by Tom Bradby
He asked himself why he hadn’t kissed her when she’d wanted him to.
He imagined her lying on the ground, her body caked in blood.
He ran harder, his tie blowing over his shoulder and his hair swept back by the fresh winter wind. As he approached Parliament Square, he tried to cut across the road and nearly got knocked down by a car pulling out from a street on the left.
He kept on running towards the main gate. He didn’t know where to go, or what to do. Where was the press gallery?
He ran through the gate, out of breath, and heard the shouts of a policeman behind him. He stopped and saw the anger and shock on the man’s face.
‘Where is the press gallery?’ Ryan asked, trying to get his breath back.
‘What in the hell—’
‘I’m from the Security Service. Where is the press—’ Behind him, he saw a group of armed police officers charging towards the corner of the square. He ran, ignoring the protestations of the policeman behind him.
Colette put her foot on the first step.
She heard a heavy footfall behind her and she turned, startled, but it was only a journalist hurrying to catch the prime minister’s words.
She could hear the chamber now. She could hear the prime minister’s voice and the roar from the opposition benches as his opponents scented blood.
She thought of the man. A neutral figure to her, despite what he represented. She’d seen him so often, but knew nothing about him. Did he have a family? Did he have friends? What did he … ?
The world was slowing down.
She thought of Ryan’s voice, sounding so near and so reassuring and so confident.
How could he stop it? How could anyone stop it now?
She put her hand in her pocket and felt the handle of the gun, searching for the trigger. She wanted to cry suddenly, to beg forgiveness.
She imagined Ryan running, his face set, determined to …
No, it wasn’t going to be.
Gerry had stopped, as if trying to gather himself.
She stood beside him, no longer caring that they were going to die together. There was a moment’s clarity. What do I have to say and think before I go, she wondered. What will I find when I have gone? Death, which had always terrified her, suddenly seemed routine. There was no time for fear or panic. It was inevitable. Perhaps, she thought, it is no more than I deserve.
She felt the tears welling up in her eyes again. Her sense of calmness began to disintegrate. ‘All right,’ Gerry said and he began to descend again.
They reached the foot of the stairs.
They turned into the lobby outside the chamber.
She saw the Brit walking across towards them. There were policemen everywhere. She wanted to shout a warning or a plea for help, but her mouth was frozen.
Gerry turned to her and she watched his face as the reality dawned. The Brit shouted, ‘Not the girl.’
And then darkness.
CHAPTER TWENTY
COLETTE LISTENED TO THE CLOCK. SHE WATCHED THE HANDS, BUT they didn’t seem to move perceptibly.
She picked up her book and tried to read. Once again, she was at the end of the page before she realized she hadn’t taken anything in.
She put down the book. Its tattered cover depicted a man and woman standing on top of a mountain and a gloved fist clutching three bullets. It was a love story of a sort, about a Brit and a Republican woman from west Belfast. He had suggested it and she’d found it in the local library – the woman behind the counter had heard of Harry’s Game. What she liked most about it was the smell and feel of home. It was tangible in the description of the streets. It made her ache inside.
She thought of getting up, but lethargy glued her to the sofa. She looked at the clock again. Time was crawling by.
There was always so much time.
She heard the sound of a car and instinctively leaped to her feet. She raced to the front window and waited for it to turn into the gravel drive, but it passed on, the sound dwindling as it descended the hill away from the village. She stayed at the window until the silence returned.
She walked across the room to the back window and looked out at the garden. She could still feel the warmth of the summer.
Loneliness enveloped her like a cloak.
She went into the kitchen and then out of the back door onto the patio. She stopped and smelled the rose that climbed up the rear wall of the house. The petals were smooth and cool against her skin. She stepped onto the grass and walked out to the centre of the lawn. She felt the peace of the garden acutely. Even after six months, the peace was blessed.
Eventually, she returned to the sitting room and the sofa and sat down on the left-hand end. The cushions felt like they’d been made to fit her.
She looked round the room with a detached sense of indifference. There were bright, floral curtains and a picture of a large old biplane dominated the wall opposite her. The furniture was dark. The clock was dark. The sofas were old-fashioned. Only the television was her choice. She’d insisted on it.
She closed her eyes. She heard another car and hated the overwhelming burst of excitement it generated. She forced herself to stay seated, but this time she listened to it slow and pull into the gravel drive. She darted to the window and saw the distinctive green Rover coming to a halt. She stepped back and bent down to look at herself in the hall mirror. She pulled a strand of hair from her eyes. She counted to ten before opening the door.
He was wearing jeans and a white cotton shirt. He smiled broadly, and seeing the genuine pleasure in his face brought butterflies to the pit of her stomach.
He kissed her on the cheek. She thought he must have shaved recently because his skin was soft and smelled of soap.
He went into the sitting room and looked out at the garden. He walked further and then turned to glance round the room itself, as if assessing his surroundings for the first time, as if weighing something unseen in his mind. ‘Are the kids in bed?’ he asked quietly.
She nodded. ‘Do you want a drink?’
He said yes and followed her through to the kitchen.
She poured him a beer and then they stood opposite each other, in silence.
She opened the fridge again and took out a Coke for herself, pouring it slowly and laboriously into the glass.
‘How’s the office?’ she asked eventually.
‘Fine. Busy. Look, I’m sorry I haven’t been down for a while, but—’
‘It’s all right,’ she said sharply. ‘It’s not compulsory.’
He looked out of the window. She was conscious of the sound of the birds in the garden.
‘How are you getting on?’ he asked eventually.
‘All right,’ she said. ‘In fact, you’d have been proud of me. I took Mrs de Montfort up on her offer the other morning.’
‘And how was it?’
‘I think she was a little shocked. She told me to call her Vera! Don’t think she knows quite what to make of me.’
‘What have you told her?’
‘Said my husband had died and I wanted to come somewhere new. I think she views me with suspicion. We don’t really have a lot in common, do we?’
He was looking down and she thought now that she could see the tension in him.
‘What’s going to happen at the trial?’ she asked.
‘What do you mean?’
‘There’ll be pictures.’
‘Not outside the court, there won’t. You’ll be going in the back of a van, which I know you’ll like. Old pictures I don’t know about – but you look so different now and, anyway, the people round here probably don’t watch the news that closely. With any luck, Gerry will plead guilty.’
‘Fat chance.’
‘I think you’ll find the leadership will be encouraging him to go down quietly.’
‘How is he?’
‘I’m told his arm has fully recovered. Other than that, rehabilitated, in the main. A real Republican hero.’
�
�You sound like them.’
‘Who?’
‘Your owners.’
She watched him turn to look out of the window and knew it had hurt. She thought she’d meant it to. They were silent.
‘Can I change your mind?’ he asked eventually.
She shook her head.
‘I don’t understand,’ he said and she didn’t respond. The silence grew.
‘Perhaps I’m missing something,’ he said quietly, almost as if speaking to himself, ‘but what is the point of committing suicide? Paddy is long dead and buried and some kind of guilt trip to his grave is not going to bring him back.’
‘That’s not it.’
‘Isn’t it?’ Ryan was looking at her intently. ‘I’ve told you many times that it wasn’t you.’
‘It was me.’
Ryan sighed and looked exasperated. She smiled at him. ‘I’ll be all right.’
‘No, you won’t. They know who you are, they’ll find out you’re there and they’ll kill you.’
‘I’ll be all right.’
‘For Christ’s sake, Colette.’ He cursed under his breath. ‘There will be no escort, no security.’
‘I don’t want any.’
‘I asked. They say it’s suicide and, if you go, that’s your––’
‘Funeral?’
‘It’s insane. You’re compromised. They know who you are and have an idea of what you did. We are implacably opposed.’
‘We?’
‘We – because they may fleece you. I because they will kill you.’
‘Still thinking like a professional, then.’
‘It’ll be the end of my association with Irish terrorism.’
‘I thought that was over, anyway.’
‘Not necessarily for ever.’
‘I thought you’d screwed it up.’ She laughed bitterly. ‘You’re a selfish bastard.’
‘You’ll be committing suicide.’
‘I’ll make it.’
‘You won’t.’
‘I’ll be in and out before they know.’
‘You won’t.’
‘Is that a threat now?’
‘Don’t be stupid.’
Silence. She kept her head down.
‘It’s a free country,’ she said eventually. ‘I just want to say goodbye, I want to see Paddy’s grave, I want to see Ma—’
‘She could come here. We’ve said we’ll fix––’
‘It’s not that. I’ve said. I want to feel at home one last time.’
Silence again.
‘All right, if that’s what you want,’ he said and, as he did so, she thought she saw something in his eyes. Hurt perhaps, or worry – or maybe just guilt. She couldn’t be sure. ‘You go if you want,’ he said, ‘but I’m telling you—’
‘Oh, come on.’
‘Well, why then? Haven’t we done enough?’
‘Why? Why? Don’t you understand? Don’t you have any idea?’
He looked surprised by the venom and passion in her voice.
‘Do you know what my life is here? Do you know what I do? Do you know what I am? I’m nothing. I do nothing. I am nothing. I don’t belong anywhere.’ She pointed at him. ‘I know what I am to you: a nuisance, an ex-agent, a loose end that needs to be tied up, but what am I to me? Who am I? What am I doing here? Where do I belong? I’m a nobody – stateless, pointless, scarcely with any existence worth mentioning. What do I do all day? Nothing. Nothing. Nothing, nothing, nothing. Live, wrapped in a blanket of loneliness, wondering who I am and what I’m for? So you ask me why? I’m going home to be real, to find out who I am and, if I’m killed, then for God’s sake what have I lost?’
If she’d expected sympathy, she saw only the hostile set of his jaw. She understood now what it meant. He looked away. ‘A little gratitude wouldn’t go amiss,’ he said quietly, as if talking to a third party at the back of the room.
‘Gratitude?’ she said, bitterly. ‘For what?’
He looked at her. ‘For saving your life.’
‘You’ve killed me as certainly as if you’d pointed a gun and pulled the trigger.’
‘You chose.’
‘I chose nothing. I had no choice.’
‘You’ve had choices. Don’t cry about where they’ve led you.’
For a few moments more they stared at each other, then she was past him, slamming the door behind her. She climbed the stairs, went into her room and closed the door there quietly. She sat down on the chair by the bed and pushed it back against the wall. The curtains were half drawn from her afternoon sleep, the duvet pulled back and rolled neatly at the end of her mattress. The sheet had been tucked in tightly again and looked crisp in the fading light. She could just see the sunlight reflected in the mirror on the top of the wardrobe. She leaned back and closed her eyes.
When she opened them again, the room seemed darker, the shadows longer. The pink and blue floral curtains had lost their colour, but not their pattern; a poor bargain, she thought. They billowed ever so slightly in the breeze, as if dancing, lazily. She looked at her bed and thought of lying down, covering her head and sleeping.
She was wearing a black cotton dress with thin white hoops and she pulled it clear of her knees and straightened her long brown legs. She touched them. Her skin was soft. She shut her eyes again.
She heard his footfall on the stairs. He came up slowly, as if thinking as he walked, or reluctant, or just tired. His leather boots were noisy against the wooden floor.
He reached the top and she found herself holding her breath.
He paused. She heard him take a pace and then another.
She waited to hear the door latch being lifted.
He moved on. The footsteps seemed slow, deliberate.
She opened her eyes and turned to the window, listening for him. There was no sound at all from next door.
She heard him move, still leather on wood, his steps quieter now. She assumed he must be looking at the dying sun and she stood and walked silently to her own window, imagining herself standing parallel to him.
The sun had disappeared, the horizon streaked with red, broken only by a small group of clouds that seemed to be on a long march home. The impending darkness seemed exciting, as if the night were timeless and tomorrow only a distant possibility.
She waited for him to move, but there was no sound.
She watched the light fade from the sky.
She turned and walked to the door, barefoot and silent. She lifted the latch quietly and slipped out into the corridor, turning only briefly towards his door. There was no sign of any light. She walked three paces to the bathroom and ran a basinful of warm water. She washed her face slowly in the half darkness, enjoying the sound of the water running through her hands. She took the bar of soap and massaged it, applying the lather gently to her face. She lowered her head and washed it off carefully. She kept her eyes shut and fumbled for the towel to her left. It was pleasingly soft. She dried herself, then dropped it onto the box beside her.
She let out the water and it gurgled away. She brushed her teeth, gulping down several mouthfuls of cold water.
She turned off the taps, returning the house to silence.
She dried her face again and looked at herself in the bathroom mirror.
She put down the towel, folding it neatly over the metal bar beside the basin, and walked towards her room. She stopped in the doorway for a second, looking down the corridor.
There was a candle in her window and she found some matches and lit it. The flame flickered in the breeze, but held. She stepped back, took hold of the bottom of her dress and lifted it up over her head. She was naked underneath.
She looked at herself in the full-length mirror on the wall. Her skin seemed dark in this light. She imagined her stomach swelling, thinking of herself with child. She turned sideways.
She walked to the bed, turned over her pillow and brought out a thin, white cotton nightdress, slipping her arms in and then letting it fall down over her.
She half turned towards the mirror on top of the wardrobe and then stopped.
She could see his face, reflected in the half-open window next door.
How long had he been watching her?
She held his gaze.
She blew out the candle and turned away, her heart beating fast. She lay down on the bed.
The house was silent again.
She closed her eyes.
She breathed in slowly, deeply.
She heard a shuffle, then back to silence.
She raised her knees, opened her eyes and then closed them again. She felt apprehensive, nervous even. She thought of how it had been before, how it might be different. She wondered what the darkness might hide and what the morning might bring. She thought of consequences – of afterwards – and that seemed as distant a possibility as tomorrow.
She wondered if he had hate in his heart still. She asked herself why she didn’t care.
She listened. She could just make out the sound of the big old chestnut in the garden opposite, wheezing quietly.
She heard footsteps in the corridor, softly – barefoot.
She stood and hit him in the doorway, their teeth snapping together as she threw her arms around his neck, kissing him angrily and passionately, gripping the back of his head, digging her nails into his scalp, running her fingers through his clean, curly hair.
She jumped, wrapping her legs around him, forcing him momentarily off balance, tipping them both back into the door, which banged loudly against the wall. He widened his legs, holding her with one hand, her face in his neck now. He was wearing a T-shirt and boxer shorts, but her nightdress had ridden up and she could feel his hand against her flesh.
She heard a cry in the night – Mark woken by the noise. They both stopped and listened.
They waited. She could feel and hear him breathing, his passion driving his chest in and out.
The house was silent again.
She pushed her head against his chest and closed her eyes, clinging to him.
Eventually, he lowered his face to hers and felt the tears on her cheeks.
He let her down gently, pulling her to him.
He kissed her, slowly.
She stroked the smooth skin of his upper arm, running her fingers up underneath his T-shirt. She slipped her hands into the sides of his boxer shorts, pushing them down gently. She picked up the end of his T-shirt and then allowed him to lift it over his head, watching the shape of his chest and arms as he did so.
