The man in the peaked cap licked his lips. "Suppose he's late? You know what the police are like. They'll move me on -"
Matt shook his head. "Just park the car and go to the desk. Say you're the chauffeur for Mr Sean Connors, come to take him to Lisburn. If he's not in the lobby they'll ring up to his room."
"And he'll be alone. You're sure he'll be alone?"
Matt flicked the schedule on the table in front of him. It was a list of the fleet of cars hired by Transatlantic Television - six vehicles in all which would ferry people back and forth from the city centre to the studio at Lisburn. "Look for yourself," Matt said. "Technical staff to be collected at eight-thirty. Mr James Cross at nine, and Mr Sean Connors nine-thirty. The only one left in the hotel is this fancy woman of his, and if she's with him, well ... one wee girl won't trouble you."
The man smiled sheepishly.
"Don't forget," Matt reminded him, "I'll be watching every move."
The man nodded, aware of the edge in Matt's voice. A lot of trouble was being taken about Mr Sean Connors and the man wondered why.
Matt read the question in his eyes. "It goes back a long way. All the days of my life. But you've no need to worry. Do your part and you'll be safe enough. Meanwhile you'd best get some sleep ... it won't be long until morning."
Morning came early for Kate O'Brien. She was awake at five, and again at six. Finally at seven she abandoned all hope of sleep. She rose and ran a bath, sinking into the scented water in the hope it might relax her. The prospect of facing Tim knotted every nerve in her body.
Sean came into the bathroom and kissed her. He leant over the bath, one hand cupping her breast while he nuzzled her ear. "Couldn't you sleep?"
She blurted out - "Darling, let's go home. Jimmy and the others will do a good job. Really there's no need for you to be here. Let's catch the first flight back to London. We could collect Pat from school and spend a few -"
"Hey ... what's come over you? Kate, this will only take three or four days."
It was useless and she knew it.
She watched him shave. She liked to watch him.
He said, "I'm up so early I could go in with Jimmy."
"Don't rush off," she said quickly. "Let's just have a nice leisurely breakfast together."
He shrugged, "OK, if that makes you happy."
They dressed and went down to the dining-room. Jimmy was already finishing his breakfast. Sean waved and might have joined him, but Kate steered them to a table near the window - "No shop talk," she said, "you've got the rest of the day for that."
"You are in a funny mood. Let me at least get the papers."
That was a mistake. As soon as she saw the headlines her stomach knotted up again. "Sean Connors of Transatlantic TV arrives in Belfast with Miss Kate O'Brien ..."
"Well," Sean said, "at least the Telegraph's got a good picture of you."
She managed a smile, thinking Tim would be blind to miss that.
Sean attacked breakfast with his usual gusto. "What are you doing today?" he asked, "you coming down to the studio?"
"Later. I promised Tim I'd call round this morning."
"Great, why not come down with him? Don't make him late though. He's scheduled for two-thirty."
She nodded.
"Do you want me to arrange a car?"
"No, I've got the address - Osprey House, Lisburn. Tim probably knows where it is. We'll find it. No problem."
"I'm looking forward to meeting him. Funny, us not meeting until now."
Jimmy was leaving. He waved from the door. Sean dabbed his mouth with a napkin, looked at his watch, then called, "I'll be along in half an hour, OK."
Kate stared after Jimmy's retreating back. She cleared her throat, uncertain of the words she would use, but knowing she had to prepare the ground in case Tim proved impossible. "He can be difficult, my brother," she said in a rush, "spiteful at times. We haven't always got on."
Sean swallowed some coffee and shot another look at his watch.
"He ..." she swallowed, "he won't understand about us, for instance."
Sean grinned, "Neither would I if I were your brother. You're too good for me, do you think I don't know that?"
She wanted to say oh God Sean, don't put me on a pedestal, I don't deserve it. It will make it harder when Tim tells you about Mark. She wanted to say that, but the words wouldn't come.
"Listen," he said, reaching for her hand, "that's a good idea of yours, about taking a break with Pat. Why not call the school. Say we'll pick Pat up first thing Saturday. Then we'll go off for a few days. You look a bit peaky. A break will do you good."
She nodded, then tried again, "Sean, if Tim says something about me ... it couldn't make any difference to us could it?"
He frowned. "You mean he'll tell me to stop seeing you? Something crazy like that? Don't be silly, darling. Maybe I can't marry you, but I'll cherish you all the days of my life. That ought to be good enough for any brother."
That wasn't what she meant at all. And she was gathering her courage for a final try when the head waiter hurried over to their table.
"Excuse me, Mr Connors," he said, "but your chauffeur is at the desk. He's come to take you to Lisburn."
From a car across the street, Matt Riordan watched as Sean Connors descended the steps from the hotel and climbed into the back of the hired car. The chauffeur closed the door and hurried round to the front.
Matt removed his spectacles and polished them with the end of his tie. He blinked myopically, unable to focus without his glasses. Not that he needed to at that moment. His mind was busy with other scenes - scenes from the past, crystal clear in his memory. He closed his eyes and watched tongues of flame shoot up from his father's pub. He saw the glass front of his mother's drapery cascade across the street and the butcher's shop under a pall of smoke. But most vividly of all he remembered the day at Keady when Granite Liam Riordan was cut down by bullets.
"Funny," he said, replacing his glasses, "they say a man's past life flashes before him when he's at the point of death. I must ask Connors if it's true."
The car across the street was edging out into traffic. Matt gave a sigh of satisfaction. He had never felt so relaxed, so at peace with himself. He glanced at his watch. Nine-thirty-five. Everything was going to plan.
Little was going to plan for Jimmy Cross. He was having a disastrous morning. From the moment he arrived at the studio the telephone had delivered bad news. They were all pulling out. First the Unionist Party, then the Democratic Unionists, then the Orange Order, now the Ulster Defence Association. The entire Protestant community was boycotting the programme - and all because of that newspaper article about Sean's father being in the IRA.
Jimmy pleaded on the telephone - "Sean Connors has no sympathy for the IRA or any other paramilitary group. He is a respected international journalist. Besides, I shall be conducting most interviews - not him."
But his pleas fell on deaf ears.
Jimmy checked through his schedules again. The Alliance Party was still due to send a spokesman. The Trade Unions hadn't pulled out. Sinn Fein was sending someone up from Dublin in the morning - but the programme was losing its balance. The whole point was to present all shades of opinion.
By ten-fifteen Jimmy was frantic. Sean was late. And there was no sign of Matt Lambert.
Jimmy wondered if the IRA had decided on a boycott too.
He snatched up the telephone and spoke to the front desk. "Has Mr Lambert arrived yet?"
"No sir, I'll buzz you immediately he sets foot through the door."
Jimmy tried to curb his impatience. He smoked another cigarette. Sean must be here soon. It was only half an hour from the hotel.
But at ten-forty five Sean had still not arrived.
Jimmy told the girl to phone the hotel - "See if Mr Connors has been delayed for some reason. If you can't get hold of him I'll speak to Miss O'Brien."
But Mr Connors had left the hotel - "At nine-thirty. And Miss O'Brien drove
off in a cab five minutes ago."
Kate gazed out of the cab window as an armoured Saracen personnel carrier turned into a side street. It seemed impossible to believe this was Britain. Troops on the streets. Soldiers in flak-jackets, with plastic visors and riot shields. People searched for weapons or bombs as they went into shops. Even in the hotel everyone had been searched ... heavens, what a place!
She rehearsed her meeting with Tim yet again. She would make him a straight offer ... the Averdale Collection for his silence. Two million pounds worth of paintings ... two million good reasons for him not to make a mess of her life. It was such a good offer he was bound to accept.
And yet she was nervous when the cab dropped her outside his door ... and even more so ten minutes later when she was shown into her brother's study. The housekeeper withdrew, closing the double doors behind her. The room was in semi-darkness. Curtains covered part of the windows, most of the light was provided by the fire in the hearth. He sat in an armchair, not rising to greet her, in fact not even looking at her.
"Hello Tim."
She thought he was going to remain silent, but then his words lashed her - "I don't know how you've the brazen effrontery to come to Belfast, let alone call at my house. The name O'Brien is respected in this city. It stands for something fine and brave, like the name Averdale. You're a disgrace to them both."
She had no immediate answer. He had not offered her a chair. He had not as much as looked up. She remained standing in the middle of the room.
"I knew you'd come," he said, staring into the fire.
She took a deep breath, "Then you can guess why."
He laughed, a bitter mocking sound. "Not to tell me you're a whore. Everyone in Ulster knows that after this morning's papers."
She bit her lip.
"Well?" he sneered.
"I've come to offer you the Averdale Collection. You can sell the paintings. That's what you want isn't it? To sell them. You can have all the money."
He threw his head back and laughed. His elbow knocked a table beside him. Whisky slopped back and forth in a tumbler. He stopped laughing and asked, "So that's your game. What's it worth ... how many pieces of silver -"
"About two million pounds. Maybe more now -"
"Two million pounds," he mimicked.
He swung round to face her for the first time. "Well it's not enough. Ten million isn't enough. So what now, whore? What's your next offer? Your body? It's always worked in the past -"
"Don't be so despicable -"
"Me?" he pointed a finger at himself, "Me despicable?"
Even in that dim light the look in his eyes frightened her. She retreated a step. Nothing she said would have the slightest effect, she had fooled herself. She called upon her courage, Ziggy's courage, Yvette's courage. Very well. She had no intention of pleading. She would do what she should have done years ago. Tell Sean herself ...
"Where are you going?" His voice cracked as she turned for the door.
"Does it matter? I came here to -"
"Buy me. That's why you came. Well I can't be bought. Not where my parents are concerned. Honour thy parents. That's what they teach in good Protestant schools. Well I do honour mine -"
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"No, you don't. You never have. I tried to tell you once. I did tell you, so my conscience is clear. But you ..."
He stood up with his back to the fire. It was difficult to read his expression, but his whole stance conveyed a gloating triumph which mystified her.
She took another step to the door.
"Wait," he snapped. "There's something you should know before you go."
"I don't see why I should listen to your insults. I don't deserve them."
"Oh?" He laughed. "Well I shall let you be the judge of that - when I tell you something about yourself-"
"You know very little of my life."
"I know enough," he scowled, "I know a secret that will destroy you."
Her eyes went to the whisky glass. She wondered if he were drunk.
"Don't let that fool you," he chuckled, "merely a celebratory drink on an auspicious occasion."
She stared at him.
"You may as well sit down," he said, "you won't leave before I tell you my secret."
For a split second she was undecided. Then she crossed to a sofa near the window.
He reached for his glass and raised it in a toast. "Ironic how life works out. For you to come back to Belfast in a September. You should have been here a few weeks ago, on the second. Now that would have been rich. The second of September. It means nothing to you I suppose?"
She thought. "No, should it?"
"It was the date our parents were murdered. When they were shot down in cold blood."
She caught her breath, "Oh dear, all those years ago."
"As you say," he grunted as he sat down again. "I was what... about nine ... and you were six or seven. We went to London to live in our guardian's big house. Orphans, facing the great unknown."
Bitterness crept back into his voice. "Our paths parted then. You became the household pet. Everyone made a fuss of you. I was the cripple boy, nobody wanted to know. Oh I used to watch you go off with your nurse for walks and outings. But I had to work. God how I worked. You've no idea of the pain, the suffering - day after grinding day with only Williams to give me encouragement. You never asked about me, nor did anyone else. I remember Fridays most, when our guardian arrived home. First thing he did was send for your nurse. Then you arrived, all prettied up in good clothes - to prance up and down, twirling your skirts."
He broke off to sip from his glass. "I used to watch," he said. "I couldn't walk, so I dragged myself along the landing to look down into the hall. Sometimes the study door was open. I could see you sitting in his lap, hugging him and shrieking with excitement. Then Williams would go into the study and I'd drag myself back to my room as fast as I could - always thinking it would be my turn next, that our guardian would come up and see me. But he never did. It was always you. You were a princess. I was a cripple."
She felt uncomfortable, even a little ashamed. It was all true, she knew it was true.
"One thing kept me going. A face. I used to have nightmares about it. Night after night. I woke up screaming, covered in sweat. It was the murderer, coming to get me. I couldn't move. I couldn't walk, let alone run away. I had to just stay in that sweat-soaked bed and wait for him to come out of the darkness. Always the same face. I knew it by heart - nose, ears, mouth, eyes, hair, everything. It was the face of the man who murdered our parents, the man I saw in the lane at Keady, the man with the gun.
"I was afraid of the dark - terrified to go to sleep. I begged Williams to leave the light on, I told him about the dream, about that man's face. All he said was - 'Good, you'll remember that face all the days of your life. One day you'll find him and take your revenge.' I would scream, 'How can I? I'm a cripple. I can't walk.' And he'd shout at me, 'Make yourself walk.'"
Kate listened in horror. "Tim ... I'm so sorry."
"Sorry?" He looked at her angrily. "I don't want your pity. I want you to understand. Suppose it happened to you? Suppose you endured those nightmares every night, for years and years. Do you think you would forget that face? Ever? Do you?"
"No ... I don't suppose -"
"Suppose!" His eyes blazed. "Suppose nothing. Would you or wouldn't you?"
Whisky slopped over the rim of his glass.
"No," she said hurriedly, "I mean yes, I'm sure I'd remember it."
"Every day of your life?"
"Yes, every day of my life. I could never forget something so awful."
He smiled abruptly, and the sudden grin lent an almost insane cast to his face. Then he gave a satisfied grunt and turned away.
"Quite right," he muttered, "something so awful, as you say, anyone would be the same, that face would haunt every day of their life."
He was silent for a moment, then he said, "I made myself walk all r
ight. Exercising every day. So tired at times that I collapsed. Williams left me on the floor. 'Make yourself walk,' he would jeer. So I did. Then a wonderful thing happened. Our guardian was really nice to me, so kind that I used to cry with happiness. You were still his favourite, but there was room for me too. When the war came and you were sent to America, and it was just him and me. I thought I was the luckiest boy on God's earth.
"Then I saw that face again. I was on a train, looking out of the window. We were in the station, opposite a bookstall. There was this face, on the front page of a newspaper. My murderer was headline news. He was some kind of hero, coming out of hospital. I couldn't see his name, just the face. The train moved off and the paper was gone. But as you said, something like that stays with you every day of your life."
He looked at her, again with that queer grin. It made her feel uneasy. She was glad when he turned back to the fire.
"The war years were good," he said, "it was just him and me. I was determined to make him proud, so I worked harder than ever to pass my exams. Sometimes he sat and talked about 'after the war, when Kate comes home.' We would all live together at Brackenburn. I worried about that, but not often. You see I planned to be an important man by then, running the Averdale businesses, perhaps even going into Stormont. Besides, I wanted to do something else to make him proud of me. I planned to kill the man who murdered my parents."
A shiver ran up her spine.
"At one stage," he continued, "I even stole a gun from the armoury, ready for the day when I confronted the murderer. Meanwhile I remembered that face." He shrugged. "As you say, something like that stays in your mind all the days of your life."
He finished the whisky in his glass. "Then the war ended and you came home. You can't imagine the excitement, the Princess was returning from exile. I half expected a civic reception - but instead he was bleak with disappointment. You weren't what he expected, were you?"
There was no mistaking his malice. Kate looked away. He poured himself another whisky, without offering her any kind of drink, not even coffee.
"I felt sorry for you," he said. "After all, I knew the pain of rejection. So when he went to Africa I visited you at school when I could. Before, when I was crippled, I had hated you, but by then our roles had reversed. I was the success, you were the failure. Then I realised you hated me. You hated us both. You never wanted to come back, you preferred your precious friends in America -"
Ian St James Compendium - Volume 1 Page 161