This Irish House

by Jeanette Baker

  “I won’t apologize for my father. He’s a good man.”

  “Is he an Orangeman?”

  Peter looked embarrassed. “Aye.”

  Her lip curled. “I thought so. All RUC arrests of Catholics are a sham.”

  “Do you think Protestant arrests are also a sham?”

  “It isn’t the same.”

  “Why not?”

  “There is no reason to arrest Protestants unless they commit crimes. It’s different for us. They hate us because we’re Catholic.”

  His fists clenched. “You’ve been brainwashed, Deirdre. If you really believe that, and if you’re typical of the Catholic population, there is no hope for us.”

  She smiled sadly. “In our eyes, there are no good men in the RUC.”

  “I’m not my father, Deirdre. I have no control over what he does.”

  She was very white and very resolved. “This isn’t going to work, Peter. I’m sorry. You’ll have to leave now.”

  He stared at her. “What are we doing that is so unacceptable? We have fun together. We talk. We study. Is that so wrong?”

  She wet her lips and wondered how to explain and whether it was even worthwhile to do so. Peter was kind and decent. He deserved an accounting. “My father’s murder was never investigated. The RUC said there was no evidence. My mother, my brother and I witnessed his murder.” Her eyes filled. The pain gathered in her throat choking her words. “They shot him down in front of us and then, for good measure, while he was bleeding all over the floor, they shot him again in the head.”

  Peter groaned. “I’m sorry. More than anything I wish it hadn’t happened to you but I’m not responsible. The people I know would never do such a thing. They would want the murderers to be found.”

  “The RUC don’t want them found. They told us there was nothing we could do.”

  “Don’t do this, Deirdre,” Peter pleaded. “I thought we were friends.”

  “No,” she said. “We’re not.” She stood there, a slight, straight figure, waging a battle with circumstances for which she was no match.

  Seventeen

  Kate drew on the lip of the inhaler, sucked the mist deeply into her lungs, counted to twenty and waited for the familiar rush to ease the tightness in her chest. It happened more often, lately, this closing of her air passages, the bands of tension tightening around her middle until she was forced to pull over to the side of the road or sit down in any available seat, scramble for her Ventolin inhaler, ignore the inquiring looks and simply wait until the episode was over.

  A finger of light broke through the morning fog and flickered over the Twelve Bens, green with vegetation from spring rains. Perhaps there would be sun today. She stuffed the inhaler into the pocket of her windbreaker, pulled out her gloves and jogged down the sidewalk to the path leading toward the beach. She’d taken a break and returned to Ardara, hoping that a night spent in her own bed would work its restorative magic, her bed that no longer held any joy, any hope of love or sex or pleasure. She pushed the thought away. Her own problems could wait. Her priority was Kevin. She saw him every day. His visitation was no longer restricted and each time it was harder for her to leave. He was so pathetically grateful to see her. She couldn’t bear to disappoint him. Today her father would be there. She had taken advantage of the opportunity and come home.

  Wind whipped at her face reddening her cheeks, bringing tears to her eyes. She’d reached the sand now. Her calves ached. It was harder to move. She increased her pace, felt the bite in her chest, the sting in her thighs. The ocean was slate-gray, the color of the sky. Gulls shrieked and circled the pilings. Something brown leaped against the gray water, a sea lion. Waves crashed. The smells of sea and salt and fish mingled together.

  She’d found her pace. Two minutes went by, three, four. She pushed herself steadily forward, lifting first one foot, heavy with morning fatigue and straining muscles, and then the other, forcing herself, harder and harder for the elusive feeling that had become her addiction. Despite the cold, perspiration gathered on her forehead, on the back of her neck, in the valley of her breasts. Then she felt it, first in tiny trickles, then a wave, rising, cresting, falling and, finally, a rushing stream of lightness, a wellness of being, a euphoria. It swept over her, through her, filling her, an affirmation, a reassurance that she would manage, that Kevin would recover, that Patrick’s murderers would be brought to justice, that Deirdre would lose the brittle veneer that prevented her from trusting anyone other than those blood-related.

  Kate reached the dock. Gasping, she slowed to a stop, pressed her hand against her side and bent over from the waist. Six miles. She felt empowered. Today she would return all of the calls on her voice mail. Today she would ring the prime minister and demand to be told exactly what was happening with Patrick’s investigation. Another thought swam up out of nowhere. Today she would find out why her husband had regularly frequented a first-class restaurant in Belfast and why he’d never bothered to mention it, he who mentioned everything.

  Dominick was a full fifteen minutes early for his visit with Kevin. The same man from the day before led him through a long hallway to a sitting room with two couches facing each other. A patterned area rug, a wooden mantel with carved animals and misty prints of spring in Connemara were the only decorative touches. Otherwise the room was empty.

  “I’ll tell Kevin you’re here,” the man said and disappeared down the hallway.

  Dominick sat down on one of the couches and looked at his watch. One minute ticked by. He drummed his fingers on the small end table, his thoughts on what he needed to accomplish later that day.

  Footsteps sounded on the floorboards. He looked up to see his nephew standing uncertainly in the doorway.

  “Uncle Dominick?” The words came out like a question.

  “Aye, it’s me, lad. How are you doing?”

  “I’m grand,” the boy stammered. “What are you doing here?”

  “Your mum said you were in a bit of trouble. I thought I’d come and see if you needed anything.”

  Kevin’s face lit with his sudden smile. Dominick’s throat burned. The resemblance to Patrick was remarkable, the same cleanly chiseled features, black hair and fair, freckled skin, the same lean height and flashing smile. The world had not deserved Patrick Nolan. Perhaps it was right that he had gone to a better place. Dominick had lost his religion long ago, even before his brother’s bloody execution, but he was born and raised a Roman Catholic from the Falls. For generations his ancestors had fought, bled, died and buried their children under the limestone and in the bogs of Ireland for the privilege of practicing that religion. It wasn’t something one could easily deny. Dominick understood that. His faith came and went with his moods and just now it had come back to him with a vengeance. What in bloody hell had Patrick’s son gotten himself involved in?

  Kevin settled in across from him. “I’m glad you came. I was wondering—” He hesitated.

  “Go on.”

  Kevin looked around. “Do you think they can hear us.?”

  Dominick pulled out a cigarette and offered one to his nephew. Kevin declined. Dominick lit the end and slipped the matches back into his pocket. “I don’t think so, lad.” He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and lowered his voice. “Is there something you’re wanting to tell me?”

  The boy swallowed and nodded.

  “Start from the beginning.”

  Kevin looked at the clock. “We only have an hour.”

  “Do what you can.” Dominick’s voice was soothing, persuading.

  The boy instinctively responded. “He wants me to inform,” the boy blurted out.

  “Who does?”

  “Mr. Anderson.”

  “What’s he looking for?”

  “Drugs, I think. That’s what I’m here for, selling cocaine. They put me in Long Kesh. It was the only way I could get out.”

  “Why you?”

  Kevin’s brow wrinkled, marring the smooth, young skin. “He said there
was no one else who could get in, no one new besides me. He said no one would suspect me because of my history and who I was. He thinks the same people who were in the IRA run the drug trade in Belfast.”

  “He does, does he?” Dominick watched the flame-lit point of his cigarette and the curl of smoke drifting toward the ceiling. Everything had its own time, its own pace. Deliberately he gentled his voice. “Think very carefully, lad. Did he mention who it is that he wants?”

  Kevin’s eyes went blue and clear, Patrick’s eyes. “He wants you, Uncle Dom, and Liam, too.”

  John O’Donnell watched his daughter cross the street at the signal and enter the restaurant. He stood and waved to her from his booth in the corner. She spotted him immediately. “Hello, Da,” she said, kissing his cheek, taking the seat across from him. “Sorry I’m late. How is Kevin, today?”

  “I wasn’t able to see him. He already had a visitor this morning.”

  “Oh?”

  “I waited to see who it was.”

  Her father was a storyteller. Kate had learned that long ago. There was no point in rushing him.

  She pulled a piece of brown bread from the basket and buttered it. There was no brown bread at home. Deirdre and Kevin preferred white.

  “He stayed the whole hour, and me shivering in the cold of my car. I started the engine a few times to give myself a bit of the heat.”

  “It’s not even winter, Da.”

  “It’s ten degrees, Katie.”

  She acknowledged the temperature and gently steered her father back to the point of the conversation. “Who was Kevin’s visitor?”

  “It was your brother-in-law.”

  Kate froze.

  Gratified by her obvious surprise, John leaned closer. “It was Dominick Nolan, himself. Now what would he be wanting with our Kevin?”

  She lifted the water glass to her lips with shaking hands and feigned a smile. “I don’t know. He is Kevin’s uncle. Maybe he’s worried about him.”

  “If he was so worried about any of you, he would have shown his face at any time in the last six years.”

  “That’s not fair, Da,” Kate protested. “We haven’t exactly made him welcome.”

  “He’s an IRA man, Katie, even now when it isn’t necessary and no one approves.”

  “My point exactly. Dominick knows we don’t approve of him.”

  John sipped at his tea.

  Kate noticed right away. Her father was the rare Irishman whose stomach rebelled at a second drink but he wouldn’t refuse the first one. “Have you given it up completely, Da?”

  He nodded. “Drink addles a man, makes him old and spent before his time.”

  “Good for you.”

  “Never mind about me. What will you do about Kevin?”

  The barman called out to them. “The shepherd’s pie is tasty today.”

  “I’ll have fish,” Kate replied.

  “The same for me,” echoed her father.

  “Two fish plates it is,” the man said disappearing through the double doors. He was both cook and barman when his wife shopped for supplies in Dublin.

  Kate crossed her arms and looked at her father. “All I want is for Kevin to come home and be normal. I’m terrified that won’t happen. Right now, he’s where he needs to be. I can’t imagine a better place for him. We have Neil Anderson to thank for that.”

  “The policeman?” John swore under his breath. “How can you even think that way, Katie?”

  “Because it’s true. We certainly weren’t getting anywhere with Kevin.” Her voice shook. “He was involved in a shooting, Da. He could have been killed or paralyzed for life. Our Kevin. Whatever I thought was bothering him was nothing compared with this. Isn’t that ironic? I see children like Kevin every day and I couldn’t recognize the signs in my own son.”

  He patted her hand. “Don’t kick yourself, Katie. You’ve been a good and loving mother. This isn’t your fault.”

  “It’s someone’s fault, Da. Not every child goes down this path.”

  “No, they don’t. Deirdre didn’t.”

  Kate smiled. “You’re trying to cheer me up and I thank you. But Deirdre isn’t likely to have Kevin’s problems. They’re completely different people. Besides, Deirdre has her own demons to shake. I wonder if she’ll ever have a normal life.”

  “Because of what happened to Patrick?”

  Kate nodded.

  John turned his water glass around on the wooden table. “How is the investigation coming along?” he asked casually.

  “It isn’t.”

  “Perhaps it’s better this way.”

  His words stung. She turned on him. “How can you say that? Anything is better than not knowing.”

  “I’m not so sure.”

  “What are you telling me, Da? Patrick’s death destroyed my family. Do you think I should just give up without knowing why my husband was the target of an assassination team?”

  “You already know that, Katie. Patrick worked with the IRA. He defended criminals, murderers, and he defended them successfully. More than a few wanted to see him dead.”

  “He wasn’t the only defense attorney for the IRA.”

  John was silent. There was only so much he could say. Kate would find her way without him. She was closer than she’d ever been. He knew it would bring her great pain, but in the pain would come healing, for herself and her children.

  Kate sat in the leather chair of what was once Patrick’s home office and stared at the telephone. Hers was an old argument, one she had with Patrick too many times to count. He was loyal to his family while she wanted no part of Dominick Nolan’s politics or the entire Nolan family. You did ask him for help, a voice in her head reminded her. Fairness demanded that she give him a chance to explain. She picked up the phone and dialed the number of the Sinn Fein office in Belfast.

  “Dominick Nolan, please.”

  “I’m sorry,” a pleasant female voice replied. “There is no one by that name here.”

  “This is his sister-in-law, Kate Nolan.”

  Instantly the voice changed. “One moment, Mrs. Nolan. I’ll see where he can be reached.”

  Kate punched in the numbers the woman gave her. This time Dominick answered.

  She came right to the point. “I understand you visited my son this morning.”

  “Good afternoon, Kate. It’s grand to hear from you.”

  His voice was cool, amused, superior.

  “You haven’t seen Kevin in years, Dominick. Why now?”

  “I was concerned about my nephew. Don’t forget it was you who came to me.”

  “The situation has changed. He’s no longer in prison.”

  “Obviously.” Now the voice was sarcastic, hard. “I wondered why you didn’t bother to tell me of the change in his circumstances.”

  “There wasn’t time.” Even she recognized the pathetic nature of her excuse.

  “There was time enough for other things, wasn’t there, Kate?”

  The pounding started in her chest and moved to her throat, her temples, the tips of her fingers. “I’m not sure what you’re talking about,” she stammered.

  “Your job makes it difficult to understand which side you’re on. Does being the police ombudsman mean you’re required to break bread with them, even the one who set up your son, my brother’s son?”

  The ringing in her ears drowned out his words. “Are you having me followed, Dominick?”

  “I’m not that interested in you, Kathleen. But you are something of a celebrity here in Belfast. When you dine at an expensive restaurant with an Englishman who makes his living as an expert in terrorist operations, you’ll be noticed.”

  She swallowed. “Tell me how he set up my son.”

  Without sparing her any of the details, he told her.

  Kate carried her teacup to the breakfast room where the skylight picked up the last lingering rays of sunlight, bathing the room in a lemony haze. The windows faced the sea. The furniture was warm oak, the pla
nts perennially green, the temperature a lovely sixty-five degrees. She sat down at the table and stared out into the late afternoon.

  She knew better than to act on the emotions roiling through her. Her first inclination had been to call Neil Anderson, to vent on him her fury, her feelings of betrayal, contempt and, down there beneath it all, a small, raw kernel of hurt. He’d used her, charmed her, soothed her into believing he respected her, found her attractive, even admired her work. It was all a lie to get to Kevin. She’d woven fantasies around him, impossible, schoolgirl fantasies that could never be, but nonetheless lifted her to another place where possibilities still existed.

  She hurt inside. Kate was no stranger to hurt and this one was very small when taken in perspective. Still, it hit her in a new place, rawer, because it had never been touched before. Kate had loved only one man in her life and he had never disappointed her, never given her a moment’s insecurity. He made her feel attractive, desirable and feminine. Never once had she doubted that Patrick loved her or that she was first in his life. She was an amateur when it came to relationships, all kinds.

  The blinking light on her message machine alerted her to a new message. She hit the button and smiled when she heard the voice. Maeve Murphy was her only real friend. An artist from Dublin who sculpted glass, Maeve was lovely, tall, full-breasted, long-limbed with flowing auburn hair. She’d refurbished a mansion on the beach and held raucous parties with handsome European men who spoke in heavy, romantic accents.

  Patrick had disliked Maeve, more than was warranted, Kate often thought. He’d barely known her, not enough for the vehemence of his feelings. Selfish, he’d called her, and garish, loud and crass. Kate hadn’t seen any of those qualities. She’d seen only a generosity of spirit, a lack of pretentiousness, and a sensual charm she would very much have liked to cultivate for herself. Maeve was a breath of air blown in from exotic destinations. She had been Kate’s lifeline in troubled times. She was the only woman she could truly call a friend. She lived in New York City for much of the year, returning to Ireland when there was the hope of a bit of sun. Kate missed her very much. They’d only had a few conversations since the trouble with Kevin. These had been satisfying, but not nearly as much as a regular visit, just the two of them sharing a bottle of expensive wine and a whole evening ahead.