Shadow Dancer

by Tom Bradby

  The track was steep and Ryan led, with Allen falling behind in the rear. After a few hundred yards, Ryan stopped to catch his breath and they both looked back. The fields were still a bright, light green and the sea a brilliant blue. Beneath them, rows of neat stone walls divided up the plots of land and gave the scene a sense of order and purpose. They waited for Allen in silence.

  When he caught up with them he was out of breath. ‘Sorry, I’m bloody unfit. You go on.’

  Ryan looked at him quizzically, but Allen waved his hand airily as if to say, Go on, get on with it.

  They walked again.

  Above them, the Mourne Wall stretched up through the valley, a wide, solid edifice which must have taken years to build. She wondered what the point of it was, if such things needed to have a point.

  For perhaps ten minutes they walked in silence, him stretching out ahead of her, but eventually slackening his pace to allow her to catch up. They had reached the brow of the first small hill and the track began to slope down before picking up for the mountain ahead of them.

  ‘What’s going on?’ she asked.

  He pointed back down the hill. ‘One of his stupid games.’

  She didn’t respond and for a few minutes they picked their way down the path in silence. Then Ryan turned on her suddenly. ‘We’re here because I read your file,’ he said.

  She didn’t understand.

  ‘There is one section marked England. Ring any bells?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘Well, it should. You were in London during the summer of 1982.’

  So? she thought.

  ‘I suppose you’ll deny involvement.’

  ‘In what?’

  A note of exasperation had crept into her voice. He spat the words out. ‘Hyde Park.’

  She didn’t reply.

  ‘I remember that summer well. It was hot, I remember, very hot for England. Lying out on the grass, carefree – until that day. My mother’s face was white, like she’d seen a ghost.’

  She looked away from him.

  ‘Why, Colette? What did my uncle ever do to hurt you? He was a kind, decent man and you murdered him. You watched his troop pass every day. You made your notes and then you blew them to bits.’

  She looked up. ‘Look, I’m sorry. I didn’t know who he was, but we’ve all suff––’

  Ryan took a step forwards, shouting her down. ‘You’re damned right you didn’t know who he was! Well, I’ll tell you, he wasn’t a soldier to me and my mother. And he wasn’t a soldier to his wife and two children. You want to know about his children, Colette?’

  She shook her head angrily.

  ‘Two tiny children. About the same age as yours. One five, one four. And do you want to know what they do now? They still cry for their father in their bloody sleep. And for what? Just tell me what makes it all worthwhile?’

  ‘Don’t lecture me.’ She pointed her finger at him. ‘I said I’m sorry about your uncle, but he’s not the only one. I didn’t notice any of your people crying when they shot down Davey in a stinking churchyard.’

  ‘He had a gun in his hand.’

  ‘And that makes it all right?’

  ‘It’s not the same.’

  ‘Oh, and what about the boy you and your soldier friends gunned down? Declan Walshe. He didn’t have a gun, did he? He wasn’t even a provo!’ She was screaming at him now. ‘Oh yes, don’t worry, I know about you.’

  ‘That was a mistake.’

  ‘A mistake? Oh, please.’ Colette kicked a stone in frustration. ‘The men in Hyde Park, they were soldiers. They died. That’s the way it is. That’s the war.’

  Ryan pointed at her. ‘It’s your war.’

  He turned to walk away, but she yelled at him. ‘It’s my war? It’s my war?’ She ran after him and pulled his shoulder, catching him off balance and sending him tumbling to the ground. As he scrambled to his feet, she shouted at him again, her voice steeled with controlled aggression. ‘I didn’t put soldiers on the streets. I didn’t shoot unarmed protesters demanding their legitimate rights. I didn’t bash down people’s doors and get them out of their beds in the middle of the night. I didn’t torture people and beat them and harass them…’ Her voice had reached a crescendo. ‘This is my country and you’ve got no right to be here, so don’t ever – ever – say this is my war.’

  She brushed past him and ran. The path started to climb gently again and she soon grew tired and slowed to a walk. A hundred yards on, she veered to the left and climbed onto the top of the Mourne Wall and continued walking along it.

  Fucking Brits, she thought.

  As she walked, the anger and hatred dissipated.

  She looked around her. To her left, the white clouds clawed their way along the ridge, fringed by the golden light of the sun as it sunk slowly towards the horizon. The sky above was still bright blue. It was beautiful here, as dramatic as anywhere she’d ever been. It felt peaceful, but it didn’t help to clear her mind.

  She couldn’t have said definitively how long they walked like that, but it might have been an hour. When she finally stopped, they were between the mountains, the wall stretching away behind them like an umbilical cord attached to the sea below. The wind had got up and, as she watched him approach, she felt the first flecks of rain on her face. It was getting cold and dark rapidly. Neither of them had coats. As he approached, she sat down on the edge of the wall and he sat beside her.

  Neither of them spoke.

  She realized that it was a comfortable silence. She didn’t want him to move. She thought she would have spoken to stop him walking back.

  He put his hands down, as though he was about to jump down. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said quietly. ‘You don’t have to believe me, but I am sorry.’

  ‘I believe you.’ He looked ahead at the mountain that was fading to an outline against the darkening sky.

  ‘You’ll get your revenge.’

  He turned to face her. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I’ll not survive long. I’ll end up somewhere like this. Barefoot. Hooded. Dead. When I’m thinking straight, I know it.’

  She didn’t meet his eye.

  ‘That’s not true.’

  ‘It is and you know it.’

  ‘No, it’s not.’

  She sighed deeply. ‘You’ll keep me alive as long as I’m of use to you and then, one day, bang.’ She clicked her fingers.

  ‘That’s not true.’

  She looked him in the eye for the first time. She felt the butterflies in her stomach.

  ‘You don’t have to believe me,’ he said, ‘but—’

  ‘I’m not stupid. I know what you think of me. When the time comes, you’ll get your revenge.’

  ‘I don’t think of you like that. You said you’re sorry. I accept that.’

  She was frowning at him. ‘I know what you think. You’re all the same.’

  Ryan pointed down the hill. ‘Maybe he thinks that, but I don’t.’

  She leaned a little closer to him. His cheeks were red from the cold and his hair damp from the drizzle. She had an almost irresistible urge to place her head on his shoulder.

  She looked into his face. There was a drop of rain on the end of his nose, and his hair and eyebrows looked even darker than usual. She wanted to touch his broken nose and put her hand to his cheek.

  He looked at her without smiling. His stare was mesmerizing.

  She thought he would kiss her. She told herself she would refuse.

  He turned away and pushed himself off the wall.

  He held out a hand to her. She wanted to swear at him. She jumped down without taking it.

  He walked, putting his hands in his pockets. The sky was darkening rapidly now and she had to look carefully at the ground ahead of her. She felt somehow deflated. Empty.

  They walked in silence.

  As they came back to the brow of the first hill she slipped and he caught her, holding on to her arm, she thought, for a fraction of a second longer than he
needed to, without looking at her face. She wondered now if her mind was playing tricks on her.

  ‘You’re not one of them,’ he said quietly.

  She stopped suddenly. ‘Don’t kid yourself. Is it easier to accept if I’m not?’

  He was standing just above her. ‘I don’t think you have what it takes, that’s all.’

  She sneered at him. ‘And what does it take, Mr Man-from-MI5?’

  ‘It takes hatred. It takes ignorance. It takes ruthlessness.’

  She turned and began walking. ‘You’re very sure of yourself.’

  He didn’t reply and they fell silent again. The cloud had cleared slightly and they were able to move faster, the path ahead lit by the moon. They were coming to the point where they’d left Allen.

  She stopped dead. She suddenly had a clear mental image of Martin Mulgrew and it panicked her. ‘They’re close to me,’ she said.

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  He was standing near her, above her on the hill. The light was fading behind him and she couldn’t see his face clearly.

  She leaned slowly towards his chest, wanting the reassuring warmth of human contact, and was relieved when he didn’t push her away.

  After a few seconds’ pause, as if to emphasize he would respond only reluctantly, he put his arms around her.

  ‘It’s so frightening,’ she said. ‘Christ, it’s so frightening. I convince myself I’m OK and then …’ Her voice trailed off. She was crying. He was gripping her tightly now.

  ‘You’re all right,’ he said. ‘I understand your fear, but they’re nowhere near you—’

  ‘They are—’

  ‘They’re not. You’re not the only one. Others have been going for years and they may be near one of them, but they’re not near you. If they were, we’d know it.’

  He held her tightly and she cried in silent disbelief – only half reassured, but aware that half was better than nothing. He stood her up and brushed the tears from her eyes with the sleeve of his sweater; the action seeming absurdly kind. ‘Are you all right?’ he asked.

  She wanted to say no, so that this would continue, but was afraid of his anger. She nodded uncertainly and they began to walk again.

  As they arrived back at the car, Allen was leaning on the bonnet with his legs crossed. He got in and started up without a word. For the first ten minutes, they drove on in silence.

  They passed through Newcastle and, as they drew level with the pathway through to Murlough Bay, the National Trust Reserve, Allen pulled over to the side of the road and indicated to Ryan that he should drive. They got out and Allen went to sit in the back.

  ‘Any developments?’ Allen asked carefully.

  Silence. Ryan looked over his shoulder anxiously.

  ‘Colette?’ Allen’s voice was soft.

  ‘There’s been a meeting,’ she said firmly. ‘You must know already. The leadership came down for what they called a briefing. Strange mix of people there. It was kind of by word of mouth, but only people of a certain stature and experience.’

  ‘Who was there?’ Allen asked. She could tell he wasn’t going to confirm that they already knew about the meeting.

  She paused for a second, as if consciously trying to recall the details. ‘Gerry was there – did a lot of talking. Paddy, Sean Fox from Fermanagh—’

  ‘He came a long way,’ Ryan interjected.

  ‘I’m telling you what I saw,’ Colette said testily. ‘There were plenty of significant people there from all over. Murphy from south Armagh, Mallon from east Tyrone.’

  ‘What did they think?’ Allen asked.

  Colette shook her head. ‘They didn’t say anything. Fox queried a number of points, but I got the impression he was not opposed to the peace process in principle. He just wanted them to be sure they knew what they were doing, said he didn’t want them changing their minds. In private, they’re all being told that a secret deal is being struck with the Brits.’

  ‘Do they believe that?’

  She shrugged her shoulders. ‘Some do, some don’t.’

  ‘Who else spoke?’ Allen asked.

  ‘Gerry.’

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘Said he thought the whole thing was a mistake.’

  ‘Did people agree with him?’

  ‘Hard to say. I didn’t wait around to ask them.’

  ‘There’s something else, isn’t there?’

  Colette shrugged. ‘When I got home, Gerry was talking to Murphy in the front hall,’ she said. ‘I only heard a few seconds of what they said, but it was something like, “We’ve got to do it,” or, “We have to do it now.” ’

  Allen whistled under his breath. Ryan turned to smile at her. She felt weak. She didn’t meet his eye.

  Allen touched her arm. ‘Is there word of a tout?’

  She nodded and Allen went on, ‘Any ideas who it is?’

  She shook her head.

  Allen rubbed her arm. ‘You’re all right. You’re all right.’

  She shut her eyes and kept them shut. After a few minutes, Allen clambered into the front passenger seat. Eventually she heard the two men talking quietly.

  ‘Think there is a secret deal?’ Allen asked.

  ‘No,’ Ryan said.

  They were silent for a few minutes and then she heard Allen say, ‘There’s plenty of ours who’re prepared to believe there is.’

  ‘Why?’ Ryan asked.

  ‘There’s plenty who believe the perfidious Brits are ready to sell us out to stop their beloved capital being bombed.’

  ‘Are you one of them?’ Ryan asked.

  ‘I don’t know,’ he said and then they were silent. Colette opened her eyes briefly and saw they were entering Belfast. Despite everything, she almost smiled. Gerry and the Prod were the most unlikely potential allies she could think of.

  Magee was new. They’d met at Trafalgar Square – McVeigh’s orders, given via the travel agency – and then walked down here to Westminster Bridge.

  They were leaning over the bridge, looking at what McIlhatton knew to be Stranger’s Terrace.

  ‘It’s a long drop down to the water,’ McIlhatton said and Magee grunted.

  They were silent for a while as both went on looking. McIlhatton didn’t like this bit of the plan. In fact, there were lots of bits that made him nervous, but this was the worst.

  ‘They’ll have to go into the water and you’ll have to pull them out,’ McIlhatton said, eventually.

  Magee grunted again.

  ‘The boat is sorted?’ he asked, finally.

  ‘Yes,’ Magee said.

  They moved off, strolling over towards St Thomas’s Hospital.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  IT WAS HER TIME OF THE MONTH. AT LAST, IT HAD COME.

  Well, she thought, at least you’re not pregnant. The idea of having Chico’s baby made her shiver. What in the hell had she been thinking of?

  She had always suffered badly, but a lifetime’s experience and endurance had failed to bring any real sense of perspective to the feelings that washed over her at this time. She had such a strong memory of Davey’s reaction. He’d always dealt with it the same way, trying to reason or shout her out of it, depending on his mood. Until there was drink taken. Then he’d tried to beat it out of her.

  He wasn’t a bad man, she still told herself, but she remembered with a shudder the nights spent curled up on her bed feeling like the world had come to an end – wanting a way out and yet not wanting it – Davey snoring after he’d fucked her. It was always a fucking after there’d been drink taken.

  She looked across at Gerry and wondered if he was the same with Christy. Probably. He was like Davey, except without the moments of kindness.

  Gerry had barely spoken since they left Belfast. He’d come round to the house just after lunch and asked her to come with him. She hadn’t really been able to say no. She wondered if that was guilt, but knew herself well enough to recognize that not being able to say no to Gerry was a problem that w
ent back a lot further than this morning.

  They’d been to a house just outside the south Armagh village of Crossmaglen to see Murphy, the head of the IRA’s South Armagh Brigade. She’d stayed in the car, there only as cover should they run into an army patrol manning a temporary vehicle checkpoint. They were, Gerry told her, brother and sister going to see an uncle who was sick and confined to bed. He wanted company because he’d been caught alone by the soldiers too often.

  She’d asked about the meeting once already, trying to probe, and had received only a grunt in reply. She couldn’t make small talk with Gerry and never had been able to. They had, she realized, absolutely nothing in common bar the accident of circumstances that had seen them born into the same family. Sometimes she thought she hated him.

  She felt awful. Today, her problems seemed too immense. The worst thing about it was the loneliness. She felt totally and utterly isolated. She wanted to unload her burdens onto a sympathetic soul and she wanted to talk and have someone listen. Nothing in her life had prepared her for this because she’d never been alone before. The world in which she’d lived was a community, above all else, with uncles and aunts and friends creating a social network that spanned across west Belfast and beyond. Even in prison in Armagh she’d been surrounded by her own. She’d hated the loss of freedom, but the women around her were Republicans who shared her beliefs and concerns.

  Now there was nobody. She’d thought about telling her mother, but she knew it was impossible. Her mother’s opposition to violent Republicanism did not stretch to a toleration of touting. She could not be sure, absolutely sure, that she wouldn’t go to Gerry or Paddy, and tell them to sort it out. She’d looked around in vain for someone to talk to. She knew that was why she was drawn to the Brit. For the moment, her family felt like strangers.

  Sometimes, rarely, she was able to focus on all this and understand it. But not today. Today, she felt desperate. This morning, as she’d lain in bed trying to summon the will to get up, she’d briefly contemplated talking to little Mark and Catherine. It was lunacy, she knew, but at least they’d listen. At least somebody would hear her.