The Living

by Léan Cullinan

  The church was full, and before half the mourners had filed past – each one clasping or hugging and nodding and saying ‘sorry, sorry, I’m so sorry’ – my face ached from the awkward smiling, and the fingers of my right hand felt numb and useless. The church was too bright. Four white glass globes, suspended above the altar, glared at me. My feet were cold, my head hot, my heart heavy.

  Towards the end of the apparently endless line, there came a group of four men who seemed to stand out from the crowd. It might have been the way they held themselves, heads hunching forward in earnest solemnity, or it might have been their lined faces, skewed noses, shrewd and watchful eyes. I felt Auntie Rosemary stiffen as the first of them approached and took her hand.

  ‘Patrick Spillane,’ he murmured. His voice was low, and crackled with phlegm. ‘I knew your husband well.’

  ‘I know,’ Auntie Rosemary said. ‘Thank you for coming.’ When she let go of his hand she drew hers back towards herself as though it were hurt.

  Spillane moved on to shake my hand, with ‘sorry for your trouble’, and Auntie Rosemary said, ‘thank you, thank you, thank you,’ and did not relax until all four had passed by.

  When we finally left the bright space of the church and emerged into the barbarous evening, we found that it had started to snow. ‘The forecast was right,’ Dad said, looking up at the flakes tumbling in silhouette against the streetlight. ‘They’re saying it’ll be country-wide.’

  ‘Snow was general,’ I whispered faintly to myself.

  Spillane and his three friends were among the few mourners still standing around in front of the porch. They huddled in dark overcoats, in a group on their own, collars turned up against the softly falling snow. Auntie Rosemary gripped my arm when she saw them. ‘Don’t go anywhere, please,’ she muttered. I laid my hand over hers and left it there, like a promise.

  ‘We wanted a word,’ Spillane said, turning, his eyes beady, the eyebrows a single bushy line. He advanced on Auntie Rosemary, who failed to stop herself from recoiling.

  Dad did a little sliding step on the tarmac, placing himself between the family and the four men. ‘Now, lookit. This isn’t the time or the place,’ he said, and I heard in his voice the rising intonation that meant he was about to lose his temper.

  The group swung their attention to him, a gesture not without a hint of violence. Dad paused, took in a big shuddering breath and squared his shoulders.

  And suddenly there was George Sweeney, inserting himself neatly into the group and saying, with his easy smile, ‘Ah, Packie Spillane, for goodness’ sake, is it yourself? God, it’s been years, hasn’t it? You haven’t changed a bit! Pity to meet on such a sad occasion. Oh – were you in the middle of? I’m sorry …’

  ‘No, no, no,’ Dad said, ceding gratefully. ‘We need to be getting back: there’ll be people arriving at the house.’ He stretched out his arm like a harbour and manoeuvred Auntie Rosemary and me back towards Mum and Mícheál. We headed for the car, the black-coated driver holding open the door.

  As we drove away I looked out the window and saw my old friends from the Special Branch swing out of a parking space across the road. I felt almost kindly towards them.

  THE SWORDS HOUSE was full of talk and laughter and the clatter of forks and plates, and even Auntie Rosemary seemed to have relaxed a little. The doorbell rang as I came through the hall, and I opened it as I’d been doing all evening.

  George stood in the porch. He had a package in his hands, wrapped in brown paper, held slightly away from his body, almost reverently.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I won’t come in.’

  ‘Hi.’

  ‘If I could have a word with your mother?’

  ‘Sure,’ I said, and trailed off. I held the door wide open.

  ‘I’m not coming in,’ George repeated.

  ‘Oh, grand, yeah. Sorry. I’ll get her.’

  I found Mum in the sitting room, and my whispered message sent her hurrying to the hall. A few minutes later she came back, carrying the brown paper package, to ask where Dad was. I pointed her to where he was holding court in the dining room. My attention was claimed then by Denise’s parents, who were determined to express to me the full extent of their sympathy, and I forgot about George until later, when all the guests had gone.

  ‘Paddy?’ said Mum, as we sat in the kitchen having one for the road. She looked utterly worn.

  Dad visibly gathered his strength and began, ‘Rosemary? There was a deputation.’

  ‘What?’ Auntie Rosemary’s eyes were glassy, her face like a rubber mask.

  I saw Dad hesitate, trying to pick out a safe route across the mire. ‘George Sweeney called to the door earlier. He didn’t want to come in.’

  Auntie Rosemary’s expression was for a moment transformed, eyes blazing, mouth set in an unforgiving line. Then her lips parted, and she blinked slowly and let out a tiny sigh. ‘What did he come for, then?’

  ‘Fintan’s … old friends,’ Dad said, feeling his way. ‘George talked to them outside the church after we left. They were hoping.’ He stopped, squeezing his eyes shut and passing the back of his hand over his forehead. ‘Ah. As a mark of respect.’

  ‘What respect?’ Auntie Rosemary said, pausing dangerously on the consonants. ‘What do they want?’

  Dad put both hands on the table and leaned forward. ‘They have a tricolour for the coffin,’ he said softly. ‘George brought it round.’

  Auntie Rosemary said nothing for a long time. Eventually she drew a breath that sounded as though it came from several miles beneath us. ‘No guns,’ she said.

  Dad said, ‘Ah, no, Rosemary, that was all over years ago.’

  THE SNOW DIDN’T stick. The next morning a stinging sleet swiped at us as we scurried from the funeral car into the church. We were early, of course, but the place was half-full already. Mum was driving me mad with her fussing over shoes and hair and flowers – more like a mother of the bride than a sister of the dear departed. I bit the insides of my cheeks and reminded myself that there are many ways of coping with grief. Just some are more tolerable than others.

  Diane had asked me if I wanted to join the choir, but I’d declined. They sang beautifully without me, bringing a sweet salve to the bitterness of the day. I sang the psalm myself, alone at the lectern, looking down at the coffin, with its burnished fittings, its coating of fine water droplets, and trying not to think about how much I’d miss the man inside it.

  After the ceremony the sleet had abated enough to allow the grand old tradition of standing around outside the church to proceed without undue discomfort. We huddled in little groups that dissolved and reformed in a ceaseless dance. The choir came and queued up to hug me, and I thanked them with brimming eyes.

  Near the church gates I encountered George and Paula talking to a bulky man I recognized. ‘You remember John Lawless, Cate?’ George said, putting a hand on my arm.

  Matthew’s supervisor. I concealed my wince well enough, I thought. ‘Yes, we met last summer at the Bell Books office.’

  ‘That’s right,’ confirmed Lawless. He enveloped my hand in both of his. ‘I’m sorry for your loss. Your uncle was a fine man.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘We’ll all miss him.’

  It was time to go to the cemetery. I drifted back towards my family at the car.

  ‘Hey,’ said Mícheál as I reached them. He was looking over my shoulder. ‘Isn’t that your boyfriend over there?’

  A painful shiver spread rapidly from my neck to my toes. I forced myself to turn and look where Mícheál was pointing.

  He was dead right. Over by the railings stood Matthew, by himself, apparently reading something on his phone. What the fuck did he think he was doing here? As I spotted him he looked up and saw me. I bit down hard on my tongue, stiffened my face and managed to keep hold of myself.

  Mícheál said, ‘Are you not going over?’

  I shook my head.

  ‘You have time, sure. Mam, Cate’s boyfriend is
here.’

  No. Idiot.

  Mum had her arm round Auntie Rosemary. She looked over her shoulder at us. ‘What’s that?’

  ‘We’re not going this second, are we?’ Mícheál persisted.

  ‘We are, yes, why?’

  ‘Cate’s boyfriend is here.’

  ‘He’s not …’ I said. My throat was sudden agony. ‘I’m not talking to him. We don’t have time.’

  Mum scanned the crowd with narrowed eyes.

  ‘Look, he’s over there by the railings,’ Mícheál said. ‘Oh, no, he’s gone.’

  ‘Come on, we’re going,’ I said. Without waiting for the undertaker’s man, I wrenched open the door of the car and flung myself inside. After a few moments the others followed.

  Mum was livid, I could see. She sat in beside me and murmured, with barely moving lips, ‘That was hardly appropriate, now, to use the funeral as an excuse to try and see you.’

  ‘I don’t think that’s what it was, Mum,’ I whispered. I wasn’t capable of speaking aloud.

  ‘Well, why else? Did he know Fintan? Had he any personal connection? Because the Brits don’t go to funerals the way we do. It’s not the done thing.’

  I locked my jaw and looked away. My thoughts were spiralling into dark places. Because either Mum was right, and Matthew had come to see me … or he had come for other reasons, which I couldn’t countenance at all.

  We arrived at the cemetery, and the coffin was hefted by four sombre professionals. Dad, his face a mixture of reverence and sheepishness, shook out the tricolour and laid it across the top.

  Walking to the grave, I fell back a little from the rest of the family. My fingers shook as I fished my phone out of my coat pocket.

  Text message to Matthew Taylor. ‘Please just leave me alone.’

  Send.

  I didn’t know how I was going to get through this awful day.

  JANUARY UNFOLDED LIKE a stained, ash-strewn carpet: the aftermath of the excesses of December and the surreal week of Uncle Fintan’s death. In my grief, I took pleasure in the return to austerity and silence, calm greyness after the relentless green and red and gold, welcome banality after the taut and solemn procedures of the funeral.

  The filth of my flat, however, was getting to me. It was weeks since I’d done any kind of regular housework. I couldn’t even walk around without shoes on, for fear of what I might feel underfoot.

  I attacked it one Saturday, scrubbing the bathroom first from top to bottom, then tackling the kitchen. When both gleamed, I began to tidy my bedroom, which was silted up with dirty laundry, unfiled papers and plain old rubbish.

  I found my concert clothes from Belfast still stuffed in a green supermarket bag, forgotten in a corner. I picked out the black dress, and underneath it I found my pinchy, sparkly shoes, still muddy – the shoes that Matthew had gone back to retrieve for me, even though I’d been running from him, even though he’d been the gunman, the spy, the betrayer of my trust and of my heart.

  I cried, then, for what seemed like hours, kneeling on my bedroom floor, body draped over my bed.

  When I’d finished crying, and before I could change my mind, I went and found my phone.

  ‘OK, if you still want to talk, let’s talk.’

  Send.

  WE MET THE next day at the Papal Cross in the Phoenix Park – Matthew’s suggestion. He said he’d gone there when he’d first arrived in Dublin. I’d said, ‘Let’s go somewhere we can walk.’

  The wind whipped at us as we stood at the foot of the cross, craning our heads back to watch it fall towards us through the clouds. Matthew had a new coat, long, dark grey, with a broad collar. The ends of his hair brushed at the material in a way that made me ache.

  ‘You’re looking well,’ he said, after our initial greeting.

  I glared at my feet, willing this treacherous wave of pleasure to pass.

  We left the mound and walked slowly away from the cross, down the long flight of concrete steps to level ground. I was aware of every breath, struggling to keep myself on course, floundering. We said nothing as we made our descent.

  At the bottom, I decided that enough was enough. I stopped dead and rounded on Matthew.

  ‘So are we going to talk, then?’ I spoke like steel.

  ‘That’s the idea,’ he said.

  ‘Are you going to tell me the truth?’

  ‘I’ll tell you everything I can.’ He looked straight at me, and I realized – suddenly, startlingly – that he was being entirely open with me. Maybe for the first time since I’d known him, the barriers were nowhere to be discerned.

  And suddenly, that cut no ice with me. It was too late. This whole thing was a bad idea. I was overcome by a wash of fury. ‘Is Matthew Taylor even your real fucking name, by the way?’

  ‘Yes, it is,’ he said, and despite myself, I believed him.

  ‘Are you armed?’ I sneered.

  ‘No!’

  ‘And what about the day you turned up at my uncle’s funeral?’ I put as much spitting and clawing into my words as they’d take.

  He bent his head, brow furrowed. ‘Cate, I’m sorry, I know, that was stupid. I wasn’t thinking rationally. It was completely insensitive. I shouldn’t have gone.’

  ‘No kidding,’ I said, and started walking again towards a likely-looking path. I had no route in mind. Ravens croaked in the old grey trees. I stuck my hands far down into my coat pockets, searching for a bit of warmth.

  ‘I missed you,’ Matthew said.

  ‘Yeah, well, I bloody missed you too, that day in Belfast.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘What the hell were you doing, anyway?’

  ‘I was drafted in at the last moment to …’ He heaved a sigh. ‘Look, there was a lot of sensitive stuff going on in Belfast that day. I was there on the ground, and I had an assignment. It’s not important now.’

  I bit back my exasperation. ‘So why did you run away from the police when they were busy arresting me? Weren’t you meant to be on their side, or something?’

  ‘It was complicated. I wasn’t strictly meant to be at the Waterfront at all, you see.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I’d … well, it was all a bit of a mess at that point. And you see, I couldn’t allow myself to be searched, because they’d have found the gun, and then all hell would’ve broken loose. And most likely I wouldn’t have been in such a good position to help you. So I made a risky decision, I suppose.’

  I noticed how he hadn’t actually answered my question. Old habits die hard. Still, he was clearly making some kind of an effort. ‘What did you do?’ I asked.

  ‘Melted into the crowd.’ He made a melty gesture with his fingers. ‘Got the hell out of there. I rejoined … I went back to where I was meant to be. But I had secured one crucial piece of data.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Sergeant Hall’s badge number.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Well, that allowed me to find out where they’d taken you. I went there as soon as I could – after my assignment finished. They’d got their knickers in a monumental twist about that recording Nicky Fay had given you, but I was able to tell them what it was.’

  I turned my head slightly to frown at him. He was looking terribly pleased with himself.

  He went on, ‘I also had the privilege of seeing their faces when you started singing scales. I assured them that no terrorist …’ He trailed off as I stopped walking.

  So he had watched me on CCTV. I could think of nothing to say. I stood there, gasping for breath.

  ‘What?’ he said. ‘Too soon?’

  ‘Too fucking right!’ I got moving again.

  There was a track leading up a bank beside the path; I took it. It was narrow, so that Matthew had to drop behind me. I felt a furious sort of affirmation as I reached the top, panting, and kept going, skirting a large playing field on which half a dozen weather-hardened boys were wielding hurleys, and making for some young woodland. I was not crying, though the wind was dr
awing water from my eyes.

  Matthew caught up easily once we were on level ground again, his long legs scissoring along beside me. The path through the trees was wide enough for both of us. ‘Cate,’ he said. He was out of breath, I was pleased to hear.

  I twitched a shoulder at him.

  ‘Cate – oh, come on.’

  ‘Fuck off.’

  ‘Cate, please don’t do this.’

  ‘I don’t want to talk to you.’

  ‘Cate, be reasonable.’

  I stopped dead, swung round. ‘You patronizing bastard.’ I spoke calmly, the words wrenched from my stinging, breath-starved lungs.

  ‘Look, I’m just trying to—’ A sharp exhalation, and when he spoke again it was softer. ‘I’m just trying to explain. You have to believe me. I’ve said I’m sorry. I am sorry. Cate.’

  ‘Noted.’ Gritted teeth.

  ‘Look, I really want to work this out.’ There was a rasp in his voice. ‘Can’t you understand how hard this is for me?’

  ‘Oh, for fuck’s sake! Are you completely stupid?’ I ignored his raised eyebrows and pressed on. ‘Does it actually come as a surprise to you that I’m upset about this? You watched me in that room! You’ve been lying to me ever since we met! In what universe would my reaction be unreasonable? You’re a fucking spy, Matthew.’

  His face hardened, and he turned from me. ‘Well, I suppose I thought it might be safe to assume you’d be relieved that I was an intelligence agent rather than a terrorist.’ His voice was full of controlled anger.

  I kept quiet.

  ‘But then again, this is Ireland.’ Muttered, just loud enough to make sure I heard.

  I rose to it, too. Didn’t even pause. ‘How dare you! How fucking dare you! You arrogant prick! You swallow whatever ridiculous propaganda they feed baby spies over there in your poncey, overfunded London Spy A-fucking-cademy, and then you come over here and assume you can make sweeping statements about the way things are. You don’t have a clue.’ I was clawing and spitting even more than before.

  ‘Oh, and you know the way things are, do you?’

  ‘I know how arrogant and blinkered and fucking ridiculous it is for a British bastard to say that Ireland is pro-terrorist.’