by Mark McKay
‘We moved all your belongings from the Harcourt Street flat.’ He registered Harry’s sharp glance. ‘Don’t worry, no damage was done getting in. We can do some things efficiently.’
They arrived, and Harry noted that Jack was as good as his word. Nothing seemed to have been left behind. Almost nothing. The unopened Christmas presents were on the living room table – the tree was missing.
‘Someone will look in on you every evening. A Mrs Meehan. She’s totally reliable.’
‘The Garda wanted to speak to me again,’ began Harry, remembering that his official visitor had promised to get the terrible news to Nat’s parents.
‘We’ve spoken to them,’ Jack replied. ‘They won’t bother you any more. But I think both Natalie’s and your parents need you to contact them as soon as you can.’
‘God, I don’t know what I’m going to tell them.’
‘Actually, we can discuss that later. I’m so sorry, Harry, about all of this. You need to take it one day at a time for the foreseeable future. I will do my utmost to help you.’
‘Sure, Jack. Thanks.’
And so Harry’s convalescence began. He had no desire to return to his studies, and asked Jack to communicate his decision to Trinity. His left leg was sore and would continue to be for a few weeks. The house had a garden backing onto a small wood, and he walked there every day with the help of crutches, allowing a little more weight to be borne on the leg as he began to heal.
He made the calls that he’d dreaded to both sets of parents. The event had been reported in the New Zealand media. A statement issued by the IRA had claimed that the bomb was the unauthorised work of a ‘rogue individual’. To Harry’s mind that could only mean one person.
Jack had advised him that for the moment he should say it must have been a case of mistaken identity, unless he wanted to reveal details of his work for SIS. Which neither they nor Harry wanted. Natalie’s remains were to be buried in Dublin, and Harry assured his father that he would be on the way home very soon.
There was the funeral itself, which was attended by Roisin and her colleagues. Harry couldn’t stop thinking that the whole event was too surreal to be true. They’d come from the other side of the world, been married so briefly, and suddenly in a country far away from home one of them had simply ceased to exist. The pain he experienced in the certain knowledge of Nat’s death was mixed with this sense of the surreal as he worked to regain his fitness. Getting back to full strength was all he could focus on, the longer term future had no shape at all.
The New Year arrived. He spent it alone in the house, though Mrs Meehan, who was a middle-aged, robust, and practical woman, tried to engage him in conversation for an hour or two. She brought Sherry with her to facilitate this exercise and, although Harry partook of a couple of glasses, it still proved hard to get beyond small talk. Alone or in company, the pain was the same.
One morning that week Jack arrived. He found Harry in the kitchen, staring out the back window with a mug of tea in hand.
‘Brought this for you,’ said Jack. Harry turned to see him place a handgun on the kitchen table. ‘It’s for self defence only of course.’
‘The only thing I’ve ever shot at was a deer on a hunting trip years ago. That was with a rifle of course.’
‘Did you hit it?’
‘Yes, I did.’
‘This is a handgun. You shoot people with this, preferably at close range. We’re going for a drive in the country now, to do some practice.’
An hour later they were deep in Irish countryside, looking for somewhere secluded and preferably private. They found a wooded area down a side road, parked the car, and proceeded into the shelter of the trees. When they reached an open area, Jack stopped.
‘This will do.’ He’d brought a cardboard target, complete with bullseye. He taped it against a tree and they both stood back about 30 feet.
‘Right, Harry. This is a Walther PPK, very popular with the Ulster Defence Regiment right now. You load the bullets into the magazine like so...’ Once he’d done it he made Harry repeat the exercise, then the magazine was slotted into the gun.
‘It’s semi-automatic. Shoot once and you have a reloaded barrel. Try it. Use both hands to steady it.’
Harry did as instructed. He spent 15 minutes shooting at the target until Jack was satisfied he knew what he was doing. Then they returned to the cottage.
‘If you feel like doing more practice, then Mrs M will take you out,’ offered Jack, as they sat at the kitchen table drinking tea. He smiled at Harry’s startled expression. ‘In her youth she was something of a crack shot, so you’ll definitely improve.’
‘Might just do that,’ replied Harry.
‘When you leave the house take it with you, safety on of course. It’s licensed in your name.’ He rummaged in the small holdall he’d brought with him, and extracted the paperwork. ‘And check any vehicle you intend to drive from now on. Under the bonnet and under the chassis. Got it?’
‘You’re making me nervous.’
‘You’re safe here, Harry. Just take precautions anyway. And we won’t be operating from our former office in future. As far as we’re concerned you’re out of the picture, but I’ll look in on you until you’re fit again. You have my number.’ Jack stood and prepared to leave.
‘Any news on O’Reilly’s whereabouts?’ asked Harry.
‘Not yet. But now we know what he looks like it won’t be too long before we find him. Remember that he might not actually be the man responsible.’
‘As far as I’m concerned, he’s totally responsible.’ Harry’s face had assumed a stony determination. ‘I’d like to meet that bastard.’
Jack gave him a hard stare then laid a reassuring hand on his shoulder. ‘Concentrate on getting yourself well again, and leave O’Reilly to us. Can you do that?’
‘Sure, I’ll do my best.’
Jack nodded, picked up his holdall, and left.
Pre-Christmas, Michael’s decision to leave Dublin was still on hold. First he wanted his passport, and to make that happen he called his father and asked him to retrieve it from a PO box in Belfast. When Michael Senior had digested the implications of his son’s situation and realised the limited to non-existent options on offer, he agreed. He had never taken the militant path his son had chosen, but he understood the temptation.
‘I’ll post you the key today, Dad.’
‘Fine. We’ll be back in Dublin on the 19th, to see Siobhan. I’m told she’s sitting up now, and making good progress.’
‘Put the passport in an envelope and address it to Sabine Maier, Alexander Ward.’ He spelled out her name. ‘Then leave it at the reception desk and she’ll pick it up for me.’
‘Who on earth is she?’
‘Just a friend. She’ll be working that day. You might even meet her. I won’t be here, I’m leaving Dublin tonight. I need to find a safe passage across the sea to England. Once I’ve arranged that I’ll be back to pick up the passport.’
‘Keep in touch, Michael. Your mother will be worried sick.’
‘I’ll call you from a phone box once I’m settled. You might have to accept the charges though.’
He ended the call shortly afterwards, dropping the letter containing the key in a nearby mail box on his route back to Sabine’s flat. She was getting ready for a late shift when he arrived.
She turned from her contemplation of the nearly boiled kettle as he came into the tiny kitchen.
‘Is it done?’
‘They’ll be here on Saturday. My Dad will leave an envelope addressed to you at reception.’
She looked both annoyed and confused. ‘Why can’t you just meet him? Isn’t that easier? I thought that was the arrangement.’
He put both hands on her shoulders. ‘I can’t wait around here till Saturday. Me being here puts you in danger, and I’ve already been here longer than I should have. I’m leaving later today.’
She twisted away from him, turning back to the steaming ke
ttle, busying herself with making tea. When she’d poured two cups she turned back to face him.
‘Where will you go?’
‘To find a way out of here. That’s all you should know, Sabine.’
‘Alright. And won’t you need a passport for that?’
‘Well, I’ll be back in a week, and then maybe we can celebrate Christmas together.’
She smiled. ‘Good. Come and drink tea with me then.’
She gave him a quick kiss. In the living room, she leaned up against him on the sofa, and he drew her to him with an encircling arm. They said nothing, enjoying their tea and their closeness, till it was time for her to leave for work.
When she’d gone Michael went into the bedroom searching for his rucksack. He emptied the contents on to the bed. Some spare underwear, t-shirts and a jersey, all purchased by Sabine when she realised how little he had to wear. The bottles and towels he’d taken on his flight from Siobhan’s had long been disposed of. And there was the money. He checked it – still in excess of two thousand pounds.
How much would an opportunist fisherman demand in exchange for a no questions asked passage across the Irish Sea? Assuming he could find said fisherman. He’d know soon enough. If he could get no positive response from a discreet enquiry in two or three harbour pubs, then it would be time for plan B, whatever that might be. The only alternative to leaving by sea was staying, and he’d need to come up with something far better than that.
Howth was a busy fishing port not far from Dublin. He would spend the next week in a cheap hotel and get to know a few of the locals in the popular drinking haunts. If the timing and the price was right, he should be able to strike a deal.
He repacked everything, put on his jacket, and took one last look around. Nothing forgotten. The Browning was in its familiar place, and the money was at the bottom of the pack. Apart from warm clothes, he didn’t really need anything else. He set off to find a taxi.
It proved much easier than anticipated. He checked into a place about ten minutes walk from the port itself, saying he was looking for work on a trawler as a fishing hand. He was a big man and looked physically capable, and initially no one questioned his authenticity.
The proprietor of the hotel was an ex-fisherman himself, and partial to a drop of whiskey of an evening. Fergus O’Malley had spent the best part of his adult life at sea, and knew plenty of people still on the boats. He sat with Michael in the hotel’s little bar late one evening, a few days after Michael’s arrival. The other residents had an early start and had retired for the night. They sat in two comfortable leather armchairs set in front of a roaring log fire, glasses in hand.
Fergus was in late middle age, his weatherbeaten face lined by years of exposure to biting sea spray and bitter gusting wind. His eyes wore a permanent squint, as though he stood forever on a trawler deck, ducking the elements. Looking at Michael he saw none of the same signs of a seagoing man, and he was curious.
‘If you don’t mind me saying Michael, you don’t look like you’ve much experience of the fishing game. What brings you to it now?’
Michael glanced across at Fergus, trying to read his expression.
‘I need a job, that’s all.’
Fergus grunted. ‘This is hard work. Must be something else a young man can turn his hand to that doesn’t involve being battered by the elements every day, and coming home smelling like a halibut.’
Michael decided to test the water. ‘You’re right, of course, it isn’t my first choice. I have a job lined up as an HGV driver in Liverpool. But because of a little local difficulty I can’t travel using the normal routes. So I’m stuck here, for now.’
Fergus looked at the contents of his glass, his squint suddenly liberated by the raising of his eyebrows. ‘I see. So of course you came to a fishing port. Well you wouldn’t be the first.’ He drained his glass. ‘Another?’
Michael nodded. Fergus retreated behind the bar and then reappeared with refills. He handed one to Michael. ‘Slainche.’ They raised glasses and drank.
‘Let’s say, Michael, that there are people who might help you discreetly across the sea from here. But it will cost you. Five hundred pounds. Do you have that sort of money?’
‘I do,’ replied Michael.
‘I hope so. I don’t want to make enquiries on your behalf for nothing. I doubt that anything can be arranged before January now. But leave it with me, I’ll see what can be done.’
Fergus was as good as his word. He found a man willing to make the run in the second week of January. Michael advanced £150 as a goodwill gesture, and the deal was done. All he had to do was turn up on the day.
He knew Sabine would be with her Aunt on Christmas Day, so he decided to stay where he was and travel back on Boxing Day. At the hotel it was business as usual on the 25th, with slightly better food and plenty of drink. He was sat in the bar when a news flash interrupted an ad break on the television. It was a report of a car bomb explosion in Dublin the previous evening. The victim, a young New Zealand woman. The IRA had issued a statement denying direct responsibility. Instead the action had been attributed to a ‘rogue individual’ acting without authorisation. The Garda were pursuing ‘active leads.’
He was in momentary shock. He quickly looked around to see if anyone had noticed. Fergus was looking directly at him, his face expressionless. Then he turned to serve someone at the bar. The afternoon became evening and there was no sign of any further interest in the matter from Fergus. Feeling relieved, Michael made ready to leave the next day. He realised just how much he wanted to see Sabine again. He was sorry that their reunion would be tempered with the knowledge that soon he would leave Ireland for good.
At first she seemed quite sanguine about his impending departure. When he got back and told her about his travel arrangements her only comment was ‘Yes, well now you have a definite date then.’
He couldn’t help but feel disappointed.
Her actions, however, were more eloquent. In the days that followed, her lovemaking became more frantic and demanding, as though she wanted to ingest the very essence of him. When she left him to go to work he felt a foretaste of the pain of their approaching separation. Would he ever see her again? The thought only made him want her more, intensifying their union when she returned from whatever shift she was on.
Sabine had collected the passport without incident, but had not met his parents. They debated about whether she should smuggle in written notes to Siobhan, but deemed it too dangerous. Sabine would deliver a letter from Michael once he’d left the country.
‘I don’t see her that often now she is getting better, anyway,’ explained Sabine. ‘She will be discharged soon I think.’
They made a plan to break cover on New Years Eve. Sabine would be playing saxophone with the trio again at a small jazz club to usher in 1982. He wanted a last chance to hear her and be out together before he left. The risk seemed worth it.
It was a risk he didn’t take. The preceding evening Sabine returned, around 10.30. He took one look at her and knew something bad had happened.
‘Is it Siobhan? It can’t be, surely.’ His look implored her to tell him no.
She began to cry. ‘Oh, Michael, she was fine. Then a few hours ago she began to haemorrhage internally. They took her to theatre but they couldn’t stop it. She died on the operating table. I’m so sorry.’
She embraced him tightly, sobbing for his loss and the pain she’d brought home with her. For a minute he stared into space, unable and unwilling to accept it. Then he felt his own tears hot on his cheeks, and he began to cry as he hadn’t done since he was ten years old.
Chapter 9
Harry was reading a book, with limited success. His eyes were on the page but his mind wouldn’t focus. He would turn a page and then realise he’d absorbed nothing of the previous one. Fleeting snapshots of Nat in earlier times came unbidden into consciousness, and he found himself chasing her image down a labyrinth of memory that had only one exit on Christ
mas Eve.
He closed the book, looking out the living room window at the grey shrouds of cloud. It wasn’t raining at least. He would take the opportunity to navigate the woods with as little reliance as possible on his crutches. He could walk around the house unassisted for minutes at a time, but his left leg ached too much to try the same thing for extended periods outside the house.
He stood up, making his way to the hall. As he reached for his overcoat from the coat rack he heard the key in the front door. It opened to admit the stout and smiling figure of Mrs Meehan.
‘Harry, off somewhere interesting?’
He smiled in spite of himself. ‘Just to the bottom of the garden I’m afraid. Need the exercise. A thought struck him. ‘Unless you’d help me with some target practice that is.’
‘Target practice?’ She was momentarily surprised. ‘Ah, that Jack Hudson has been overstating my expertise again, has he?’ She didn’t wait for a reply. ‘Get your gun and plenty of ammo and let’s see what you can do then.’
They drove in her battered Morris 1100 to an isolated farm property and then down a one lane track that was little more than a tractor furrow to an empty barn.
‘They know me here, we won’t be disturbed.’
The barn was almost 50 feet long. At the far end bales of hay were stacked against the wall, and in front of them stood what looked like two archery targets.
‘Let’s see how you go from a distance then,’ said Mrs M. She moved to a line scoured into the dirt about 40 feet away. ‘Take the one on the left, and aim for the bullseye.’
Harry discarded his crutches and stepped up to the line, trying to distribute his weight as equally as possible without too much discomfort. He took careful aim and fired six shots at the target. ‘How did I do?’
‘Just a minute, let me have a go.’ He handed her the gun and watched as she steadied it in both hands and then fired smoothly at the right hand target. ‘Let’s have a look.’
