Shadow Dancer

by Tom Bradby

  She got them dressed. Mark’s silence was truculent, Catherine’s uncertain. It was as if she was afraid to speak for fear of angering her brother, though she tried to show her affection by clinging silently to Colette’s arm.

  As she released them for breakfast, Colette’s mother emerged from her bedroom – fully dressed, as though she had been up for hours. In the kitchen, she clearly noticed the pyjamas in the washing machine and seemed to deliberately avoid any comment.

  Colette switched on the radio and put two bowls on the table. She opened one of the upper cupboards and rummaged through its contents. She said, almost to herself, ‘Where are the cornflakes?’

  Her mother said quietly, ‘I got them some Coco Pops.’

  Colette did not reply. She opened the next cupboard and found the cereal. She found the milk in the fridge and noticed it was full fat, not semi-skimmed.

  When she turned round, Mark was staring at her with all the hate he could muster. He began to eat his cereal, then stopped, picked up the bowl and hurled it at her head.

  She ducked and shouted, ‘MARK!’ but he had clearly seen his escape route and was out of the door before she could get a hold of him. She knew pursuit was pointless. She was covered in milk and cereal. Her mother handed her a tea towel. She brushed off the cereal and mopped up the milk on the floor. It took several minutes. She was conscious of the fact that the kitchen floor was familiar. The yellow squares were fading.

  Silence for a few moments. Her mother looked towards the washing machine. ‘He hasn’t … not since Davey.’

  Colette tried to keep the irritation out of her voice. ‘I know.’

  She sat down at the table and pulled Catherine onto her lap, stroking her nose gently and ruffling her hair. ‘Hello, little miss.’

  Catherine buried her head in her mother’s side. ‘Can we go for a swim, Mammy, can we go for a swim?’

  ‘Of course, maybe this afternoon. We’ll see how we go.’

  Colette looked over at her mother. ‘I’ll take them up to playgroup this morning, Ma.’

  Her mother smiled. ‘I don’t mind doing—’

  ‘Thanks, Ma, but it’s OK. I’m back now, I’ll do it.’

  ‘OK, love, but you know I don’t mind—’

  ‘Thanks.’

  Colette made herself a cup of coffee and Catherine some toast. She brought out the butter and jam and placed them on the table. Catherine looked at her strangely and Colette looked across to her mother, sensing a conspiracy. Ma said quietly, ‘I think they prefer honey …’

  Colette had to fight to hold her temper. She went to sit on the step by the back door to smoke a cigarette, taking her coffee with her. She wondered if she should go and find Mark, but decided against it. Her mother said she was just going out and left, only to come back a minute later, poking her head round the kitchen door. ‘Sorry, love, I forgot. Paddy came around earlier, said he hadn’t really had a chance to see you yet. He said he’d be at the Felon’s this morning if you wanted him.’

  Colette glowered at the brick wall opposite the back door. She remembered that today was the day of the first meeting and she smiled bitterly. A different planet.

  After she had cleaned up breakfast she put on a clean pair of knickers, a T-shirt and her jeans and washed her face. Downstairs, Mark was now sitting in the kitchen again, and she found and put on his outdoor coat without a word. He seemed content to hold her hand for the short walk to Conway Mill. She took them up to the second floor and into the playgroup room, with its mural of The Jungle Book. She chatted briefly to the women who ran the group and they all said they were pleased to see her back. One woman squeezed her arm supportively and one or two others gave her knowing looks, which she found irritating. ‘What the hell would you know?’ she wanted to ask. She kissed Catherine and Mark goodbye and walked back past the Sinn Féin press office. She had just turned onto the Falls when a soldier spotted her and came running over. She felt her temperature rising, but she knew that, whatever the provocation, losing her temper would only make the situation worse.

  ‘Could I see your identification, madam?’

  She didn’t have it and the soldier sneered. ‘So we’ve left it at home, have we?’

  Colette didn’t reply. He leaned closer and whispered, ‘Killed anyone today, Mrs McGraw?’

  It was common enough for the soldiers to recognize her. They were told to watch, note and report the movements of any ‘players’ – and their relatives – in their area. Sometimes they yielded good information, but most of the time it was a thankless and relatively pointless task. A little harassment helped pass the time.

  The soldier was trying to provoke her now and he pushed her against the wall and spread her arms and legs apart. He began the body search at her ankles but he quickly moved higher, groping around her crotch and breasts and breathing heavily down her neck. Colette went for his hand and bit hard.

  He recoiled, clutching his hand to his stomach and screaming, ‘You fucking bitch!’

  The other soldiers were running towards them now and she knew she was vulnerable. She would almost certainly have ended up in the Castlereagh Interrogation Centre, but she was next to the Sinn Féin press office and, just at that moment, Gerry Adams, the leader of Sinn Féin, emerged.

  The soldier had now recovered and he and a colleague grabbed Colette’s shoulders.

  ‘Hold on there.’

  The men stopped.

  ‘Leave her alone.’

  The officer had run up from further down the street. He was out of breath. ‘I must advise you to keep out of this, sir.’

  Adams’s voice had an edge to it. ‘This is my country and my street and you’ve got no business being here in the first place.’

  A crowd had started to gather. The officer nodded to his men and they disengaged and set off down the street. They were booed and jeered as they went and Adams turned to Colette and smiled. ‘How you doin’, Colette?’

  She felt shaken. ‘I’m fine.’

  When she arrived at the Felon’s a few minutes later, she found Paddy sitting quietly in the corner of the upstairs bar, his hands clasped around a cup of Nescafé. He was concentrating on the television screen bolted to the wall beside him and he was alone but for the young girl behind the bar. It was a long time since Colette had been in here, but it hadn’t changed. It was like an attic room, with a long sloping ceiling and a wooden floor. A huge Irish tricolour covered the wall in front of her. It was warm and felt cosy. She put the incident in the street out of her mind. It was too routine to be worth mentioning and it had happened to them both hundreds of times.

  Paddy got to his feet, grinning. ‘What happened to you last night?’

  She smiled, but didn’t reply. Paddy looked over at the girl behind the bar. ‘Siobhan, could you get us a coffee?’ He reached forward and took Colette’s hands in his own and, as he did so, she felt the sense of hollowness return. She felt her treachery. It was a cancer growing slowly within.

  ‘Got to go, I’m afraid, something brewing,’ he said.

  She didn’t ask what. The TV was on above them, showing pictures of Albert Reynolds and the Brit Prime Minister standing in Downing Street in London. They were talking about this ‘Declaration’, a document designed to convince the IRA that the time had come to give up violence. It was supposed to persuade all Republicans that the British and Irish governments would seriously address their concerns, if they would agree to pursue their aims by peaceful means.

  They listened in silence for a while. When Paddy turned back to her, he looked puzzled. ‘They’re hyping this – there’s nothin’ in it for us.’

  Colette wanted to ask more. She wanted to ask him what he thought, but was afraid of her motives for doing so.

  ‘I think the leadership is getting this very badly wrong,’ he said. ‘I think they’ll regret it.’

  She registered the implicit threat and almost pursued it.

  He got up. ‘Sorry, got to go – I’ll catch you later.’ He
picked up his jacket and headed for the door. After a few yards, he turned and came back, putting his hand on her shoulder and smiling as he turned.

  ‘By the way, what we’re working on is a big one. You’ll enjoy it.’ She didn’t ask him to continue, but he did. ‘Friday, the head of CID. He’s had it coming to him a long, long time. He was the one who put you away, wasn’t he?’

  He looked at her, but she didn’t reply. He shrugged. ‘We’re going to take him as he leaves home in the morning. Just thought you’d like to know, that’s all.’

  She didn’t say anything. She wondered if this was a trap and then could not believe that that was what she was thinking. She felt sick and alone.

  Ryan thought of her.

  He felt a sense of intimacy, almost of warmth.

  When they’d talked about her in the briefings, they’d used the phrases of a faraway war and the words had washed over him. They’d talked of asset, potential, development, control, PIRA Belfast Brigade, PIRA England Department. But in his mind he’d seen a woman with slender arms, smooth skin and a warm smile.

  But he was excited now. He couldn’t deny it. Even a rank amateur could tell she had potential. She had form. She was close to people. She would be trusted. If he could crack her – if he could really open her up – then anything was possible. The leadership’s intentions, the England Department sewn up from top to bottom. That would wipe the smirk off Jenkins’s bloody face.

  The voice on the intercom told them to fasten their seat belts.

  He thought about his woman. He thought of her flying back to Dublin and he thought of the men who’d have watched her. They’d never have guessed it, but then who would? That was the hope. He hoped her own people couldn’t smell it. He hoped they couldn’t see it deep in her eyes. He didn’t know if he could have coped. To deceive a stranger is one thing, but to convince a brother or a mother?

  He thought of Judas Iscariot. He thought of the instinct for self-preservation. He asked himself if there was a more noble motive within her and he didn’t know the answer.

  The plane bounced roughly as it touched the runway, breaking his train of thought. As it taxied into the terminal, he looked out across the tarmac to see one of the big twin-rotored Chinooks taking off from the other side of the strip. A thin line of mist hung low over the fields in the distance and the helicopter rose slowly above it, twisting away to begin the long, noisy journey across the Irish Sea.

  Inevitably, it was raining.

  By the time he was on his feet, he’d begun to feel the first pangs of fear. He thought of his Judas and of what he’d told her in the café. Did he trust her? It was ludicrous.

  As he watched his bag come round the carousel he thought of how little he knew of her. He wondered if he was going to be set up.

  ‘Ryan?’

  The man was wearing jeans, trainers and a loose-fitting khaki jacket. He had horribly pockmarked skin. Ryan nodded, picked up his bag and followed without a word.

  In the car, the man introduced himself as Joel, but then said virtually nothing. A few minutes out of the airport, they passed a permanent police checkpoint, but the constable looked bored and waved them through. Joel turned right and took the back way into Belfast. The land was scrappy here and poorly kept. Joel was driving fast and, as they rounded a corner, he had to pull the car sharply to the left to avoid another coming in the opposite direction. They passed a Gaelic football pitch and an old man walking home with a young child. As they skirted the mountain, the city was spread out beneath them. Ryan looked over towards the big yellow cranes and beyond, across the loch. Smoke from the factory chimneys drifted across the rooftops.

  It was dramatic, if not beautiful. Ryan felt the fear and uncertainty in the pit of his stomach.

  A thin veil of mist still lay in the valley, but it was clearing quickly.

  As they drove down towards the city centre, they crossed the Andersonstown Road. Ryan saw an Irish Tricolour flying from the top of the Felon’s club to the left and he felt like he’d never been away. It was an uncomfortable sensation. He thought of the one conversation he had had with Grant about it when he had raised the prospect of returning to Ulster. Don’t worry. It’s irrelevant. So many events. Why should anyone remember?

  As they passed, he envisaged her walking home, a child on each hand. Then he had an image of her pretty face distorted by a bullet exit wound. Try explaining that to the children, he thought.

  Then they were through into comfortable, middle-class suburbia – only a short distance geographically. He couldn’t imagine Colette here. This was his kind of territory.

  He was taken to a flat just off the Malone Road, given the key and told to wait until the afternoon, when he would be picked up.

  He sat trying to convince himself he didn’t feel nervous. He walked to the shops and bought a few newspapers, but couldn’t concentrate on reading them. He walked aimlessly around the flat. It was neat enough – modern and characterless, but functional.

  He walked into the sitting room, switched on the radio and was playing with the dial when the buzzer went. Without answering it, he picked up his jacket and ran to the door.

  It was an RUC car this time and the driver wanted to talk. Ryan wished he would shut up. It took fifteen minutes to get to the RUC’s headquarters at Knock in east Belfast and they swept in through the gates without stopping. Ryan wondered what he would find. His colleagues sometimes talked of the RUC as though they were the real enemy.

  A young woman with a pleasant smile was waiting outside the entrance to the main building and she shook Ryan’s hand and escorted him up to Trevor Long’s office on the second floor.

  The corridor was long and gloomy. The lights were out and it was clearly being refurbished. The young woman apologized for the darkness.

  They turned left into an office and Trevor Long rose to greet him warmly; Ryan remembered him from a seminar during the training sessions a couple of years back. The man beside him wore a thin smile and stretched out his hand in turn. ‘Brian Allen. Pleased to meet you.’

  ‘Thank you. It’s good to be here.’

  Allen was bigger than Ryan had anticipated. He was well over 6 feet – about Ryan’s height – with a belly that genuinely appeared to be testing the buttons on his shirt. He had a thick, untidy mop of white hair, a ruddy, quite handsome face and a scruffy, double-breasted grey suit with an ancient red tie. He looked unhappy, to say the least, and it was Trevor Long who continued with the small talk. Ryan was amused by the contrast: Long, the smartly turned out, bright, polite, diplomatic senior officer and Allen, the tough front-line man, who was obviously angry at having to work with a patsy from the Security Service.

  Ryan thought carefully about how he was going to get round this one.

  He decided the best form of defence was attack. ‘On the question of authority …’ He was looking at Allen now and trying to sound diplomatic. ‘I know that you’re in charge. I have no problem with that. I’ve got plenty to learn.’

  Ryan watched the hostility drop away from Allen. They sat in silence.

  ‘I ran into her once before in Castlereagh,’ Allen said. ‘She didn’t say a word for seven days. Not one word. Surprising strength, I thought.’

  ‘She was desperate this time.’

  ‘Desperate for real? Or desperate for a few days to get herself out?’

  ‘Desperate for real, I would say.’

  ‘She’s well-connected enough, all right. If she has turned, she does have potential.’

  ‘She has turned.’

  ‘We’ll see.’

  Allen sat and Ryan followed suit. Allen held up a cup. ‘Tea?’

  ‘Thank you. Milk, no sugar.’

  ‘Didn’t think much of your choice of venue.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I thought it was central and quite busy. I thought she would be comfortable with it.’

  ‘She might be – if she turns up – but I’m not. It’s hard to clean. It makes me jumpy.’

  Ryan di
dn’t know what to say. He thought Allen was probably right.

  ‘We’ve got three of our own surveillance teams out already and we’ll do our best to clean both the area and her approach. The difficulty is she could come from a number of directions and it will be very busy at that time of day. But we’ll do our best. We’ll have two back-up units close by.’

  ‘Are we being briefed?’

  ‘No, I thought we’d skip Castlereagh today. I’m not expecting to learn anything. I want to know she is one of us.’

  ‘I think you’ll be surprised.’

  ‘I live in hope, Mr Ryan. I’m an optimist.’

  Thirty minutes later, they pulled out of Knock at speed and hit the dual carriageway round to the top of the Ormeau Road. It was still windy and the water ran in horizontal lines across the window. The back of the Granada was warm and might have been comforting, but Ryan had gone beyond that.

  He could feel the tension right through. His armpits were damp. His palms were clammy.

  They couldn’t see out of the windows very well and he wondered if that would matter. He touched the front of his coat and felt the bulk of the Browning pistol he had been issued in his waistband.

  Allen didn’t say anything. Ryan hoped he wouldn’t.

  He tried to think about the possibility of success. He tried to tell himself it might work. She might turn up. She might be willing to talk. He wondered how he would find her. Nervous? Frightened? Confident? Professional? Treacherous?

  He wondered if she’d considered treachery as a state of mind. He wondered if she’d ever thought of being a tout before that night in Paddington Green police station.

  Down the Ormeau Road. Scrappy, down-at-heel houses and a building that was derelict and crumbling. Past Ulster Television. He noticed a camera and a reporter on the roof and almost smiled. If only they knew the half of it.