Dancing With Mortality

by Mark McKay

  He called Jack on the journey to discuss this hypothesis. Jack was inclined to agree.

  ‘She was nursing Siobhan O’Reilly at the same time you were admitted, so it’s certainly possible. Both incidents were IRA related, so that may be the reason you stuck in her memory.’

  ‘Can’t be any other explanation. But why go through with the interview?’

  ‘Curiosity perhaps, or just wanting to understand your motives. I think we can only assume you’ve been rumbled Harry. It won’t be too hard to work out that O’Reilly is the common denominator in all this.’

  Harry felt a twinge of regret at the prospect of foregoing another meeting with Sabine.

  ‘Guess you’re right. So Ms Maier is off limits then?’

  ‘Not necessarily. Wait till we’ve checked the data you downloaded. If there’s nothing there to point her to O’Reilly you can simply come clean and ask her about him.’

  ‘But if I mention the intelligence services she won’t admit anything.’

  ‘You don’t know that. She knows already that you’re not quite the man you appear to be. Whatever you tell her, I would be interested to know her reaction.’

  Me too, thought Harry. He promised to get the photos and CDs off to London first thing in the morning. If there was anything incriminating to be discovered, they’d know it by Saturday. Until then, nothing to do but wait.

  Sophie flew in on the Friday, just for the weekend. He’d booked a hotel in Freiburg for the occasion, and they drove down on the Friday evening. The route took them right past Heidelberg.

  ‘We could have gone there, Harry. I’ve heard it’s gorgeous.’

  ‘It is. But as you wanted picture postcard Germany I thought Freiburg was the better option. It’s even more gorgeous, and right on the Black Forest. You won’t be disappointed.’

  They spent the next two days exploring this most picturesque of German towns, sauntering the streets enjoying the numerous examples of historical architecture. They took the longest cable car ride in the country, some two miles, up to the Schauinsland mountain in the Black Forest. The day was cold and clear, and the views spectacular.

  ‘We should come back at Christmas, Harry. Do they have a Christmas market here?’

  ‘Be surprised if they don’t. They have one in Heidelberg, we can always go there.’

  The hotel was close to the town centre, with easy access to restaurants. They succumbed to traditional German cuisine, dining on Bratwurst and Sauerkraut on Saturday evening. With so many different varieties of sausage on offer it was difficult to know where to start. They gave up and asked their waitress what she liked.

  ‘This is rich food,’ remarked Harry. ‘It needs plenty of good German beer to wash it down.’

  ‘Light or dark?’ enquired the waitress.

  They settled for light. Harry remembered the dark beer as being so dense he’d found it difficult to get past two pints in earlier encounters.

  ‘They know how to make beer in this country.’ Sophie, who to his knowledge drank nothing but wine, amazed him with her sudden capacity for Freiburg’s finest ale. He found it hard to keep pace with her.

  They returned to the hotel slightly the worse for drink, and decided to call it a night. Harry wanted to take a drive through the Black Forest the following morning, and wasn’t going to oversleep if he could help it.

  As he lay back in bed, waiting for Sophie to emerge from the bathroom, he reflected on the simple pleasure they had experienced together this weekend. No talk of babies or his drinking habits. But of course Freiburg was a complete distraction from their lives in London. And he hadn’t thought about Sabine Maier once.

  Sophie crept into bed. ‘I think I had too much beer,’ she whispered. ‘I might just go to sleep now.’ So saying, she proceeded to do just that.

  He lay awake for a while, wondering what next week would bring. No more breaking and entering, which was just fine with him, and maybe even some answers. But how enlightening would they prove to be?

  Chapter 13

  He drove Sophie to Frankfurt Airport on Sunday evening.

  ‘Two more weeks, then I’m back in London,’ he told her. ‘Where are you staying tonight?’

  ‘I’ll go to Fulham. Might as well stay there till you get back. But let me know when you’re arriving and we can go back to our place that night.’

  He kissed her. ‘Give my best to Clive and Susanna.’

  She went through to departures shortly afterwards. He dropped the car at the Avis collection point and then made his way back to the apartment. When he checked the fridge for some quick and easy dinner ingredients he found nothing but a half-empty milk carton and an unopened but rather tired slab of cheese looking back at him. He couldn’t remember the last time he did any shopping. Not a problem, there were plenty of restaurants nearby. But before going out he wanted an update. He didn’t know what Jack did on a Sunday evening, but it was worth a phone call.

  Jack answered, but it took a while.

  ‘Am I disturbing you?’ Harry enquired.

  ‘Not at all. I would have called you earlier, but I remembered you were with your wife this weekend.’

  ‘She’s on her way back now. Is there anything to tell?’

  ‘Unfortunately not, Harry. I thought if we’d find anything it would be in her emails. But there’s nothing to or from O’Reilly, or anyone else who could be him under another name. It’s a dead end I’m afraid. You found no written correspondence, did you?’

  Harry grunted. ‘I was checking her writing desk when the phone rang. And after that I thought it best to leave. So I did.’

  Jack’s sigh of exasperation was clearly audible. ‘I suppose I can take some responsibility for that decision. The fact remains that if you’re right about her reaction at your first meeting then she knows you from Dublin, and lied about it. Time to put your cards on the table I’d say.’

  Harry felt a tiny butterfly of excitement spreading its wings. ‘Ok, that’s exactly what I’ll do. And you’ll be the first to know the outcome.’

  If Sabine had any misgivings about meeting again, they weren’t discernible on the phone. She suggested dinner at her place on Wednesday evening. She would cook something passable, she hoped, and he could bring the wine. And he mustn’t forget his follow up questions of course. He assured her he wouldn’t. They just won’t be the questions you might reasonably be expecting, he thought.

  He arrived a little early, and she answered the door in a rush.

  ‘I’m still preparing things. Go into the living room, I’ll be there in a minute.’

  Nice to be here with the lights on this time, he thought. No laptop on the dining room table either, instead it was set for the meal to come. He took off his coat and draped it over a chair.

  ‘I brought red and white,’ he half shouted in the direction of the kitchen.

  ‘Bring the white in here, it can go in the fridge.’

  She had her back to him. Her hair was up in a chignon, and she wore a pink t-shirt and jeans, with a long kitchen apron knotted around her neck and waist. She turned and smiled as he came in. ‘Over there,’ she said, nodding at the fridge.

  ‘What are we having?’

  ‘It’s simple, really. Chicken with asparagus, red onion, potatoes and carrots, with my secret herbs thrown in. All done in the oven for 45 minutes and served. The dessert is a secret too, so don’t ask.’

  He peeked over her shoulder. ‘Looks good. Do you have a corkscrew?’

  ‘Sure. Will you undo this knot round my neck please? I did it too tight.’

  He stood close behind her, fiddling with the knot. She stood very still and appeared to stare straight ahead, but he was sure she was studying his reflection in the kitchen window. He took his time, letting his fingers brush against her neck. Then the knot was undone. Mustn’t get distracted, he thought.

  She put the baking dish in the oven. They returned to the living room and Harry opened the wine while Sabine selected a CD.

 
‘More saxophone,’ she explained. ‘But not me – easy listening.’

  ‘I thought you were easy listening last time I heard you.’

  She laughed. ‘You’re too kind. So, let’s get your follow up questions out of the way before we eat.’ She sat on the sofa by the front window, and he moved his coat from the chair so he could sit facing her. They looked at each other.

  ‘Sabine, there are some things I need to tell you. You may not want to eat with me once you’ve heard them. Can we wait till afterwards?’

  She didn’t seem worried. ‘It’s my turn to ask the questions as I recall. You may not want to eat with me either when I’ve finished.’

  He felt the sudden tension between them. Show time. He tried to look cool.

  ‘Ok, go ahead then.’

  ‘Right.’ She said nothing then, just looked out the window, and it was as if for a moment she had left the room entirely. He waited, and presently whatever memory had distracted her ran its course. She fixed him with a steady gaze.

  ‘I remember you, Harry. You were unconscious in a hospital bed at the time, with a bruised face and tubes in your nose. When I saw you at the Jazzhaus I couldn’t figure out who you were at first. I almost lost my concentration during the second set trying to work it out.’

  ‘How is it you remember me at all?’

  She ignored him. ‘Do you really work for “Jazz Europe”?’

  He shifted uncomfortably. ‘It’s a part time thing – freelance. They’re buying the interview, that’s how it works.’

  Her face was expressionless. ‘Just tell me what you want from me, Harry.’

  There was no way to sugar coat it. ‘We have a mutual friend in Michael O’Reilly.’

  ‘I thought so.’ She looked at the floor for a while this time. Then she got up. ‘The subject is closed until we’ve eaten. I’m going to the kitchen now. You stay here.’

  He heard her moving around. The oven door opened and closed. Then there was only the music, but he thought he heard her crying once or twice. Give her some space, he thought, she hasn’t asked me to leave yet. He half expected her to emerge with a carving knife in her hand.

  She stayed in the kitchen for what seemed an eternity. When she did come out it wasn’t with a carving knife, but with an oven glove and a baking dish full of chicken and vegetables. She didn’t say anything, just put the dish on the table and sat waiting for him.

  He joined her. ‘You ok?’ Her eyes looked a little red.

  ‘I think so. I want you to tell me everything please. How you knew about me, and what it is you want to know about Michael. Promise me you won’t lie.’

  He poured them both some wine. As they ate he told her about SIS, their renewed interest in Michael, and how her letters had been found in his Kilburn flat.

  ‘And you work for these people?’ she asked.

  ‘I worked for them in Dublin, translating documents. Then after Ireland I heard nothing from them in twenty years, until a few weeks ago. They want Michael for some reason, I don’t know why.’

  She was calm and still again now, quietly assessing him. ‘You don’t know why, yet you came here and went through this...’ she paused, searching for the right word, ‘this deception, yes? I don’t understand Harry, why would you agree to do that?’

  ‘Because Michael O’Reilly killed my wife.’

  ‘I see.’ She didn’t seem alarmed, or indignant. She turned her full attention to the meal, and they both ate in silence until it was finished.

  ‘Did you enjoy it?’ she asked. He nodded. ‘I have dessert.’ She picked up the plates and cutlery and headed for the kitchen.

  He wasn’t sure he had the appetite for dessert right now. He sipped his wine and wondered how she maintained her cool demeanour, given the table talk. His cards were on the table, would she now follow suit?

  She reappeared with dessert, and when he recognised the traditional New Zealand Pavlova, with its meringue base topped with whipped cream, strawberries and kiwi fruit, he did a double take.

  Sabine seemed amused at his expression, in fact he could have sworn she was suppressing a smile. ‘I tried to make this for the first time. I thought you might like it.’

  The mood lifted a little. ‘Did I tell you I was a Kiwi?’ he asked.

  She served him a generous portion. ‘You have an accent, you know. Is it up to the right standard?’

  He tried a piece, making appreciative noises. ‘Very good. Delicious, actually.’

  She resumed her place, watching him eat. ‘Let me tell you about Michael and me,’ she began. ‘I remember you so well because it was a car bomb that injured you, and my first thought was it must be IRA. I couldn’t help wondering if Michael was involved. I was looking after his sister and your room was quite close, so I came and had a look at you. And it was all in the paper, they said your wife was from New Zealand.’

  ‘I didn’t read the paper.’ Now he had definitely lost his appetite. He pushed the bowl away. ‘And was Michael involved?’

  The intensity between them was back. ‘He said not. And I believed him. Yes, he spent a lot of time in my flat while I was at work, and he could have gone out at any time and done something, but I believed him. He had other things to worry about. His own people were looking for him, they thought he was an informer. He wouldn’t tell me any more about that though. And he was worried sick about Siobhan. He felt responsible for what had happened to her.’

  ‘An informer.’ This was news. But of course, they were looking for him in Kilburn too. Yes, it made sense, but he knew better. He saw that Sabine was about to speak, and he silenced her with a gesture. ‘Let me think a minute.’ It was a long time ago, and he wanted to get the sequence of events right. She picked at her food while he thought it through.

  ‘There was an incident on a beach in Cork that started all this,’ he said after a long minute’s silence. ‘Several people were killed. There certainly was an informer, but his name was O’Riordan, not O’Reilly.’ He realised suddenly that he’d never even stopped to consider why Siobhan O’Reilly had been shot in the first place. How could he have been so stupid? Too consumed with rage and grief, but now the scales were certainly falling from his eyes. He swore softly.

  ‘What is it?’ she asked.

  ‘I don’t know yet. Maybe I’ve been wrong about a few things. Do you know where Michael is now?’

  She looked him straight in the eye. ‘No, I don’t. London was the last contact I had with him.’

  He decided not to press the point. ‘Tell me how you met then.’

  He half listened as she told him about their first meeting in the hospital canteen. Whether she knew Michael’s current whereabouts or not had become almost irrelevant to him personally. He believed her when she said Michael wasn’t responsible for Nat’s death, the whole idea seemed less and less feasible, but the question that really needed to be answered was why did SIS want him now? He suddenly became aware that she had stopped talking, and was looking at him expectantly.

  ‘Sorry, I wasn’t paying attention.’

  ‘That’s ok. I said, what will you do now? What will you tell your people?’

  He considered for a few seconds. ‘I’ll tell them what you told me. You don’t know where he is. That should be the end of it as far as you’re concerned.’

  She looked less than convinced. ‘I hope so.’

  They agreed to talk about something else, so he told her he really did like her music, he wasn’t a complete fraud in that respect. She cheered up a little, telling him about the Munich gig. It had been a success by all accounts. She pointed at the photo on the wall.

  ‘That’s Sonny Rollins and me. Do you know who he is?’

  ‘I know the name, so he must be famous if I’ve heard of him.’

  She grinned. ‘You’re hopeless. He came to Berlin for a concert, must be five years ago now. I made sure I got a photo with him. He even knew who I was, so I was over the moon.’

  She wanted to give him a CD or two, but co
nfessed she had nothing in the apartment.

  ‘Will you let me have your address? I’ll send you a selection of my best bits.’

  He wrote it down for her. Then he checked his watch.

  ‘It’s late. I need to go, not sure when the last train to Frankfurt is either.’

  ‘Stay here tonight, Harry. Finish the wine with me, and you can sleep in the spare bedroom.’

  ‘Well, I...’ No, surely after this rather painful exchange of confidences she wasn’t thinking of seducing him. Trouble was, he knew he wouldn’t resist too much if she tried. It wasn’t about to happen though. ‘Alright, thank you.’

  It was past midnight when she showed him to the second bedroom. And I was here just the other night photographing it, he thought. If that ever comes out she will use the carving knife. He lay in bed, thinking about their conversation and the questions it had raised. If not Michael, who? And why was he still holding on to this after 20 years? It had bubbled away sub-consciously all that time, quietly fucking him up. Was it resolved now? He didn’t know.

  He was still trying not to think about any of it, when there was a tap on the door.

  ‘Harry, are you awake?’

  ‘Yes, come in.’

  ‘I can’t sleep, I keep thinking about Ireland. Can I come in with you please?’

  He hesitated. ‘Is that a good idea?’

  She slipped under the covers. ‘I’m not going to make love to you. You’re married.’

  His fingers strayed to his wedding ring. ‘Alright then, as long as we’ve got that straight.’

  ‘Just hold me, then I’ll go to sleep.’ She snuggled up to him.

  He drew her close. She had a dressing gown on, and pyjamas. He was down to his boxers so at least there was something between them. Just. He would lie back, think of New Zealand, and do absolutely nothing. That would work.

  And after a while fatigue and shared warmth did the trick, and they both slept.

  He woke early, alone. He had to be at work, so he dressed quickly and found Sabine in the kitchen making coffee. She asked him how he had slept and if he wanted breakfast. He said he’d settle for coffee. She seemed a bit distant, almost formal.