Sammy nodded.
Conversation lapsed. Why, she wondered, shouldn’t we tell Sammy about the impending break? They might need his help. But the peelers had lifted him. Could they have turned him? She glanced at the little man. He was picking his nose.
“Jesus, Sammy would you stop that. It’s disgusting.”
“Sorry.” He blushed.
She knew he had a habit of doing that if he was nervous, but what had he to be worried about? Unless he thought that he was going to be asked to pick up the arms in the churchyard. Although he made a point of seeming to be courageous, she knew that inside he could be frightened of his own shadow. Sammy needn’t be worried. She had other plans.
The ham was sweet and the milk warm. Erin ate silently. It seemed that after her telling Sammy to mind his manners no one had much to say. All right, she thought, to business.
“Fiach?” He turned to her. “Fiach, you’ve been agitating for a while now for us to let you help.” She saw his good eye open wide, the half-chewed ham in his open mouth. “We’ve a wee job for you.”
“Honest to God?”
“Aye.”
“Dead on.” A smile split his freckled face. “What have I to do?”
“There’s a wheen of stuff in an old grave in the Ballydornan churchyard. We want you to pick it up for us.”
“Now?” Fiach leapt to his feet.
“No, silly. Sit down and eat up. You’ve to do it on Friday night.”
Fiach subsided, but his good eye gleamed.
Cal spoke slowly. “It’s a one-man job. Use the tractor…”
“You’ll have to take a look at the engine,” Erin said.
“I’ll do it tomorrow, or maybe Sammy could.”
“I’ll do it the night before I go home … Will you be wanting me to go out, too?”
“Not at all. I told you it’s a one-man job.”
Sammy was staring at her with a relieved look on his face. Maybe that’s what had him worried. Not for himself. For her. The bloody man was besotted with her. Worried about her, was pleased that she’d not be doing the job herself. Why? It would be as routine as—as milking the cows.
“So,” Cal said, “go out after dark…”
“Take Tessie and let her scout about first,” Erin added.
“Sammy, tell Fiach exactly where the consignment is.”
Sammy did, ending his explanation with a wry grin. “In with a poor ould dead Irishman.”
“Aye,” said Cal, “and it’ll be going in with a clatter more dead Irishmen, but they’ve been gone for three thousand years or so.”
“In the neolithic grave Da found?” Fiach asked.
“The very spot,” Erin said. “The old tumulus. Nobody would ever find that place the way it’s hidden under a mound, screened by brambles. Bloody good thing Da kept his mouth shut about it.”
“That’s great,” said Fiach. “But … and I’m not scared to do the job…” He looked Erin in the eye. “Why move the things at all? Are they not safe enough in Ballydornan?”
“It’s guns and Semtex,” Erin said. “We’ve enough guns, but Semtex is bloody hard to come by, and”—she glanced at Cal—“it’s about time we let the Brits know that there’s Republican life in Tyrone yet.”
Cal stopped chewing and set his knife on the plate. “What are you on about? I thought we’d agreed to lie low until after”—he looked at Sammy, who was staring at the table—“you know.”
Erin laughed. “We did and we have, but I was thinking about it today. We’ve been quiet for a while now. It’s time to go back into business again. There might be a chance very soon.”
“Oh?” Sammy said.
Erin laughed. “And we will let you in on that, Sammy. Once Cal and I’ve had a chance to talk it over.”
* * *
Sammy propped his bike against the public phone kiosk, went in, lifted the receiver, dropped his coins in the slot, and dialed.
“Hello.”
Sammy knew that Special Branch men never gave their names or numbers over the telephone, but he recognized Spud’s voice.
“It’s me. Sunshine. I’ve the word on the pickup. Friday night. The stuff’s in that big aboveground grave. Near the old Celtic cross.”
“Good.” Spud sounded disinterested. “Any news on the other?”
Sammy stumbled over his words in his rush. “No details … but there’s something happening … at the Kesh. And they’re going to get something going here, too.”
“How do you know that?”
“Look.” Sammy took a deep breath. “The arms are being picked up so they can get ready for another attack. They’re going to tell me about it soon.”
“Good.” Pause.
“Hello?” Sammy wanted to be out of the box. “Are you there?”
“I was just thinking. This Kesh thing. You’ve no more details?”
“If I had, wouldn’t I tell you?”
“It’s pretty thin. Nothing for me to move on.”
“I can fucking well put two and two together.”
“And get three by the sound of it.”
“For fuck’s sake…”
“Sunshine, I’ll think about the pickup. You’ll get a few extra quid for that, but until you can give me the details about what you suspect … or maybe the gen on the attack you think’s going to happen … I can’t persuade anybody to get you into the Witness…”
“Christ. You’ve got to get me out of here. If your lot goes after the arms pickup, my lot’ll suspect me. They already don’t trust me. Not since I was lifted. They’ll…” But he heard the click as the connection was broken, the buzz of the dial tone. Sammy slammed the receiver back into its cradle with such force that the Bakelite mouthpiece shattered.
CHAPTER 14
VANCOUVER. WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 21, 1983
The final chords of Don Giovanni were ear-shattering. Waves of applause rolled through the Queen Elizabeth Theatre. The houselights came up, and the audience, Fiona and Becky Johnston among them, rose as one as the curtain closed only to reopen so that the cast could accept their accolades.
Fiona felt Becky tugging at her sleeve, turned, and saw her nodding toward the aisle. Becky had already started to move, and Fiona followed. Trust Becky. Once the curtain calls started, she’d mutter, “When in doubt … get out,” and head for the nearest exit.
She was in the aisle, steaming ahead like a dreadnought battleship, ploughing through the growing crowd heading for the Dunsmuir Street doors. That was typical of Becky, Fiona’s friend.
As Fiona followed in Becky’s wake, she thought briefly about friendship. She believed that people would be lucky to make ten real friends in a lifetime—those to whom you could tell your deepest secrets, could rely on and who could trust you utterly in return. And most of those you made as a child or as a student. All of those friends, save Becky, were back in Northern Ireland.
As Fiona left the theatre, she saw Becky standing on the Dunsmuir Street sidewalk craning into the traffic. “Bloody taxis. They’re just like policemen. You can never find one when you want one.”
Fiona watched as a Black Top cab pulled into the kerb. Even before the passenger dismounted, Becky had grabbed the door and turned to a small man who seemed to be protesting that he had been first in line.
“My good man,” Becky said in a voice that Fiona thought would probably carry as far as Granville Street, “remember the Birkenhead drill.”
Fiona had moved to stand near Becky and the little man.
“The what?” he asked, stepping back.
Becky grabbed Fiona by the arm and hustled her into the back of the taxi. “The Birkenhead drill. Women and children first.”
Fiona heard the door slam over the would-be passenger’s protests and felt the warmth of Becky’s presence beside her on the seat.
“Quickly,” said Becky, “give the driver your address.”
Fiona did, and the cab pulled away. She could feel her friend shaking with suppressed mirth.
<
br /> “Did you see the look on that chap’s face?”
“I thought, perhaps, we were a little rude.”
“Rubbish. Charles Darwin was right. Survival of the fittest.” Becky slid along the seat away from Fiona. “There’s a bit more room for you.”
“Thank you.”
“So,” Becky asked, “what did you think of tonight’s performance? I must say I was sorry for the cat.”
“What cat?”
“The one that started caterwauling every time the soprano sang. She must have been standing on a cat’s tail.”
Fiona smiled. The soprano had been a bit off-key. “It wasn’t just the soprano, Becky. Don Giovanni’s a bit heavy for me. I prefer Mozart’s lighter ones like The Magic Flute or The Marriage of Figaro.”
The cab stopped at the traffic light at Helmcken Street. Becky peered past Fiona at the façade of Saint Paul’s Hospital, grinned, and said, “Speaking of marriages, how are things with you and Doctor Tim?”
“He’s in San Francisco.”
The cab rattled on the rough surface of the Burrard Street Bridge. Through its latticework Fiona could see the lights of the ships moored in English Bay. The circles of radiance looked like a fleet of Chinese lanterns adrift on an ebony sea.
“That’s not what I asked you, my gel. You’ve been rather quiet since the weekend. Is everything pukka with you two?”
Fiona held her hand palm down and rocked it from side to side. “He hasn’t phoned.”
“Mmm,” said Becky. “It sounds to me as if I’d better come in for a nightcap when we get to your place.”
“I’d like that,” Fiona said, and was comforted by the light touch of Becky’s hand on her own where it was resting on the seat. She turned to stare out of the window and said nothing until the taxi stopped outside her house.
Fiona paid the fare and followed Becky up the path. One of the things Fiona liked about Becky, though English, was that she was not one of those overmannered Englishwomen who would turn a simple decision about who should pay for something into a prolonged battle to see who would have the privilege.
Fiona opened the door to her apartment and showed Becky into the living room. No flashing light on the machine. Damn. McCusker lay curled up on an armchair. He opened one eye and went back to sleep.
“What can I get you, Becky?”
Becky sat and kicked off her shoes. “I’d really like a cup of tea, actually.”
“Right.”
When Fiona came back from the kitchen, Becky was standing in front of the bookshelf. “Somerset Maugham, Graham Greene, Jane Austen, Simone de Beauvoir, Germaine Greer, W. O. Mitchell, Margaret Atwood…”
“You know I like to read.” Fiona put the tray on a coffee table and poured.
“And that,” said Becky, staring at what Fiona was doing, “that is further proof that the Irish are an uncivilized lot.”
“What is? Reading?”
Becky shook her head. “You should always … and I do mean always … put the milk in first.” She chuckled. “But it’ll do.” She accepted the cup and sat. “Come on. Sit down and tell Aunt Becky all about it.”
“Could I put on a record first?”
“Certainly.”
Fiona found what she was looking for. A man’s soft tenor came from the speakers:
“My young love said to me my mother won’t mind,
And my father won’t slight you for your lack of kine…”
She turned the volume down until the song was just audible. “Sometimes I like to play the old Irish songs.” She sat in the other armchair.
“Don’t mind me. Nice voice, that chap. Who is he?”
“Liam Clancy. He’s a County Tipperary man. From Carrick-on-Suir.” Fiona glanced at the lightless telephone answering machine. Would Tim never call? She turned to Becky. “Thanks for coming in. I do need a chat with you. I think things are a bit … a bit…” She frowned. “Strained with Tim and me at the moment.”
Becky pursed her lips, but said nothing.
“You remember what I said about forgetting our pasts? Well, mine caught up with me last week. Tim took me out to dinner on Saturday. It was supposed to be a lovely evening, but a man from Belfast was there and came over and spoke to me…” Fiona stood, walked to the mantel.
In the background, Liam Clancy sang
Last night I lay dreaming. My drowned love came in.
So softly she moved that her feet made no din …
“And?” Becky asked gently.
“It was just like the song. Jimmy, that’s the Belfast man’s name, Jimmy had been the best friend of a dear man I was in love with back in Belfast.” Fiona swallowed and decided not to tell Becky all the details. She simply said, “He stayed there and I emigrated. I still do think of him sometimes, but Jimmy wouldn’t stop talking about … about Davy.” She could see Davy’s blue eyes, tear-misted in the visitors’ room of the Kesh. “And when Jimmy kept going on about him, I could see him, feel as if he was somewhere in Bridges with us.”
Becky put down her teacup. “You must have been very much in love.”
“I was … I think I still am.”
“Have you told Tim?”
Fiona shook her head. “Not that I still care, but when we went sailing on Sunday, he asked me about Davy. I did tell him that we had been in love. Back in Belfast.”
“How did he take that?”
Fiona allowed herself a small smile. “He was wonderful. He listened. It’s good when people listen.”
Becky said nothing.
“Tim thinks that I haven’t let myself mourn for a lost love. He said I needed to grieve … that I’d need time. That he loved me.”
Becky moved closer to Fiona. “I like your Tim. Very much. It sounds to me as if he has his head well screwed onto his shoulders and he does love you. I’m certain of that.”
“Are you really?” Fiona stared at the Persian rug.
“It’s not what I think that matters. It’s what you think … and what Tim thinks but…” Becky put her hand under Fiona’s chin and lifted her head. “Look at me, Fiona.”
Fiona looked into Becky’s green eyes.
“I think that Tim’s right about one thing.”
“What?”
“The grieving business. I once read a book by a woman called Kübler-Ross. She’s a Swiss psychiatrist. She wrote On Death and Dying back in the sixties. I’ll wager Tim’s read it. Kübler-Ross believes when someone finds out that they are dying, they go through a series of stages. The first is denial. ‘It’s not happening to me. It’s not real. I don’t believe it. I won’t believe it.’ There’s a lot of other stuff in between, including the need to give way to grief before people can accept the finality. I suppose leaving someone you love can be a bit like that.”
“So you think Tim’s right?”
“He certainly could be. What else did he say?”
“He thought that Davy’s memory was a ghost he and I would have to exorcise. That he’d help me do that.”
“You, my girl, have a gem beyond price in that man. He loves you, he understands, and he wants to help. What more could you ask for?”
Fiona glanced at the answering machine. “I just wish he’d ring.”
“He will. I’m sure he will. Don’t forget you certainly need time to think things out, but so will Tim. Give him time.” Becky took her hand from Fiona’s chin, crossed to her chair, and picked up her teacup.
Fiona crossed her arms in front of her. Her right hand massaged her left shoulder. Becky was a good listener. She didn’t beat about the bush, and, Fiona told herself, Becky’s advice had been heartfelt—and straight to the point. She smiled.
“Thanks, Becky.”
“Absolute rubbish. No thanks needed. None at all.”
How English. Express thanks and they become embarrassed.
Becky bent, put on her shoes, and straightened up.
Fiona crossed the room and hugged Becky. “Thank you. I mean it.”
Becky sti
ffened then relaxed. Fiona could see the faintest blush on her friend’s cheeks.
“Well. Yes. Mmm,” Becky said, glancing at the carriage clock. “You’re going to be fine, Fiona, and I’m going to have to get going. Stay where you are. I’ll see myself out.” Becky surprised Fiona by returning a quick hug, breaking away and heading for the door. “I’ll see you in the trenches tomorrow. Good God, I have to start with the grade sevens.” She crossed her eyes, grinned, and left.
Fiona sat in the chair but jumped as McCusker sprang into her lap. “You startled me, silly.” She fondled the cat’s head. “It’s a good thing to have friends isn’t it, McCusker?”
Fiona could feel the vibration as McCusker purred.
Becky was a good friend, and it had been comforting to tell her about Davy, to listen to her advice. Fiona had tried hard not to think of Davy since Sunday. To take Tim’s advice and understand that for her he no longer existed. That was pretty much what Becky had suggested. And yet—
In the background, she could hear Liam Clancy as he breathed life into “My Lagan Love,” the most beautiful of Irish love songs.
“Where Lagan stream sings a lullaby, there grows a lily fair…”
If she hadn’t stumbled on the banks of that very river, so long ago now, she would never have met Davy McCutcheon.
“The twilight gleam is in her eye, and the night is on her hair.”
She could hear Davy’s baritone as she sat on the floor, head on his knees, his hand stroking her dark hair while he sang those words to her.
Fiona sighed, rose, slowly went to the stereo, and switched it off.
CHAPTER 15
THE KESH. FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 23, 1983
Davy switched off the electrical polisher he’d been using to clean the cell block’s corridor. For some reason unknown to him, the inmates and screws alike called the machines, bumpers. “All done, Mr. Smiley.”
“Right, Davy. Away on off and put that yoke in the closet.”
“Right, sir.” Davy limped along the corridor, pushing the bumper before him. Old Smiley wasn’t a bad head—for a screw. Didn’t mind having a bit of a blether with his charges. He’d only taken the job after he’d been laid off as a riveter at Harland and Wolff’s shipyards. He’d once said that he reckoned he was a bit like an inmate himself. Serving his time until he could draw his pension. He wasn’t like some of the other bastards in this place, who Davy thought were probably members of some Loyalist paramilitary group when they were off duty at the Kesh and who took delight in making the inmates’ lives miserable.
Now and in the Hour of Our Death Page 13