“Yes, Mr. Dillon.”
At ten minutes to twelve Andrea called. He was in reception at the time and answered on a phone near the cashier’s desk, so it was difficult to speak.
“Have you heard from the police?”
“Not yet.”
“Did you ring them?”
“They said he wouldn’t be back until this afternoon, remember?”
“But didn’t they say they would tell him you rang? Find out if they’ve done it.”
“I will. Now don’t worry.”
“But I am worried,” she said. “I’m worried sick.”
“I’ll ring you back as soon as I speak to him. All right.”
“All right. I love you, Michael.”
“I love you, too,” he said. He saw one of the girl cashiers smile as she overheard him.
When he went into the administrative office Helibron called to him. “What are you doing for lunch?”
He shrugged.
“Ronny’s giving lunch to some Japanese. Big Hong Kong hotel group. Join us?”
“Thanks. I think I’ll just have a sandwich here.”
“Well, you know where to find me. We’ll be in the main restaurant.”
When Helibron had gone he sat alone in the administrative office looking out across the road at the great expanse of park. It had rained but now the sun shone and he saw groups of people lying on the grass. Joggers ran on a path parallel to the rush of traffic in Park Lane. He looked down at the traffic, the limousines, taxis and huge foreign tour buses. This was London, on a sunny summer’s day. Belfast was far away. Someone came into the empty outer office. He saw that it was a bellboy bringing the afternoon newspaper and a stack of letters. The bellboy saw Dillon looking at him and asked, “Care for the paper, sir? Evening Standard?”
“No, thanks,” Dillon said, but the boy, misunderstanding, brought the paper in and gave it to him. The headline was about a murder in Brighton. He put the paper aside, but then wondered. Had anything happened?
In the newspaper there was a headline, “N.I. POLICE SEIZE ARMS CACHE.” The dateline was Armagh, N.I. The story said that the police had discovered a large cache of weapons, including two rocket launchers, in a warehouse near Armagh. The weapons were believed to be part of a stockpile hidden by Protestant paramilitary extremists. It was suspected that the arms were part of a shipment made to the Protestant UDA from South Africa, earlier this year.
Armagh. That’s why Randall and the Chief Inspector are there today. It’s a big seizure. They are busy with this. The moment he was dreading, the moment he would have to tell the police that he wouldn’t give evidence, would be easier today, when they were preoccupied with bigger things. Perhaps they would not come back to Belfast until tomorrow? He could not wait until tomorrow. Moira sent that priest away last night believing I will testify. The IRA will know now. They will be making plans.
Suddenly shaking, he picked up the phone and got an outside line. He dialed Randall’s number.
“Belfast Central.”
“This is Michael Dillon. I’m calling Inspector Randall.”
“Mr. Dillon,” a new voice said. “Yes, we spoke this morning. He hasn’t called in yet. He’s in Armagh, as I told you, with Inspector Norton. I’m not sure now, if they’ll be back this afternoon. But I will hear from him and I’ll give him your message.”
“When you do hear from him, will you ask him if there’s a number I can ring him at? It’s urgent.”
“I’ll do that, Mr. Dillon. Not to worry. I’m sure he’ll be in touch before the day’s out.”
“Thank you.”
One of the secretaries came into the outer office as he put the phone down, a cheerful English girl who said, “Have you had your lunch? I’m back now, so I’ll hold the fort.”
“It’s all right, I’m not hungry.”
“Your phone’s blinking,” she said, sitting at her own desk and looking at the phone bank.
“Oh, sorry.” He picked it up.
“Mr. Dillon. This is Helen at reception. There’s someone here asking for you.”
“Who?”
“It’s a Father Connolly.”
“Where is he? Is he at the desk?”
“Yes.”
“All right. I’m coming down.”
When he came out of the lift into the main lobby there were more than twenty people milling around the desk at reception. But the priest stood out from the others. He wore a shiny black straw hat, a crumpled black raincoat, and a black suit, too heavy for the London summer’s sun. In his left hand he carried a cheap metal briefcase. He stood, facing the bank of lifts across the lobby and so did not see Dillon until Dillon was almost beside him.
When he did see him he turned with a small gasp, as if caught by surprise. “Ah, there you are,” he said in his flat Belfast tones. “Hello, Mike.”
“Hello.”
“I just got in on the shuttle. I hope I’m not taking you away from your work?”
“No, no,” Dillon said.
“Is there somewhere we could talk?”
Dillon looked past him at the main lounge. It was crowded in there. It was as though the priest were a relative he was ashamed of. He wanted to take him to a place where they would not be seen.
“Let’s go over to the park,” he said. “I could do with a breath of air.”
“Aye, it’s a lovely day, right enough. It was raining when I left Belfast.”
“It usually is.”
They smiled at each other, falsely. As they went out of the hotel, Dillon said, “How did you know where to find me?”
“I went round to the Clarence this morning and told them I was a priest and a friend of yours. They weren’t keen about it at first, but finally they gave me your number here. Which, of course, they shouldn’t have done. That’s part of the problem.”
He did not ask what problem. They crossed Park Lane in silence and a few minutes later were in Hyde Park. “Let’s walk a while,” Dillon said.
“Right you are.”
“My wife says you spoke to her last night.”
“Ah, you’ve been in touch with her, then?” The priest gave him a quick, almost furtive glance. “Then you know this lad’s my nephew?”
“Yes.”
“I couldn’t mention that the last time we spoke because it would have been like telling you his name. You know the police have lifted him?”
“Yes, they told me.”
Again, the priest looked at him. “So they’ve been on to you already? They’ve asked you to come back and have a look at him, is that it?”
“Yes.”
The priest took off his straw hat and wiped his brow with the back of his hand. “Look, there’s a seat over there. Could we sit down for a minute?”
Ahead, under a large chestnut tree, was an empty park bench. They sat and the priest put his fingers inside his Roman collar, easing it as though it chafed his neck. “Yes, he’s my sister’s boy. My only sister. We’re very close, my sister and I. The boy’s father is dead, so I’ve been sort of looking after them. Mike, are you sure you don’t remember me from school? We were in Senior A together. Jakey McFadden’s class. Dr. Duffy was the head in our day.”
In the heat of a London summer’s afternoon, the old classroom names were spoken like a false password, bringing back the school’s drafty corridors, the musical chairs of masters rushing from class to class, priests in chalk-stained soutanes, lay masters in ragged academic gowns, the whistle and sting of the punishment cane, the crash of feet in the school chapel, the creaking silences of the study hall. Remember, remember, we were boys together. Fellow victims, word of honor, please don’t tell. He looked at this stranger’s red face, his anxious ice-cold eyes, his pleading smile, as he invoked that past, claiming kinship, here in a London park, to a man who did not remember him.
“Wait, wait,” the priest begged. “There was something else about you. I remember you won the senior prize for English composition, isn’t that right?�
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“Look, what does it matter?”
“It matters to me, Mike. Because when my sister came to me in a terrible state, wanting help, I said to her, listen, I know him, he’s a Catholic, he was in my class at St. Michan’s. I’ll speak to him. He was at school with me. Then, when I met you, you said you didn’t remember me at all. It was a real shock when you gave me that answer. When you turned me down. So when I went back and was asked what you’d said, I had to tell them the truth.”
“Tell who?”
“Kev’s friends.”
“The IRA?”
“I suppose. I didn’t ask.”
“You didn’t need to ask, did you?” Dillon said. A sudden sense of outrage made him want to get up and walk away from this meeting.
“Listen to me, will you?” the priest said, and, irritatingly, caught hold of Dillon’s arm. “I’m trying to help you, Mike.”
“I’ll bet you are.”
“What are you doing this for?” the priest asked, his fingers tight on Dillon’s wrist. “Do you really want that boy to go to jail? What have the police ever done for you? You’re a Catholic, at least you were brought up one, you know what things are like at home. The other night you and your wife were badly treated. I know that. I know you have a right to be upset about it, but listen to me, I’m telling you, your life’s in danger if you go on with this. And if anything happens to you because of something I said, I’ll have it on my conscience for the rest of my life. Let’s not have any more killing, Mike.”
“No more killing?” Dillon wrenched his arm free of the priest’s grip and stood up. “But if I don’t testify against your nephew and his friends, I’ll be letting them free to do more killing, won’t I?”
“Sit down a minute, sit down. Please?” the priest said, looking around fearfully as if Dillon’s remark had been overheard. “Listen, young Kev is only nineteen. He’s not a bad kid. He’s had a good scare now. He’s learned his lesson.”
He peered up at Dillon and when Dillon did not sit down the priest stood up, accidentally knocking over the briefcase which he had placed upright on the path beside him. “Wait a sec,” the priest said, bending over to retrieve his case. Instead, Dillon turned and walked away, quickly in blind anger, not looking back till he reached the park railings and the exit to the street. When he did, he saw that the priest had not followed him. The priest stood, briefcase in hand, exactly where Dillon had left him, a small, lonely insignificant figure under the huge chestnut tree.
Dillon went out of the gate and crossed Park Lane, walking back toward the hotel’s elaborate entrance. Had Randall telephoned while he was out? If not, he could telephone Belfast Central now and ask them to tell Randall that he’d be over tomorrow to make the identification. Weeks or months from now, he would have to go back again for Kev’s trial. He was not afraid of that. He was not afraid of them. To hell with them. He had stopped them blowing up the Clarence and killing innocent people. Now, he was going to stop them again.
He went into the lobby, and walked quickly toward the administrative office which was at the rear of the hotel. Someone called out, “Michael?”
He turned. Andrea was running through the lobby. She ran up to him. “Where were you? I’m so worried about you.”
“What’s the matter?”
Distraught, she took hold of his arm. “I don’t know. I just had this feeling. I told them at work that I was sick and it’s true. I am sick. I don’t know, for some reason I have this terrible feeling. Did you call the police?”
“I did, but I haven’t reached them yet. Randall and the other one, Norton, are both in Armagh. They’re supposed to ring me any time now.”
“But did you leave a message? Did you say you weren’t going to do it?”
“Wait,” he said. He took her hand and led her into the lounge. “I want to talk to you. Let’s sit over there, where it’s quiet.”
The moment he said it, she turned to him. “What is it, what is it?”
He sat her down. He told her about the priest.
“And you walked away?” she said. “And now he’s going to tell them you’ll testify against his nephew?”
“Yes. I suppose so.”
“But why did you do it? You promised me. You’re not going to testify, are you?”
“I feel I must. It’s the right thing to do.”
“Oh, my God,” she said. “I knew it. I had this feeling all morning. I knew something terrible was happening. He’s off now, phoning them. The priest, I mean. They’re not going to let you testify. They’re going to kill you.”
He looked at her, at the fear in her eyes. She was trembling and on the edge of tears. “Andrea,” he said. “Andrea, listen. I’ll have police protection.”
“What does that mean? A policeman sitting in your living room? Following you around here in the hotel? Do you know what you’re saying? Every time I open the door from now on, I’ll be waiting for someone to come in and kill us.”
“Not you,” he said, but, sick, remembered that of course she was right. Wives, girlfriends, even bystanders, had been shot dead.
“And why are you doing it? It’s for revenge, isn’t it? Isn’t that what it always is in Ireland? Revenge.”
“No.”
“Then what is it?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “I don’t want to be a coward. I don’t want to let them frighten me.”
“You’re not a coward,” she said. “And, if you were, is that so terrible? Is proving you’re not a coward more important than our lives together? Because that’s the choice you’re making.”
There were tears in her eyes. She was not a coward, nor would ever be. And he, what was he? What did it matter? Why should he risk her life as well as his? Was any country worth the price that Ireland asked, a beggar’s price, demanded again and again and never paid in full?
“I’m wrong,” he said, and took her hand. “I’m sorry. It’s all right. I’m not going to do it.”
She did not speak for a moment and then she said, “I never want to go back there. Never.”
“I know.”
“You’ve got to find that priest,” she said. “You’ve got to tell him.”
“He’s probably on his way back to Belfast now.”
“Do you know his parish? Could you ring up and leave a message for him? He’ll tell them. It would be the quickest way.”
“Look,” he said, “I’ll try the police again.”
“All right. God, I’m so worried.”
“Don’t be. It’s over. Come on, let’s go up to my office.”
When they went into the outer room of the administrative office, the cheerful English secretary called to him. “Oh, you’re back. I thought you’d gone for the day.”
“This is Andrea Baxter,” he said, introducing her.
“Hello, there,” the secretary said. “Mr. Dillon, there was a call for you from an Inspector Norton.”
“When?”
“About twenty minutes ago. I told them I thought you’d be home in about an hour. They said they had your home number and that he’d ring you there.”
He looked at Andrea. “Let’s try him now,” he said. They went into Harper’s office. He shut the door and dialed Randall’s number. “This is Michael Dillon. May I speak to Chief Inspector Norton, please?”
At once he was switched to a new line. “Oh, Mr. Dillon,” a voice said. “They’re not back from Armagh yet. Are you at home? Chief Inspector Norton’s planning to ring you after five.”
“No, I’m not home, but I will be very shortly.”
“Good. They’ve arrested two more suspects in that case. The Chief Inspector is very anxious to get hold of you.”
“Thanks. I’ll be at home.” He put the phone down and looked at Andrea. “This isn’t going to be easy. They’ve picked up two more of them. He’s going to call our flat after five.”
“It’s twenty to five now,” she said. “We’d better take a cab. You don’t want to miss him.”
In the taxi, going back to Hampstead, he said, “What should I say? How am I going to put it? It’s not just one they’re holding now. It’s three of them.”
“Just tell the truth,” she said. “Say you’re afraid. They’ll know why. They must be used to it. Don’t let him persuade you, that’s all.”
Say you are afraid. The cab turned into Gloucester Avenue and stopped under the house sheltered by the oak tree. He got out. The driver turned the meter off. He paid the fare. The time had come. There had been no war in his life. He would never be called up as a soldier and put to the test of bravery in battle. He would never be asked to perform an act of heroism as a member of a resistance group. He had, instead, been put to the test by accident, a test he had every right to refuse. And yet as he unlatched the gate and went up to the front door of the house he knew that the moment the phone rang and he answered it, the moment he told them he was afraid, he would lose forever something precious, something he had always taken for granted, some secret sense of his own worth.
At the front door he turned to her and said, “Look, I’d rather be alone when I tell him. Maybe you could go and get us something for our supper? Give me half an hour.”
“I could wait in the other room. I won’t listen.”
“No, please,” he said.
“All right. And, after you speak to the police, try to get hold of that priest, will you?”
“Don’t worry,” he said.
She looked at him. “Michael, you won’t let him persuade you, will you?”
“No, I won’t.”
She turned and went off up the avenue, going toward the shops on the high street. He unlocked the front door and went into the hall. A phone was ringing upstairs. He looked at his watch. It was just after five. He began to run upstairs, pushing past a little red-haired man who was also on his way up. “Sorry,” he said.
“That’s all right, guv.”
When he unlocked the door of the flat, the phone was still ringing. But as he went into the hall it stopped. The Chief Inspector was ringing from somewhere in Armagh. Now he would have to wait until he called back. He did not want to wait. He must get it over with now. Belfast Central must know where to reach Norton in Armagh. He went to the phone. Don’t let him persuade you. Tell him the truth. You are afraid.
Lies of Silence Page 19