Dancing With Mortality

by Mark McKay

  ‘I quit the bank.’

  ‘What?’ She’d been nursing a mild hangover and was stretched out on the sofa. ‘Did you say you’d quit?’

  ‘Yes, I’m flying to Belfast on Thursday.’

  He had her full attention as she sat bolt upright. ‘I don’t understand. Why?’

  ‘I have some calls to make. Then it’s over.’

  She considered this for a moment and then laughed derisively. ‘I thought it was already over. How many more times do I have to listen to this? Will you never stop?’

  ‘Try and understand, Sophie, I...’

  She cut him off. ‘Understand? What do you think I’ve been trying to do? Are you really going to Ireland? Or is it Lanzarote, or Copenhagen, or is it Heidelberg maybe?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Did you sleep with her, Harry?’

  She caught him totally off guard with that, and his face was answer enough.

  ‘I thought so. You do whatever you like, but when you get back don’t expect to find me here, and you can start thinking about finding somewhere else to live while you’re at it.’

  She walked calmly up the stairs to the bedroom and then slammed the bedroom door violently. This was not the start to the New Year he’d envisaged.

  Chapter 19

  He landed in Belfast just after 1pm and then took a taxi straight to the address Michael had given him. He hadn’t rung in advance, on the assumption that the call might be recorded. It was a small terraced house in a street of small terraced houses, and he could see the peace wall that still divided the two communities rearing up two streets behind it. He rang the bell and waited. Presently the door was answered by a grey-haired, middle-aged woman wearing a dirt-smudged blue apron over a brown cotton blouse and loose-fitting jeans.

  ‘What can I do for you?’ She was businesslike but not unfriendly.

  ‘I’m here to see Mr O’Reilly. I’m a friend of his son.’

  She looked at him impassively for a moment and then waved him in. ‘Just a minute, I’ll tell him you’re here.’

  He stood in the hall. Directly ahead there were stairs against the adjoining wall, leading up to the second level, and to his right there were what he took to be two reception rooms, though both doors were shut. The woman, who he thought must be the housekeeper, had walked directly down the hallway into the kitchen area and was talking quietly to someone out of view. He heard the squeak of a chair being pulled back, and then she came out and beckoned him in.

  Michael Senior was standing at the kitchen table with a look both curious and sad clouding his features. His hair, still abundant, was white and close cut, and for a man of eighty-something he retained an impressive bulk, reminiscent of his son. The eyes were the giveaway though, the same pale blue. His voice, when it came, was soft, but still deep and clear, and heavily Belfast accented.

  ‘You say you know my son?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Harry, extending his hand. ‘We met in Sweden recently. He asked me to come and see you.’

  There was a slight hesitation in the grip, but the older man’s handshake was firm. ‘You know he’s dead, don’t you?’ he said, almost diffidently Harry thought.

  Harry nodded. ‘Yes, he wanted me to talk to you if anything happened to him.’

  ‘What’s your name?’

  Harry introduced himself, and after Michael Senior bid the housekeeper, who identified herself as Mrs McDonald, to make some tea, he was ushered through to the sitting room.

  There were two large armchairs and a sofa arranged around a fireplace, in which an artificial fire was burning. His eye was caught by two photos on the mantelpiece, one of Michael in earlier years and another of a redheaded woman.

  ‘Is that Siobhan?’ he asked. Michael Senior nodded. It was a simple head-and-shoulders portrait which must have been taken when she was around 20 years old. The fiery red hair and the blue eyes were the first thing to hit you, then the sheer energy of her youth in her smile and radiant complexion. She had very clear skin for a redhead, he thought, and she was pretty.

  ‘I thought you might be another of those bastards from the intelligence community,’ said Michael Senior. ‘But there’d be no point in them coming back. They found him, didn’t they?’

  ‘Yes, I’m pretty sure that’s what happened. I’m sorry for your loss. But I want to tell you how I met Michael, and what we found out together.’

  The tea arrived. Mrs McDonald showed no sign of leaving the room, and seeing Harry’s hesitation Michael Senior assured him that he could talk without reservation in front of her. Harry told them the whole story, from his arrival in Ireland and his part time job with SIS, through Nat’s death and the 20 year gap right to the events in Sweden and directly afterwards.

  ‘So you do work for British Intelligence then,’ said Michael Senior, looking slightly bewildered.

  Harry smiled. ‘When it suits them I think. I’ve been used rather than employed, if that makes sense. It’s personal now.’

  ‘That’s some story, Harry. And you believe this Fitzpatrick man to be a British informer then?’ Michael Senior had listened almost without interruption and with deep concentration. His age hadn’t as yet dimmed his powers of comprehension as far as Harry could tell. ‘There was a Fitzpatrick Carpentry here in Belfast way back,’ he continued. ‘I remember him. Didn’t know he’d gone into politics though. To be honest, Harry, I pay no attention to it now. I’ve lost two children to the Republican cause, which is ironic as I’m one myself. Anyone who still espouses the politics of violence is a bloody fool for my money. But revenge I do understand.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose when it comes down to it, revenge is what we’re talking about. Or justice if you’re being charitable.’

  Mrs McDonald went out to brew a fresh pot. ‘Have you come equipped for justice, Harry?’

  Harry was momentarily perplexed, then he clicked. ‘No, you don’t understand. I have no intention of shooting anyone. I’ll tell you what I plan to do.’

  He explained his intentions to the older man, who regarded him dispassionately as he did so. When he’d finished, Michael Senior thought about it for a while and then rose from his armchair and walked across to a sideboard on the far side of the room. He opened a drawer, his back to Harry.

  ‘I’ve outlived two children and a wife, Harry. It’s unnatural and it makes me sad. We’ve only just met but I’d like to think I won’t have to outlive you too. If you’re going to do what you say you are you should think about self protection while you’re here.’

  He came back carrying a shoe box, which he placed on the coffee table. ‘Open that.’

  Harry lifted the lid. Inside, on a bed of coarse white cloth, lay a Walther PPK with several clips of ammunition.

  ‘They used to be very popular with the Ulster Defence Regiment,’ said Michael Senior.

  ‘Someone told me that once. Aren’t you being a little melodramatic?’

  ‘Just take it. If you don’t use it, return it to me on your way home. But frankly, at my time of life I don’t care if they trace it to me or not.’

  Harry took a long look at the gun, thinking the last time he’d held one of these he’d pointed it at this man’s son. He shook his head in wonder. ‘Alright, I’ll take it. Do you have a holster?’

  ‘Mrs McDonald, do we have a holster for the gun?’ shouted Michael Senior.

  Mrs McDonald popped her head round the door and spotted the open shoe box. ‘Sure we do, Michael, I’ll fetch it. And keep your voice down, do you want the whole street to know we’re armed?’

  Harry made some space for the gun in his suitcase. He drank another cup of tea then asked Mrs McDonald to ring for a taxi.

  ‘Where to, Harry?’

  ‘The nearest bus station. I’m going to Dublin.’

  He assured Michael Senior that he’d call again on his way back.

  ‘Watch the newspapers over the next few days,’ he said. ‘It might get interesting.’

  The older man seemed rather de
tached. He shook Harry’s hand as they parted. ‘Whatever happens it won’t bring my children or your wife back. Don’t let your anger cloud your judgement, Harry. We’ve been doing that here for years and it’s done us no good whatsoever.’

  He thought about that parting remark as he watched the peace wall dividing Catholics and Protestants pass him by in the taxi. The division seemed to him to be more tribal than religious, and rooted in so much history that any attempt to dismantle it would require a shift in hearts and minds that would make the fall of the Berlin Wall look like a walk in the park.

  He turned his mind to his own problems. A wife on the verge of leaving and an illness as yet unmanifested. And soon his credibility would be tested too. All much easier to solve than the issue of Northern Ireland, he thought, and laughed quietly to himself.

  The taxi driver gave him a queer look. ‘Something I said?’

  ‘No, sorry. Just thinking out loud I guess.’

  The bus station came into sight. ‘We’re here,’ said the driver.

  Harry paid the man and got out. Next stop, Dublin.

  He got off the bus at Grafton Street. Dublin didn’t seem that much different, not around here anyway, though he noticed Grafton Street had been pedestrianised since his last visit. The revitalisation of the Republic’s economy was more evident in the shiny office blocks in the financial district on the other side of the river. He walked up Grafton Street and past St. Stephen’s Green till he got to Harcourt Street. He tried to remember where the flat had been and was shocked to find he wasn’t sure anymore. The Harcourt Hotel hadn’t moved, and he took a room for a week, unaware that 20 years before Siobhan had also been here.

  He could have stayed elsewhere, but right now he wanted to remember how it had been and how it had felt, to revisit the Harry Ellis who was an Irish student and had a career lined up as a language scholar. And how that ambition had been irrevocably extinguished one Christmas Eve so long ago. It could be seen as a masochistic indulgence if you were a critical observer, but to him it was a necessary part of preparing himself for what was to come. He had a pint of Guinness in the bar downstairs and then, after a room service meal, got an early night.

  He phoned the Irish Times the following morning and asked for the journalist whose name Michael had left him. He wasn’t available, so he left a message to the effect that he had information he wanted to share on the Colin Fitzpatrick story, and would Mr O’Neill kindly return his call.

  He spent the morning at Trinity college, this time as a tourist. He took a tour through the Old Library, which contained the Book of Kells, and although he’d seen the manuscript before he couldn’t help but be captured anew by the ornate beauty of the pages on display. He was on the way out of the college when the phone rang. It was David O’Neill.

  ‘Where did you get my name, Mr Ellis?’

  ‘From Michael O’Reilly, or Sullivan if you prefer.’

  ‘I see. What’s your interest in this story then?’

  ‘I want to make a statement that you can use as an addition to your story. I met Michael shortly before he died. We had a common interest in Colin Fitzpatrick.’

  O’Neill sounded cautious. ‘That’s interesting of course, but to be honest Mr Ellis it looks as though the story really doesn’t have much life left in it. As Fitzpatrick says, he has no case to answer. It will be difficult to prove otherwise.’

  Harry had wondered if this might be the first reaction. ‘Before you kill it then, will you do me the courtesy of listening to what I have to say?’

  There was a pause, then O’Neill made up his mind. ‘Ok, do you know where the offices are?’

  ‘D’Ollier Street?’

  ‘Yes. Come by at 2pm and ask for me at reception.’

  O’Neill was in his forties, Harry guessed, a tall, slim, and vibrant man with a shock of curly black hair and a beard shot through with grey. He collected Harry from reception and led him to a meeting room two floors above.

  ‘We won’t be disturbed here,’ he said. He placed a pocket tape machine on the table between them. ‘Do you mind if I record this?’

  ‘Be my guest.’

  O’Neill switched the tape on and sat back, crossing his arms. ‘What have you got for me then?’

  Harry took a deep breath. ‘You need to hear it from the beginning. In 1981 I was living here in Dublin with my wife Natalie and studying Irish at Trinity College. I had a part time job doing translation work…’

  Throughout the narrative O’Neill’s reaction veered from initial incredulity through amazement and finally to barely contained excitement. He didn’t interrupt, and when Harry had finished he leaned forward to switch off the tape. ‘Jesus wept.’ He thought for a moment. ‘Did you bring any ID?’

  Harry reached into his jacket pocket, and pulled out his British and New Zealand passports. ‘Will this do?’

  O’Neill checked the documents and pushed them back across the table. ‘I’ll need to run my standard checks on dates and places. Normally I’d ask you for a photograph, but that might not be a good idea just yet.’

  ‘What do you think will happen?’

  ‘With you being the second person to name Fitzpatrick, and being the victim of a bombing that was so close to Siobhan O’Reilly being shot...’ He thought some more. ‘And you’ve named names. We will lobby for a public enquiry, though to be honest the chances of getting one are slim. But this will certainly put more pressure on him.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘If there was an enquiry your testimony would be vital. Unless of course...’ He stopped and looked at Harry with real concern.

  ‘Unless I don’t get to testify, is that what you’re thinking?’

  ‘To put it bluntly, yes. I don’t want you on my conscience too. Where are you staying?’

  Harry told him. O’Neill stared at the table, and Harry could almost see the cogs turning as he considered the implications. He finally looked up. ‘Ok, if we go public with this I want to do two things – first, get you out of sight, and second line you up for a television interview. Are you prepared to do that?’

  ‘Whatever it takes.’

  ‘Alright. Go back to the Harcourt now and stay by the phone. I may ring you to clarify some things. I’ll work on this for the rest of the day, and if we’re going to publish, it will come out tomorrow. Then over the weekend we can gauge the reaction. I’ll be in touch later.’

  Harry left, feeling both trepidation and a lightness of spirit he’d forgotten he possessed. It looked like the ‘shitstorm’ might be unleashed after all. And all he had to do was stay out of harm’s way when it was. At least there’d be no miffed Republicans to contend with this time, he reflected. But considering who he might have to contend with instead brought him precious little consolation.

  When O’Neill began to call at regular half-hourly intervals asking for more details on various parts of his story he knew it would all go ahead, and it was confirmed later that evening. He was advised to leave Dublin and find a quiet spot in the country.

  ‘Don’t tell me where, Harry. Keep your receipts for car hire and accommodation. We will reimburse you, and over the weekend I’m going to see about getting you a slot on the TV news. In the meantime keep a low profile.’

  He told the girl on hotel reception that this would be his last night and then arranged a car for the following morning.

  The Friday dawned, cold and overcast, with a bitter gusting breeze that made him bow his head as he wheeled his case out of the Harcourt and set a vigorous pace to the Avis pick up point ten minutes walk away. He stopped briefly to pick up a copy of the Times, and there it was – ‘Second Man Names Fitzpatrick as British Informer.’ There was a paragraph on the front page with his name and a mention of his association with SIS and then the reader was directed to ‘the full and comprehensive story’ on page 5.

  I’ll read it later, he thought, stuffing the paper into the zip pocket on the side of his case. He found the Avis office and, after browsing the cars on offer
, settled for a Peugeot 307. He pored over the map in the glovebox and decided to try Kilkenny, about an hour and a half away. He would have liked to go further, but if they needed him for TV he should stay reasonably close to Dublin.

  He switched off the phone. This time he’d pick up a cheap pay-as-you-go model and use that to talk to O’Neill. He still had no idea if his indiscretions with his phone in Sweden had been noticed by Jack Hudson, but he wasn’t going to chance it a second time in Kilkenny, where he definitely wanted to stay ‘out of sight’.

  Being a popular tourist destination meant Kilkenny did not lack for hotels, and with it being the off season he had no trouble getting a room right in the centre of town. He had a late lunch in a nearby pub, made his phone purchase and then retired to review O’Neill’s article.

  It was all there, much as he’d recounted it on tape. The full story, from his employment with SIS (naming Litchfield but not Jack), their suspicions of O’Reilly, Nat’s death, and right up to the point where he identified O’Riordan and Fitzpatrick as the same man in Sweden. He used the new phone to call O’Neill.

  ‘Harry, I’ve been trying to call you.’

  ‘I’ve switched phones. Use this number from now on if you don’t mind.’

  ‘What do you think of the article?’

  ‘Very good, certainly accurate. What now?’

  ‘There will be a TV crew trying to get a reaction from Fitzpatrick over the weekend. And I’d like you to come back to Dublin on Sunday afternoon. We want to record some footage with you that we’ll release on Monday.’

  They agreed a time and place. On the Sunday at the Dublin studio, O’Neill showed him a clip of Fitzpatrick, who had been ambushed by the news team outside his home the previous evening. He continued to deny the allegations against him, but Harry thought he looked shaken nonetheless. In the end he’d pushed the camera away and climbed into a car, which rapidly pulled out of camera shot.

  ‘He’s reeling I think,’ O’Neill pronounced.

  Harry’s own interview was condensed into a two minute soundbite, which consisted of him essentially stating his allegations and saying that he was quite willing to repeat them in a court of law or at a public enquiry if necessary.