by Dee McInnes
Viv was too tired to argue.
Pete sat opposite her, in a burgundy leather armchair. There was a framed painting of a sandy beach and a calm, blue sea on the wall behind his head. Carmen’s paying customers occupied this space when they came to her for help. When they told Carmen the things they didn’t want anyone else to hear. When they heard themselves saying things they didn’t know they needed to say. On the table between them was a half-empty box of tissues.
“I might never get up from here,” Viv said, bringing the beer bottle to her mouth.
“You need to give yourself a bit of time to recover,” Pete said.
“I was worried about you, back there. You looked like you’d seen a ghost,” she said, setting the bottle down.
“I thought I might never see ye again. I should’ve been back ten minutes earlier, but I got stuck behind a bloody tractor. I never even had time to pick up a coffee, but that doesn’t matter now. Here you are, large as life, just as…”
“Hang on. We need to let Carruthers know what happened. Was anything reported?”
“Uh um. I called him from the hospital. Before you woke up. He was very glad to hear there was going to be no permanent damage. The fire’s passed under the radar. McKeown said that sort of thing never makes the headlines. The Boss was wondering if we’ll still meet our deadline, I said we should know after sentencing.”
“It shouldn’t be a problem. We still have Finnegan’s interview, and I made some notes, at his insistence. I also made a recording of my conversation with Mitch, although I promised him I’d only use it to write up the story. The PSNI and the prosecution swallowed Doctor Haslett’s version of events, but I wonder if we’ll ever know the whole truth?”
“I’ve been thinking about what we found out from the housekeeper and Rosemary’s GP, if you’re up to discussin’ it?” Pete said.
Viv nodded, “Go ahead.”
“The question is whether Rosemary Haslett really died from an asthma attack, or whether there could be a more sinister explanation? Were Steven and Rhona Haslett eighty miles away on the night in question or closer to home? And why wasn’t Rhona with her brother when he returned the next morning? A headline could be, ‘Did Greed Prompt North Antrim Surgeon to Kill Again?’”
“And,” Viv said, “Mitchell McVeigh spoke exclusively to us, expressing his deep-seated hatred towards the man who murdered his father. He recalled, on the night of the murder, that he witnessed a car driving away from his house, in the early hours of the morning… Casting doubt on the version of events put forward by the PPS. Finally, there’s the question mark over Andrew Haslett’s death forty years ago. Was that fire started deliberately and why wasn’t it properly investigated?”
“In those days, people with money had a lot of influence, and now we’ve had another fire. Maybe Carmen was right, about her red flag theory? What about the headline, A Conspiracy Theory?” Pete said.
“A Conspiracy of Silence.”
“Maybe Haslett’s not the only deceiver?”
“The only truth is everybody lies.”
“That’s perfect.”
“I wish my head didn’t feel like a ball of cotton wool,” Viv said. “There’s a lot to think about. I’ll try and put a draft together and send it over. The feature is going to be a tight squeeze. I hope we’ll get a follow-up. I’ll talk to Carruthers. Send me whatever you’ve got. We can catch up tomorrow and add the rest after Friday’s sentencing.”
“Is there anything else I can do?” Pete said.
“It might be worth having a chat with someone from the PSNI. Could you contact the Sergeant? Find out if there’s a Detective on the case who’d speak to us. I’d like to make sure they’ve no prosecutions in the pipeline before we run with the feature.”
Carmen interrupted them.
“Come on. Food’s on the table,” she said.
After they’d eaten, Pete said, “I’d planned to meet Paul McLaughlin and some of the other guys for a drink, if you’re okay Viv? The story can wait until you’re feeling up to it.”
“You go on I’ll be fine,” Viv said. “I’ve Carmen to mother me.”
Pete stood up and put his coat on. “Thanks for looking after me. I owe you,” Viv said.
“You’re breaking his heart,” Carmen observed, when the front door slammed. “Have you had one serious relationship since you and Harris broke up? How long ago was that?”
“Have you got any red wine?”
“You’re changing the subject,” Carmen said, but she got up and opened a bottle. Poured two large glasses. “Let’s take these next-door.”
“Only if you don’t try to psychoanalyse my love life? I’m far too tired.” Viv sank into the leather armchair and traced the face of the Breitling, relieved that the crystal hadn’t been scratched.
“I’m meeting Cuds in the morning, at Grianan Fort,” Carmen said. “It’s the last day of the shoot. Why don’t you come with me? It’d do you good to have a few hours off work. Blow the cobwebs away. Switch off. Maybe you’d find inspiration on the hill-top?”
“I don’t know. We’ve still got a lot to do...by the way, are you two ever going to set a date for the wedding?”
“It’s all work and no play.”
“Are you talking about me, or him?”
Carmen shrugged and took a sip of wine. “Take your pick,” she said, keeping her eyes down.
Viv cast her mind back to Adele’s wedding reception. She remembered the sensation of Cuds’ facial hair pressed against her ear and the crude suggestion that came out of his mouth. She hadn’t wanted to make a big thing of an incident that could simply have been the drink talking. But how many other women might Cuds have propositioned? Was that why Carmen couldn’t get him to commit to a date for their wedding?
“What time are you leaving?”
“They’re starting at first light. They have mobile catering, we could have breakfast there,” Carmen said.
“Okay, we’ll go. But only if I can borrow your computer, please? There are a few things I need to do first. I’ll finish this drink and get started.”
Chapter Twelve
Viv had washed the smell of smoke from her hair, but there was still a rawness at the back of her throat. A disconnect between her head and body, like the aftermath of too many Irish whiskeys. She drew back the curtains and looked out across the garden. It was cold and frosty, the sort of weather you often got on Bonfire Night, although it was eight days later. Days like this took her back to the time when she had first found out about her mum’s illness. She had been a few months short of her ninth birthday. By the time the daffodils were poking up their heads, her mum was already withering and dying.
Carmen had left out some clean jeans and a sweatshirt. Viv got dressed and met Carmen in the kitchen. They had a cup of tea before setting off, Carmen driving with her foot to the floor. Viv was reminded of her father, who used to treat his Ford Cortina like the Sherman tank he’d driven during the war. Her parents had a shared sense of urgency. They never liked to be late for anything. She blamed them for her clock-watching habit. Aunt Cassy was from the same school of thought. Critical of folk who were all talk and no action. ‘The devil will find work for idle hands,’ her Aunt used to say. But all their rushing around couldn’t prevent her parents’ lives from being cut short. She often wondered what the point of their industry had been? What they had been afraid of?
Viv had not been back to Grianan Fort for more than twenty years, since her father died. The sixth century stone circle was one of the royal sites of Gaelic Ireland. An ancient seat of kings. From the top, there was a panoramic view of Counties Londonderry and Donegal.
“What’s the Clans of Inishowen about?” she asked Carmen. “I assume it’s a period piece.”
“There are two brothers, Conall and Éogain, in a power struggle to rule the Northern Neill. They’re also at war with their neighbour, King Chremthian, whose territory lies to the south. Éogain falls in love with the King’s daugh
ter, Aiobhall. She is raped by Conall, who is already married, on the eve of the battle. Cuds thinks it could be the next big thing,” Carmen said.
“Where’d the money come from?” Viv asked.
“Derry City and the Northern Ireland Arts Councils are sponsoring the project. Don’t ask me how he managed to swing it.”
They passed the turn-off for Ballylester, Carmen’s hatchback barrelling down the mountain. Lough Foyle was a flat, grey-blue stretch on their right. In the distance Viv could see the green fields at Dunross, stretching towards Magilligan. Her mother’s family had been descendants of English settlers, allocated prime farmland as part of a seventeenth century political venture called The Plantation. This created a segregated society, infuriating the native Irish and had, some claimed, been the start of the conflict that erupted a hundred years later.
Her father had been from County Donegal. He joined the British Army at the outbreak of WWII, together with many of his fellow countrymen. After surviving a stray mortar that wiped out the rest of his tank crew, he was posted overseas before being sent to Magilligan Camp. He took a new job in prison security when part of the camp was converted, in the early seventies, to house the growing number of political prisoners. Her parents met at a dance. They fell in love before realising they were from opposite sides of the divide. Viv and her father used to visit Grianan Fort. He liked to look out towards his birthplace on the west coast. He dreamt of moving back following his retirement – which would have been three months after his murder.
“Not far now,” Carmen said. “Does this still feel like home? Or are you settled in London?”
“When I’m working, I never really think about it,” she said. “But when I come back here, there are so many memories…”
“I know one person who would love to see you stay a while,” Carmen said. She meant Pete of course. But he was just a friend. Viv couldn’t imagine him as anything else.
The electricity pylons at Maydown stretched overhead. The air was thick with steam from the industrial chimneys, lying low like fog. The orange windsock above Foyle Bridge came into view, hanging limply. They swept up and over the three steel spans, which had been built at the Harland and Wolff shipyard in Belfast.
“There’s a dedicated rescue team trying to prevent suicide attempts as well as searching for victims all year round, both here and further up at the old bridge in the centre of the city,” Carmen said. “Sadly, a lot of people lose the battle with their internal demons. I know one of the Counsellors who tries to talk people down from here. There are some awful stories.”
“Why do people jump?”
“That’s the million-dollar question. The people they leave behind ask themselves the same thing over and over. The problem is that victims of suicide aren’t thinking straight when they come to that decision. Sometimes, a lot of the time, their reasoning is clouded by drugs, alcohol or both. They have convinced themselves that they’re taking the only way out.”
“If you ever think I’ve taken my own life, please demand an inquest.”
“Don’t ever go there. Pick up the phone. Talk to me. Talk to someone.”
Across the Irish border, the road twisted and climbed around the hilltop. The narrow road leading to the Fort was closed to the public, but Carmen’s name was on the list. A man in a high-viz jacket directed them to the car park. Carmen squeezed into a space between the production trailer and a minibus. The view, even from this lower vantage point, was as impressive as ever.
The wind wrestled the car door out of her hand and whipped through Viv’s hair as she stepped outside. Grey clouds scudded towards Lough Swilly, the Foyle’s cross-border neighbour. She tucked her mobile into a pocket of the borrowed waterproof, although it was unlikely there would be any reception in such an isolated spot.
Actors were scattered around in costume. They wore leather jerkins over studded tunics, animal skins draped around their shoulders. They were all men except for a willowy female with red hair, a female version of Pete. Viv wondered what he was doing now and whether he would manage to get an audience with one of the detectives involved in the Haslett case.
The film crew wore thick Puffa jackets and knitted hats. There was a two-wheeled catering vehicle beside the production trailer. Cuds was nearby, warming his hands around a coffee cup. He came over when he saw them, giving Carmen a bear-hug and kissing the top of her head. They had met briefly the last time Viv was over. Neither of them had ever mentioned the incident at Adele’s wedding, when Viv had slapped him hard across the face.
“Hey, nice to see you,” he said. The sound of the wind blowing across the hill-top made it difficult to hear what he said. She thought about what he had whispered when Carmen was on the dancefloor. She remembered the smell of his sweat, his breath hot against her cheek. As long as he was treating Carmen okay and not propositioning other women behind her back.
“How’s it going?” she said, forcing a smile. “Is it always this windy?”
“Yes, sound recording is a nightmare. I need Carmen’s help for a while if you don’t mind entertaining yourself?”
“Sure. Is it okay if I go up to the fort?”
“Yes, but stay on the north west side, it’s the back-drop. There’s coffee if you want some?”
“Maybe later. Thanks.”
“Come to the after party on Monday night. There’s going to be a Civic Reception and a free bar. It’ll be a blast,” Cuds said. There was an expression on his face she couldn’t decipher. He draped his arm across Carmen’s shoulders and led her away.
Viv followed a gravel path uphill towards the fort, concluding that she needed to find a way of resolving the issue for her own peace of mind. She’d promised Adele she would look out for Carmen. She would take the day off. Invite Pete to the party. Confront Cuds about what had happened. Clear the air.
A complex circle of flat and long stones interlaced to form the thick, fort wall. The stone circle seemed smaller than she remembered, its entrance dark and narrow. Inside the fort it was beautiful. There was no wind, and the sun cast shadows. The structure rose over three levels, worn lichen-stained steps crossing on the diagonal. She climbed up. At the top, the wind caught her full in the face, making her eyes water. She looked out over the familiar landmarks of the Swilly and Inch Island with the Knockalla mountains in the distance - all of them laid out in a muddy palette of grey-blue, green and brown.
“The world is a big place,” she remembered her father had said. “Seize every chance, never let the worms of doubt get to you.”
Someone else had entered the fort, on the Western side. A man had climbed to the top and was admiring the view, his hands resting on the stone wall. He waved at someone below, turned and came towards her, his hair buffeted by the wind. He wore a black, quilted coat and a pair of cargo trousers. As he came closer, she noticed that his coat had a sports club emblem on the chest pocket. She guessed he was close to her own age, or maybe a few years older.
“Hope I’m not disturbing you?” he said in a broad Derry accent. “Apparently I’m not allowed to stand in his camera-shot.”
“No. It’s fine,” Viv said, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand.
The man stood close, neither of them saying anything.
“It’s brave and windy up here… I’m Dermott, by the way,” he said.
His eyes were a strange combination of blue and green. He had thick eyebrows and a dark, five o’clock shadow.
“Viv.”
She extended her hand. His fingers were warm, enclosing hers in a tight grip. A sliver of the ice packed inside her chest turned to water.
“Very pleased to meet you,” he said. “I’m a football coach. I brought some of the boys along to play warrior. What brings you up here?”
“My girl-friend’s engaged to Cuds, I mean Mark, the producer,” Viv said.
“What about you, are you spoken for?”
“…It’s a great view, isn’t it? Have you been here before?”
�
�A couple of times,” Dermott said.
The wind was threatening to blow them off the hilltop. Viv caught sight of Carmen’s red scarf flapping in the distance. Cuds was getting the actors into position. The men in the leather jerkins disappeared down the hillside, before running back over the tufts of brown grass towards the fort. Cuds to one side, urging them forwards.
“Do you know this part of the world well?” she said, turning sideways.
“There’s Inch Levels,” Dermott pointed with his index finger. “It’s a great spot for bird-watching, if that’s your thing.”
“I wouldn’t have the patience,” she laughed.
He stared at her until she looked away. The wind gusted like a banshee.
“Beyond Inch island, to the right there, is Lisfannon beach and Buncrana,” he went on. “I used to stay there when I was younger. It’s a great place to get away from it all. Me and my school mates used to go fishing off the pier. What about you, you’re not from around here, are you?” he said, flashing her a smile.
“I’m staying in Belfast. I’m over here on business,” she said.
“You’d have to go a long way to match the wilds of Donegal. If you’ve got time, I’d be glad to show you around?”
Below them, the filming had halted. Cuds was shouting something at the camera crew.
“Maybe some other time,” she said. “I’d better get back. Nice to meet you.” Viv retraced her steps and joined Carmen in the car park. She fetched a coffee from the catering van and replied to a text from Pete, which had somehow managed to get through despite the patchy network coverage.
The cast and crew got ready and Cuds gave the signal. The actors charged, brandishing their weapons, shouting and roaring at the top of their voices. The willowy female stood like a pillar on a rock below the fort, gazing towards the horizon. She wore a long, green tunic and had a white animal pelt over her shoulder. Her fiery locks streamed behind her. Everyone was, to some extent, an actor, Viv thought. Playing a role, keeping their cards close to their chest, revealing only the part of themselves they wanted others to see. Cuds drew a finger under his chin, and everyone gathered around the catering trailer. Viv noticed her new acquaintance joining the back of the queue.