He catches my wrist. ‘That’s your answer to everything, is it?’
‘What do you expect? I’m a volunteer, fucking soldier. If I was one of the boys you’d not be after me to quit.’
‘If you were one of the boys I wouldn’t be in love with you. I thought you felt the same.’
‘It doesn’t matter if I do, I can’t, won’t, give in. It’s too important.’
‘We agree on that but there are other ways.’
‘Like leaving it to the politicians, trusting those self-serving shites to play fair? Don’t be naïve, Patrick.’
‘What happened to ‘a ballot box in one hand and an Armalite in the other’?’
‘You need both hands to fire an Armalite. This is who I am.’
‘Who you think you have to be,’ he corrects.
‘Either way, if you can’t accept it you need to leave.’ I march into the kitchen, light a cigarette and listen for the front door slamming, his car revving away.
His shoes tap across the lino behind me. I turn. He steps towards me, puts out a cautious hand and brushes my hair.
‘I can’t leave you anymore than you can leave the Movement.’ He weaves his fingers through mine.
‘Let me tell you the score first.’
While I talk Patrick cooks, scurrying from counter to cooker, chopping and slicing, mixing and frying until two plates of corned beef hash appear. I tell him about the job centre incident, visiting Briege and Connor, Rosmuc, Hughes’ words about the upcoming offensive and all the reasons why I can’t not be a volunteer. Patrick listens and chews but doesn’t comment. I flag the obvious conflict: a lawyer, even a Republican one, and a terrorist. I want the word to shake him but he pours more tea with a steady hand. I outline the future: Tyrone; hiding in the open, risking capture, dangers he’s no business facing. Grease hardens into shiny globules on our plates. I warn him this could last for years. The ashtray fills up with dog-ends. He tells me he’s also battened down for the long war. I ask if he’s prepared for visiting me in jail, shouldering my coffin. He holds my hands and answers with his eyes. The evening spectrum passes through orange, red, violet, indigo, dying blackly. I tell him there’ll be no family life for him, no children, a future calculated in hours, days at best. He says he doesn’t want children, that days, even hours, are better than nothing. I don’t know if I believe him. And I’m out of arguments.
‘The prosecution rests, does it?’ he asks as I light my last cigarette. ‘And now for the defence.’
‘Patrick, it’s late…’
‘I’ll be brief. I love you.’ He gets up from the table.
‘Is that it?’
‘If it was anything else I would’ve left hours ago.’ He smiles, ‘That speech wasn’t you talking me into leaving; it was you talking yourself into letting me stay. Wake me if you don’t get through to yourself.’ He heads into Daideo’s bedroom, where he slept last time he was here, closing the door behind him.
Thoughts toss on my mind’s tide. Fingers twitching, I search the drawers for more cigarettes, find a small notepad and a stumpy pencil. I sit in Daideo’s armchair, rolling the HB between my fingers, stroking the pad. Guided by memory and imagination, the pencil moves over the paper, shaping a face, the features familiar yet alien; eyes, nose, mouth, chin, angled up, looking at something not yet there. Details emerge; light in the irises, a smile on the lips, a flush to the cheeks. The pencil fashions a second face, above the first but turned down towards it, eyelids lowered, mouth returning the smile. I focus on each line, sweeping them across the page, filling the space, not allowing myself to view the whole, recognise the emerging couple. The pencil won’t be refused; I don’t stop until both faces are finished. The composition matches the wedding photograph of Aiden and me but the faces are mine and Patrick’s.
Is this what I want?
Well, you drew us.
So you could tell me.
How are we to know what’s in your head?
Isn’t that where you’ve come from?
Head, heart, is there a difference?
There should be.
People change, fall apart: reassemble themselves.
I throw the drawing into the empty grate and go to wake Patrick.
As I open the door the soft sound of his breathing and smell of his aftershave drift over. I step inside, light following me, falling onto his face as the door swings back. He stirs, a restless hand brushing the glare from his eyes. He sees me and props himself up.
‘I’m going?’ he asks.
I perch on the bed, lean over and kiss him.
The next day Patrick suggests we walk in St Stephen’s Green, take tea in the Shelbourne.
‘OK. but you can’t laugh.’
‘At what?’ he asks.
I produce the blonde wig.
‘Why cut your hair and get that?’
‘I’m in disguise.’
‘As who, yourself?’
‘Aye.’
I explain as we stroll around the duck pond. The wig is hot and itchy, smells funny. I’m glad when we get home and I can take it off.
Patrick cooks again. Studying the rhythm of his knife, the deft sweep of a cloth he swishes over countertops, I realise how feral I’ve become. When the plates are cleared and cleaned we curl up on the sofa. The wig sits in Daideo’s armchair like the Addams Family’s cat. Patrick nods to it.
‘This plan, hiding in plain sight, how’re you going to do it?’
‘Rent a place up there under a different name.’
‘Any objections to that name being Duffy?’
I jerk forward. He holds up a hand.
‘Don’t panic. I’m not proposing. But I’ve an idea if you’ll listen.’
He suggests he rents somewhere in his name. I’ll live there as Mrs Duffy. He’ll visit on weekends, my Belfast lawyer husband. During the week I can be a housewife. It’s not so far from the truth, except the housewife bit, and it means we get a part-time life. It could work.
‘But I’ll have to clear it with the OC and if there’s an active operation you’ll have to stay away. I won’t have you in that situation. I mean it, Patrick.’
‘Fine.’ He grins. ‘Wouldn’t be much good as your solicitor if I got myself arrested.’
I meet Liam in a lay-by near Three Mile House, where, a lifetime ago, we trekked through the Monaghan countryside on the last day of training. It’s gone two in the morning and blackness presses us hard.
‘It’s good to see you again,’ he says, hugging me.
‘How’re ya?’
‘Getting my head around the move.’
‘Things a mess?’
‘Chaos. Everyone’s pointing fingers.’ He shakes his head. ‘Darkie took two lads off last week. Doubt we’ll see them again.’
‘Jesus.’
‘Aye, it’s part of the Brits’ game, making us think they’ve a load of touts so we’ll rip ourselves apart.’
We get into his car.
‘What’s happening with Rory?’ I ask.
‘Trial starts next month. He’ll get ten at least.’
‘Christ.’ I spark a cigarette.
‘We’re set, so?’ Liam asks.
I outline Patrick’s plan. Liam listens, interrogates: what does he know? enough; what will I be telling him? nothing specific; can we trust him? definitely; am I sure about this? yes; is he? yes.
‘Sure, it’s pretty big of him, doing all this.’
‘Well, I am sleeping with him,’ I reply.
‘I was only saying.’
‘Bollocks, Liam, you were fishing. If you’ve something to ask, do it.’ I glare at him through the darkness. He doesn’t flinch.
‘Fine. How does this play out?’
‘Romantically or militarily?’
‘You’ve responsibilities to your unit. Involving an outsider’s risky.’
‘We use supporters all the time.’
‘But we don’t shag them. What if yous have a row? Split? Feelings impair your judgem
ent.’
‘You think because I’m a woman I’ll…’
‘I’d be saying the same to any volunteer so don’t be arguing some women’s lib bullshit. We know each other better than that.’
‘Aye, sorry.’
He sighs. ‘I’m worried you’re making this too complicated.’
‘I’m making this work, for everyone.’
He drums his fingers on the steering wheel. ‘OK., but any problems and I need to know,’ he says, ‘before, not after.’
‘Fair enough.’ I quell the relief rinsing me by getting practical. ‘What about the rest of the unit? Hughes said he was sending Tommy and Joe.’
‘They arrived last week. Seem decent.’
‘They are. Who else?’
‘I brought Ciaran outta Belfast myself. He’ll be with you.’ Liam fumbles for a cigarette, avoiding eye contact. ‘And Danny. The Brits are all over him in town, he can’t even fart but they know about it.’ He produces his lighter. ‘And they’re not the only ones with eyes on him.’
‘Loyalists?’
‘Hmm. Someone shot up his mammy’s house last week. There wasn’t anyone in but… it’s safer for him deep in ’Ra country.’ Cigarette gripped between his teeth, he mumbles, ‘If it’s a problem I’ll put him in another unit.’
‘No. He can live with me and Patrick.’ In the flicker of Liam’s lighter I see him raise an eyebrow. ‘Sure, he’s my wee brother,’ I say. Liam shakes his head but he’s grinning. ‘Isn’t the best lie the one that’s closest to the truth?’
‘It is.’
We talk on, finalising details. Liam suggests Ballygawley as a base. It’s 80% Nationalist plus Jim’s lads did over the RUC station a couple of years ago so there’s a sense in the village that they’ve had their troubles, like growing pains. Also it’s only three miles, across the fields, to Monaghan, a retreat I hope we won’t need, and twelve miles from Dungannon, where Tommy and Joe have a flat rented. They’ll set the plumbing/electrical business running again. Ciaran’ll be in Coalisland, working a few shifts in a pub and lodging in a boarding house. That’s further from Ballygawley but Liam’ll sort him a car so that shouldn’t be a problem. All I have to do is find a house, move in and become Mrs Caoilainn Duffy.
Patrick and I are married by Aiden’s old forger friend who knocks up a marriage certificate for Mr and Mrs Duffy plus driving licence and passport for Mrs Duffy, a young woman with short dark hair and a Mona Lisa smile.
Studying the new name, I’m almost convinced I can have everything.
Patrick parks outside the estate agent in Dungannon. We’ve an appointment in five minutes. She claims she’s found the perfect place for us; a two bed, cottage-style property, a mile north of the village, on a hillside overlooking Ballygawley and with spectacular views of the countryside.
‘Before we go in I’ve something for you,’ Patrick says. He hands me a jewellery box.
Inside is a plain gold band. Blood rushes to my cheeks, my mouth dries up and my heart stutters.
‘I thought maybe you’d rather not wear the one you’ve got,’ he mumbles.
‘Thanks.’ I slip it on my finger and twist it round, cold metal constricting my skin.
‘Does it not fit?’
‘It’s fine. Thank you,’ I say again.
I worry at the ring the whole time we’re in the estate agents, making my finger raw from screwing and unscrewing it. It doesn’t help that she keeps calling me Mrs Duffy even though I say Caoilainn’s fine. But the house is right and Patrick signs the lease. I have a week to get used to the name and the ring.
The days count down. I keep busy with logistics: selling my car; planning the trip north without it; packing; spreading a rumour round the neighbourhood that I’m emigrating; sham-clearing the house and planting a stolen ‘For Sale’ sign in the garden. It should be easy, ending one life and starting another. I’ve done it before, more than once. I think of the homes I’ve had and the people I shared them with. But there is no precedent for this.
I leave with the morning commuters, walking to the bus stop wearing the wig, shouldering my rucksack like a student backpacker. At lunchtime I arrive in Belfast. In the bus station toilets I bin the wig and go to meet Patrick. His car loaded, the keys to our new house in his pocket, we set off. Four hours later Mr and Mrs Patrick Duffy are buying groceries and introducing themselves to the Ballygawley locals.
The weekend is our honeymoon, even though, according to the fake marriage certificate, we’ve been together five years. We sleep late, wake up together, make love, ramble the hills, drink in the village pub, eat the dinner Patrick cooks in our kitchen and fall back into bed. It’s two days of bliss. On Monday morning he leaves early for a bail hearing. I wait for the telecoms bloke to connect the phone. He’s late. I’m bored. I make the bed, mop the kitchen floor, peg laundry on the line and realise I’ll be insane by teatime if I don’t find something else to do. Once the phone is sorted I wander into the village, buy a plain A4 pad, pencils, all HB because they don’t stock any other type, a rubber and a packet of child’s crayons. Sitting in the garden, overlooking the village, I sketch the valley. Tomorrow I’ll catch the bus into Dungannon, buy paints, pastels and canvasses.
After tea, and before I start a still life of dishcloths, bleach bottles, brushes, rubber gloves and a feather duster to be titled ‘The Housewife’s Arsenal’ I call Brendan, letting him know I’ve made it north. I ask him to check on the house for me. Daideo wanted to leave me the security of my own home, and, although it hasn’t been home for too long, I don’t want to totally abandon it, just in case. Brendan promises to get the lads to pop round off-times. Next I ring Liam, giving him the number in case he needs to contact me and directions so he can find me. He says he’ll visit soon; Danny will be here next week, after he’s been through decontamination so the Brits lose sight of him.
‘You told Patrick he’s joining yous?’
‘Yes,’ I lie.
Liam arrives after dark.
‘Wouldn’t want the locals seeing us, thinking we’re having an affair,’ he jokes.
‘Not the first time we’ve been there,’ I say, remembering Nora’s suspicions during my first Belfast Christmas.
He takes the full tour, all five minutes of it, and craics on about my modest mansion.
‘Sure, you’d not get this on a volunteer’s allowance. Must be grand being a kept woman,’ he teases.
‘Jealous, are you? Because I’ve heard they’re making leaps-and-bounds progress with sex change surgery these days,’ I reply, grinning widely and passing him a beer. ‘Mind, you’d have to pretty yourself up a bit.’
We start laughing, the banter restoring our balance.
‘Before I forget, Hughes sent this.’ He hands me an envelope. ‘One of the Dublin boys found it on your doormat.’
It’s type-addressed to Kaylynn Devoy, no stamp or post mark. Inside is a single sheet of paper. Glued to it is a yellowed copy of my 1984 mug-shot, clipped from a newspaper. A bold cross is scored over the image. Beneath, scrawled in red lettering, are the words ‘your day will come’.
‘It’s from a fan,’ I say, holding it out to Liam.
He scans it, expression grim. ‘Fuck. You had any more like this?’
I tell him about the Loughgall newspaper clipping.
Liam shakes his head. ‘You should’ve said something.’
‘It’s just one of the bloody neighbours.’
Liam sighs. ‘Maybe. Could be Loyalists. I’d best let Hughes know.’ He chucks it into the bin. We smoke in silence for a few minutes. ‘Away outside. I’ve brought you something.’
Mist circles the cottage. We cut through it to the car. Liam pops the boot lid and pulls out an Armalite.
‘Thought you’d like some practise.’ He hands me the rifle, a handgun and two magazines for each. ‘God bless Gaddafi. You need a refresher on these?’
I take up the Armalite, load and unload it, safety on/off, am about to take it apart when Liam stops me.
/>
‘Aye, daft question. Sorry,’ he says, ‘but watch yourself. Best if you go over the border, find somewhere you’ll not be disturbed.’
‘OK.’
‘Grand. Well, I’ll be heading off. You’ve my number if you’ve a problem.’
‘Thanks.’
We hug and he drives away, fog devouring his car.
At dawn I take both guns, the Armalite disassembled in my rucksack and the 9mm tucked into my waistband, and hike into Monaghan. Finding a wooded grove far from any settlements, I reassemble and load the rifle. Aiming at a distant tree, I force myself to picture a face, young, the eyes straining, camouflage paint smeared around them, one squinting down a telescopic sight trained on Mrs Murphy’s bedroom window. It is not an easy thing to take up a gun and go out to kill some person. I fire. The crack of the weapon tears through me. I miss, curse, adjust my aim and try again. It takes a dozen shots before I score a hit but I don’t stop until both magazines are empty, my shoulder throbbing and my ears blistered by the rifle’s retort. The handgun is gentler and by lunchtime I’m heading back, reassured.
Friday brings Patrick.
‘I’ve missed you,’ he says, pulling me into his arms, crushing my sore shoulder against his chest.
I flinch.
‘Are you hurt?’
‘It’s nothing.’ I step back.
‘Let me see,’ he insists.
The bruise is purple, yellowing around the edges.
‘Where’d you get that?’ He strokes the multicolour pain.
‘Target practice.’
‘You’ve a gun here?’
‘Under the bed. Two, actually. Liam brought them but don’t worry, they’ll be back in the cache on Monday. We’ll only keep weapons here if there’s a need.’
Patrick sighs.
‘You knew this was happening.’
‘Aye, but, so soon?’
‘We need a word.’ I lead him to the table, make tea and offer him cake. He smiles when he sees it. ‘Don’t get excited, I bought it in the village.’
Herself Alone in Orange Rain Page 33