Shadow Dancer

by Tom Bradby

  It was further than he thought up through Stranmillis. He mulled over what Allen had said. He wanted to put it out of his mind, but couldn’t.

  At home, he switched on the television and decided he really couldn’t be bothered to make himself some supper. He began running a bath, and was just about to get into it when the phone rang. It was Grant and he was very, very pleased. ‘Well done,’ he said. ‘Very well done indeed.’

  Ryan knew he should allow himself a few moments’ quiet satisfaction, but he couldn’t shake off the sense of unease. This was a game you could never win, a game where the best result was a postponement, not a victory, where tragedy, of one kind or another, was only delayed, never cancelled.

  Whilst Colette danced alone at the centre of it all, he could not enjoy Grant’s praise.

  If she was a puppet, he was beginning to realize how thin her strings were. If they were cut – accidentally or deliberately – she would collapse, whilst the game went on, barely missing a beat.

  Today he’d saved – or helped save – the life of a man he’d never met. An innocent man. But he couldn’t help focusing on the preservation of her life. He knew it was the wrong way of looking at it.

  He got into the bath, lying back with his head resting on the end. He shut his eyes. Today did have one result: an almost irresistible urge to call Jenkins.

  He still had these amazing fantasies about Jenkins and asked himself why he was not prepared to carry them through. Logically, there was no reason why he should have held back from telling Jenkins to fuck off (God, in the context, the words had such a satisfying, brutal ring to them). He’d told himself many times that he did not wish to remain in the Service for ever, but, in moments of real honesty, he had to accept he was probably more ambitious than he ordinarily allowed himself to admit. Especially now.

  There was no real logic to his hatred, of course. It was something about the structure and hierarchy of the organization – any organization for that matter – that forced you to accept behaviour from a superior that you would never tolerate in an equal. And the truth was that Jenkins simply made no effort. He was a bully; curt, sometimes rude, but never making any effort to build any sort of personal relationship with his subordinates. He relied on criticism, not encouragement. Where he could, he relied on fear as a motivational force, though he’d never really tried that on with Ryan.

  Ryan thought he’d have laughed if the bastard had been hit by a bus.

  He got out of the bath and towelled himself down. He got dressed and made some toast.

  On a whim, he called Claire. She was in.

  ‘Any messages?’ he asked.

  ‘No, Mr Ryan. No messages. Nobody likes you.’

  ‘They’re too frightened.’

  ‘Oh yes.’ She paused, before going on. ‘How are you? Lonely?’

  He put his feet on the stool in front of him. ‘No, bored. Excitement and boredom in about equal measures.’

  ‘Friends?’

  ‘Only ones that want to kill me.’

  ‘Perhaps we should all come over.’

  ‘Perhaps you should.’

  After he’d put down the phone, he watched television for about ten minutes, channel hopping, and then went to bed in boredom.

  He lay awake for hours, thinking about Colette and wondering what kind of life she could possibly be living only a mile away. He couldn’t comprehend how she could cope with it.

  Gerry McVeigh pulled the front door shut and looked up. The helicopter ‘eye in the sky’ was right above him, a few hundred feet up, its spotlight illuminating the street. He paused. He nearly went back in, but decided in the end to continue. He didn’t look up as he walked to the car.

  As he got in, he could feel the tiredness behind his eyes. He might have gone back, but what he was going to do was important. It mattered to him.

  The car didn’t start the first time and he reminded himself to get it seen to. Or maybe he’d get another. Easy to get anything stolen in the south.

  At first, he thought the ‘eye in the sky’ was following him, but if it was, it soon gave up, and by the time he got to Andersonstown, it had headed off to the other side of west Belfast. It was dark now and he managed to find a space right outside the travel agency. It looked warm inside, condensation misting up the inside of the windows.

  The girl was packing up and she was alone. She smiled nervously and looked flustered as he came in, but she accepted his offer of a drink.

  This time, when the car wouldn’t start, he was annoyed, but he kept his patience and eventually it spluttered into life. He turned left and then left again, avoiding driving down the Falls. Neither of them spoke during the journey; she seemed tense. When they got to the city centre, he parked close to Kelly’s and they walked the last fifty yards or so. Inside, it was quiet. Two men in suits – shabby suits – sat at the bar and Gerry took her round to the far corner. She asked for a vodka and bitter lemon and drank it at speed.

  If the truth be known, Gerry found these situations quite awkward. He didn’t have a whole lot of time and he wanted it, but he didn’t want to make a fool of himself – and he was worried about being caught. You could never tell where Christy was going to turn up.

  He struggled to make conversation. She was pretty enough, with long black hair and a slim waist and small breasts pushed into a skintight black body. She’d taken off her denim jacket as soon as they sat down.

  For an hour or two he proceeded carefully, his manner polite and interested. He discovered that she was eighteen, her name was Cathy and she lived with her family in Ballymurphy. He knew her father Joe, who was one of the old IRA men who’d been involved briefly at the start of the Troubles, but faded away after Internment in the early Seventies.

  She drank three vodkas and when he finally said, ‘Shall we go?’ she nodded meekly.

  He took her to an IRA safe house in Ballymurphy – not far from her home. He explained that he stayed at various houses around the city to confuse the Loyalists and the Brits.

  The bedroom was tiny and it only had a single bed. Cathy looked at it and smiled, and he realized that beneath her nervous exterior she had a sense of humour.

  He stripped her body slowly from the shoulders and squeezed her small brown nipples gently in his hands. Her skin was soft and white and clean, and he unbuttoned her jeans and sat her on the bed as he pulled them down to the floor. He fumbled ineffectually with the laces on her brown boots and she leaned forward to help him, her long black hair brushing against his head. He could smell her.

  He pulled down his own jeans, but didn’t bother with his T-shirt. She was very wet, and he lay beside her with his hand between her legs for what must have been several minutes but seemed like a lot longer. Eventually, he pushed himself up and put his left hand down to guide himself in. She kissed him and moaned quietly as he entered her.

  He wanted to come immediately, but he held back, his face a study in concentration as he looked down at the top half of her body and looked back at her legs, which were pressed neatly against his sides. She pushed her hips up forcefully, enjoying him.

  She came first – he couldn’t believe how quickly she came – and he followed her, thinking she was anything but a novice.

  Neither of them had talked about contraception.

  Afterwards, they lay together on the narrow bed, Gerry wondering how long he had to hold her before he could send her home. He’d just come to the conclusion that her time was up when she spoke to him quietly. ‘I’m not sure about this, but I think we’re being watched.’

  ‘What?’

  She smiled gently. ‘Not here. I mean in the travel agency. I think we’re being watched.’

  He was on his feet. He put his knee on the side of the bed and gripped her face. ‘Have you fucking blabbed? Have you fucking touted?’

  He could see the fear in her face clearly. He had the uncomfortable feeling that he quite enjoyed the sensation. She said quietly, ‘I haven’t told a soul.’

&nbs
p; He was impressed with how calm she was. Frightened, but calm.

  ‘I haven’t said anything, but strange things have been happening. We had a mysterious break-in the other night, the phones sound funny and I keep seeing people outside who look like they’re watching us.’

  ‘Who tipped them off?’

  ‘I don’t think it’s the Brits.’

  Gerry looked at her, suddenly uncertain. He had released her face, but took hold of it again now, sinking his fingers into her cheeks. ‘You’ve told somebody.’

  She shook her head. ‘I told no-one. It looks like our people. I know some of the faces.’

  Gerry stood up and walked over to the window, naked but for his T-shirt. He pulled one of the curtains gently to the side and looked out into the deserted street. It was pretty dark. All the street lights on this side of the road had been smashed by the local kids.

  ‘Did you hear from the man?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes. I told him what you said.’ She sounded frightened now.

  He turned back to the window.

  Silence.

  ‘Ever get the feeling’, he said, ‘that events are driving you … you know, that you’re cut off from people …’

  Silence.

  ‘Ever get the feeling that you’re being isolated from people who are supposed to … Oh, fuck it.’

  He bent down to pick up his jeans. ‘You’d better go,’ he said.

  He didn’t speak to her as she dressed. As he walked home, he felt an explosive mixture of anger and fear. It was all so bloody depressing. Everything. There seemed to be a coldness to so many things, as if everyone had somehow lost sight of his humanity. He told himself somebody had to fight for what was right.

  Not his fault if everyone else was weakening.

  The house was dark when he arrived. He reckoned Christy must have been taken with a migraine and gone to bed early. She always had a migraine. He pulled a beer out of the fridge and sat in front of a Clint Eastwood film.

  CHAPTER NINE

  COLETTE FELT THE SHOWER AND WINCED. SHE’D BEEN GENEROUS WITH the children and there was no hot water left. She stepped over the edge of the bath and stood for a few seconds under the thin stream of cold water. She picked up the soap, briefly washed herself and turned off the shower, drying her body with a damp towel. She walked naked through to the bedroom, looking at her arms and legs in the process and wondering again if she was losing weight. She found a clean pair of white knickers in the top drawer and pulled out her jeans and a green roll-neck sweater – the nice one.

  She went back into the bathroom to brush her teeth. She looked at her face in the mirror and thought she saw tired eyes. She examined herself and felt a trace of self-pity as she did so. It was an oddly enjoyable sensation.

  She walked down the stairs quietly and popped her head round the door to the front room. Mark and Catherine were sitting on the floor, drawing, and the television was on, with the volume down. She told them she was going for some milk.

  As she stepped out of the front door, she felt a gust of icy wind sweep down the street.

  There was a lot of traffic on the Falls and one of the black taxis slowed down to let her cross, the driver tooting as she did so. She saw who was driving and she smiled and waved back. It was Sean Brennan, a childhood friend of Paddy’s.

  The newsagent was small and she squeezed past an elderly man to get to the fridge. Once the man had paid, she stepped up to the counter.

  ‘How’s the form, Colette?’

  ‘Good, Beano. What about you?’

  ‘Can’t complain. Can’t complain. What do you make of all this talk of peace then?’

  Colette looked down at the newspapers on the counter as she handed over the money for the milk. She smiled at him. ‘I’m not holding my breath, Beano.’

  He laughed and she turned to go. She changed her mind and turned back. ‘Oh, go on, give us an Irish News. Better hear what the bastards have got to say.’

  As she stepped out onto the street again, she turned the paper over and saw the headline AMBUSHED!’ She glanced at the first few paragraphs.

  She felt as if the blood was draining out of her.

  She was suddenly cold.

  Sean Campbell was dead, but the boy wasn’t. It said he was ‘critical’.

  She hadn’t even considered it. She had assumed he must have died.

  She tucked the newspaper under her arm and thrust her hands into her pockets, shivering against the cold. She felt dislocated suddenly from the world around her.

  She walked down the pavement to the Sinn Féin press office. The doorway had a large metal cage in it. She rang the buzzer and heard a door opening inside. A large round face appeared and she smiled again. ‘Hiya, Frankie.’

  The cage opened and she stepped in, feeling the warmth as she did so.

  ‘What’s up, Colette?’

  ‘You seen Paddy?’

  They were inside now and Colette could see the warmth was coming from a three-bar electric fire in the corner. The room was small and smelled musty, the walls around her covered in Sinn Féin and IRA posters.

  ‘It’s bleeding cold,’ Frankie said.

  ‘There’ll be snow, I reckon,’ she replied.

  Frankie rubbed his hands. ‘Think Paddy’s holed up. That’s what they say.’

  Colette raised her eyebrows in reply. There was a pile of copies of An Phlobacht/Republican News in the corner and she stepped forward and picked one up. ‘Any news?’ she said conversationally.

  Frankie was shaking his head. ‘The boy is bad, they say.’

  ‘How bad?’ Colette heard herself ask. Frankie was still shaking his head and she exhaled quietly as if to express her shock and sorrow.

  ‘Bad news,’ he continued, ‘bad news. Only son, they say. Mrs Martin from down at the Divis Tower there. Know her?’

  Colette shook her head.

  ‘Husband left home years ago. Quite a shock, I should think. Don’t think she knew he was involved, know what I mean?’

  Colette wanted to change the subject. She showed Frankie the front of the paper she’d bought. Apart from the main story on the ambush, all the other front-page stories dealt with aspects of the developing peace process. ‘What do you think about all this peace talk, Frankie?’

  He tilted his bald head to one side and tugged the end of his dark moustache, sucking his teeth loudly as he did so. ‘You want my honest opinion, we’re on the way to a new world, but whether it’s going to be good or bad, I’d rather not say.’

  She smiled at him. ‘We’ll see.’ She turned to go and hurried back to the house. Inside, Mark and Catherine were still in the front room – they’d been so quiet that morning – and she turned off the television. ‘Breakfast,’ she said.

  She put the Coco Pops on the table and made herself a cup of coffee.

  ‘Mum, Daniel says they have Batman stickers in Frosties,’ Mark said.

  ‘M-M-M-M-Mum,’ Catherine said. Colette looked at her. She’d never stammered before. Not ever. ‘Sarah’s mummy p-p-p-p-picks her up from playgroup every day.’

  Colette knelt beside her chair. ‘I’ll pick you up from now on, love – I promise. I’m sorry about the last few days.’

  Catherine smiled. ‘Did the soldiers hurt you when they t-t-t-took you away?’

  Colette shook her head. ‘No, they didn’t hurt me.’

  ‘Why did they take you away?’ Mark asked.

  She stood up. ‘It’s just one of those things. Now finish up your cereal. We’d better go.’

  ‘Where’s Grandma?’ Mark asked.

  ‘She went out earlier. Now come on.’

  Colette cleared away the breakfast. She found their coats and tried to get them dressed in the hall. They were both very clingy, though they were chattering away more now. Mark was preoccupied with whether he would be the first to play on the racing car and Colette told him to hurry. The playgroup was on the second floor at Conway Mill. They were the first in, so he got his wish. Colette descended
the spiral staircase and came out through the security door at the bottom. As she turned out of the car park outside, the icy wind hit her and she pulled her coat tightly about her. In the few minutes since she’d been inside, the wind seemed to have whipped up, sweeping down off the mountain, the snow drifting across the road and beginning to settle by the curb the other side.

  As she passed the Sinn Féin press office, a black taxi pulled up and Gerry Adams got out, but he was looking the other way and didn’t see her. She didn’t particularly want to attract his attention.

  She pulled a packet of cigarettes out of her pocket and smoked one as she walked. She found herself thinking about Adams, about peace and about the argument the other night. She thought about Gerry’s accusation.

  She told herself she wasn’t a coward. She told herself Gerry Adams wasn’t a coward either.

  She remembered the time when they’d all been together as a family, but it just wasn’t the same now. Hadn’t been for a long time, if she was honest. She thought of what lay ahead of her.

  Then she thought about the injured boy.

  ‘Christ,’ she whispered.

  Ryan loved his shower. The flat might not be elegant, exactly, but it was well equipped and the shower was powerful and hot. He’d been in it for ten minutes at least and was reluctant to get out. Despite the central heating, it was cold in the bedroom.

  He washed and stepped out, towelling himself down quickly. The towel had been sitting on the heating rail and was warm – another luxury. He pulled out his jeans, a black T-shirt and black sweater.

  The kitchen was at the other end of the flat and he walked down the corridor in his socks and switched on the kettle. He made himself a cup of instant coffee and a couple of pieces of toast with honey, and sat at the table by the window. It looked out onto a garden fence. He picked up a street map of Belfast and opened it out. He looked at the route again carefully and looked at the streets that ran off it either way. He wondered if he was completely mad.

  When he’d finished his breakfast, he went into the living room and picked up his blue donkey jacket and black woollen hat and opened the door on to the small patio outside. All you could see from here was the hedge, but it was rush hour and he could hear the traffic in the road beyond. He left the door open and smoked a cigarette, which was designed to make him feel calmer, but had the opposite effect. When he’d finished he stepped on the butt and then chucked it over the hedge – he didn’t know why he did that – and went back into the house, checking carefully to see that he had everything. He walked back into his bedroom and opened the bedside table. He took out the Browning, checked it was loaded, and then lifted up his donkey jacket and sweater and pushed it into the top of his jeans. Unauthorized and stupid, he thought.