by Tom Bradby
He stepped forward and tried to kiss her, but she pushed him away and stepped back. ‘No, Martin.’
‘Why not?’
‘The kids’ll be back. I think … I think we should just be friends. You know?’
He was staring at her again. ‘Chico good enough for you, but not me, is that it?’
‘Been watching me, have you?’
‘News gets around. Fucked anyone else? Give the Brits a good fucking when you were inside to get yourself let out?’
‘Get out of here, Mulgrew.’
‘I think it would be sensible for you.’
Silence. She looked down. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I think it would be sensible, that’s what I’m saying.’
‘You dirty shit,’ she said quietly. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’
‘It’s a dangerous world.’
‘Get out,’ she whispered.
Silence.
He picked up his coat off the chair and put it on. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘We make our decisions. I just hope you don’t live to regret it.’
A few seconds later she heard the front door go. She opened the back door, sat on the step and lit a cigarette.
She noticed her hand was shaking.
The alley was quiet. She had an image of Martin Mulgrew as a little boy and it was hard to make sense of it. She felt angry, but the anger brought confidence, not fear.
She thought of the funeral and suddenly had a strong mental image of Mulgrew kneeling beside the spotty youth’s bedside in the hospital, leaning over to allow the kid to whisper weakly in his ear …
She took a long, last drag of the cigarette and then crushed it beneath her feet. No, she told herself, he doesn’t know. Neither of them did.
She got up and began thinking about what she was going to make the children for their tea.
As Ryan passed the city airport, he realized that he was driving very slowly. He was tired and had to struggle to focus his mind on the road ahead of him. A mile or so further on, he passed a sign for Holywood Barracks and, just after it, he saw twenty or thirty men training on a floodlit rugby pitch. He could see their breath against the cold night air.
He missed the road the first time and had to consult the map, turn round and come back. Once he was sure he had the right road, he proceeded slowly, looking out for the barrier Hopkins had warned him about. When he came to it, he waited until it lifted before completing the last twist in the road and driving underneath a clock tower into a courtyard. Hopkins’s house was the first on the left and, by the time Ryan turned in, both he and Grant were standing in the doorway like worried parents. Hopkins ushered him into the sitting room without any warm small talk and without offering him a drink. In other circumstances, he might have been amused to see Grant and Hopkins standing next to each other and making a great show of being friends, since everyone knew they didn’t get on. But he wasn’t in the mood to see the humour in anything.
Grant spoke first. His manner was that of a cross schoolmaster. Ryan resented him for the first time.
‘Naturally you will be returning to England.’ He paused for a second, as if waiting for that to be challenged. ‘I blame myself, to some degree. I think all this was too soon for you.’
‘It was a mistake.’
‘Mistakes cost lives here, David,’ Hopkins said.
Ryan ignored him. ‘It was a mistake. I didn’t think it through. It won’t happen again.’
‘I don’t know what the hell you were thinking of,’ Grant said.
‘I wanted to see who she was with and—’
‘Don’t bloody answer.’ Grant exhaled deeply.
‘Don’t pull me out.’
‘There is no choice now.’
‘I don’t accept that.’
‘It is not up to you to accept it or not,’ Hopkins said. ‘That is the decision.’
Ryan felt the anger rise within him. It was a scene from his own past; two schoolmasters and a boy who had no respect for authority. He fought to keep the contempt from his voice. ‘Please give me a second chance.’ It was directed at Grant.
‘It’s not in our power. You are compromised.’
‘How will she be run?’ He could sense a hint of desperation creeping into his voice.
‘We’ll leave the nuts and bolts to the RUC. Jenkins will come in to bleed her once or twice a month.’
‘You may lose her.’
‘We may lose her anyway.’
‘Not with me here.’
Hopkins frowned. ‘You’re nothing if not arrogant.’
‘I’m telling it as it is. She didn’t respond well to Jenkins and she doesn’t trust the RUC.’
Grant looked annoyed. ‘This is a professional transaction. It is not a matter of personalities. If it is, that may be part of the problem.’
‘She trusts me.’
‘I doubt that now.’
‘Today has changed nothing. She trusts me. I’m asking you to give me a second chance.’
‘I’m not sure we can.’
‘I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important.’
‘To you, to her, or to us?’
‘All three.’
They didn’t respond. He looked for an answer in their faces. He saw hostility in Hopkins, uncertainty in Grant.
‘There’s another reason,’ he said. He paused before continuing. ‘I think you’ll find that if I go, she won’t survive much longer.’
‘Would you care to explain that?’ Grant asked.
‘I can’t really, I don’t think.’
‘Well, in that case—’
‘The RUC have somebody else.’
‘So?’
‘Close to her. Too close for comfort, I think. Suspicion is everywhere and they’re talking about … there’s been talk of letting her go.’
‘By whom?’
‘I don’t think I can be more specific. I’ve been getting help, but if I go, I honestly think they may decide to burn her as well. I think Internal Security may be getting close to their agent. They think this could allay suspicion, you know—’
‘We’re aware of how it’s done, Ryan.’ Grant’s voice was firm and slightly patronizing. Ryan looked at him and tried to hold his gaze.
‘All right,’ Grant said. ‘Please go and wait in the car for a few minutes.’
Ryan took the dismissal and turned for the door. As he stepped out into the courtyard, he felt terribly tired. Hopkins’s house formed part of a converted stable yard and light spilled out onto the cobbles now from each of the four corners. Behind his car, a couple of peacocks made their way slowly towards the archway at the other end, which led out to some fields. It was extremely pleasant and restful, but Ryan waited with a growing sense of unease. The realization of how much he cared about this and how much he wanted to stay seemed to increase with each passing minute. He cursed himself silently, with the frustration of someone who desperately wants to change a piece of immediate history, but cannot.
Grant appeared in the doorway and he felt himself tensing.
‘All right,’ Grant said at his car window. ‘But another mistake and you’re out.’ He stood up straight. ‘And you’d better make it worth my while.’
Grant walked slowly towards the house and Ryan reversed backwards and then drove out under the clock tower.
He felt relieved, but disgruntled.
He was out near Cultra and it took him about twenty minutes to get back to the Malone Road. There were a few drops of rain and not many cars on the road. As he turned into Malone Beeches he saw the familiar shape of a silver Granada and his heart sank.
Allen got out as he approached the front door. Ryan tried to sound friendly. ‘Want to come in for a drink?’
‘No thanks.’
‘I suppose you’re here to bollock me as well.’
‘Yes.’
‘Go on th––’
‘Did she see you?’
‘Yes.’
Allen grimaced. ‘Did anyone else se
e that she saw you?’
‘I don’t know.’
Silence. Ryan was conscious of the cold. He found the right key and prepared to put it in the lock. ‘Sure you don’t want to––’
‘If it wasn’t for the trial—’
‘What do you mean?’
Allen shrugged. ‘It’s not exactly a bloody state secret.’
‘I can’t help that.’
Allen sighed. ‘You can help today. That was fucking stupid.’
‘Look. I know that, all right? It won’t happen again. Now do you want to come in and talk about it, or do you want to rub my nose in the shit out here all night?’
Allen looked at him. ‘I’m going home. I’ll see you at Grosvenor Road RUC station tomorrow morning. We’ll see what’s happened.’
Ryan let himself in and dumped his coat on the peg by the door. The flat was warm – almost too warm. He went into the sitting room and switched on the TV for company. He switched it over to Newsnight and briefly watched a discussion on the prospects for peace in Ireland. It was slightly surreal – and he found himself wishing he had a bottle of whiskey in the flat.
CHAPTER TWELVE
COLETTE OPENED THE CUPBOARD DOOR AND WAS HIT BY A FALLING broom. Everything had been crammed into the cupboard and, now she’d opened it, it all came tumbling out. She picked up the broom, the mop and the dustpan and brush and loaded them back in, before getting hold of the Hoover and pulling it out. The broom fell again.
The Hoover was old – circa 1975 – and very weak. The bag leaked and they really needed a new one.
She began in the bathroom. The carpet here wasn’t fixed to the floor, so despite the weak suction, she had to keep her foot planted firmly by the Hoover to prevent it rucking up.
She moved onto the landing and then into her parents’ bedroom. It was odd, she still thought of it as her parents’ bedroom. The bed was neatly made and she sat down on it for a second. There was a large picture of Pa on the bedside table in a wooden frame. He was dressed in a black cloth cap and he was smiling. God, he looked so young! There was a picture of Paddy, too, aged about eleven and dressed in football kit. He had long hair and dirty knees and he was pushing his chest out and clasping his hands behind his back. He had a huge mischievous grin on his face and Colette found herself smiling. There was a picture of Sean, too, of course – a little blond boy making a sandcastle – and even now she found it hard to dwell on it. Poor Sean.
On the second level of the bedside table was a black tattered photograph album and Colette pulled it out. She realized it was ages since she’d seen it. She opened the front cover and began to flick through it.
They were all old black and white photographs, with a white border. They were mostly out of focus and poorly framed: Ma and Pa on their honeymoon in Galway, standing together awkwardly, Ma unsure whether to smile for the camera or not. Colette thought she looked incredibly beautiful and wondered with a jolt whether they had been truly happy. She thought it was odd that, as a child, you never thought about these things, and now it was too late. They looked happy, anyway, and everyone always said they were. Ma herself had said it countless times. As a child, Colette’s dream had been to find a man like Pa and have a marriage like her parents’. She felt a sense of melancholy as she considered how fucked up her life had become. Perhaps there is time, she thought, hopefully.
Looking at the honeymoon pictures, she felt sad for Ma too. She was so strong, heroic even, but Colette thought it must be unbelievably hard to love someone so much and then lose them. She wondered if there had been anyone else since Pa. Not as far as she could tell. Ma spent a lot of time with her friends and they talked about their families and argued a bit about politics, because Ma fought her corner fiercely when roused and hated the war, but that was about it. It wasn’t much of a life when you thought about it. But if it depressed her, she didn’t let it show – not often, anyway. She was always so interested in everyone and everything that was going on. Too interested, sometimes.
She flicked on past the honeymoon, to pictures of Dad on the beach in Donegal with a baby – must be Gerry. There were shots of Gerry and Paddy, and then the three of them together. There was one picture of all six of them, taken in somebody’s backyard. She wondered who’d taken that. Sean was tiny, resting his head on his father’s knee.
There were not many pictures of her, she noticed. Pa had always given more attention to the boys. She got to the last page and a piece of paper fell out. She bent down and picked it up. It was crumpled and had a number written on it in pencil: 240781. It wasn’t Ma’s handwriting.
She heard the tell-tale banging of Land Rover doors and she stood up and went to the window. The policemen and soldiers were spilling out of four Land Rovers parked on the opposite side of the street. She watched them knocking on the doors, but she felt no sense of concern. She didn’t think they would be coming here.
She walked back to the other side of the bed and put the album back in its place.
She heard the knock on the door and leaned back against the wall. She breathed in deeply and hoped it would go away.
She heard another knock. She pushed herself away from the wall and walked down the stairs. At the bottom, she glanced in the hall mirror and wished she wasn’t wearing a tracksuit. She muttered, ‘Arseholes,’ and then opened the door.
She was stunned to see it was him.
He took a step forward, forcing her back into the hall.
‘I’m afraid we have a warrant to search these premises,’ he said.
She didn’t reply. He was wearing the same boots, jeans, a T-shirt and a dark sweater. He seemed to tower over her.
‘Are you alone in the house?’ he whispered.
She nodded.
‘The kids?’
‘Playgroup.’
‘Your mother?’
‘Out.’
He relaxed visibly and walked into the front room. She followed. He went to the window, pulled back the net curtains and looked out.
‘We’re searching the street,’ he said as he turned back to her.
‘Yes, I can see.’ She bit her bottom lip and looked down.
‘I wanted to check that everything was all right after yesterday.’
‘What were you doing there?’ she asked, looking up at him.
‘Surveillance. You don’t need to worry—’
‘You seem to follow me everywhere. You know, the cemetery, yesterday, where else are you going––’
‘Don’t worry about it.’ He was gesturing with the flat of his hand now. His height made it forceful. ‘We have a job to do and we do it. You just have to concentrate on what you’re doing.’
His gaze was intense and she dropped her eyes again. She looked at his feet.
Neither of them spoke. She could hear the woman next door shouting at the policemen. ‘Bigots!’ she screamed. ‘Bigots!’
‘You talk about loyalty,’ Colette said quietly. ‘Well, that’s what I showed yesterday.’
‘I’m not sure …’
She looked up at him. ‘You know what I mean.’
Silence. He looked puzzled.
‘You want to talk about loyalty,’ she said. ‘Well, I let you live yesterday.’
‘I’m not sure I follow.’
‘There are others here who know what you’ve done.’
‘I take it that’s an oblique threat of some kind.’
‘Take it any way you want.’
He took a step forward and put his hands around her face. ‘Try any sort of threat on me, Colette, and this will be the shortest relationship in history. Do you understand?’
For some reason, she felt the tears welling up in her eyes. ‘I was just telling you I’m loyal,’ she said quietly. ‘That’s all.’
He released her and stepped back, turning round to look out of the window again as he did so.
‘All right,’ he said eventually. ‘I just wanted to check you were OK.’ He looked down at the table to the left of him and she foll
owed his gaze. Ma had bought some Christmas decorations.
‘I was just about to put them up,’ she said. ‘Want to help?’
He smiled. ‘I’ll see myself out.’
She followed him and, as he reached for the door, she touched his back. He didn’t turn round.
She shut the door and returned to the front room. Some of the Christmas decorations had fallen on the floor. She picked them up and then twirled one end of one of the streamers around her fingers.
She heard the Land Rovers move off outside and then the room was suddenly quiet.
Colette woke and it took her a few seconds to make out the two figures sitting on the end of her bed, though she’d felt their weight instantly.
She raised her head a fraction. ‘What time is it?’
‘Time to wake up!’ Mark said excitedly.
She raised her arm and made a show of looking at her watch. ‘Five thirty! That’s far too early! Go back to sleep.’
She lay back, shut her eyes and pretended to snore gently. For a moment they didn’t move, and then she felt one of them crawling up the bed. It was Catherine and now she was blowing on her face. She opened her eyes. ‘Go back to bed, young lady, or Santa will take your presents away again.’
Mark began to crawl up the bed and Catherine kissed her gently. ‘Please, Mammy,’ she said. ‘Please, please …’
Colette sat up in bed, realizing, as she did so, that Catherine’s stammer had gone again. ‘Right,’ she said. ‘Christmas it is. Turn on the light.’
Mark turned on the light and it blinded her. She felt a sudden, dull pain behind her eyes and she remembered the previous night after midnight mass. The mass was now held at eight o’clock on Christmas Eve to stop people coming in pissed from the pub. But it didn’t stop drinking afterwards.
‘Mark, love,’ she said. ‘Get us a glass of water, would you, and then you can open your stocking.’
He ran to the bathroom and then came back a few seconds later to begin tearing into his stocking. Colette watched both of them at it and tried to quell her sense of guilt. It wasn’t much – pencils, crayons, rubbers, tracing paper, wind-up mice, a couple of practical jokes, sweets – but Ma had bought nearly all of it. Still, it was a joy to see them so happy. As she got up, even her hangover didn’t sour her mood.
