“Leave her alone!” Dillon said. He stood up. At once, the gunman turned to him and shouted in a high angry voice, “Sit down, you! Mind yourself! Sit down!”
The shout, loud in the quiet night, brought footsteps hurrying toward them. The door opened and the two gunmen Dillon had seen earlier came in at a rush, revolvers up. Three revolvers were now pointed at him. It was as though he faced a firing squad. “What’s up?” one of the newcomers said in an urgent whisper.
The high-pitched angry voice answered. “It’s all right. It’s nothin’.”
A gun poked into Dillon’s chest. “Sit down, you.” He was pushed and sent sprawling on the sofa beside Moira. He looked up into the floating faceless eyes of the tall youth. “What do you want with us?” he said. “Are we hostages here, or what? And why is this bastard annoying my wife?”
“I wasn’t annoyin’ her, she was annoyin’ me!” The high-pitched voice was almost a scream.
The tall gunman turned away from Dillon and said, “Do you want to wake the whole street?” He beckoned to the other gunman who had come in with him. “Mind them, will you?” Then, in a cold tone, “Volunteer, will you step outside for a moment?”
He and the high-pitched one went out, closing the door behind them. The new guard, a fat boy, sat down in the chair vacated by his predecessor. Like the others he seemed to be a teenager. He put his revolver on a nearby table and, fumbling in his shirt pocket, produced a packet of cigarettes. He hesitated for a moment, then offered the cigarettes to Moira and Dillon. They shook their heads, whereupon he put the packet back in his pocket.
Dillon saw that Moira was trembling. He moved close to her. She turned to him, tears in her eyes. “What do they want?” she asked in a whisper. He shrugged to say he did not know. He tried to put his arm around her, but she shook it off as though he had done something indecent in front of a stranger.
What could they want? He had read that sometimes they went into people’s houses and held them hostage for a few hours while they borrowed their cars to carry out a bombing or a shooting. This was a well-off part of the city. There might be some High Court judge or Unionist politician living near here who they want to kill. Or a police barracks they’re planning to bomb. “We’ll be here till the morning,” the high-pitched one had said.
He tried to count. There are four of them in the house. And the man and the girl, keeping watch outside in the white Ford. Did they kill Teddy? Could be. If he came up, mewing for his food, drawing attention to them? Was that it? It can’t be us they’re after. We are being used in some way.
He turned to Moira. “Listen,” he said in a low voice. “It’s not us they want. If we do what they tell us, we won’t get hurt.”
“How do you know what they want?” Moira said in a loud hysterical voice. “They’re in our house, they’re waving guns around, they’re the same ones who kneecap kids and blow up innocent people instead of the ones they’re trying to kill, and you say they won’t hurt us. Well, they’re going to hurt somebody, aren’t they?”
When she said this, Dillon turned to look at the fat young guard who was listening, half nodding his head as though he agreed with her. When she finished, the guard leaned forward and spoke in a quiet, pleading tone. “Missus, I’m sorry, but, listen, what your husband says is right. We’re not here to hurt you, but I’m just advisin’ you, that other volunteer who was in here before me, he might hurt you, if you annoy him. I’m sayin’ this for your own good. Your husband’s right. Do as you’re told and you won’t get hurt.”
“But somebody’s going to get hurt,” Moira said in a tremulous voice.
The fat guard did not answer.
They sat then, in silence. Dillon could hear people moving about in the corridor outside. After a few moments, Moira began to weep, gasping, clenching her fists as though to stifle her tears. He put his arm around her and this time she did not shake him off.
She wept. He held her, wanting to comfort her. No matter what these people said, they could both be dead by morning. He did not believe in God, in religion, or in any order or meaning to this world. Once he had thought he was a poet, had hoped that his work would be read, that writing would be his purpose in life. It had not happened. He had believed that he loved Moira, but he was wrong. He had believed that, tonight of all nights, at last his luck had changed, that tomorrow he would have the courage to tell her the truth and go off to a new life, away from her. But how could he turn around tomorrow and tell her, after what had happened tonight? He looked at her now, weeping, angry, afraid of her captors, and felt not love, but pity and despair. If only he had decided to leave her a month ago, none of this would be happening. The house would be empty, Moira would be living with her parents or someone like Peg. Once again, his life had taken a wrong turning. Once again, he had acted too late.
Footsteps. The door opened. The tall youth appeared in the doorway, his shortwave radio emitting a crackling noise. He pointed to Dillon. “Where are your car keys?”
“In the bedroom. Upstairs.”
“Come on. Get them.”
He stood up and followed the tall youth out into the dark hallway. The flashlight guided him as they went upstairs. On the landing he switched on the bedroom light and went in. His car keys, change and wallet were on the bedside table. A voice behind him said, “Give them over.” He did as he was told. They went back downstairs, their footsteps creaking on the stairboards beneath the worn carpet. In the hall, the masked face turned toward him. “How much petrol is in your car.”
“The tank’s half full.”
“OK. Go on inside, now.”
When he opened the sitting room door, Moira, hunched up on the sofa, turned and looked at him, anxious and relieved. Ashamed, he realized she had been frightened for him. “Are you all right?”
He nodded. “Shut the door behind you and sit down,” the fat guard told him. He heard the tall one go down the hall into the kitchen and, a moment later, the sound of the back door slamming.
They are going to use my car. They will drive it somewhere and before the night is over they will murder someone. Or they will put a bomb in it and leave it some place to blow up. Any minute now, they will drive away.
But they did not drive away. He listened but did not hear the car start up in the driveway outside. Minutes passed, Moira got up, walked from one end of the room to the other, then turned to the fat guard. “I have to go to the bathroom.”
The guard nodded, then went to the door and called, “Volunteer?”
Someone came from the kitchen, shining a flashlight in the dark hallway. When he came into the room, Dillon saw with dismay that it was the first IRA man, the angry one who had upset Moira.
“She has to go to the toilet,” the fat guard said.
The angry one nodded. “Come on, then,” he said to her. “Where is it? Upstairs?”
“Yes.”
Dillon stood. “I’ll go with you,” he told her.
“Sit down,” the angry one said. “If you want to go, you’ll go one at a time.”
Moira put her hand on Dillon’s arm. “I’ll be all right,” she said. The angry one followed her out, shutting the door behind them.
Dillon listened, straining to catch every sound. He heard the creaking of the stairboards and the sound of a door shutting. A moment later the silence was broken by the noise of a car passing in front of the house. Was that his car? What’s happening upstairs? He thought of the angry one’s sexual stare when Moira started to bait him. She is alone with him, up there.
He stood. At once the fat guard raised his revolver. “Listen,” he said to the guard. “Couldn’t we go up now, you and I? I don’t trust that bastard.”
“You don’t trust what?” the fat guard asked.
“You know what I mean,” Dillon said.
“Interfere with her?” The fat guard shook his head. “No, no, not to worry. He wouldn’t do that.”
“How do you know? I’m asking you a favor. Let’s go up.”
“You’re not a fucking army,” Dillon said in sudden rage. “Military operation, don’t make me laugh.”
“You watch yourself,” the fat guard said. “Sit down. You mind what you say, do you hear me? That volunteer that’s upstairs with your wife, if you said that to him, he’d belt you in the mouth, so he would. Look, I don’t want no trouble from you. Just take it easy. Your wife will be down in a minute.”
He looked at the clock. It was twenty past five. He sat down again. Five minutes passed.
“Well, where is she?” Dillon burst out. The fat guard lowered his head as if pondering the question. The balaclava headgear, like some medieval helmet, gave him the look of an actor in costume for a Shakespearian play.
Then, from upstairs came the sound of someone hammering on a door. The medieval head jerked upright. A voice called out something Dillon did not catch. The fat guard got up, went to the door, and opened it. “Kev?” he said, nervously.
Again, there was a knocking sound. This time Dillon and the guard heard clearly the angry one’s high-pitched voice. “Do you hear me? Come out, or I’ll break the door down.”
The fat guard turned to Dillon. “We’d better go up. There’s only me and him in the house. Come on.”
He gestured with his revolver and followed Dillon out into the front hall where he turned on the light as they went upstairs. The bathroom was on the upstairs landing. As they reached the landing, the angry one came toward them, his voice trembling with rage and anxiety. “She’s been in there far too long. And the last wee while she’s been pullin’ on the chain. She’s coverin’ up somethin’.”
Suddenly, Dillon thought of the bathroom window with its ten-foot drop to the roof of the garden shed below. He moved quickly past the gunmen and knocked on the door. “Moira! Moira, it’s me. Are you all right?” He put his ear to the door. Inside, he heard the cistern filling with water. A hand shoved him aside. Kev, the angry gunman, began to bang his shoulder against the door.
The noise alarmed the fat one who said, “Shsh! You’ll wake the whole street up. Wait.” The fat one took a wallet from the back pocket of his jeans, pulled out a plastic credit card, and carefully inserted it in the doorjamb below the lock. Wiggling it up and down, he turned the door handle. The door opened. As it did, Dillon, heartsick, heard the sound of something falling onto the roof below.
The bathroom light was on. There was no one in there. The bathroom window was open. It was a small window, three feet high by three feet wide. The gunman ran toward it. Kev reached it first, peered out, then hoisted himself up on the window, stuck his revolver in his belt, swung his legs out, and jumped into the night. They heard him crash on the roof of the shed below. Dillon ran to the window with the other guard, peering out. On the slanting roof of the shed, Moira was crawling down toward the gutter, preparing for the second drop to the garden path below. But Kev had scrambled up and now slithered recklessly toward her. As he did she turned, saw him, and screamed, “Help! Help!” But, as her voice cried out, high and loud in the darkness, Kev was on top of her, his hand covering her face.
Dillon rushed out of the bathroom. He ran down the stairs, the fat guard behind him. “Stop,” the guard called after him in a panicky voice. “Do you want to get shot?”
He turned, looked back at the guard, then ran through the kitchen out into the garden.
Coming toward him, running footsteps. Two masked men had come in from the driveway, a flashlight swiveling crazily as they rushed toward the garden shed. Dillon ran in the same direction and, as he did, saw the men more clearly. One of them, the tall youth who had taken his car keys, shone his flashlight up to the roof. “What happened?” he called in a low voice.
Above them outlined against the night sky was Kev, clutching Moira in front of him like a hostage, his hand over her mouth. “It’s OK,” Kev whispered. “I have her.”
The fat guard had come up behind Dillon and now his revolver jammed against Dillon’s spine. “Stay where you are.”
“Moira?” Dillon called.
The tall gunman turned and punched him in the stomach. “Shut up.”
Dillon, gasping from the pain of the blow, saw them help Moira down from the shed roof, the flashlight briefly lighting her red dress, her long bare legs. “Put the light out,” the tall gunman said in an urgent whisper. “Get the two of them inside.”
The light went out. In the darkness Dillon tried to go to Moira, but the fat guard kicked his shin. “Get inside, you, or I’ll fuckin’ kill you.”
Pushed by the gunman, he stumbled toward the kitchen door. Ahead of him he saw Moira, her mouth still covered by Kev’s hand. He heard frightened, angry voices.
“What the fuck were you doin’?”
“I was doin’ nothin’. I had to let her go to the bog and she jumped out the window. She’s a fuckin’ nutter.”
Once they were all inside the kitchen, the tall one said, “Get back in the room, the two of you.” He was speaking, not to Dillon and Moira, but to the fat guard and Kev. As he spoke, he switched on his shortwave radio. Then he and the other one went outside again.
As soon as they had gone, Kev turned on his flashlight, shining it on Moira’s face. Taking her by the arm he shoved her through the kitchen into the hall. Dillon followed, the fat guard’s revolver poking at his back. When they entered the sitting room the lamp was still on and he saw that Moira’s knees were skinned and bleeding from her fall. Her red dress was ripped at the shoulder, showing the thin white strap of her bra. Kev shut the door and pushed her viciously, sending her sprawling onto the sofa. Dillon started forward, grabbing Kev’s arm. “Leave her alone.”
Kev wrenched himself clear of Dillon’s grip. “What did you say?”
“I said leave her alone, Kev.”
Kev’s red-rimmed eyes blinked as though he had been hit. He turned to the fat guard. “What’s he talkin’ about?”
The fat one, suddenly uneasy, sat down, straddling a chair back to front. “No idea.”
Kev turned back to Dillon. “My name is not Kev. Who said my name is Kev?”
Dillon did not answer. Kev looked over at the fat guard who avoided his stare. Then, in his high hysterical voice, he said, “There’ll be no more talkin’ here.” He pointed to Dillon. “Sit down, you.”
“Let me go to the kitchen and get some Band-Aids and clean those cuts,” Dillon said.
“I’m all right,” Moira said. “Stay here, Michael.”
He sat down beside her and took her hand in his. There was a new tension in the room. It was as though by her attempt to escape Moira had altered the balance of fear. Now it was their captors who were afraid. Had anyone heard her scream for help? Had a neighbor looked out and seen what was going on in the garden? Was someone, even now, telephoning the police?
As though confirming this thought, Kev suddenly said, “Put the light out.” The fat guard switched the light off. Kev went to the window and pulled the blind halfway up. Across from the house, the white Ford was parked. The street was deserted. Kev watched for a moment, then pulled the blind down again. The light went on.
Kev’s hand reached up under the woolen mask to scratch his face. He stared agitatedly at the fat guard who pulled out his cigarettes and held them out, offering them to Kev. Kev hesitated, then took a cigarette. The fat guard struck a match and both lifted the bottom part of their masks so that they could put the cigarettes in their mouths. Dillon saw that Kev’s chin was hairless as a child’s. His cheek was red with painful acne sores. He and the fat one, puffing at their cigarettes, turned away from Dillon and Moira, as if to hide their faces. After a few puffs the fat one said uneasily, “We should be keepin’ dick.”
“Put them out, then,” Kev said, hurriedly. Hastily, they stubbed the cigarettes out and put the butts in the pockets of their jeans. Kev began to walk up and down
the room, waving his arms as if to dispel the smoke, then sat down, visibly agitated, and after a moment Dillon saw him turn away and begin to scratch his acne under the woolen mask. As he did, he winced as if in pain. Dillon, watching him, realized with a start that Kev, though hiding his face from Dillon and Moira, was facing the wall mirror above the bookcase. Dillon turned and looked at Moira, but Moira was lying back, staring at the ceiling as in a trance.
Again Dillon turned to look at Kev, and stiffened in shock. Kev, believing himself unseen, had raised his woolen mask and was scratching at a sore just under his left eye. In the mirror Dillon saw, at last, the face of an adolescent boy, pitted with acne, an almost feminine mouth with bow-shaped lips, a thin neck, a sharp pointed nose. He saw it only for as long as it would take to focus and press a camera shutter and then Kev pulled down the woolen mask once more and turned in his direction, unaware that he had been watched. He picked up his revolver. Once again his left foot began to jiggle in involuntary spasm.
“Stop that jiggin’, will you?” the fat guard said suddenly. “It’s drivin’ me nuts.”
“Fuck you,” Kev said, but put his hand on his thigh, suppressing the tremor. He stared over at Moira, his red-rimmed eyes intent as he eyed her body. She looked at the ceiling, ignoring him. “What do you see up there?” he said to her, and laughed. “You’re a real nut case, aren’t you?” He turned to the fat guard. “Fancy us bein’ landed with a nut case.”
“It’s OK,” the fat one said. “Nobody heard her.”
“How do you know?” Moira said.
Her words fell like a sentence on the room. They sat then, all four of them, listening for sounds. Dillon, who, in the insomniac nights of the last months had often been awake in these hours, knew that Belfast, at night, was quiet as a village in rural France. It was quiet now. No one heard her. No one will come.
Suddenly, in the corridor outside, a crackling noise and muffled voices on a two-way radio. Kev and the fat one exchanged anxious looks. Kev got up and again walked across the room, waving his arms to dispel the cigarette smoke.
Lies of Silence Page 4