by Mark McKay
‘I’m tired,’ she said on her return. ‘Are you?’
‘Yes, now you mention it.’
‘You take the first shower then.’
He set the water to as hot as he could stand and then let it wash over his head and back and chest, easing away the last remnants of tension. He put his hands high on the wall and raised his face to the oncoming water, and tried to think of nothing at all. He didn’t hear the shower door open, then Sabine had her arms around him from behind, and he could feel her breasts pressing against him as she tightened her grip.
He gasped. ‘Sabine, what the...’
‘Don’t stop me,’ she whispered.
She kept one arm tight around him and began exploring his body with her free hand. He felt himself responding straight away and realised he had no intention of stopping her. He freed himself from her grasp, spun around and kissed her long and hard.
‘Take me to the bedroom,’ she said.
Their passion was brief but intense. Then they lay quietly together, absorbing the implications of what they’d done.
‘I think I had too much wine,’ she said. ‘Don’t be mad.’
‘I’m not.’ He ran his hand over the curve of her hip. ‘You’re still wet from the shower. I’ll get a towel.’
He dried her, taking his time. Then he dried himself, kissed her and pulled the covers over both of them.
‘I thought you were tired,’ he said.
‘I am, I just got tired of waiting for the shower, that’s all.’
‘Of course, how stupid of me.’
‘Will you be ok, Harry?’
‘I think so. Sleep now. Or are you going to attack me again?’
‘No, I’ll ask your permission next time. Good night.’
The next morning he woke with a headache and a raging thirst. Sabine was fast asleep beside him. Being careful not to disturb her, he got out of bed and went back to his room to find some clothes. Once dressed, he went to the kitchen and drank two glasses of water, staring absentmindedly at the view from the kitchen window.
‘Hallo.’ She stood in the doorway, looking uncertain. ‘Could I have some water?’
She drained the glass he passed her then came over to the sink and refilled it. ‘I’m sorry about last night, Harry, I wasn’t thinking. Can we just forget about it?’
‘Don’t apologise, I didn’t exactly resist. I think I’ve been wanting that to happen for a while now. But yes, we should try to forget about it.’
‘Ok,’ she said with a rueful smile. ‘Would you like some breakfast?’
‘Yes, and will you drive me to the station later? I need to get back home.’
‘Sure. Don’t forget you’ve got the syringe in the fridge.’
‘No. I’d better use that before I go.’ He felt a bit nauseous. ‘Drank too much last night.’
‘The drugs and the wine don’t mix, Harry. If you want your treatment to work you need to drink as little alcohol as possible – preferably none.’
He knew she was right, and he was surprised at how difficult it was to break the drinking habit, even when his health depended on it. That would have to change.
Around mid-morning Sabine brought the Golf to a stop directly outside the station entrance. They got out and she watched as he unloaded his case and stood it on the pavement.
‘I want you to text me every evening from now on,’ he said. ‘I need to know you’re ok. I’ll try to call you, but it may not always be…convenient.’
‘I understand. When will I see you again?’
‘I really don’t know if that’s wise.’
Her face was inscrutable. ‘Good journey then.’ She hugged him. ‘Kiss me please.’
He kissed her for what seemed like minutes but was just a long moment, then he turned away and went in to the station. When he looked back she was getting into the car. He knew that not seeing her again was a difficult choice to make, but it was the only one. He found a ticket machine and fed it with notes, then, armed with his ticket to Frankfurt, he marched on to the platform and turned his thoughts towards London.
Chapter 18
Sophie had bought a Christmas tree. It stood in the far corner of the living room, reaching almost to the ceiling. He smelled it first, the sweet woody scent clearly discernible as he shut the front door. A large box full of baubles had been left next to it, and the lights were lying in a knotted heap at its base. There were a few strings of silver tinsel wound through the lower branches, and he had the impression of something abandoned, as though the decorator had been unavoidably interrupted, or had simply lost interest.
He had texted Sophie on his way back from Heathrow to let her know he was back, and this time he’d got a reply, saying she would see him later. He’d also rung the office to let them know he’d be in the next day, and they’d put him straight through to Gina.
‘You’re three days overdue, Harry. Out of simple courtesy you could have let us know earlier, couldn’t you?’
‘I’m sorry about that Gina, something came up and I was – delayed.’
‘I see. I don’t know what’s going on in your private life, but I can’t have it affecting my professional life. I expect to see you tomorrow, and if I don’t I’ll be thinking about terminating your contract and getting someone who will turn up on a daily basis.’
‘I’ll be there.’ He’d winced at the tone of their exchange and then found himself feeling surprisingly laissez faire about it.
He turned on the heating and shuffled through the mail. Nothing that looked worth opening right now. He decided to have a drink and think about what he was going to say to Sophie when she got back in a couple of hours. He settled reluctantly for tonic without the gin, as there was no other soft drink in the house and then wondered what to do next.
He had the lights working and on the tree when Sophie rang.
‘I’ll be at the station in ten minutes, come and get me please.’ Her tone was neutral, as though she might be reserving judgement on him. Soon find out.
She gave him a perfunctory kiss on the cheek and said nothing on the journey from the station. When they got in she asked him to fix her a drink and then went upstairs to change. He was in the kitchen when she returned. She came straight to the point.
‘Who is she and what were you doing in Copenhagen?’
‘Her name is Sabine. You need to hear the whole story and then you’ll understand why she was there.’
Sophie sighed. ‘Yes, something about Ireland wasn’t it? Tell me then.’
He started with Jack Hudson’s appearance at the wine bar. She looked incredulous.
‘But you haven’t heard from these people for years. Why now?’
It was hardly a smooth narrative. There were further interruptions:
‘You pretended to be a music journalist?’ with a wide eyed shake of the head.
‘This was all happening while we were together in Freiburg?’ with a pointed look condemning his deception.
He was glad he’d left out the break in at Sabine’s apartment. He stopped and made them both another drink prior to the Swedish instalment. Sophie raised her eyes in surprise.
‘You’re drinking tonic without gin?’
‘I started medication just over a week ago. I’m trying to cut down.’
‘You never said…’
‘I was going to, but we got onto this subject.’
They were sat at the kitchen table, and she stayed quiet when he resumed, staring at the full glass in front of her with an air of almost fatalistic detachment, as though she was being told something she knew she should hear but didn’t really want to know about. When he got to Michael’s shooting there was a sharp intake of breath, then she looked confused and horrified in equal measure.
‘My god, what have you done?’
‘Nothing. I was in Denmark when I heard. They found him and they killed him. End of story.’
‘And the press release?’
‘In the Irish Times any day now.’
She slammed her glass down, sending a spurt of gin and tonic across the table.
‘Why couldn’t you just leave it all alone? You should have told that man Hudson to go to hell. What do you think you’re going to achieve anyway?’ She stood up. ‘I hope you’re satisfied, whatever it is.’ She moved to the sink and began rinsing the spilt drink off her hands.
What I’d really like, he thought, is for someone to realise Fitzpatrick is the informer and murderer I know he is, and then put a bullet in him. He decided to keep this sentiment to himself.
‘I’m sorry, and you’re right, I should have told him to go to hell. Once it started, though, I needed to see it through, and now it’s over. There’s nothing more I can do, or need to do. Let’s draw a line under it and move on.’
‘Have you told me everything?’
He wondered what his face was saying, and was glad she had her back to him. ‘Yes, I’ve told you everything.’ He got up and moved to the lounge, where he busied himself with opening the mail and pretending to be interested in the contents.
She came in. ‘There’s some Lasagne in the freezer. Is that ok?’
‘Yes, that would be great.’
‘Tell me about these drugs you’re taking.’
She seemed to be distracting herself from any doubts she might have about what he’d just told her, and he seized on the respite. He filled her in on the treatment regime.
‘Any side effects yet?’ she asked.
‘Nothing to speak of. It’s early days though.’
His phone beeped, he had a text. Sabine – ‘Still here, Love S x’
He sent off a quick acknowledgement, then, discarding the half read mail, he decided it was time to embrace the Christmas spirit. He went back to the tree and began festooning it with glittering glass stars and multi-coloured baubles, making sure the dancing fairy had pride of place as close to the top as he could get it.
He returned to work the following day but found it hard to concentrate. He went out at lunch time and found a newsagent near Cannon Street who sold the Irish Times, but even after scanning it from front to back he could find nothing about a former IRA man accusing another of being a British informer. The afternoon passed slowly, and just as he decided he’d done enough for one day and was ready to leave, he had a call from Sabine.
‘I thought you should know,’ she said. ‘I’ve been in touch with Ingrid. The man she injured with the javelin died yesterday. Never regained consciousness apparently.’
‘You called her? I thought we agreed to leave her alone.’
‘I couldn’t. She’s expecting to be charged with manslaughter, but we think she’ll get bail. Anyway, I’m going back to help organise the funeral. It’s next week.’
He knew then that he didn’t want to try and change her mind. ‘Give her my condolences. Just take care of yourself.’
‘If anything happens to me there’ll be a diplomatic incident. I’m leaving a letter with my lawyer before I go to Sweden. It has enough information in it to embarrass your intelligence services, I think. Maybe even your Prime Minister.’
He was impressed. ‘Good idea, maybe I should do something similar.’
‘Anything in the papers yet?’
‘No, I’ll let you know when there is.’
‘Ok. I’m taking a flight from Frankfurt tomorrow. And the phone will stay on this time.’
It was the following day, the Friday before Christmas, when the story broke. And it made the front page, or to be more precise, the lower half of the front page.
________________________________________
Former IRA Man Says Republican Sinn Fein Treasurer Colin Fitzpatrick is British Informer.
Michael O’Reilly, who was a member of the IRA from 1972 until he was forced to leave Ireland in 1982, was the sole survivor of the ambush at Ballyrisode Beach in County Cork in 1981 that left eight men dead at the hands of the SAS and deprived the IRA of a large arms shipment. There was widespread speculation at the time as to how the SAS knew where the arms would be delivered.
According to O’Reilly, he was on the run and staying with his sister in Dublin only a day or two later when he was targeted by a hitman representing his own organisation. The man told him he had been labelled an informer, and in the scuffle that followed O’Reilly’s sister Siobhan was shot and the hitman fatally wounded. Siobhan O’Reilly later died of her injuries. Ambulance men, who acted as witnesses in the subsequent inquest, placed a man answering O’Reilly’s description at the scene, who referred to her as his sister.
O’Reilly states that Colin Fitzpatrick, now a prominent member of Republican Sinn Fein, was his battalion commander, and that he was protecting his own role as an informer by attempting to silence O’Reilly. He had no hard evidence to support this conclusion, and since leaving Ireland has lived quietly for the last 15 years in Sweden, where he had no further reason to revive his past.
When it came to his recent attention that British Intelligence were showing an interest in his whereabouts, and that his father was helping Belfast police with unspecified enquiries, he began to worry for his own safety, and contacted this newspaper with what he considered to be ‘the only insurance policy I may have.’ It was his assertion that he was to be silenced to ensure that Fitzpatrick’s continuing role as an informer, who could inflict significant damage on RSF, would never be revealed. O’Reilly hoped that by bringing the issue into the open he might forestall any action contemplated against him.
Mr O’Reilly knew that his evidence was at best circumstantial, and accordingly this newspaper was dubious about the merits of publishing the story. It now transpires however that Michael O’Reilly’s fears for his safety were well founded. Two days after he spoke to the Irish Times he was shot dead at his home in Sweden by an unknown assailant. That assailant was seriously injured during the incident and has since died.
It is on record that Mr Fitzpatrick was a member of the IRA prior to entering politics. We contacted the RSF office in Dublin to solicit a reaction from him, but he has so far declined to comment.
________________________________________
Was it enough to sow the seeds of doubt, he wondered. The next week should bring an answer. He’d bought two copies of the newspaper, and he cut the front page from the second copy and stuffed it into an envelope which he addressed to Sabine. He texted her to let her know it was on its way and tried to focus his mind once again on his work.
They buried Michael in Kiruna on Christmas Eve. Sabine called to tell him it had been a low-key affair, with about a dozen mourners, none of whom were Irish. Ingrid had indeed made bail on a manslaughter charge, and her lawyer was confident of getting her off on a plea of self defence. Sabine would stay for a few more days and be home before New Year.
Harry spent Christmas Day with his in-laws. They were no doubt briefed in advance by Sophie, as they took a softly-softly approach to the occasion. The chatter was constant as ever but it was conducted at a lower decibel level, and the word ‘Ireland’ had been erased from the lexicon. If Clive had been to Dublin on business since their last meeting he was making a distinct effort not to mention it. Harry restricted himself to two glasses of wine the whole day. Clive was concerned.
‘You all right, Harry? No shortage of booze if you want it.’
Harry said he was feeling rather tired, which in fact he was, and two glasses had been plenty, he had no appetite for more. He spent the latter part of the day in what he liked to think of later as a ‘thoughtful stupor’ in front of the television.
There was a riposte to Michael’s accusations in the New Years Eve edition of the Irish Times, this time on the inside front page. Fitzpatrick refuted Michael’s assertion, saying that the accusation was one of a bitter man who blamed the IRA for the death of his sister, which while regrettable had never been specifically linked to the IRA. He had not been Michael’s battalion commander in 1981, knew nothing of hitmen, and was not and had never been in the pay of British Intelligence. No
r was he in any way connected to the ambush on the beach. He was shocked at Michael’s death in mysterious circumstances and concluded that under the circumstances he had no case to answer.
How very convenient, thought Harry. He read the article again, sat at his desk at work. He was due to finish early and have a quick drink with some of his team as a run up to whatever festivities one might have planned for later. The day had been relatively quiet, with a lot of the people he would normally speak to out of the office, and no one took any notice of his absorption in what might have been labelled ‘frivolous activity’ on a normal business day.
He thought back on all that had happened since he and Sabine had left Heidelberg only a few weeks ago. Was he now looking at the final outcome of that journey and the revelations it had produced, all summarised in a few words in a broadsheet – no case to answer?
He picked up the desk phone and dialled Gina. He hadn’t seen her all day but he thought she was in. She was, and he said he needed a word in person. A minute later he was in her office.
‘What is it Harry?’ She’d been a little brusque since his return.
‘It’s short notice I know, but I won’t be back next year. If you don’t mind I’d like to terminate the contract right now.’
She was momentarily shocked, then perplexed. ‘Harry, what the hell is going on with you?’
‘You were right about my private life, that’s all. It’s screwing up both our professional lives. There’s something I need to do, and I’m afraid it takes priority over everything else. Sorry, but there it is.’
She looked at him in silence for a while and then shrugged. ‘Ok, if that’s how it is. Find someone to hand over to before you go. And leave your pass at reception on the way out.’
Sophie had invited some of the neighbours around for New Years Eve, and they stayed up past midnight to welcome in 2002. He didn’t mention his intentions till the afternoon of New Years Day.
