by Tom Bradby
After that, the day passed very quickly and, along with Ma, she spent most of it in the kitchen. Paddy came round in the morning and they opened their presents. He gave Colette some beautiful brass earrings and she got a striped jumper from her mother. She wasn’t quite sure about that, but didn’t say anything.
Gerry and Christy came round for lunch and Christy was even quieter than usual. They looked like they’d had another row. Colette tried to keep an eye on Gerry’s son Sean, who was turning into a terrible bully and who, she knew, persecuted Mark when her back was turned.
She was just drying the dishes afterwards when she heard Gerry shouting at his son. ‘Sit down, Sean!’ he said, his anger rising. ‘Now! Do as you are bloody well told.’
‘Don’t swear in front of the boy, Gerry,’ Ma said.
The television suddenly intervened. It had been on all day but now, at last, it managed to attract everyone’s attention. The Queen’s speech had begun and everyone hurled abuse at the screen, before racing for the ‘off’ button.
Ma came back into the kitchen to help dry the dishes – Colette was angry that neither the boys nor Christy had lifted a bloody finger to help – and she raised her eyebrows in order to reflect a private joke they’d had over the years. Colette smiled back, but said nothing.
Catherine was sitting at the table looking at her new photograph album and Colette looked over her shoulder. She thought it was a strange choice for a Christmas present, but it was what she wanted. Catherine turned the pages and chattered excitedly, ‘That’s me, me, me.’ Colette looked down at the page and corrected her. ‘No, that’s Mark love.’
‘He’s ugly!’
Colette laughed. ‘He looks just like you as a baby. Does that mean you’re ugly too?’
Catherine turned the page. ‘That’s me!’
‘No, that’s Mark too.’ She bent down, her head resting above Catherine’s. ‘Here, we’ll find a picture of you. That’s you, see? Not very pretty!’
‘Noooo.’ Catherine smiled and nuzzled her head into Colette’s side. She turned the page. ‘That’s Daddy,’ she said.
Yes, it is, Colette thought.
Both of them had been given paper and crayons in their stockings and Colette picked up some of their drawings from the table. Catherine’s was of a house, with all of them in it, surrounded by soldiers. Mark’s showed a man lying on the ground bleeding after apparently being shot by a group of men. She didn’t know who were the bad guys and who the good. She thought that was appropriate.
She ruffled Catherine’s hair. ‘You going to go outside and play?’
‘No.’
Colette nudged her off her chair. ‘Go on. Get some air or I’ll give you to the Brits and they can keep you!’
‘Aaaah!’ Catherine shouted as she ran out. Colette noticed that her stammer really did seem to have disappeared today. She thought it was very puzzling.
She picked up a dirty tea towel and dried up some of the plates. Voices were being raised next door. She caught her mother’s eye and frowned. Gerry was beginning to shout now. ‘I don’t care what other people say.’
She put her head round the door. ‘Leave it, Gerry.’
‘Oh, fuck off.’
She was shocked by the casual but brutal hostility. ‘It’s Christmas, Gerry.’ Colette could see Christy was close to tears. Paddy was pretending to read the paper, Sean sat on the floor, playing and listening to his parents arguing.
‘It is Christmas and I said fuck off.’
Colette turned round and walked back into the kitchen. She put down the tea towel and the plate. Her mother shook her head. ‘Leave it,’ she said quietly, but Colette ignored her. ‘He’s not going to get away with it,’ she muttered.
She walked back into the front room and Paddy looked up, as if he could sense her mood. ‘Would you come outside, Gerry,’ she said.
‘Pistols at dawn?’
‘Please just come outside.’
Gerry got up and didn’t bother to put his shoes back on. She took him out of the front door and tried to bring him further away from the house. He was reluctant.
‘What the fuck is wrong with you?’ she asked.
‘Get a grip on yourself, Colette.’
‘It’s Christmas.’
‘So what?’
‘Well, of course. Why would you change the habits of a lifetime and make any effort actually to be nice to anyone.’
‘Can it, Colette.’
‘Can it yourself, Gerry.’ Colette turned away, as if in frustration, and then turned back to him. ‘What is wrong with you Gerry? What’s eating you? You’re like a man possessed.’
‘I’ll tell you what’s wrong. If you want to know, I’ll tell you. I am sick and tired of sitting in this house and hearing all of you – Christy, Ma, you – undermine what we are trying to do. You’re all cowards, every last one of you, and I am sick of it, absolutely bloody sick to death—’
‘Since when––’
‘If it’s not you, it’s one of the others – like a little mafia, egging each other on. Niggling away.’
‘I don’t know what––’
‘Oh, shut it.’ He was stabbing his finger into her chest. ‘I’ve had enough of it. It’s cowardice.’
He turned and stormed back into the house. Colette stood outside for a few moments watching her breath in the cold air.
She walked back up to the front door, which was more or less shut. Inside, she heard Paddy and Gerry talking and she just heard Gerry say, ‘We have to do it—’ As she opened the door he turned and looked at her with what she thought was real hatred and then he pushed past her and was gone. As she shut the door behind her she smiled wearily at Paddy and he smiled back.
She walked back to the kitchen, ignored her mother and went out of the door. She stood in the alley and lit a cigarette. She could hear a group of kids playing, probably Catherine and Mark and their friends.
She looked up at the grey sky above her. ‘Where are you when I need you?’ she whispered.
The back of the taxi was warm and comforting. The driver didn’t bother to make conversation and, as he looked out of the rain-spattered window, Ryan felt a deep sense of melancholy.
Christmas was always this way and he supposed he should be grateful for being away from home.
He paid the driver in cash and stood in the drive, facing the huge mock-Tudor house. It had a spacious forecourt and two garages. His arrival had triggered a series of floodlights that illuminated the garden and most of the neighbouring bungalow. The house was situated at the end of the cul-de-sac and Ryan could see that it had been carefully chosen for maximum safety.
He was about to knock on the large oak door when it swung wide open.
‘Box!’
Ryan smiled nervously, unsure how to react to his new nickname – not very original since ‘Box’ was simply intelligence world slang for MI5. He had both hands full with champagne and chocolates. Allen was beaming, his cheeks flushed and his nose red. He was wearing a large, bright-red hat with Santa Claus stamped in big letters on the front.
He put his hand on Ryan’s shoulder and ushered him inside. The house was warm and welcoming; the atmosphere reminded Ryan uncomfortably of Christmases at home when his father was still alive. The hall was narrow and the walls were covered in dark wood panels. It could have been quite gloomy, but had been carefully lit, with a Chinese lamp by the telephone throwing light up towards the ceiling and the stairs at the far end. Allen led Ryan down into the sitting room and, as he entered, conversation in the room stumbled to a halt and everyone stood politely. He concentrated on the names. Allen’s wife, Sally, was a pleasant, attractive and jolly-looking woman, with dark hair and an easy smile. Jonathan, his son, was as big as his father and much fitter. He looked like a rugby player and had a firm handshake and a friendly, open face. Allen’s daughter, Annie, looked about sixteen, with an attitude to match. She was pretty, but obviously shy.
By the time they reached the dinner table,
Ryan felt a little drunk. For the first half of the meal, he remained the centre of conversation, everyone politely asking him about his family, his home life and what he thought of Northern Ireland. ‘Everyone is very friendly,’ he heard himself say more than once, thinking as he did so, that it was a barefaced lie. About halfway through the main course attention turned to Annie, who had barely touched her food. Sally told her gently to eat up before her plate got cold, and a heated argument ensued.
Ryan was hungry and he had seconds of everything, including Christmas pudding, which he’d never greatly liked. He drank heavily and enjoyed himself. The family was still skirmishing as the party hats came out of the crackers, and he was amused to see Allen being told off by his children.
After cheese and coffee, Allen poured Ryan a port and took him into the sitting room whilst the others cleared up in the kitchen. Ryan protested that he should help, but was rebuffed.
Allen seemed to be made for the armchairs by the fire, and he rested his glass on his belly. Ryan thought he looked like something straight out of a Giles cartoon; his face red, his eyes slightly glazed and his shirt and tie undone, with a few white hairs poking out of the top. He leaned forward briefly and stoked the fire before kicking off his shoes.
‘Sorry about the other day,’ he said simply.
‘Which bit?’
Allen shrugged. ‘The whole lot. I haven’t been as helpful as I might have been and I’m sorry.’
Ryan smiled. ‘I’ve been learning.’
Allen took a sip of his port and reached up to the shelf behind him for a box of cigars. He offered Ryan one, but he refused and took out a cigarette instead.
‘It’s been a bit hectic so far, hasn’t it?’ Allen asked.
Ryan nodded. He could tell Allen was limbering up to get something off his chest.
‘It’s bloody difficult, of course, and doesn’t get any easier however long you do it. But you’ve got to be careful, you know, to see these people for what they are.’
Ryan was puzzled. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean don’t get too attached to her.’
‘I don’t think I am.’
‘I’m not so sure. Like I said the other day. In the end it is us against them. It’s not personal.’
‘I recruited her.’
‘Yes, but—’
‘I made promises.’
‘Yes – but if …’ Allen paused for a few seconds before continuing. ‘Look, what I’m saying is this: although we may be the closest to one individual, we are not able, in the end, to see the whole picture, and sometimes it is best to leave decisions to others who can see—’
‘Then why did you call me?’
Allen looked at him and shrugged. ‘I’ve been doing this longer than you could imagine and it is a complicated business. She’s an attractive girl. Maybe in different circumstances, she could be different.’
‘I’m not sure I follow.’
‘Just don’t forget the decision she made in the first place. She wasn’t signing up to join the Girl Guides.’
‘So she’s condemned for ever?’
‘No, I didn’t say that, but she’ll never repent. None of them ever do. Not until they’re caught anyway and it suits them to pretend.’
Allen took a large puff of his cigar and sent a thick trail of smoke billowing up towards the ceiling.
‘Some of these people are intelligent, many are just thugs. I know what you think: in different circumstances, what would I have done, what would I have become? Just don’t forget the nature of the decisions they make. What they do is irreversible and I think that sets them apart.’
Ryan looked into the fire. ‘So what happens to her?’
‘She’ll survive for a while, if we’re clever and she’s careful.’
‘And then what?’
‘Perhaps she’ll get out.’
‘Perhaps?’
Allen sighed. ‘Yes, perhaps. Some of them do, some of them don’t. It’s a hard world.’
‘So she’s expendable?’
‘No. I didn’t say that. But, as I said, these people have made their choices a long time ago. They didn’t have to join the IRA. Nobody was forcing them.’
Ryan stared into the fire for a long time before replying. The room was the other end of the house from the kitchen and it was quiet. He’d enjoyed a sense of companionship with Allen, but he thought it was fading now. He wondered if there was an agenda here.
He turned over his past, looking at the dark-red coals and feeling their heat on his face.
‘I don’t think anyone has a monopoly on guilt,’ he said eventually, almost to himself.
‘We all make mistakes, David. I don’t think the two sides compare, whatever your criteria may be.’
Ryan looked at him. ‘Don’t they?’
Allen leaned forward in his chair, suddenly animated. ‘No.’ He pointed his cigar at Ryan. ‘Look, I don’t mean to patronize you, but maybe you’ll see what I mean. When I started out, I was based down in Tyrone in a little town that has been divided for years. There was a young Catholic lad in that town – a bright, intelligent, hard-working guy. He worked on a building site, but was from a large family and they were very short of money and didn’t have enough to make him up a lunch worth speaking of.’
Allen gestured with his cigar again. ‘Follow so far?’
Ryan nodded.
‘Now Joe had a Protestant work colleague – let’s call him Jim, for the sake of argument. Jim was a big-hearted man and every day he’d get his wife to make up a lunch big enough for two so that Joe would have enough to eat.
‘That was fine and the two were friends. But Jim was a part-time soldier, and one day he must have let that fact slip to Joe.
‘A few weeks later, Jim is at home and he hears a giant explosion outside his house. He comes running out and, to his shock and surprise, he sees his mate Joe lying on the ground in front of him.
‘As he stands there he realizes that Joe is in the IRA and he has been trying to plant a bomb under his car. Now, unfortunately for Joe, the bomb has gone off prematurely. Both Joe’s arms have been blown off and his IRA colleague has kindly buggered off, leaving him to bleed to death. Jim calls an ambulance and tries to administer first aid. He cradles Joe in his arms as he dies.’
‘What’s your point?’
Allen paused for a moment and puffed on his cigar aggressively. ‘The point is this: you might say that all that shows how strong a cause these people have and how much they believe in it. But there’s a human element, an element that has to say that, whatever you believe intellectually, killing your own workmate and friend is an act of supreme––’
‘I’m not questioning the cruelty of it.’
‘Well, just remember to see her for what she is. Don’t lose your hatred just because she’s got a pretty face.’
‘She’s not exactly Adolf Hitler, is she?’
‘Isn’t she?’
‘Come on.’
‘That’s a moral question. Moral fibre. Moral decisions, not outward appearances.’
Ryan pulled out his packet of cigarettes and lit another. ‘Yes, but if you want to talk moral justifications, there are plenty of people without a clean record. What about the Americans in Vietnam, or us here on Bloody Sunday? Morally wrong.’
‘Don’t forget which side you’re on.’
‘I’m not bloody forgetting. But she’s a human being and I’m not going to forget that either.’
Ryan was suddenly struck by something and he looked at Allen again. ‘You know who this man is, don’t you?’
‘Who?’
‘The other tout.’
Allen shook his head. He seemed to be almost smiling. He looked at Ryan with a slightly strange expression, as if he was troubled by something.
‘I may be out of line on this, but when you get the chance, why don’t you take another look at our woman’s file? The whole thing. It’s been computerized and you should be able to access it from Stormont.�
��
He didn’t elaborate.
McIlhatton’s Christmas had been shit.
He’d never felt so depressed.
He was walking down a street in Hammersmith now – it seemed the same as every other street in this rotten town. He found the house again easily – number 47 – and rang the doorbell once.
The same man came to the door. He had a brown parcel in his hand, and he gave it to him without saying a word. He slammed the door shut.
McIlhatton stood there for a few seconds and then turned away. He hadn’t realized how much he’d wanted to hear another human voice.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
RYAN SWEPT THE PILE OF PAPER TO ONE SIDE AND SWITCHED ON HIS desk lamp. It was New Year’s Eve and everyone else had long since gone home. He could dimly see the hands on the clock hanging on the wall beside him. Three hours to go, he thought, and another year almost done.
There was a strange loneliness about tonight. He realized that he hadn’t really spoken to any of his friends for months, indeed most of them probably didn’t even know he was here. He had got into the habit of relying on Isabelle to maintain contact with all his friends as well as hers. She had always arranged things and he’d got used to fitting in as and when he could, usually at the last minute.
He realized how obsessed and preoccupied he’d been for the last few weeks.
He fiddled with the desk lamp, pulling its head up a little, and leaned back in his chair, looking around the office as he did so. On each desk, papers were piled high and keyboards were balanced above computer screens. It was like any office anywhere. They were on the second floor of Stormont Castle and the sign on the door said ‘Department of Employment’ in big letters. The other offices in the corridor – indeed all over the compound – dealt with pensions and social security and the environment and education and even with employment. Only this office was different.
He looked at the desk beside him, the tidiest in the room. There were no photographs on it – no husband or boyfriend visible, certainly no children – and he rather wished that its occupant was still there. Alison Berry would have filled a gap tonight.
