same car as some British servicemen? Admittedly it had been easier in the days the British forces’ cars were clearly identified. But Brian, what were you thinking?

  When they’d heard about it in the car on the way to the airport Brian had gone into a blind funk. He got it into his head they were being followed and took his handgun out, releasing the safety catch. He told John Boy to speed up, but John Boy demurred. Brian began gesturing at other vehicles and they’d had to leave the motorway so that Francis could drag him out of the back of the car, disarm him and slap him into something resembling composure. Francis and John Boy looked across the roof at each other. It was likely if not inevitable that when they left Brian would do something stupid and get picked up. Each evidently allowed the same unpleasant thought to cross his mind, but in the end they decided not to let this enterprise spin even further out of control. Brian was allowed to live and Francis and John Boy took the next flight out of Düsseldorf to Ireland, crossing their fingers. Brian was arrested just outside Essen, having in his panic evidently forgotten the place they’d selected for torching the car. Thankfully it happened after the car was in flames, though they only discovered this later. They’d sweated for weeks over whether some forensic trace had been left to be detected. As it was, Brian could only be prosecuted for stealing the car and torching it. Francis had had the foresight to throw their handguns into the Rhine before they entered Düsseldorf rather than let Brian store them. A waste of two good weapons, but that was how it went.

  Now Joe Geraghty was trying to sort things out. He could shut Aidan up with one glare. Joe took special care of Francis. He’d been one of Joe’s boys.

  Gentleman Joe had a light touch mostly. He had been Francis’s first brigade commander. He’d eased him – though eased was palpably not the right word – into the RA. Francis had all the right credentials of course. Joe had been his mentor. Despite his amiable demeanour he was a hard man when required. He was tough on his boys, brutal with some, and Francis had been no exception. His admiration was leavened with a measure of naked fear. Terror, more like, when sometimes he looked back. All those years ago, Joe had insisted Francis move to South Armagh. He had long-term plans and needed Francis’s particular aptitudes. He could not be wasted taking potshots at the RUC in Belfast, so Joe told him.

  Joe was among the eight most influential individuals in the movement. Member of the Army Council. In charge of security among other things. Three weeks ago he had come to see Francis at the house near Roscommon where the boys had put him and John Boy for a couple of weeks.

  ‘I know, I know,’ Joe had said, gesturing with flat palms for him to calm down, before Francis had uttered a word. ‘Not
your fault. What was your man thinking of, I wonder? If he wasn’t sure, he should have told you. And he didn’t?’

  ‘He didn’t, Joe. Not a hint.’

  Joe shook his head thoughtfully. With his neatly cut grey hair and his well-fitting suit and elegant tie, he resembled a lawyer rather than one of the leadership cadre. Like most on both sides of the divide, Francis knew Joe Geraghty as a man of accomplishment. You didn’t get to his position by being a slouch. With his quiet voice, his anodyne words and his gentle, self-doubting manner he cast fear into the hearts of volunteers who transgressed.

  ‘Sure we’ll do our best for the boy,’ he said. ‘We’re setting up the support straight away. The German brief thinks there’s nothing to hold him on. Can’t even pin the car theft on him now. Setting fire to the car is a bit more of a problem. He’ll be bailed for a later court appearance. But that’s not your concern, is it now, Francis?’

  ‘No, Joe.’

  ‘We’ll look after Brian. I wanted to drop by to say you boys did your job properly. There’s no recrimination from me or anyone else who matters. We know how it is. We’ve all been there. It’s a shame but we have to take the broader view.’

  ‘But Aidan –’

  ‘Aidan’s a hothead. You and I know the score. We see the bigger picture. I’ll look after Aidan, don’t you worry. Now, just for the moment we think we’d better pull you off the front line. Let it blow over. There’s whole legions of young lads who need bringing on and we want you to help.’

  ‘Training kids?’

  ‘If you like. We need the best people to be bringing the next generation on. They’re our future after all. They’ll look up to you, Francis. And see it this way: it’ll only be for a short while.’

  ‘How long?’

  ‘Don’t press me on the detail. A short while. How long’s a piece of string? I can guarantee you that you won’t be doing this for any longer than is necessary. I’ll look after you. You’ll trust me on that, won’t you, Francis?’

  ‘I will. But don’t ask me to be happy.’

  ‘I don’t expect you to be, boy,’ said Joe soothingly. ‘I expect you to want to get straight back at it. That’s the measure of the man, I said to them. But we think it’s wiser. Let things cool down a bit. You know what I mean?’