A sudden cracking noise from above their heads woke her abruptly from her half trance. There were leaves drifting down from the tree above. Pat started back and looked up. Sheila followed his gaze.
Sticking out among the branches of the tree, they could see a foot. The foot was wearing dirty white trainers. The foot was attached to a leg wearing jeans. Pat jumped out of the car.
“You! Get down here! What the hell are you doing?”
For a few seconds there was no response, then as Pat roared again, a face poked itself out among the leaves.
“It’s okay.”
“No, it’s not okay!” Pat shouted furiously. “Get down here till I murder you!”
“Press,” said the face. “Just looking for a good picture of Sheila Doherty here. I followed you in my Chevy this afternoon. Good publicity for her, you know.”
“Good publicity!” Pat was so angry that for a moment Sheila thought he would explode.
The journalist was staying well out of reach, up the tree, waiting for Pat’s anger to cool down.
“It’s all okay,” he said again. “I’m Al Riordan, I do the ‘High-lights’ column for the Gazette. You must have read it? I’m not intending any harm to you or Sheila – honest!”
He had misjudged his man. Far from cooling down at the explanation, Pat’s anger boiled over.
“Come down outa that or I’ll bloody make you!” he swore and made a leap for the lower branches.
Sheila watched, torn between a desire to giggle helplessly and horror, as Pat pulled himself up into the tree and seized the intrusive journalist by the arms. The two men struggled furiously, Al Riordan intent only on escape, Pat endeavouring to pull him to ground level in order to fight properly.
When you took account of the law of gravity, the struggle could not last long.
Within minutes, both men came crashing through the branches and rolled on the ground in a confused heap. Al Riordan, who if not brave was cunning, twisted himself free from Pat’s grip and staggered to his feet. Pat seized him again by one foot, hauling himself upright, his right fist landing in a hard, accurate kidney punch and his left following up in a hook to the jaw which left Riordan dizzy.
The journalist got to his knees and prudently stayed there for a moment while Pat towered over him, uttering threats, waiting for Riordan to get to his feet.
“Get up, ye dirty so and so! Get up till I knock ye down again!”
When he realised that Riordan had no intention of taking advantage of this offer, Pat seized him by his tee shirt, shook him violently, and dragged him to his feet. For a moment which was filled with terror for Riordan, Pat glared at him longingly.
Then, turning him round, Pat sent him on his way with a kick and a push.
He turned to see Sheila watching him from inside the car.
They looked at each other, Pat with the fury dying out of his face, a leaf caught in his hair, his knuckles red and raw, Sheila more dishevelled than he had ever seen her, with an expression from which the alarm had not yet vanished,
Then, slowly, a grin spread over Pat’s face and Sheila found herself giggling. A moment later, they were both laughing helplessly.
“Sheila, it’s as well that Riordan guy was so yellow! If he’d stood up to me I’d likely have killed him and then where would we be?”
Pat got back into the car.
“Serves us right, doesn’t it?” he said. “We should have had more sense. Bound to be one of those guys around most of the time.”
“Well, that particular one won’t be back in a hurry,” Sheila said. “I just hope he didn’t get any photos before you got him.”
“Photos?” asked Pat, looking blank.
“Yes, didn’t you hear him say he wanted to get a good picture of me?”
“So he did,” agreed Pat. “I didn’t listen to him too carefully, I was too hopping mad.”
“He had a camera slung round his neck,” Sheila added. “I noticed it bobbing about when you were kicking him on his way.”
Pat looked thoughtful. Then he laughed again.
“Chances are the film will be spoilt after the rough treatment the camera got, not to mention himself. Anyway, there’s nothing he could have snapped that I’d be ashamed of.”
“Yes,” agreed Sheila dryly. She did not add that five minutes later it might have been a different story.
The mood had been broken. Sheila and Pat drove back to the highway, found the pub Pat had mentioned, actually a four star restaurant, and ate a pleasant meal in their usual low key harmony.
The heightened emotions of the earlier afternoon were temporarily forgotten and Sheila, for her part, was greatly relieved. She was not ready for any major life choices at the moment and she knew that Pat was not looking for anything less from her.
As for Pat, he was aware that the change of atmosphere had ruled out any hopes he had had for now. He was content to wait. There would surely come another time.
Chapter Sixty-Three
Al Riordan’s camera had not been damaged. The following day’s Gazette carried a large and prominent photograph of Sheila and Pat in each other’s arms in the convertible. The details were blurred but there was no doubt about who the two people were or what they were doing.
The caption underneath read:
ICE MAIDEN MELTS!
Delmara laughed but Sheila could see that he was not best pleased. He warned her to be careful. The American press were far more enterprising and persistent than anyone in Ireland and they would go to any lengths to get a story.
“The moral is, beautiful, don’t do anything you wouldn’t want to see splashed over the front page,” drawled Francis. ”This one is harmless enough but next time it might not be.”
Sheila knew that he was right.
She was still on the track of enjoyment, determined to get something out of life since she did not seem able to get what she had originally hoped for. but she decided to be more circumspect in future.
Al Riordan’s photograph was syndicated widely and was given due prominence in local Belfast newspapers.
John Branagh saw it, as he saw everything about Sheila, and experienced his usual painful reaction.
He told himself that it was time he stopped feeling like this about someone who had long since gone out of his life. The shock of seeing that the man he had found kissing Sheila beside the Lagan was still so much a part of her life had gone deep. It seemed clear to him that Sheila had no further interest in him. Now there was this other man. She was promiscuous, he told himself. She would never settle down in one permanent relationship. He was well rid of her.
That same night, he invited Rosie to go to the pictures with him, and while there he held hands with her and kissed her.
Afterwards, he drove up above the city and parked in a secluded spot where they could look down on the lights of Belfast reflected in an orange glow unto the night sky.
Rosie was eager for his caresses and John, hurt more deeply than he realised by the photograph of Sheila in the arms of another man, accepted the comfort she offered. He made love to her, entering her body with a fierce satisfaction.
Afterwards he was filled with a deep disgust and self loathing.
“I’m sorry, Rosie,” he said harshly. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry, John,” Rosie said. “It’s what I wanted.”
But John could not be consoled.
He had broken his own rules yet again.
He hated himself for what he had done.
Chapter Sixty-Four
Phil’s trial for drug related offences was a headline affair.
Gerry was thankful that the new proposal for trial without jury had not gone through. It was difficult enough as it was.
There seemed to be no evidence to support Phil’s story that she knew nothing about the gun or the heroin. He was very much afraid that she would be found guilty on the first charge, possession of an unlicensed firearm. That in itself might not be too bad. The thing that rea
lly worried him was the second charge, which covered possession of a shipment of heroin not for personal use and, following on from that, a third charge of intent to deal. If Phil was convicted on this charge, the sentence would certainly be jail.
Davy Hagan, like Sheila, knew nothing about Phil’s arrest. He was still off the scene. As Phil had suspected, he had been flown over to the Middle East and was trying to iron out by means of bribery some hold-ups which had arisen with the pipeline. He had volunteered for this job. It had always been Davy’s way to throw himself wholeheartedly into whatever he believed in. He had decided to work with O’Brien. Once he had made that decision, he was determined to do it to one hundred per cent of his ability.
Phil was on her own.
Through the entire ordeal, she clung to one idea. She would keep Davy out of it.
None of her family, not even Gerry, knew that the flat was his or even that he and Phil were still so close. It seemed that the police had not checked up on the name of the rent payer on the contract. If they had done so, Phil was ready with her story of an unofficial sublet, but it was never needed. Were the PSNI, she wondered, only too pleased to have caught a drug dealer and reluctant to do anything to spoil their case?
The only person who ever raised the question of Davy Hagan’s possible involvement was Gerry Maguire. He knew that his sister had gone out with Davy for a while and he was well aware of Davy’s views, although he had never shared them. Now he began to wonder if, through knowing Davy, Phil had been introduced to ex-paramilitary, drug pushing circles and had been made use of. He suggested this to Phil on one of the few occasions when he was allowed to see her but Phil denied it vehemently.
“It has nothing to do with Davy Hagan,” she insisted. “I don’t know how the gun or the drugs got there. I don’t have any friends who could have been responsible. Someone, some stranger, must have had a key to the flat. Someone who rented it ages ago, maybe, and held on to a copy of the key afterwards.”
It was a weak story and Gerry knew it. But failing any other explanation, and with no evidence to back it up, he had no alternative. He had to present it in court. He wished very much that some alternative would miraculously appear.
But this wasn’t an episode in a TV drama.
One of the worst aspects of the case, Gerry knew, was Phil’s own attitude.
She insisted repeatedly that she was innocent of any knowledge of the gun or any involvement in drug dealing.
But even Gerry could see clearly the overall feeling of guilt, some sort of guilt, which undermined the impression her words made.
“Phil,” he told her energetically, “you need to convince the jury – the judge too, but mainly the jury. You need to make them say to themselves “I don’t believe that young girl knew anything about it.” And you’re not trying! When you say “I didn’t know anything about drug dealing activities,” it just sounds as if you were lying, and not even lying well. You’ve got to do better that that!”
“I’m sorry, Gerry,” Phil said, her lip trembling. “I do try.”
Something inside her, a gnawing guilt, would not allow her to speak convincingly. As more and more reports of the death and injuries at the Magnifico filtered in, Phil became convinced more surely that some of the responsibility was hers. If only she had found some way to tell. She had wanted to warn Sheila but she had failed to give a general warning with enough detail to make it believable.
She had put Davy first, as she had always done.
The guilt weighed heavily on her and made it impossible for her to declare her innocence in the ringing tones of conviction.
As the day of the trial approached rapidly, Gerry became more and more worried. He had brought in the senior partner in his firm, James Kennedy, for advice and help. Kennedy had recommended an excellent barrister friend, Scott Worthington.
So far, so good.
But even the eloquence of Scott Worthington would need some facts to work on and some support from his client. Gerry was very much afraid that there would be neither.
Chapter Sixty-Five
Mary Branagh became aware of Phil’s arrest and trial only belatedly. She was working hard towards an MA, missing Orla Greaves who had left for Africa at the end of the summer, and ignoring news broadcasts as far as possible. She overlooked the initial headlines on Phil’s arrest.
Only when a friend mentioned it casually one day did she realise what was happening.
“This girl, Phil Maguire, is she the one who used to be a friend of yours?” Carmel asked, rustling the leaves of her newspaper as they sat at coffee in the Students’ Union. “I seem to remember you mentioning her name.”
“Yes, I’ve known Phil all my life.” Mary dragged her thoughts away from the details of her teacher training course. “Why, what about her?”
Carmel told her.
Mary was horrified. “Phil! But Phil would never do anything like that! How can anyone possibly think so?”
“They seem to be sure enough about it,” Carmel said dryly. “But they could be wrong.”
“They are wrong,” Mary stated categorically. “How terrible for Phil. I wonder if I can get to see her?”
“I doubt it,” Carmel said realistically. “You aren’t a relation. But if she’s convicted, you’ll be allowed to visit her then.”
“Oh, don’t, Carmel!” For once, Mary, who loved bluntness and honesty, was upset by bluntness from someone else. “She couldn’t be convicted.”
When the day of the trial arrived, Mary went to the court. There was nothing she could do to help, just by being there, but she felt somehow that Phil might like to see a friendly face among the crowd.
When she arrived at the Laganside court, she was horrified to see the crowds outside the courthouse. There was continual shouting and jeering, all aimed at Phil. At the bar of public opinion, Phil was condemned already.
Mary made her way inside and found her way to the correct courtroom. She was nervous, not knowing what to expect.
Presently the judge appeared, the jury filed in and Phil was brought up into the box. She looked pale and strained.
When she was asked how she pleaded, it seemed to Mary that her “Not guilty,” given in a low voice just audible to the listeners, was strangely uncertain.
It was all over very quickly.
The prosecution gave its evidence: the policemen, Sergeant Glover, who had been in charge of the raid on the flat, and one of his colleagues who had actually found the heroin and the gun.
Scott Worthington, looking tall and impressive, questioned both men but without producing anything useful as far as Mary could see. The best he could do was to induce the sergeant to admit that Phil had seemed astonished when the things were discovered.
The most damning piece of evidence was his statement that the raid on the flat had been carried out on the basis of information received that the flat had been used for drug-connected activities.
“I prefer not to say more on that point, my lord,” said the tall, thin, moustached sergeant turning to the Judge, “on the basis that it might endanger my informant.” And to Mary’s surprise, the Judge accepted this.
An avid reader of detective stories, Mary had a firm belief that hearsay evidence was not permitted in a court of law. Apparently things were different in the Northern Ireland of today.
It was this background, now firmly lodged in the minds of the jury, which, Mary realised, was likely to make them believe in Phil’s involvement.
She looked forward hopefully to hearing Phil speak for herself.
Surely, when they heard her, the jury were bound to appreciate Phil’s straightforward character.
But it was with a sinking heart that Mary heard Phil give her evidence.
Scott Worthington did his best. He led Phil gently through her story, establishing that she had had the flat for only a few months and that the previous tenants might still have access. It seemed quite plausible to Mary while the barrister was making his point.
But Phil’s faltering co-operation, her downcast looks and her almost inaudible answers undermined all his efforts. Mary found it almost impossible to understand why Phil did not deny her guilt more forcefully.
When the prosecution lawyer stood up to question her, Phil’s response was even worse. Question after question was answered in the same colourless, unconvincing way. And when the Crown Prosecutor asked “And have you ever noticed any sign of these imaginary ‘former tenants’ in and out of your flat? Has anyone else ever seen them? Has there ever been anyone else with the sort of access to your flat which you are suggesting?” Phil suddenly lost all trace of colour.
She stood silent, gripping the edge of the box.
For a moment, Mary was certain that Phil was about to faint.
Then she managed to speak.
“No – I suppose not.”
It was a bad moment.
Mary knew that the reactions of the jury must be, like her own, of doubt.
Why, if Phil was speaking the truth, did everything she said sound like a lie?
The jury were out for what seemed like a very short while.
While they debated, Phil was taken back down from the box. So far she had not noticed Mary’s presence but, as she turned to leave the box, Mary managed to catch her eye. For a moment, Phil looked at her friend. Mary smiled encouragingly. Phil looked at her, then smiled back. It was not her old cheerful smile, but it was still a smile, and it made her look, Mary thought, more like her real self. Then she was gone to wait for the verdict.
It was a tense wait but one which was soon over. The jury filed back into the box. Phil was brought back up. The clerk called for silence.
Then the foreman of the jury was asked to give the verdict.
There were three charges.
On the first count, possession of an unlicensed firearm, the judge asked “Do you find the prisoner guilty or not guilty?”
It was no surprise to anyone present when the foreman answered, “Guilty, my Lord.”
There were two more counts, dealing with the heroin, each much more serious. Mary had hoped that this time the answer would be different. But she knew in her heart of hearts that she was being over- optimistic.
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