by Tom Bradby
‘No. Not most of the time. He assumed, I think, that it would never happen to him – they all do. I don’t see how you’d do it otherwise. But then, sometimes, he would be so terrified he looked like he would shit himself. I recall one time when he sat with his head in my lap crying like a baby …’
Berry took a sip of her gin and stared thoughtfully ahead of her, as though lost in her memories. ‘I was everything to him at times: agony aunt, sister, mother, mistress – he was always bitching to me about his wife.’ She paused for a second before continuing. ‘But that didn’t stop him lying and lying and lying.’
She looked at him. ‘I know what the textbooks say, but sometimes it is bloody hard not to make it personal. Something tells me you know what I mean.’
Ryan grinned. He was beginning to feel light-headed from the Guinness. He could feel the frustration and aggression in his body and he found himself admiring Berry’s legs once again. She was wearing black tights or stockings and a short, cream skirt. He found himself noticing the softness of her skin.
They were there until closing time and, as they rolled out of the door, Ryan thought Berry was as pissed as he was. As they strolled down the street she took his arm. ‘I think your choice is going to be between a taxi and my sofa, because I don’t think I’m in a fit state to drive you anywhere and I’m not sure if our friends in the RUC would take a very enlightened view of a slightly tipsy “box” analyst driving whilst under the influence.’
Ryan knew Berry had no intention of allowing him home in a taxi. He felt the excitement in his stomach. He thought that, if she wanted a good time, then that was what she was going to get tonight. As they arrived at the door of her house at the bottom of the hill, he felt the warmth of her hand taking hold of his. As she shut the front door, she put her arms gently around his neck and kissed him, slowly, her tongue running along the length of her lips and then finding his. She slipped off her waist-length coat and led him gently towards the stairs.
Her bedroom was small, with a sloping roof and a large pine cupboard along one wall, the doors of which were open, the clothes inside carelessly stacked in large piles that were about to topple onto the floor.
Without speaking, Berry put her arms around his neck once more and began dancing gently, rocking her hips from side to side and then slowly forward. She rubbed his hair and then sat down demurely on the large pink duvet that covered her pine bed. She took off her smart, high-heeled brown shoes and pulled up her skirt, revealing dark-brown skin, white knickers and a black suspender belt. She watched his face as she rolled down her stockings and took off her skirt. She stood up again, slightly unsteady on her feet now, and slowly undid the buttons on his trousers, tugging them down to the floor with his boxer shorts. She made as if to kneel, but he caught her under her armpits and pulled her up towards him. He wanted her unbelievably badly. He wanted to relieve his frustration.
Afterwards, they lay in each other’s arms without speaking for several minutes, lost in their own thoughts. Berry had turned off the lamp, but the curtains were still open and light was pouring in from the street outside.
There were few pictures on the wall and little sign that Berry considered this much more than a place to sleep. It didn’t feel like a home. There was a large silver photo frame with a picture of a young-looking man dressed in black tie. He was laughing. Ryan moved his head so that he could talk to her and he saw that she’d been watching him. He tried to sound casual and uninterested. ‘Boyfriend?’
‘Ex.’
‘Recent ex?’
She sighed and pulled herself up onto her elbow, turning on her side and looking at him with an amused grin. ‘Quite recent. We met at university. We kept it together a long time, but he’s a banker and we didn’t see each other very much. He got bored of waiting.’
‘The love of your life?’
She sighed again and rolled onto her back. ‘Maybe. Christ, who knows. I loved him, but I guess it was inevitable. It’s hard with this job.’
‘You could have gone back to London.’
‘I could have done. Yes, I could have done, but then I’d have been stabbed in the back. I’d have struggled to get anywhere.’
‘Does that matter?’
She looked at him seriously. ‘It matters to me.’
Ryan leaned on his elbow and looked down at her. She had the duvet pulled up to her neck and her head rested on a single crumpled pillow. Her hair was tousled and he could feel the warmth of her body alongside him, his left knee touching her thigh. He felt the first stirrings of arousal, but he didn’t want to make love to her again. He wondered if these lonely couplings would be her lot in the life she was charting for herself. He knew he wanted more and his career with the British Security Service fell down another notch on his list of priorities.
Gerry had mentioned the guns at tea that day in the house on Leeson Street, but he hadn’t discussed it further. He could have told his brother that, since then, a trap had been set and that the guns had been intercepted by the peelers.
He could have told Paddy that only he had been told about the guns and that Internal Security were on to him, but there were certain conventions and rules to follow, so he didn’t.
If he’d really thought his brother was guilty, then perhaps …
But it was simply not something he’d considered. It looked bad, but there could still have been a thousand other explanations – surveillance, a tout further down the line – and he was confident it would all be sorted out. He knew Internal would never dare have a go at Paddy because much more proof was needed. More traps would be set and they’d realize they’d made a mistake and go after the real culprit.
It was annoying, but he had put it out of his mind. Everyone was always under suspicion. It was no big deal.
He was with Paddy now, upstairs in the Rock Bar, but he still wasn’t going to mention it. After all, it really was no big deal.
And there was other, much more important, business to hand.
Gerry was trying to instil a sense of excitement and purpose in his brother.
‘The die is cast,’ he said. ‘We’re on the road. Like I said, we have south Armagh behind us.’
Paddy lit another cigarette from the end of the last. ‘Who else?’
‘I’ve told no-one else. It’s too dangerous.’
‘Will you take over?’
Gerry shook his head. ‘No, I don’t think so. That’s a dangerous road to go down. We’ll have to be careful when we come back, but I think we’ll see what happens. The peace process will be dead and we’ll see how the mood swings. I think the leadership will be seen to have misjudged things and may have to move over.’
Paddy sucked the smoke deep into his lungs. Gerry could tell he was nervous and uncertain, but he knew he would do whatever he was asked.
‘How will it work?’
‘I’ve yet to sort out the final details. I’m to meet someone tomorrow in Dublin. He’s been working for me in London and everything should be in place. I’m going to drive down there now, but we’ll have a briefing in Paris or in London. You’ve got it clear where to meet, how to get there and what to do?’
‘We meet in Paris?’
‘Yes, or if we don’t make the rendezvous, in London. You pick up your tickets from the travel agency in Andytown. You have to tell Colette where to get the tickets and where to meet and then we all travel separately. I’ll see you there.’
Paddy nodded. Gerry gripped his shoulder briefly before climbing into his car and beginning the long drive to Dublin.
McIlhatton was slouched in the armchair again, but he was not bored.
The television showed pictures of the House of Commons chamber he’d seen so many times before, but today he felt a little stab of pleasure as he saw the prime minister get to his feet.
McIlhatton smiled.
He couldn’t help himself.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
MA WAS TRYING TO COOK AND HOLD CATHERINE AT THE SAME TIME. The child was t
ired, exhausted, and Colette thought Ma was still holding her to make a point. She couldn’t remember seeing her so angry.
‘Why can’t you tell me what you’re going to do?’
‘I can’t, Ma.’
‘So you run off again, leave me to look after the kids, and you won’t even tell me what bloody horror you’re off to commit.’
‘Don’t say it like that.’
‘That’s how it is, and I want to know what you’re up to.’
‘I can’t, Ma.’
‘You can.’
‘I’m not a child.’
‘Then behave like an adult.’ Ma sighed and shifted the frying pan. She wasn’t looking at her. ‘Come on, Colette, I need to know.’
Colette felt the anger flaring within her. ‘Why do you need to know. What right do you—’
‘Don’t you lecture me about rights. Right? Right? What right do you have to bugger off to God alone knows where to do some unspeakable God alone knows what and expect me – me – to run around after you, picking up the entrails of your life, including looking after your own children. And I am your mother, you know, though you may have forgotten, and I think I’m allowed to be concerned about what in the hell you’re getting up to. Don’t you?’
Colette shook her head and looked down. ‘I can’t,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry, but you know I can’t. And, anyway, I don’t know – and that is the God’s honest truth.’
Her mother snorted with frustration and Colette studied the faded lino on the kitchen floor. She knew now that it was fixed and that there was no way out. Paddy had been this morning and she’d walked to the travel agent herself. The tickets were in her handbag.
She’d seen Paddy’s uncertainty and it only deepened her own anxieties.
Ma turned the sausages and pushed and prodded them aggressively. The smell of burning fat and pork meat was pervasive. ‘You don’t have to go,’ she said quietly.
‘I do.’
‘You keep saying it’s going to change and then off you go again.’
‘I don’t have a choice.’
‘Of course you have a choice. Everyone has a choice.’ She looked down again and stirred the sausages in silence. ‘I don’t know why you ever started again,’ she added.
Colette sighed. ‘I’ve told you before. After Davey died, I wanted to …’ She let her voice trail off and grunted in frustration. She turned to go.
‘What about the kids?’ her mother asked.
Colette turned back, her voice wistful and self-pitying. ‘Sure, you’ll look after them better than me. You usually do.’
Ma gently put down Catherine on the chair by the table, trying not to wake her. She still had the wooden spoon in her hand and Colette could sense she was angry and hurt. She spoke quietly. ‘You’re so selfish, I can scarcely believe it sometimes.’
Colette felt stung. ‘Why do you say that? Why do you say that after all this time? What choices do I have, Ma? Tell me, what choices?’ Colette could hear the self-pitying whine growing in her voice. ‘I’m doing my best, but I’ve got no choice.’
Her mother’s voice was harder than she’d ever heard it. ‘You have the choice. You have the choice to look after your children and try to be a good mother for once. Look at them. Look at them, Colette.’ She was pointing at Catherine, who was still sleeping on the chair, her head resting uncomfortably against the wooden back. ‘Enough is enough. You’ve done enough. Leave it now. Leave it to others if it must continue.’
‘What are you saying, Ma? That we shouldn’t care any more?’
‘I’m saying it’s time to make it stop. I’m saying it has gone on too long and it has got to stop. I’m saying I’m tired of it and I don’t want to worry about when I’m going to get the knock on my door saying that those poor children are going to be without a mother, or that their mother is going to be locked up in prison for the rest of her life.’ She was poring over the stove, poking the sausages furiously. ‘You owe it to the children to stop.’
Colette felt her anger flare again. ‘You’re saying that because I’m a woman. You wouldn’t say that to Gerry or Paddy.’
Her mother didn’t answer.
‘I’ve got as much right to it as a man, Ma. Just because you didn’t do it doesn’t mean it isn’t right.’
‘I blame myself.’
‘Blame yourself for what?’
She sighed audibly and pushed the back of her hand across her eyes, as if wiping away tears. ‘I blame myself for not stopping you. I blame myself for allowing it.’
Colette spoke quietly, her anger dwindling into sorrow. ‘It wasn’t your decision to make, Ma. I wanted to be involved.’
‘You did it to prove yourself to Paddy and Gerry. You were a tomboy and you did it to prove yourself to them – and you’re still trying to do it. They’ve wrecked your life.’
Colette felt the tears well up in her eyes. ‘We didn’t have a choice, Ma. None of us had any choice …’ She looked at her mother, but she didn’t respond. Her silence and her demeanour suggested she did not agree. Colette picked up Catherine and sat silently in the front room. Her mother had been a friend, always supportive, sometimes disapproving or frightened, but never judgemental. She couldn’t remember the last time they’d argued and it was years since she’d seen her so upset.
After a few minutes Ma came in and sat down on the chair opposite her, the decision not to share the settee bearing silent but eloquent testimony to her feelings. ‘What are you going to do?’ she asked.
‘I don’t know, and that’s the truth. Something big. Gerry … he doesn’t believe in the peace process, as you know.’
Colette watched her mother clench and unclench her hands and struggle with her emotions and she knew there was a terrible tiredness about them both. There was no doubt in her mind what she was going to be asked and, deep down, she knew her mother was right.
Ma’s voice was weak, as if articulating the words was the hardest thing she’d ever done. ‘Please, I’ve never asked before, but I’m asking you to stop and to do all in your power to make all of them stop. Don’t let another generation get dragged into this. We’re not winning. We can’t win. We must sue for peace with honour.’
Colette kept her head down and fought back the tears, but she could tell her mother was reaching out her hands.
‘Please, love, look at little Catherine and Mark and think of them. Please, I beg of you, don’t allow them to get drawn in, don’t let another generation live with this.’
Colette knew she would cry, knew she couldn’t stop herself, and she stood up and placed Catherine in her mother’s outstretched arms. She cried as she packed and cried as she left the house. She didn’t say goodbye and, as she walked away, she muttered to herself through her tears, ‘I have no choice. I have no choice.’
The atmosphere in the source unit at Castlereagh was relaxed. The chief inspector, Ian Williams – Ryan had at last managed to find out his name – had brought out a bottle of Bushmills, though it was barely lunchtime.
The others were relaxed, but Ryan wasn’t. They’d discussed the question of Colette’s impending meeting with Mulgrew in New Barnsley and what kind of surveillance would be needed. The others had tackled it routinely, almost casually, and that had made Ryan uncomfortable.
Allen now handed him a small tumbler of whiskey and poured one for himself. Ryan lit another cigarette and leaned back in his chair, finding it difficult once again to take his eyes off the cubby holes on the wall opposite him. Foxglove’s hole seemed threateningly full of loose paper.
A man walked in without knocking. He was shorter than Allen, probably around six feet, with curly dark hair and a thick moustache. Ryan recognized him immediately as the other handler.
‘Hello, Sam,’ the chief inspector said.
‘Foxglove says all kinds of shit is going down,’ he said. ‘Gerry McVeigh is on his way to England to carry out some assassination plan that is designed to destroy the peace process.’
The man paused a
nd chucked his raincoat down on the desk. ‘He’s been plotting with Murphy, Mallon, Macaulay, and others. He’s using his family – including his sister.’
Ryan wished that the ground would open up and swallow him.
Allen didn’t wait to hear any more and, a few minutes later, they swept out of Castlereagh. Allen was driving with his teeth clenched.
‘Fucking bitch,’ he said.
Ryan didn’t reply.
It seemed to take them only a few minutes to get there. Ryan realized they had no back-up at all.
Allen rang the bell twice in rapid succession. A grey-haired woman came to the door and Ryan recognized her immediately as Colette’s mother.
‘May we come in briefly?’ Allen asked politely.
They stood in the hall and Colette’s mother kept her back to the stairs. Ryan could see a young boy sitting at the top, watching.
‘Where is your daughter?’ Allen asked.
‘Gone south.’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘Well, if you know where she is, don’t come asking me.’
‘Please, Mrs McVeigh, this is serious.’
‘She asked me to look after the kids for a few days.’ The woman was shaking her head. ‘If you want to know any more, you’re asking in the wrong place.’
Allen turned to go and, as he followed, Ryan thought he could hear the young boy crying.
Gerry McVeigh arrived in the lobby of the Shelbourne Hotel wearing a plain grey suit and a white trench coat and looking like a businessman waiting to see a colleague.
Situated on St Stephen’s Green, the Shelbourne was Dublin’s most famous hotel, frequented by artists, actors and ministers alike. Gerry found the man he was to meet in the coffee room and ushered him out of the hotel and across to the centre of the green opposite. As Colette had done weeks earlier, he sat down on a park bench and watched the ducks ahead of him, feeling a strong sense of purpose and excitement. He was no academic, knowing of the past only what he needed to know, or thought he needed to know, but he had the growing feeling that what he was about to do was going to change the course of Irish history.
