This Irish House

by Jeanette Baker

  Kate picked up the phone and punched in Neil’s room number. “I’m ready now.”

  His answer was measured, calm. “All right. Give me ten minutes.”

  She applied fresh lipstick and changed her blouse. Then she stared at herself in the mirror. What would someone think, seeing her for the first time? An average woman, tall enough, but fragile looking and smallboned. Another ten pounds wouldn’t hurt at all. Her eyes, she decided, and her hair, fine and straight and thick, were her best features. Did she look forty-one? She had no idea. What did forty-one look like in the new millennium? Certainly not like the women in fashion magazines. Those women had no crow’s-feet, no laugh lines, no shadows under their eyes and cheeks. The magical wand of airbrushing had completely eradicated the evidence of life’s experience. Kate frowned. She didn’t want that, or did she? Was perfection the current fashion and if so why, now, should it make a difference?

  The knock on her door came sooner than she would have liked. She wasn’t ready. Would she ever be ready? Summer in New York was too hot for a jacket. Kate picked up her purse and opened the door. Neil smiled and she relaxed.

  “I made reservations for dinner,” he said.

  “Thank you.”

  In the lobby the doorman greeted them. “Would you like a taxi, sir?” he asked holding the door.

  “No, thank you, we’re walking.”

  Neil maintained a light, easy flow of conversation for the twenty minutes it took to reach their destination. Kate paid no attention. Her mind was on the interview to come.

  Resting his arm lightly on her shoulder, Neil led her into a multistoried building with a blue-striped awning. A man in uniform barred their way. “May I help you?”

  Neil pulled out his wallet and flipped it open. “Neil Anderson from Special Forces, London Division, for Maeve Murphy.”

  Without changing expression, the man stepped aside and pointed to the lift. “Fourth floor. I’ll tell her you’re here.”

  Kate watched the light panel change, second floor, third, fourth. The movement stopped. The door opened and she stepped outside. Then she turned to Neil. “I’d rather do this myself,” she said.

  He shook his head. “I can’t allow that.”

  “This is important to me, Neil.”

  “It could be dangerous.”

  “There’s a café across the street. Wait for me there. Please.”

  He hesitated.

  “Please.”

  He checked his watch. “I’ll give you an hour. If you’re not down by then, I’ll come after you.” He shook her slightly. “Do you understand, Kate? I will come after you.”

  She nodded and, on impulse, kissed his cheek.

  He stepped back into the lift, his eyes on her face until the door closed between them.

  The door to the flat was ajar. Kate knocked firmly. Familiar footsteps sounded in the hall and then Maeve Murphy stood in the entry, a vision in white capri pants and a black halter-top, red hair skinned away from her face and secured at the back of her head with a claw clip. Awed by the clothes, the hair and Maeve’s strikingly beautiful bone structure, Kate could do no more than stare at the woman who had been her friend.

  Maeve stepped aside. “Come in, Kate. I’ve been expecting you.”

  The flat was sophisticated, cut glass and severe, dramatic furniture, no window coverings, just a priceless view of the city. Without waiting for permission, Kate sat down on the fuchsia-colored sofa.

  “Would you like a drink?” Maeve asked.

  “Yes.”

  Maeve poured two glasses of whiskey, added water to one, handed it to Kate and sat down across from her. She set the bottle on the table between them. “Where shall I start?”

  “I want you to explain the relationship you had with my husband.”

  Maeve drained her glass and poured herself another drink. Settling back into the couch, she began. “In the beginning we worked together.”

  “And later?”

  Her cheeks flushed. She raised defiant eyes to Kate’s face. “Later, we were more than that.”

  “Were you lovers?”

  “Kate, please.”

  “You’re ashamed to say you slept with my husband, but you weren’t ashamed to do it, were you?”

  “All right, Kate. You win. We were lovers.”

  Twenty-Three

  Kate gulped down her whiskey and reached for the bottle. She refilled her glass and lifted it to her lips.

  “Easy, Kate,” Maeve warned her. “I’ll be wiping the floor with you before you know it.”

  The alcohol swam through Kate’s brain. She had trouble forming the words. “You were my friend. How could you?”

  “He was your husband,” Maeve snapped back. “Why not ask, how could he?”

  “I would if he were here. As it is, you’re all I have. Believe me, it isn’t my choice.”

  Maeve’s eyes glistened. “So, sweet, gentle Katie has claws. I wouldn’t have believed it.”

  “What would you believe, Maeve? That I would lay down, roll over and smile benignly while you fucked my husband?”

  “Stop it, Kate. It wasn’t like that.”

  “Tell me, Maeve.” The pain had turned to fury. “Tell me what it was like.”

  Maeve fortified herself with another gulp of whiskey. “Ours was a business arrangement.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “Watch yourself, Katie. I don’t care what you believe. You’re here because you want something from me. I would have been perfectly happy to let this lie with Patrick in his grave. As it is, the least you can be is civil.”

  Kate stared at her incredulously. “Is it civility you want, Maeve, or is it forgiveness? I can give you the one but definitely not the other.”

  “Civility will do.”

  “All right. What kind of a business arrangement did you have with my husband?”

  Maeve hesitated and then shrugged. “I suppose it no longer matters what I tell you. If you found me, others will as well. There will be no evidence. They tried the first time and it came to nothing.”

  “They have the photograph,” Kate reminded her.

  “It’s inconclusive. Even you didn’t recognize me.” Her forehead puckered. “How did you find me?”

  “I showed you the phone number scribbled on a receipt.”

  “Good God.”

  “Tell me about your business.”

  “I create documents, passports, birth certificates, credit reports, bank statements, anything and everything. I delete them as well.”

  “In other words, you’re a computer hack.”

  “Yes.”

  Kate’s head felt thick and fuzzy. “Do you work for the IRA?”

  Maeve laughed. “No one works for the IRA, Katie. It’s not a corporation. One belongs because one believes.”

  “And you believe?” Kate mocked her.

  “Actually I do.”

  “Is that all there was to it?”

  “Leave it, Kate. Please.”

  The burning pain twisting Kate’s stomach was making its way to her lungs. Every breath was agony. “I can’t,” she said hoarsely. “I wish I could. You know I can’t.”

  Maeve drew a deep breath. “I don’t want to hurt you. You must believe that. What I had with Patrick was our own. It had nothing to do with you. He would never have left you or the children. I knew that. I never expected it.”

  “Did he love you?”

  “We slept together. I wouldn’t say what we had was love.”

  “Why not?”

  Maeve bit her full, rust-colored lower lip. “There was no question of that between us. What we had was pure physical lust.” She looked up quickly. “Neither of us meant for it to happen. Nothing was planned. Once it began—” She stopped.

  The ringing in Kate’s ears increased. “Go on.”

  “We couldn’t Stop.” Maeve stared at her defiantly. “He suffered from terrible guilt. A whole part of his life he wasn’t able to share with you. It h
aunted him.”

  “And you were there to assuage the haunting.”

  “Yes,” Maeve answered softly. “There’s no need for sarcasm.”

  “Did you love him?”

  “That’s none of your business.”

  Kate’s eyes narrowed to thin slits of angry blue. “Everything about Patrick is my business. I was his wife. My children are his children.”

  “You didn’t ask about Patrick, Katie. You asked about me.”

  The rebuke silenced her. Maeve’s face blurred. First she was one, then two. Two noses, two mouths, four eyes. “Was he an assassin?” she asked at last.

  “If you’re asking me if he actually murdered, the answer is, no.”

  “Did he order murders?”

  “Yes.”

  Kate stood. “I don’t want you to come back to Ardara.”

  “I hadn’t planned on it.”

  “Goodbye.”

  “Goodbye, Kate. I will miss you. Please, believe that.”

  Kate turned, her hand on the doorknob. There were so many things she wanted to say. Her tongue felt thick and strange in her mouth. Her head swam. In the end she said nothing. Turning the knob, she let herself out. She needed a bathroom. Vaguely she knew that she was supposed to do something, but what? Sliding her hand along the wall for balance, she moved slowly in the direction of the lift. A man came out of another door, looked at her and then looked again.

  “Are you all right, miss?”

  Kate nodded.

  The man hesitated. Kate stared straight ahead and he moved on.

  Her stomach cramped. She leaned against the wall. A rush of hurt welled up in her chest. Her eyes filled. Tears streamed down her cheeks. She hated Maeve, hated Patrick. Where was the lift? Blindly she wandered down the hall and turned a corner. Green lights blinked at her. Gratefully she pressed the down button. The doors opened. The elevator was empty. She stepped inside, pushed another button and waited for the familiar drop. In the lobby the doorman opened the door for her. She stumbled past him into the street. Where now?

  It was raining, not a fine light misty Irish rain, but hard hurting pellets that soaked her to the bone, plastering her blouse to her skin, her hair to her head. It was summer in New York City. She hadn’t bothered with an umbrella. Kate lifted her purse over her head and ran aimlessly down the street through the puddles. The wet crept through her soles. Water dripped from the end of her nose. She ducked into a shelter and read the sign. Flaherty’s Pub. She tested the words on her lips. Flaherty’s Pub. It had a friendly sound. Making her way to the bar, Kate climbed up on a high stool. Her feet hung awkwardly. She looked around. One man sat at the other end of the bar. A few tables were occupied.

  The bartender placed a napkin in front of her. “What’ll you have, miss?”

  She thought a minute. Better to not mix drinks. What had Maeve served her? “Glenfinnan whiskey,” she said, “no ice, no water.”

  He nodded, poured the drink and set it in front of her. Her head ached. Her heart ached. She was cold. She wanted to go home. Downing the drink, she pushed aside the empty glass.

  “Another?” asked the bartender.

  She nodded.

  He placed the glass on a clean napkin. “Get caught in the rain?”

  “Yes.” Once again she downed her drink.

  “Where are you from?”

  “Ireland.”

  “I knew it wasn’t a British accent.”

  “God, no.”

  He laughed and glanced at her empty glass. “You might want to slow down. That’s powerful stuff.”

  “Do you have a bathroom?”

  He pointed toward the back. “In there.”

  Kate slung her purse over her shoulder and hopped off the chair. Her legs wobbled, bonelessly, under her weight. Embarrassed, she gripped the stool.

  “Do you need a taxi, ma’am?”

  “No, thank you. I need a bathroom.” She cocked her head. “Why do you call it a bathroom? There’s no bath inside, only a toilet.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You Americans have the oddest expressions.”

  He walked around the bar and held out his hand. “I’ll help you.”

  Kate straightened and brushed away his hand. “I’ll manage.”

  “I’ll call a taxi when you come out.”

  She ignored him and pushed open the door to the ladies’ room. At first she thought another woman was in the room with her. Then she realized it was her own reflection in the full-length mirror. Sinking down to the floor, legs splayed, she rested her head against the wall and stared at the new Kate Nolan. Huge circles bordered her eyes and black mascara streaks marked her cheeks. Her hair was hopeless, matted and lifeless, as if it were painted on her head. Her cheeks were pale as milk, her lips a sickly gray. Even her eyes looked ravaged and red-rimmed, watered down, as if all the tears and rain and anger had leeched the color from them.

  Kate pulled at her wet blouse, attempting to tuck it back into the waist of her skirt. She could see the complete outline of her bra beneath the linen, the lace cups, the swell of her breasts. No wonder the bartender had been so friendly. The unexpected flash of humor surprised and comforted her. She wasn’t past help if she could still laugh at herself. Leaning back against the door, she looked up, saw the bolt and slid it across the door. Bracing herself on the door handle she pulled herself to a standing position and bent over the sink. Bile, thick and bitter, rose in her throat. Her stomach heaved. Barely making it to the toilet, she threw up again and again, until her stomach was empty. Weak and trembling, she slid back down on the floor, leaned her head back and passed out.

  Neil checked his watch. Where was Kate? He’d given her forty-five minutes and still she hadn’t come out of the building. Could he have missed her? He frowned, glanced at his watch again, threw down two dollar bills and a handful of change and left the coffee shop.

  The doorman recognized him. “Did you leave something behind, sir?”

  “I’m here to pick up the woman I was with earlier.” “

  She left nearly an hour ago.”

  Neil tensed. “Do you happen to know where she went?”

  “No, sir. I could call Miss Murphy and see if she knows.”

  “Don’t bother.” Neil pushed the elevator button. “I’ll ask her myself.”

  Maeve answered the door immediately. “Good afternoon, Mr. Anderson. Please, come in.”

  Neil masked his surprise. “Have we met?”

  “Kate told me a great deal about you.” Her smile was no more than a grimace. “When we were still friends,” she added.

  He noticed the swollen, averted eyes. “I’m looking for Kate.”

  “She’s gone.”

  “Do you know where?”

  Maeve shook her head. “She was upset and very drunk. Kate isn’t a drinker, Mr. Anderson. She had quite a bit of whiskey. I’m sorry but I don’t know where she is.”

  “I take it your meeting was difficult.”

  The woman’s laugh was harsh and bitter. “You might say that.” She looked at him. “Do you know about me?’ ’

  “I do.”

  “Why haven’t I been arrested?”

  “The evidence is sketchy.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “That’s your prerogative.”

  “Please, tell me the truth.”

  Neil thought of his career, his promise to the prime minister and the entire complicated mess that was Northern Ireland politics. Then he looked at the puffy eyes and ravaged expression on Maeve Murphy’s face and made his decision. “No one wants this investigation resurrected. The peace process has been sabotaged too many times. News of Patrick Nolan’s IRA involvement serves no purpose. In short, Miss Murphy, we’re trying very hard to sweep all of this under the carpet. You happen to be one of the beneficiaries of that philosophy.”

  “I see.”

  “Is there anything else you want to know?”

  “No,” she whispered.

>   Neil felt sorry for her. “Stay in New York, Miss Murphy.”

  “Yes.”

  “Where do you think Kate might go if she were distressed?”

  “Home, Mr. Anderson. Kate always goes home.”

  In the end, he decided to walk back to the hotel and wait in her room.

  Four hours and twelve cups of coffee later, he was a wreck. For the first time in his life, Neil was at a loss. Kate was a stranger to New York. She knew no one in the city. Mugging was always a possibility, especially if she’d been drinking. Another hour, he promised himself. He would give her another hour before notifying the police.

  It was nearly nine when he heard the key in the lock. He’d left only one lamp on. Relief and anger flooded him at the same time. His words were harsh, accusing. “Where in bloody hell have you been?”

  She stared at him mutely. He flicked on another light, took one look at her and started forward, gripping her arms above the elbows. “Good God! What happened to you?”

  She stared at him with wide, expressionless eyes.

  Neil forced himself to speak gently. “Are you injured, Kate? Do you need a doctor?”

  She shook her head.

  “Tell me what happened.”

  She pressed her palm flat against his chest and, once again, shook her head. “I want to sleep,” she said in a strange, raspy voice. “I want to sleep and then I want to go home.”

  “We’re leaving tomorrow.”

  “No.” She hovered on the brink of hysteria. “I want to go to the airport tonight, after I sleep. I want to go right away. I need to go home, to Ardara.”

  “We can do that.”

  She broke away from him and crawled on top of the bed. Gently he sat down beside her and removed her shoes. Her hose were filthy and tom. He studied her face. Her eyes were closed, her mouth slightly open. Her breathing was even. She smelled like perfume and whiskey and vomit. Carefully, he unzipped her skirt and eased it down and off. Then he unbuttoned her blouse, working it from her shoulders and waist. Slipping his hand under the elastic of her panty hose, he pulled them off and threw them in the trash. In the bathroom he soaked a washcloth in warm water, unwrapped a bar of soap and carried it back into the bedroom. She didn’t move when he cleaned her face, her neck, her chest, hands and finally her feet. He pulled up the blankets and covered her.