Dancing With Mortality

by Mark McKay

  They checked the results. Harry had put one in the bullseye and the others within a six inch radius. Mrs Meehan on the other hand had landed three bullseyes and drilled a triangle with the other three directly around it.

  ‘Where did you learn to shoot like that?’ asked Harry.

  ‘I served as a Greenfinch in the Ulster Defence Regiment for a few years. We didn’t carry weapons on duty but we were trained to use them. I had my own for personal protection.’

  He looked at her with interest. He really couldn’t picture the forty something slightly overweight woman in front of him as a soldier. She read his thoughts.

  ‘It was almost ten years ago, Harry. I was younger, slimmer and a lot fitter then.’

  They spent another half hour in the barn and she helped him with sighting and correct handling of the weapon. Then it was time to go. The evening was drawing in as she manoeuvred the car back up the tractor furrow and on the road towards home.

  ‘You heard about the O’Reilly girl of course, did you not?’ she asked him as the Morris 1100, whose suspension had seen better days, sped less than gracefully through the dusk.

  ‘No, heard what?’ In fact he hadn’t thought about Siobhan O’Reilly at all recently. She’d been erased from his memory until this moment.

  ‘She died before New Year, in hospital. The same hospital you were in. You were practically neighbours. Do you never watch the news?’

  In fact he very rarely switched on the TV or radio, and admitted to this shortcoming. ‘To be honest I’d forgotten all about her.’

  Mrs Meehan gave him a sideways glance. ‘Well it’s her funeral tomorrow. No doubt the O’Reilly family will turn out. Might even see our man Michael there.’ Her face betrayed nothing.

  Harry was incredulous. ‘You’re joking, that’s exactly what the Garda and anyone else looking for him will be counting on. He’d be mad to go. Where will it be?’

  ‘St. Patrick’s Church In Belfast. He has more chance of evading capture there if he decides to go. And in Ireland we don’t always do the sane thing Harry. Runs against the grain sometimes.’

  Harry said nothing. She was right about that. Based on his experience of the last few weeks, he could only conclude that sanity had become a rather scarce commodity.

  It was dark early the following morning, and raining steadily. The taxi Harry had ordered drew up outside. He lay his crutches across the back seat and watched while the driver adjusted the front passenger seat as far back as it would go, so he could straighten his leg when he wanted to.

  He climbed in and they drove off. The windscreen wipers beat a steady rhythm against the intensifying downpour, and the driver flicked the headlights on to full beam as often as possible. It could have been midnight and not 7am.

  ‘How long to Belfast?’

  ‘In this weather, between two and three hours.’ His driver looked disconsolately at the road ahead.

  ‘Take your time.’

  The rain stopped shortly after and they made good time, arriving at St Patrick’s around 9.30. The service was at 11.00, and although the church was open there was nobody inside. He gave the place a quick inspection. It was spacious and light, the pews arranged in a shallow semi-circle around an ornate marble altar. He wondered how many people would come. A notice pinned by the door on his way out confirmed that the service for Siobhan O’Reilly would indeed take place as scheduled. He decided to retreat for an hour, somewhere he could sit down. He found a café close by. Sitting at a table by the window he had a clear view of the church 100 yards away. He ordered tea and a bacon sandwich, and waited. If there was anyone else waiting for a sighting of O’Reilly at his sister’s funeral, he couldn’t spot them.

  People began to arrive. It was difficult to make out faces at this distance. O’Reilly’s photo was on the table in front of him, but Harry was doubtful of matching it with the man himself. Still, had he not come all this way in the hope of doing exactly that?

  Then the funeral cortege pulled up, and the coffin was carried inside. If one of the pallbearers was O’Reilly he certainly couldn’t tell from this vantage point. He waited till everyone had gone in and then he quietly slipped in himself and positioned himself in a seat towards the rear of the church.

  When the readings were done and a few hymns sung, it was over. The pallbearers once again shouldered Siobhan and bore her out. They were followed by what he assumed were her parents, and various relations. A few mildly curious looks were cast his way. Then the church was empty. Among all these assorted people he’d seen no one resembling the man in the photograph.

  Just as he prepared to go he detected some movement on the far side of the room. Someone who had been partially obscured by a pillar had just stood up. It was just the two of them left in the church, the officiating priest had disappeared.

  The man behind the pillar began walking towards the altar, and Harry realised he was heading towards a door located just to the right of it. As he stood up to get a clearer view his pew scraped loudly against the stone floor, and the man stopped. He turned to face Harry.

  They were some distance apart, but there was no doubt. It was O’Reilly. Harry had one crutch supporting his left side, and he quickly drew his gun from his coat with his right hand, aiming it square at Michael’s chest.

  ‘Who are you?’ asked Michael, staring in slight bemusement at the armed and apparently lame man in front of him.

  ‘I’m the man whose wife you murdered. Christmas Eve.’

  ‘Your wife?’ Michael stayed as still as he could, hands by his side. ‘The New Zealand girl? That wasn’t me.’

  ‘You or your friends, it’s all the same.’ Harry felt his leg beginning to throb. He sat down, and that freed up his other hand to steady the gun. He couldn’t miss.

  ‘I’m sorry about your wife.’ Michael looked haggard. ‘I buried my sister today. Have you thought about what that might mean?’

  There was no reply. Now that Harry finally had O’Reilly in his sights it was proving difficult to pull the trigger. He’d never shot a man. Michael sensed his hesitation.

  ‘Are you going to fire a gun in a church?’ Still no reply. Michael took a measured breath. ‘I’m going to walk out that door now. You do as you see fit.’

  He turned and walked away. Harry’s hands were trembling. He wanted to fire, but his body refused to co-operate . As the door closed behind Michael he lowered his gun, placing it on the pew next to him. He sat there with his head in his hands, feeling nothing but despair.

  PART TWO

  Dancing with Mortality

  2001

  Chapter 10

  Tunbridge Wells, England.

  He eased the Mercedes smoothly into the vacant space, right outside the restaurant.

  ‘That was good luck,’ said Sophie.

  ‘Perfect timing actually,’ answered Harry, grinning across at his wife.

  He’d reserved their usual table, in a private room made for dining à deux. The place was run by Alain, an ex-Parisian who specialised in distinctive French cuisine, with an eclectic selection of stunning wines from lesser known vineyards all over France. And the better known ones.

  ‘Any more of that Cheval Blanc we had last time?’ enquired Harry after Alain had seated them and asked them how they both were.

  ‘The ’71? Yes, I think so. Shall I bring a bottle?’

  The room was oak panelled, with a polished oak table and darkly upholstered leather dining chairs. A small skylight admitted the dark blue of a clear summer evening. Discreet lighting on the walls behind both of them emitted a soft glow, complemented by the flickering flame of a candle stood centre table in a simple brass holder.

  ‘I’ve always liked this place,’ said Sophie. ‘Very private, no distractions.’

  Alain returned with the wine. After tasting it and making the appropriate noises, they ordered a starter and then settled back to wait, just feeling the easy ambience of the place.

  She looked good. Dark luxuriant black hair brushed
right back and loose, smooth-skinned face with a generous mouth and well-shaped nose. She was ten years younger than him, with an easy assurity of manner and intelligence that had been honed by an expensive education, backed by an upbringing with all the material advantages one could wish for.

  ‘What’s the occasion?’ she asked, with a hint of irony.

  ‘Do I need a reason?’

  ‘Not at all, I just thought we might be celebrating something.’

  ‘They’ve renewed my contract at the bank, with a rate rise. I thought that might be a cause for celebration.’

  ‘Honestly, Harry.’ She raised her eyes. ‘You think of nothing but money.’

  He said nothing. Sophie was beautiful and expensive. She’d studied fine art at the Royal College and was now something of a Picasso prints and ceramics expert with one of the London auction houses. Although this paid a reasonable salary, it was an unspoken understanding that Harry’s income was the driver keeping them both in in the style she was accustomed to.

  She raised her glass. ‘This wine is gorgeous. Let’s drink to renewed contracts.’

  The wine went down easily, and Harry ordered a second bottle. Sophie was chatting about a catalogue she was putting together for a European ceramics auction scheduled for the following week. It was an important sale event, and she was enthusiastic about the prospective bidders and potentially record prices that might be achieved.

  Harry knew very little about the subject. He was content to listen and drink, and didn’t interrupt her flow. The main course came and went. He poured himself another glass of wine, and found the bottle was almost empty.

  ‘You’re putting it away tonight,’ said Sophie. ‘I’ve only had two glasses.’

  ‘Good, you can drive then.’

  She sighed. ‘I wish you wouldn’t drink so much.’

  ‘I don’t drink so much,’ he shot back, his annoyance showing. This was becoming a familiar refrain, on both their parts.

  She looked disconsolate for a moment then regained some composure. ‘Let’s not argue about it. Why don’t we order some coffee?’

  ‘Yes, sure.’ The waiter appeared shortly afterwards and took the order. ‘Actually, I meant to tell you something,’ said Harry. ‘I gave blood last month, and I had a letter this morning from the Blood people. Only opened it on the way to work.’

  ‘Why would they write to you?’

  ‘It appears I have some antibodies – hepatitis of some kind. I should be tested to see if I’ve still got it.’

  ‘I doubt it, Harry. You’d feel lousy if you did. Tom picked it up in India a few years ago and felt miserable for months as I remember. It went away in time.’

  Tom was Sophie’s older brother. She’d met Harry when he’d worked with Tom at a fund management company.

  He smiled reassuringly. ‘I’m sure you’re right. Still, I’ll go to my GP and arrange something. Then I can assure them my blood is just fine.’

  The coffee arrived. He drank half a cup to pacify Sophie. What he really wanted was another bottle.

  Sophie drove home. Once out of the town it was a 15 minute trip along a winding country road, finishing at the 1930’s three bedroom art deco style house they had bought two years ago. It was a detached property in a private location that backed on to farm land, with no neighbours for at least 200 metres. The village primary school was within easy driving distance too. Sophie had decorated one room as a nursery, but despite their efforts it remained unoccupied.

  ‘Up early tomorrow,’ muttered Harry. ‘You coming to bed?’

  ‘Soon. Just want to finish this.’ She sat on the living room sofa studying a magazine.

  Harry retired upstairs. The wine was an effective anaesthetic and he was asleep within ten minutes. Downstairs Sophie discarded the magazine and stared wistfully into space. At least he doesn’t snore, she thought.

  ‘When was the last time I saw you then, Mr Ellis?’ asked his GP the following Saturday morning.

  ‘Not sure. Think I was here for a travel vaccination last year.’

  Dr Finch, a young man with an earnest disposition, studied the letter Harry handed him. ‘We’ll take some blood and send it off. The antibodies they mention relate to hepatitis C. You may have cleared it early on, but we’ll know soon enough. Make an appointment for next week and I’ll have the results.’

  A blood sample was taken. Harry thanked Dr Finch and left. He knew nothing about hepatitis C, but he felt well enough. At 46 he was in good shape, not carrying any extra weight. His hair was thinning a little on top and greying at the temples, which was only to be expected, really. He’d worn reasonably well in his estimation since arriving in England some twenty years ago. A little hepatitis, if he still had it, wouldn’t change that.

  Sophie was waiting for him in the car. They were driving up to London to have lunch with his in-laws, a tedious duty from Harry’s perspective, only relieved by the fact that his father-in-law had a capacity for wine that matched his own, and a well stocked cellar to indulge it. Harry was capable enough of being civil on these occasions, but he’d never felt particularly comfortable with his in-laws. They were very different people from his own parents. His father was a carpenter and his mother had stayed home to bring up the children. Sophie’s father was a partner at a top management consultancy, and her mother something of a Sloane Ranger, who’d never done anything much except socialize with other Sloane Rangers. He sometimes detected an air of perplexity about them when they saw him, as though they couldn’t quite figure out how their beautiful daughter had chosen such an incongruous husband. At times he wondered that himself.

  ‘Everything all right?’ asked Sophie.

  ‘They’ve taken a blood sample. I’ll know more in a week or so.’

  ‘I think I might stay up in London for the weekend, if you don’t mind. I can get into the office early on Monday. There’s still an awful lot of work to do before the auction.’

  He was turning out of the surgery car park into busy Saturday morning traffic. ‘Sure, if that’s what you want to do. I’ll amuse myself around the house on Sunday.’

  They arrived in Fulham an hour and a half later, only marginally late. The house was an Edwardian five bedroom detached, with a large, well-landscaped garden. A Mercedes convertible and a Bentley graced the driveway, still leaving plenty of room for Harry to park his own Mercedes without obstructing anyone.

  The door was opened by his father-in-law, Clive Sutherland. He was a tall and portly man in his mid-sixties, dressed as ever in a well cut suit, without tie. Harry couldn’t recall seeing him in anything else. He had a florid complexion, complemented by slightly bloodshot eyes that could have been the result of some pre-existing medical condition, or just too much booze. Harry’s money was on the latter. He hugged Sophie and extended his hand to Harry.

  ‘Lovely to see you both. Come on in, just time for an aperitif before lunch I think.’

  Susanna, Sophie’s mother, appeared as they walked inside. ‘It’s pheasant darling, needs another half hour or so though. Come and help me in the kitchen, Sophie.’ She took Sophie’s arm and steered her away, flashing a brief smile of welcome in Harry’s direction. She was a fifty-something senior version of Sophie, well groomed and attractive, with a trim figure. She began chatting away to her daughter, who wasn’t getting a chance to get a word in, as they retreated to the kitchen.

  ‘Let’s leave them to it, Harry. Come and have a glass of something. I’ve got a nice malt you might appreciate.’

  Lunch was eventually served. The conversation turned to Clive’s interest in rare coins, moved on to the upcoming auction, and then to the refurbishment of a second home in Italy. Susanna shared Sophie’s interest in art, and painted herself. They were thinking of turning the old stable on the property into an artist’s studio. Harry was finding Italy mildly interesting when Clive changed course completely.

  ‘Going to Dublin next week. Pitching for a project with Allied Irish Bank, Harry. It will be my first time in Ire
land. How did you find it?’

  ‘It was a long time ago now,’ replied Harry. He didn’t think about Ireland very much, not in his waking hours. Of course Clive knew that Harry had been married before, but the circumstances of Natalie’s death had never been revealed to him or Susanna. And they’d never shown much curiosity about it.

  Sophie, who knew everything, looked apprehensive. After a few drinks on Harry’s part, she knew that Ireland was a subject best left unmentioned.

  ‘Let’s talk about something else,’ she ventured.

  Harry had a far away look. He sat slowly twirling the stem of his wine glass. She wondered how many malts they’d had before lunch, and it did nothing to alleviate her anxiety.

  ‘I never did tell you about Ireland.’ He looked up and smiled at Clive, who reached for the wine bottle and refilled Harry’s glass. Harry took a generous sip. ‘We were there for about two years, I was studying Irish and had a little part time job with a security firm.’ He laughed. Clive and Susanna caught the edge to his voice. Clive tried to retrieve the situation.

  ‘Sorry, Harry, let’s change the subject. I forgot you lost your first wife back then.’

  ‘Yes, that was careless of me. I left her alone for five minutes, and when I turned around she’d been blown to bits by a car bomb. Very careless, wouldn’t you agree?’

  For a few moments there was a stunned silence. Susanna was the first to react.

  ‘My god, Harry. I’m so sorry, we had no idea.’

  ‘No, you didn’t.’ Harry got up. ‘I shouldn’t have mentioned it, really. If you’ll excuse me, I think I might drive home.’

  ‘Have a coffee first.’ Sophie was at his side.

  ‘I’ll be fine. Thanks for lunch.’ She knew he wouldn’t change his mind. He kissed her, and when he moved away she saw the anguish in his eyes.

  She touched his arm. ‘I’ll walk you to the car.’

  Both Clive and Susanna were lost for words. They watched as their daughter linked arms with her husband and walked him out of the dining room. A few minutes later they heard the sound of a car traversing the gravel of the driveway.