It was only as I dropped down on to the leaf-carpeted surface of the lane that it occurred to me that the television would be on all night. I hoped it wouldn’t disturb the neighbours.
It took me a moment in the silent lane to collect myself. I put my scarf back on, after brushing off the leaves it had picked up on the ground. The rich, tangy smell of leaf mould rose around me. My breath sounded loud, and I could just see the ghostly puff of it on the air. I was astonished that I’d actually done it.
I picked up the laptop and started walking.
THE WORST BIT, in the event, was getting to the end of the lane. I knew that it was a haunt for young drinkers, and there was a fine selection of traffic cones and shopping trolleys along its length, as well as the usual litter. A bricked-up gateway, set slightly back, reeked of stale piss. I walked along on the balls of my feet, stomach fluttering, clutching the laptop with an iron grip.
I met nobody. As I headed out into the better-lit street I relaxed and began to walk with more confidence.
It was colder than I’d thought, and damp, even if not raining. My senses were sharp: I could hear every car from a long way away, and I felt aware of everything on the street. I almost began to enjoy myself, in a detached sort of way.
Before long I hailed a taxi and gave the driver Matthew’s address. I didn’t phone him again, in case he tried to talk me out of coming. When we got to the house my heart sank to see that every window was dark. I took my time opening the garden gate and walking up the path. He’d better be there.
He wasn’t there. Behind me, I heard the taxi driver turning his car. ‘Here!’ he called. ‘Are you OK waiting on your own?’
‘I’m grand, yeah,’ I said, waving my phone. ‘He’s on his way.’ A ball of cold fear sat in my chest.
‘Fair enough, so,’ said the taxi driver. He dawdled a bit but eventually moved away.
I phoned Matthew now, with no success. It was after eleven – surely he’d be back soon. I had no idea what his habits were. I looked up at the sky – pale clouds spread out like a down quilt, lit by the city glow. There was nowhere else I could go. I hunkered down on the doorstep.
‘Cate!’
I jolted out of a half-dream and jumped to my feet. I was shivering and aching from being still for so long in the cold.
Matthew was hurrying up the path, his long coat flapping. ‘What the hell are you doing here?’ He spoke roughly.
‘I’m sorry – I …’ My voice came out in a scared little whine. ‘My flat was broken into.’
He stopped short. ‘Blimey. What happened?’
‘I don’t know. They just … they didn’t take anything. I think they were looking for – oh, I know this sounds weird – but something on the laptop. My laptop from work.’
He frowned. ‘Really?’
‘I know. It’s ridiculous. But I think … some people have been following me around for the past few weeks.’
‘Following you around? Are you sure?’
‘I think so. I don’t know.’
‘Did you phone the police?’
I was wrapped in a fog of confusion. Everything was wrong. ‘No, I didn’t. You see, I think it might actually be the Special Branch following me.’
Matthew took this in silently, looking down. ‘Is that the laptop there?’
‘Yeah.’
He gave a short sigh. ‘OK, you’d better come in.’
‘Thanks,’ I said. I moved towards him, and he put an arm round me as he got out his keys.
‘I can’t believe I’m finally getting to see your flat,’ I ventured.
‘You are, at that.’
‘Penetrating the inner sanctum.’
‘Is that how you see it?’ His tone was cool. I’d struck a wrong note.
‘You’re a very private person,’ I said gently.
‘Meaning a secretive bastard, I presume,’ said Matthew. He turned away from me to close the door.
‘No, come on, don’t be like that. I just mean private. I know so much less about you than you do about me.’
‘Well, you don’t ask me very much.’
We began to climb the stairs. I didn’t attempt to explain how it felt whenever I did ask about his inner life, his memories, his beliefs – as if there were a moat round him, and I shouting across it, unable to hear the answers.
The hallway of Matthew’s flat had originally been the landing of the house. He indicated kitchen and bathroom at either end of it, then led the way into the sitting room. I followed, feeling frail and shaky.
Matthew visibly pulled himself together. ‘So. Welcome.’ He gestured vaguely. ‘Tea?’
‘Yes, please.’
I put down the laptop and took stock of my surroundings. The walls were painted a grating shade of yellow; the carpet was grey-blue, with tracks of wear curving through it. A fat, old, sagging sofa dominated the room, in front of which stood a coffee table with nothing on it but heat rings. Opposite, a television sat on a wooden chair, a DVD player balanced on its head. In the corner across from the door, a small pine-effect dining table with legs of tubular steel was clearly Matthew’s desk. A black anglepoise lamp was clamped to its edge, and the surface area that was not occupied by an elderly computer was covered with papers and books. A slightly wonky swivel-chair did duty as a coat stand. Several cardboard boxes took up most of the space under the desk. There were no bookshelves – indeed, apart from a small cupboard with peeling veneer, which crouched behind the door, no obvious storage space at all. The overall effect was seedy, bleak, unloved.
Sounds of pouring and stirring came from the kitchen. I put my coat and bags on the chair, then crossed over to the window to close the curtains, which had a floral print and didn’t quite meet in the middle.
‘Here we are,’ Matthew said from the door.
We sat on the sofa and sipped our tea. Matthew had added sugar to mine, for which I was grateful. I went on shaking long after I’d thawed.
‘I’m having a weird evening,’ I said.
‘You poor thing,’ said Matthew. ‘Why don’t you tell me all about it?’
So I did. I started from my first sighting of the dark car, back in August that night after choir. When I told Matthew what had made me notice the registration plate, he exclaimed, ‘Ha! It had a tune in its number plate. Naturally!’
‘Yes. It was a particularly good catch, too.’ I sang it for him: ‘Five two eight four five. Opening of Chichester Psalms.’
‘So they pick the one car you’re bound to spot. What are the chances?’
‘I’d have saved myself a lot of worry if I hadn’t been playing the game that day.’
When I finished my story, he said, ‘And your hypothesis is that this is the Special Branch doing a background check for Belfast, yes?’
‘Well, I thought so, but then George said it might be to do with the MacDevitt book …’ I trailed off, remembering what George had said about Uncle Fintan knowing Eddie MacDevitt – and the trouble Eddie’s book was apparently causing between him and Auntie Rosemary.
‘Somebody already knows all about the MacDevitt book, though, don’t they, because they wrote that article in the newspaper.’
‘Yes, but George said another time that Eddie lives abroad for good reason – and Dad said there are dangerous men who’d like to get hold of him. Maybe they think the laptop might have his address.’
‘They’d just steal it, though. To me, this sounds more like the Special Branch.’
‘I don’t know. It feels pretty extreme. I mean, is the Special Branch allowed to break into my flat without a warrant?’ I shook my head. ‘Why am I even asking you?’
‘You forget, my dear: I study this stuff. As far as I know, they aren’t. But what makes you think they didn’t have a warrant? They’d get one, if they thought there was something specific to find. Particularly if they consider you a security risk.’
‘But that’s bollocks! There’s no way I’m a security risk. That’s insane.’
Matthe
w said nothing.
I played with the edge of a hole in the sofa cover. ‘Does it feel strange, having me here?’
‘Yes, it does, rather. Not entirely sure why.’ His tone was clipped, as though he were thinking about something else.
‘Like I said, you’re private.’ I hoped he’d react better to the epithet this time round.
‘Perceptive Cate.’
‘Don’t worry, I’m not nosy,’ I said. I caught his eye and had to look down.
‘Oh yes you are,’ he said, and his voice was tender now, teasing. I put my tea down on the table, and he put his on the floor. When we kissed it was with surprising passion – there was a fierceness, a yearning that I had not felt from him before. He clutched at my hair, pulling me closer, plunging into my mouth, biting at my lips. My entering his territory had meant a lot, I realized. It made a difference. I kissed back with equal fervour, a pulse of pleasure beginning to spread in my belly.
‘All right then, if you put it like that,’ I said happily, when we paused for breath.
‘Well, I’m glad that’s settled,’ Matthew said. He smiled slowly. ‘Now, tell me, did you have a look at the laptop, see if you could find anything?’
‘What? No …’ I shook my head, feeling hopeless, stupid. Obviously, that was what I should have done first of all.
‘Then let’s have a look, shall we?’
I stared at him. My stomach was fluttering at the thought that there might actually be something to find. That would be altogether too concrete for my taste. ‘I don’t know.’
‘Just a quick peek,’ Matthew said. ‘It can’t do any harm.’ Was there a tinge of excitement in his voice?
‘But we don’t know where to start,’ I said. ‘It’d just be a game – there’s no point.’
‘Cate, this doesn’t sound like a game.’ He put his hand on the back of my neck. The dry warmth of his fingers was so reassuring, so exquisitely ordinary, that I could feel my shoulders relaxing under his touch. ‘It could be important. I might be able to help.’
‘Fancy yourself as an amateur sleuth?’
‘Maybe a bit.’
I stood up reluctantly and got the computer, opening it on the coffee table. Matthew dragged the table closer to the sofa, and I went through the start-up procedure. I looked in a few folders, reading filenames, finding no clues. Although some of the documents were unfamiliar to me, everything seemed entirely unremarkable.
A thought struck me, and I called up the list of recently used documents in the word-processing program. Nothing I didn’t recognize. I couldn’t tell whether the order was different from before. I opened some files at random, but soon realized that this was futile.
I was aware of Matthew beside me, his fists gently clenched on bouncing knees. I turned to look at him. ‘You really want to have a go, don’t you?’
He nodded vigorously. ‘Oh, yes, please.’
I sat back and let him take over.
Within seconds, I was lost. Nothing Matthew did remotely resembled my ineffectual pawing at the keyboard. He had multiple windows open, each delivering drips or waterfalls of orderly cyphers in white on black, which he examined before keying in further arcana. ‘You know your stuff,’ I remarked.
‘My sister’s a computer security expert. I’ve picked up a few things over the years.’
He resumed his purposeful tapping, muttering unintelligibly to himself. I finished my tea, waggled my feet, yawned, stared at the bare walls, the cracked ceiling. After a while I said, ‘Well, Sherlock? Find anything?’
‘I’m not sure. They might have installed some kind of scanning software …’
I felt as if he were speaking from a long way away. I said nothing, just sat and looked blankly at him.
‘But the thing is, that could easily have been done remotely, while the machine was connected to the net – you use this for e-mail, don’t you?’
I nodded.
‘So they wouldn’t have needed to get into your flat. They must have had some other reason. Something on the hard drive.’ He turned back to the keyboard, lower lip protruding in thought.
I put my hand on his arm. ‘Matthew, this is too bizarre. This is – I’m sorry, I just can’t believe this is happening. I can’t believe you’re being so calm about it.’
He blinked, came back to me. ‘Sorry. This must be awful for you. I read too many thrillers, I expect.’
He was so upbeat, I wanted to shock him, shake him, hit him, wake him up somehow to the enormity of what was going on. ‘This is just not even on my map,’ I said. ‘I can’t believe you know about this stuff.’ Exhaustion rolled in from all sides, making my head spin, my sight flicker.
‘I know almost nothing,’ Matthew said. ‘Just enough to be dangerous.’
‘Stop it,’ I said, and dissolved in tears. My throat ached with shame, but I couldn’t help it.
Matthew’s arms were round me, holding me close, rocking back and forth, whispering, ‘Shhh, shhh, it’s OK, don’t worry about it. We’ll sort it out. Cate, I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t have been flippant. You must be feeling terrible.’
‘Yes,’ I said, between gulps of air, ‘I’m feeling terrible, and I’m feeling stupid. And none of this is happening. It’s all just crazy.’
Matthew reached out and shut the lid of the laptop. ‘How about something to eat?’
‘That would be nice,’ I managed, in a craven whine.
‘Shall I cook a frozen pizza?’
‘Yes, please.’
Matthew went to the kitchen, and I heard him moving about. I was wrung out, squashed, cracked. I worried about him seeing me in this needy state. He would surely run now, I decided. He liked his privacy too much, his distance.
He put his head round the door. ‘Ham and mushroom or pepperoni?’
I had to pull myself together, present a coherent face. ‘Ham and mushroom, please.’ I breathed deeply, tried to relax.
‘Deed’s done,’ he said a moment later, and went to put on some music – a tranquil jazz singer. He turned off the central light, and we sat in the dim glow of the averted anglepoise with our arms round each other. We said very little. When the pizza was ready, Matthew cleared the laptop and its case off the coffee table. I sat, inert, while he brought the food and glasses of water in from the kitchen. He disappeared again and came back with a white candle in a metal holder. He found matches in the mess on his desk, and lit the candle with a flourish.
‘There,’ he said. ‘Candlelit supper. Can’t say fairer than that.’
We ate our pizza, which tasted far better than it deserved to. We kissed quite a lot between slices, and talked about nothing in particular.
‘You know, you really are exceptionally pretty,’ Matthew said at one point.
‘In candlelight,’ I said, fishing hard.
‘Yes, also in candlelight.’
‘Well, you’re not the worst yourself.’
‘Good. I must say, it’s encouraging to hear that I’m not the worst.’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘But don’t let it swell your handsome head.’
‘Cruel woman.’
‘Come here.’
We began to undress each other there on the sofa, and soon, in silent agreement, we got up and made our way to the bedroom. We didn’t turn on the light. I had the impression of an open wardrobe door, a chair piled with clothes.
We crawled into bed and were soon naked, clutching at each other, moving together with grace and meaning.
Later, we lay facing the window, Matthew’s long arms encircling me. I was still anxious and wakeful, despite my exhaustion. The image of his avid face as he hacked away at the laptop wouldn’t leave my head. It was late – nearly two o’clock – but I knew I was a fair distance from sleep.
‘I have to go to work in the morning,’ I said. With the laptop, I mentally added. And tell George what happened. Which presumably means the end of my little home-based copyediting career.
‘You sure?’ Matthew murmured.
‘Hmmm.’
‘You could take the day off.’
‘I … maybe. I don’t know.’
‘Come on. You may never have an excuse this good again.’
I reached a hand behind me to stroke his downy thigh. ‘I’ll tell you one thing. I really don’t want to go back to my flat tonight.’
‘Stay with me, then.’
‘All right.’
I lay in the dark with my eyes open and my stomach clenched, wishing it were that simple.
Part Three
A Song of Ireland
I TALKED MYSELF INTO going to work the next day, which was a mistake. George was furious because the printers had accidentally flipped an illustration in The Irish Horse, and nobody had noticed the error until the books had been bound and delivered. He loomed around for much of the morning, looking stormy. I heard him banging up and down his office, shuffling paper and cursing. Shouting into the phone – ‘It’s very noticeable! There’s a bloody sign up on the wall behind the horse. You can see it. The text is clearly backwards!’
He appeared at the door, teeth bared. ‘Have you Paula’s mobile number?’
‘Sure,’ I said, hastily reaching for the office address book. I scribbled Paula’s number on a sticky note, which George snatched from my hand. He bolted back into his office, slamming the door.
The details of the night before hovered around me like a flock of terrible black birds, skimming and swooping and landing without warning. I was upset with Matthew. He’d been businesslike at breakfast, all terse and mechanical, as though the well of comfort we’d found together last night had run dry. There was no suggestion that I stay again tonight. He did his best, but I sensed that he wanted me out of his space. The portcullis was firmly down. We kissed goodbye like a pair of actors on a stage.
All morning I pretended to work. I could barely focus. At lunchtime I went down to the newsagent for a sandwich. As I walked back, my mind was fixed on the doors – the front door of my house and the door of my flat. I couldn’t recall noticing anything odd about them when I got home from Ardee. Which meant these people might have keys. (They might be in there right now.)
The Living Page 11