They ate lunch at a small café near a lake. Sarah billed it to her expense account.
‘I don’t much enjoy this business stuff,’ said Sarah over coffee. ‘Long days and endless meetings with strangers. I often want to just shout out, or laugh. Sometimes I fantasize about doing something worthwhile. Teaching or something. Sometimes I wish I’d never got into it. I envy you the life you must have.’
Bridget looked at her in amazement. ‘I don’t think there’s much in my life to be envied.’
‘Come on. The simple life. Out there in that lovely countryside. Without the clamour of all these … people. No schedules to keep. Not having to talk to arseholes all the time. Count your blessings, Bridget.’
‘There are some, I suppose,’ she replied reflectively. ‘We get by. But it’s hard. Very hard at times.’
‘In what way? If I’m not prying.’
‘They’re difficult times. Francis isn’t the easiest of men to live with.’
‘Why not?’
‘He’s under a lot of pressure. A lot. It must be difficult for him.’
‘But for you too.’
‘Aye. At times.’
‘Is it money? What does he do for a living?’
‘He’s a mechanic,’ she said hastily. ‘No, it’s not money. I mean, we don’t have any, but that’s not it. We’re used to that, where we come from. We have sufficient, which means enough to put food on the table. Most days, anyway.’
‘What, then? The Troubles?’
‘I can’t explain. It’s just hard. I spend a lot of time on my own.’
‘What do you do?’
‘I read. I’ve been through most of the books in the library. Good and bad. Trash and the classics. I know what I like, but I’ll read anything. You know, when I was a child I really wanted to do something.’
‘Do something?’
‘Yes. Not necessarily leave Ireland or even the village, but do something I could feel proud of. I don’t know what. I could have joined the Sisters, I suppose.’ She allowed herself a brief smile.
‘But?’ said Sarah.
‘That wasn’t about to happen. I think I always knew I lacked the faith. And now … Now I don’t think I believe in God at all. Goodness gracious, that’s a big confession to make.’
‘I know. I was brought up in my mother’s faith. It took me years to realize that most of us don’t actually believe. Hardly any priests do, I imagine. Isn’t that a scandalous thing to say? But the ritual never leaves you. Or …’
‘The guilt.’
‘Exactly.’
‘I know everybody says it but it’s true,’ said Bridget. ‘I feel wrong about what I do and think and worry how to put it right and then realize I can’t and worry some more. I feel … lacking in the eyes of others and of this God that I don’t believe in. I worry about perdition at the same time as I believe there’s no such thing.’
As she spoke she wondered why she was being so candid with this stranger and had found such a strong connection with her.
‘I’m not so sure it’s a purely Catholic thing,’ said Sarah. ‘We’re better at it for sure. But people need to feel guilt. Those who have a moral consciousness, anyway.’
‘A moral consciousness?’
‘Yes. I’m not sure I know what I mean, myself.’
‘Anyway, along came Francis and that was that.’
‘A lightning bolt.’
‘Something like that. It was just right, straight away.’
‘And?’
‘Well, we got married and … shall we go back?’
They spent the afternoon together, walking through the bustle of Orchard Road, stopping for a coffee on the way. They each took refuge in their respective hotel rooms before dinner at a restaurant that had been recommended to Sarah. As she left the room, it came to Bridget that she had barely thought of the wedding or of Francis during the day. She wondered where he might be. Off on a binge again, she supposed; the stag do had probably begun mid-afternoon. She herself was grateful to dodge the hen party and was sure her absence would only be noticed, if at all, by Cheryl. She’d have to say she was jet-lagged if it came to it.
She fretted about the wedding.
‘I’ve only brought one dress with me,’ she said. ‘This one. It’s my best dress. I wore it for the party and I’ll have to wear it again tomorrow. I’ll look so drab and they’ll all be glammed up.’
‘What size are you?’
‘A 12.’
‘I’m a 14. When I knew I was coming I thought I needed to get something in case there was a function. So I went out and got this cocktail dress in the sales. It’s a 12. I managed to fit into it in the changing rooms but who am I kidding? I tried it on in my room. It makes me look like, well, like an overweight woman, size 14 going on 16, trying to wear a size 12. You can borrow it if you like.’
‘I couldn’t.’
‘Of course you could. I’m not going to wear it. Give it back to me afterwards.’
‘But we’re getting changed straight after and flying back.’
‘Well, I’m sure we’ll meet up again. Give it back some other time. Or not at all. I’m under no illusions I’m ever going to fit into the damn thing.’
‘But what will Francis say?’
‘Will he notice? Really?’
‘I suppose not.’
They went back to Sarah’s hotel, where Bridget tried on the dress. ‘I love it,’ she said. ‘It’s gorgeous.’ It came to her that this was the last she would see of her new friend. The next day would be taken up with the wedding and they were booked on the midnight flight out of Singapore. Before she knew it she would be back home.
Sarah suggested they swap telephone numbers, but Bridget said, ‘I’m not sure. Francis can be funny.’
‘Funny? In what way?’
‘Just funny. He’s very protective of me.’
‘Well, he doesn’t need to know, does he? I can always phone you from work. Let me know the good times during the day to call. And if I end up speaking to Francis I’ll pretend it’s a wrong number or I’m someone from the bank or something.’ She giggled, then said, ‘But keep my number safe. It may be better for you to learn it by heart if you’re concerned about what Francis might say. Can I have your number too?’
‘I … I suppose so.’
‘Thanks. Look on me as a friend. I am, you know. It’s odd how you meet someone and get on so well. I am a friend. Truly. I’m there if anything happens. I’ll do my best to help if things get bad. You mustn’t let him …’ She looked at Bridget seriously and placed one hand on top of hers, then smiled. ‘And besides, you have to return the dress sometime.’
Walking back to her hotel, Bridget felt she had been rash. She was certainly not the kind of person to start up new relationships from nothing. Maintaining distance was a necessary protection. So why this? Probably because she was so far from home, scared and intoxicated at the same time. Possibly, just possibly, because Sarah was not so very unlike herself.
Police offices were much the same the world over. The neon-lit corridors as you were ushered along by your elbow. The conversing cops who stopped talking and looked as you passed by, as if you were some unsavoury specimen of pond life. The way they seemed to will your undoing, the way things seemed to be rushing by far too quickly, the squeak of rubber-soled boots on the ground, the fear, the fear.
But despite its similarities, Singapore was a step up. The floors were covered in light grey rubberized flooring that gleamed under the lights. The escorting officers were scrupulously polite, the watching cops stood upright rather than slouching against the wall looking tired beyond endurance, the walls were white-clean. This was not Castlereagh, though the fear was still there.
He was taken into a room with which he was familiar: again, less shabby to be sure, but still windowless and stuffy, the fetid air of numberless interrogations – or interviews, as they would put it – hanging in the air. A room built to lower the spirits. Bare government-issue furnit
ure – a single desk and two chairs – bolted to the floor to prevent violence on the part of the interviewee.
He was surprised to see his adversary already sitting on one of the chairs. Normally he might have expected to be flung into the room to stew for a few minutes or longer, to sweat over what they might or might not have on him and what they might be about to do with him. Normally he might have expected to be given time to think back to the H-Blocks and the beatings for each minor misdemeanour and more often than not for no reason at all. Normally he might have expected at his leisure to reflect on Paddy, prompted by the hissed whispers on the way in: ‘You’ll be next.’
Paddy was his older brother. Had been. Patrick Shane O’Neill. A big shambles of a boy grown into a big shambles of a man. Dark curly hair just like his ma. Tall and broad, unkempt, always with a ready smile, but fierce. Fierce when roused, that is, which was whenever he smelt the English nearby. ‘Fee-fi-fo-fum,’ he’d say with vicious glee when they went out on jobs.
Paddy was straight out of school and into the RA, some four years before Francis. Never a leader, always a willing follower. Somehow, unlike Francis, he’d never been one of Joe Geraghty’s boys, but he was brave as a lion. He didn’t shine in the same way as Francis, that was all. He cheerfully admitted he was brawn, not brain. And this had been reflected through their childhood. Francis had been favoured by their parents, burnished for the future, but Paddy seemed not to hold a grudge. Sean and Marie had high hopes for Francis, fewer for Paddy, though he was loved, and none at all for the runt of the litter, Liam. But Paddy was a useful enough piece of muscle for the boys, a brave heart. The two brothers ran together in West Belfast occasionally and they laughed when they went out and laughed even more when they came back home from jobs.
It was in 1986 that it happened. Paddy had been called off to a job somewhere and it was Thursday night when Marie took the call. Francis was summoned to see Joe Geraghty, who gave him a privileged briefing at midnight, out of respect, so he said, for the O’Neill family.
‘Ambush by the SAS,’ said Joe, looking grey-faced. ‘Never had a chance.’
Francis asked about the mission.
‘The RUC station the other side of Tyrone. You know the one, it’s always been a sitting duck. Maybe it was the tethered goat after all. Your Paddy and six others. All mown down. Paddy was driving the digger with the device. He died a hero, if that’s any consolation. You’ll take a measure?’
Joe always drank Scotch rather than Irish whiskey. ‘Jameson’s! Not lining those Prod bastards’ pockets,’ he’d said. Francis had never pointed out the obvious inconsistency, that most Scottish distilleries had been founded by men from the same stock. With Joe, it was always best not to point to any flaw in his logic. Francis had followed suit with the whisky. But not now. He declined.
Joe said, ‘They obviously knew well in advance. We’ll work out how. We’ll find the bastard.’
Joe had been one of the pall-bearers, had wiped back tears as he consoled Marie with a decorous hug, had shared a few sombre words with Sean, had had a small one with the mourners before Kenny coughed and whisked him back to the high command.
They never did find the tout.
Francis needed no prompting, no vile whispers, to recall that night in complete clarity. He had the words in his head anyway as he entered the interview room: ‘You’ll be next.’
The mild-looking man in a crumpled suit raised his eyes from his papers as if unexpectedly interrupted.
‘Hello, Mr O’Neill,’ he said with a polite smile, waving towards the empty chair. ‘It’s nice to meet you after such a long time. My name’s Richard.’
Francis sat. Did he sense a slight quiver in that patrician English tone?
‘I’m so sorry we have to meet under such circumstances. I’ve been trying to catch up with you in more, um, conducive surroundings since you arrived. But sadly this is what we’re left with, seeing you’ll be fully occupied tomorrow.’
Francis looked at the floor. He was hot, he knew his neck was flushing and he could feel the rhythm of his left leg pumping up and down on the floor. He tried to stop it but within a few moments there it was again.
‘This must seem very much like some of the interviews you’ve had before in similar rooms,’ said the man. ‘But it’s nothing like them. I’m not the police, for starters. Don’t suppose I remotely look like a policeman anyway.’ He smiled as if he had made some kind of joke.
Spook, then, thought Francis.
‘So I’m not under arrest?’ he said.
‘No, not at all. Let’s just –’
‘I’ll be on me way, then.’
He stood, and the guard shifted from his post by the door.
‘No, no,’ said the man. ‘No need for that. You can go just as soon as we’ve had a quick chat. Completely off the record. I’ve taken great pains to ensure that no one knows you’re here. Which is part of the reason I’ve had to wait so long. You’ve been having a good time. Been to every bar in sight, by the looks of it. Enjoyed yourself?’
Francis thought for a moment before sitting down again. Sit this one out. Could be worse.
‘Must be good to get away from it all. All that stress. Like a bloody pressure cooker. Let your hair down a bit. And then this happens.’
He looked at Francis expectantly before continuing cheerfully, as if he’d not noticed Francis’s insistent silence. ‘Now then,’ he said. ‘I’ll be as quick as I can. You’ll want to get back to the festivities. You’re on the late flight home tomorrow, I see. Good day in Malaysia? Seen a lot?’
Francis looked down again.
‘First day you’ve spent on your own. Chance to really get away from it all, eh?’
Francis shrugged. He would give no more.
‘Just sightseeing, were you? Or did you have an appointment over there?’
Francis looked up. How wrong could these bastards be? A grin formed in the corners of his mouth.
‘No,’ said the man. ‘Didn’t think so. Just had to discount the possibility. So I can say I dotted the Is and crossed the Ts when I get back. This meeting –’
Francis snorted.
‘This meeting is very much to your advantage.’ The man paused again. ‘I don’t want to insult your intelligence. You’re a clever man. You know the attrition rate of volunteers. You’re no longer a spring chicken. You’ll be thinking of what happens to you afterwards. If there is an afterwards, that is …’
Francis looked at him questioningly.
‘You’ll be thinking of your family. Your wife. You’ll want a bit of financial security. You’ll not want to end up …’
‘Are youse threatening to kill me? Is that what you’re doing? If I don’t help you?’ His eyes were wide. He radiated hostility. He shifted in his seat. His fear was not feigned.
‘No, no, 100 per cent no. That’s not the way we work –’
‘Because you can fecking forget it. Now, can I go or not?’
‘Soon, soon. Soon.’ The third time he uttered it, he spoke the word slowly, soothingly. ‘What I’m trying to say is that I can offer you a way out of all of this.’
‘In a coffin you mean.’
‘No. A good way out. With money. A place of safety. Where you could begin a new life, a normal life. An end to it all. That’s what you want, isn’t it?’
Francis looked down again and heard the rhythmic thud of his left foot on the linoleum.
‘I want to help you.’
Francis laughed caustically. ‘You want to help. Yeah, right.’
‘Let’s do this sensibly. Talk it through like reasonable human beings.’
Francis was grinning now. But not talking.
‘You’ve come to the stage where you don’t want to do it any more. But you’re trapped. There’s no way you can get out of it without help. My help. Sooner or later it’s going to be over anyway. You know that. And then your people will leave you high and dry. I won’t. I’ll take care of you. Alternatively, you’ll get caught
along the way and end up doing a stretch. I know,’ he said, waving his hand, ‘you’re a big man. You can do your time. But it’ll be for longer. You’re good at what you do. But they’ll catch you. I know it; you know it. Your bosses will want you to do bigger and better things. You’re cannon fodder to them. You will be caught eventually and they’ll throw away the key. You know this to be true.’
Francis shrugged again.
‘You don’t have to like me. I don’t expect you to. I expect you to like what I represent even less. But together we can find a way out. I know you’re not a bad man at heart. You’re caught in the trap. You want to do the right thing, for your people, for your country. At least you thought you were doing the right thing, but by now you’re having doubts. This is your big chance. Take it, because you may not have another one like it.’
Francis stared at the floor.
‘Not speaking? We can play that game together. We can sit here while you think about what’s best for you and come to that what’s best for your people. Let’s take a few moments of quiet time.’
Francis looked straight at Richard, or whatever he called himself. He saw a man younger than himself, but not in such good shape. His complexion was pale and flesh hung from his cheeks. He sagged somewhat in his seat and appeared exhausted. Simply to look at him was oddly tiring. His hair was too long to be described as tidy and periodically hung before his eyes. Every so often he pulled the strands back behind his left ear as he feigned to read his notes.
Francis was accustomed to counting the seconds in interrogation rooms. It was good displacement activity as they shouted in your face, spittle spraying in your eyes, or gave you a few sly nudges in the kidneys. Piece of piss, just sitting here in the air-conditioned quiet. They sat for two minutes thirty-two seconds approximately before Francis looked at his hands. A further six and a half minutes more or less elapsed before the man looked at his watch. Nine minutes is a very long time if spent immobile and in silence in a locked room with your sworn enemy.
A Traitor in the Family Page 6