Shadow Dancer

by Tom Bradby

  They’d taken the Newry Road from Crossmaglen and were winding through the valleys of south Armagh, the sun falling dramatically below the snowy hilltops. On each one stood a British army watchtower painted cold, dark green. Colette felt almost sorry for the Brits, who spent their lives miles away from home, watching the comings and goings of cars along the floor of the valley. She had no doubt that, up there, somebody was watching them.

  The thought came to her suddenly and it made her heart miss a beat. She knew it was insane, but she felt on the verge of suicide. It was an easy way out. The Republican movement always said it would forgive those who came forward. She understood her family would hate her, make her life a living death, but she couldn’t stop the thoughts and they came tumbling forward.

  ‘Gerry?’ She realized her voice was trembling. He was preoccupied and grunted abstractedly. ‘What would you think if…’

  She stopped.

  He turned to look at her briefly. ‘Yes. If what?’

  She realized Gerry still frightened her. Even now. ‘Do you believe in God?’

  He snorted, as if incredulous. ‘No.’ He looked at her again. ‘Why?’

  ‘Nothing. I know Ma wants us to, that’s all.’

  ‘Ma wants a lot of things that are never going to happen.’

  Colette said nothing and the silence drew out. She knew instinctively the moment had passed.

  ‘Where are we going?’

  He frowned. ‘Back to Bel––’

  ‘No, I mean where are we going in general? What’s happening?’ Her nerve had failed her and she was glad it had. Gerry had never opened up to her. He was talking to her, but she was no longer listening. She just couldn’t understand what made him tick. She didn’t understand how anyone could be so utterly obsessed with the idea that you could still beat the Brits into submission after all this time.

  She was sinking back into the depths of her despair when she saw a small red light on the road ahead. The sun had dropped below the hilltops and it was dark in the lane. She could only just make out the shapes of the soldiers. Gerry muttered under his breath, ‘Fuck. That’s all we need.’

  He braked hard and the car skidded briefly before coming to a halt. He wound down the window, but said nothing. A man shone his torch in their eyes.

  ‘Good evening. Papers, please.’

  It was a command not a request and Colette thought the man sounded just like Ryan. She thought they were always so bloody arrogant, the officers. Gerry reached for his inside pocket and she rummaged in her handbag. Eventually she found her driving licence and gave it to Gerry, who handed it through the window without a word.

  ‘Nice evening.’ The man was smiling, the light from the torch now illuminating his face.

  Gerry smiled back. ‘Nice enough.’

  ‘Long way from home. What would you be doing in these hostile parts?’

  ‘Just visiting relatives.’

  ‘Relatives, eh? And who would they be?’

  ‘Crossmaglen way.’

  The man lowered his voice. ‘I said who, not where.’

  ‘Hughes. Uncle. He’s a bit poorly.’

  ‘Is he now? Is he indeed? I am sorry to hear that.’

  Gerry ignored the man’s sarcasm and looked straight ahead. He’d been at this too long to allow himself to be provoked.

  ‘Give me a few minutes, please.’

  The man turned his back and walked a few yards to talk to someone who’d been waiting behind him. Colette couldn’t hear what they were saying. Gerry stared straight ahead as if he were a dummy. He said nothing, but Colette could just make out his facial muscles twitching nervously. She wondered what they had in the car that might be making Gerry nervous.

  The men went on talking for what seemed like an age. Finally, the officer turned and walked back towards them. He opened Gerry’s door and Colette felt the first stirrings of fear and anxiety.

  ‘Please step out, if you wouldn’t mind.’

  Colette noticed the change in his tone. She sensed danger. She got out too and walked round to the other side of the car. She felt safer next to Gerry. The officer turned to the men behind him. ‘OK, lads, take it apart.’

  They set to work on the car, but the officer stayed watching them. The man he’d been talking to still lurked in the background, several yards behind him. Colette couldn’t work out what was going on. The man in front of them was, to her mind, clearly the officer, and yet he seemed to be deferring to the soldier behind him. Without taking his eyes off them, the officer took a few paces back. Colette could feel a chill running down her spine. The voice of the man behind froze her. A tough voice; northern English, she thought. Not the accent of an officer. The man came forward, smiling. An unnerving smile. He had a short but unkempt beard and she could clearly see that he was not a regular soldier. SAS, she thought. But there was only one and that confused her.

  ‘Remember me?’ he said. She didn’t. He was looking at Gerry. ‘Not your lucky day, Mr McVeigh.’

  The threat was unmistakable. He was still smiling. Gerry looked straight ahead and carefully avoided catching his eye.

  ‘No, very definitely not your lucky day. I don’t suppose you would remember me, but in a previous incarnation I used to work in your neck of the woods. I have some pictures of that time. Not really your regular holiday snaps. No. See, there’s one of my mate, John. Regular kind of guy; the two of us joined together, made corporals together.’

  He had circled behind them. Gerry continued to look straight ahead. Colette could see that the muscles in his face were twitching violently.

  ‘So there we were. The two of us together, growing up together, thought we’d grow old together. But, of course, we didn’t reckon with your boys, did we? Didn’t reckon on your boys blowing his bloody legs off—’

  ‘Watch yourself, Brit.’ Gerry’s voice was steady.

  ‘Watch myself? Watch myself? You piece of pig-shit.’ He kicked Gerry hard across the back of his legs, an expert blow that brought him to his knees.

  Fear, confusion and panic made Colette turn and shout, ‘For Christ’s sake—’

  The man shouted back, his face twisted into a sneer and his finger pointing at her face, ‘Stay there, you little fuck.’

  She stopped, unsure of herself, and looking to Gerry to lead. The man took a quick step forward and punched Gerry hard on the side of the head and sent him sprawling to the ground. He kicked him in the stomach twice. Hard. Colette wanted to scream, but she stood rooted to the spot. She didn’t know what to do. Gerry was groaning.

  The man pulled Gerry’s head up by his hair, leaving his glasses on the tarmac. He stepped on them and the sound made Colette wince. It seemed more hateful and more gratuitous than the blows.

  For a few seconds, Colette thought it was over, but she saw now that the man was holding a pistol to Gerry’s head, the barrel pressing into his skull.

  ‘This is it, you little fuck. We’re going to blow your fucking brains out and take your body over the border. And you know what we’re going to do? We’re going to put a hood on you and then we’re going to take off your nice new training shoes and your family will think you’ve been shot by your own side for being a bloody little tout.’

  Colette blanched at the word. She’d thought this was harassment, but it was starting to get out of hand. The man was unhinged. She thought he might do it, but she felt powerless to intervene. She didn’t move. Gerry was obviously frightened now too. He’d sensed the man’s tone. He knew he wasn’t regular army. He was into unfamiliar territory and he didn’t know what to expect.

  ‘Apologize, you bloody little bastard. Apologize for being born.’

  They were on their own, the three of them. The officer had deliberately walked away and the soldiers in the patrol were pulling the car apart. They were only a few yards down the road, but they were acting as if the tableau in front of them didn’t exist.

  She heard Gerry’s voice. He was speaking quietly. ‘I apologize. I apologize f
or being born.’ His voice was level, not defiant, not craven.

  ‘Apologize nicely and I might just decide to let you live.’

  The man kneed him hard in the back and Gerry groaned. He sounded weaker. ‘OK, I’m sorry. I’m sorry I was born.’

  Colette had never seen Gerry like this, never thought he had a weakness, let alone exhibited one. She was shocked. The man was whispering in his ear. ‘Now, I’m going to let you go, Mr McVeigh, but if I ever run into you again, I’ll kill you. Do you understand me?’

  Gerry nodded.

  ‘I said, do you understand me?’

  ‘I understand you.’

  ‘Right. That’s better. You’re learning. And remember, the man with the gun has the power, and it isn’t always going to be you that has the gun …’

  The man stepped back and the officer stepped forward. He handed Gerry their driving licences. ‘I’m sorry to have inconvenienced you, sir.’ A polite voice; self-confident, mocking.

  Colette made as if to drive, but Gerry waved her away contemptuously, got into the driver’s seat and started up the car again, pulling off slowly. Colette was too stunned to speak and they drove on in silence. As they turned back onto the main road after Newry, Gerry looked at her again. ‘Fucking bastards. Thought it was all over there for a second.’

  Colette didn’t know what to say, so she reached over and touched his shoulder. ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘Yes.’ He turned to her and smiled – a warm, soft smile. ‘By the way …’ He paused and appeared to take a deep breath. ‘I’m sorry … Look, I’m sorry about the other day, all right?’

  Colette looked at him uncertainly, but didn’t reply. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen him like this. But then, she’d never seen him humbled – humiliated – like that before.

  ‘I know I was out of line shouting and swearing at you.’ He reached over and touched her leg. ‘We’ve all been under pressure. I know it’s no excuse, but…’ His voice trailed off and they went on in silence for a few minutes, both of them staring intently at the road ahead.

  ‘I know it’s been a long time,’ Gerry said eventually, ‘but I still think about Sean. Sometimes it’s so real. I can feel him in my arms, I can see his little face, I can feel the texture of his hair, some of it matted with blood. I just can’t … I’m sorry, all right?’ He was looking at her again now, and he reached out to touch her leg once more. ‘I know you’re no coward. It’s just for him. Understand?’

  There were many replies Colette could have given, but she did not speak. She didn’t know what she felt. Sympathy and warmth, perhaps, but anger too. She wanted to ask him how many more Seans it was going to take. Then she heard herself ask how long he thought the war would go on.

  He stared at the road ahead and shook his head. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘I don’t know. But I tell you this: forget the bullshit talk of this peace process. At the end of the day, one side has got to win. That’s what it’s about. Whilst we go on, we are winning, because our will to fight is stronger and more durable than their will to resist, or so it will prove.’ Gerry was driving with one hand on the steering wheel now and gesticulating with the other. ‘And when I hear the likes of Gerry Adams, I say to myself, remember what Dad said. Never trust the Brits. Never. At the end of the day, their agenda is the antithesis of ours. And just because the enemy may try to develop a human face, that doesn’t make him any less your enemy.’

  Gerry looked at her. ‘You tell me, Colette. Would you ever trust a Brit?’

  She looked out of the window at the passing hedgerows and shook her head. They were silent for several minutes.

  ‘You know what you were saying earlier?’ he asked eventually.

  Colette looked at him blankly.

  ‘About where we are going.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘We’re going for surrender. At least we are unless I have anything to do with it. That was what I was down here for today.’

  She didn’t know what to say, so she said nothing.

  ‘I have in mind something that will make the leadership sit up and take notice. Something that will force them to change course. I have support from people who count, but I need a little help from people I can absolutely rely on. People who won’t talk and won’t question. Paddy is with me. Will you help me? There’s nobody else I trust.’

  She heard herself say yes. ‘What are you going to do?’ she asked.

  ‘Something big,’ he said. ‘Something in England. That’s all I can tell you.’

  She felt cold inside. ‘What do you want me to do?’ she asked quietly.

  ‘Just be ready,’ he said. ‘It’ll only take a few days. That’s all I’ll say.’

  The bar was full. Wall-to-wall advertising executives, Ryan thought, and a lot of them gay.

  Normally, he couldn’t have cared less, but tonight he could have done without the welcoming stares.

  Initially, the relief had been intense. He’d been told to take a few days off and as they’d driven down into the centre of London he’d felt like a man returning to civilization, watching the smart cafés and cars, and seeing people who disliked their neighbours but didn’t hate them. It had never felt so good to be home. He’d felt wonderful.

  Until now. Now he felt like a stranger, surrounded by the familiar, but no longer a part of it. What did they know, these people? With all their talk of accounts and sales and careers and satisfaction, what did they know of a woman whose life hung by a thread? What did they know of his predicament and of his world? He felt petulant, like a child. He wanted these people to look at him and to know what he did. He wanted them to sympathize, to understand. He wanted them to know he was out there fucking up his mind so they could sit here and drink in safety. He felt ignored.

  He leaned forward, but still couldn’t hear what Isabelle was saying. She’d insisted on coming here – a date with a girlfriend arranged long ago that she wouldn’t contemplate cancelling. The girl was called Charlotte, but with the music and the noise he couldn’t hear what the hell they were saying. He sat there in isolation, looking at the moonlike shapes on the wall and trying to avoid eye contact with any of the other customers. He thought these London bars looked like they were on some kind of pan-European convergence course. They were all identical, with their chrome bars and tall pillars. He decided he could have been anywhere: Paris, Madrid, Brussels. Anywhere except Belfast.

  Afterwards they wandered down Westbourne Grove in Notting Hill and ate at a small Thai restaurant tucked into a side street just past the 7-Eleven shop on the corner. They always ate here and they were always alone. Ryan didn’t know how the owners survived.

  The dinner seemed to drag. Mostly, they talked about mutual friends. Ryan couldn’t bring himself to say anything about life in Belfast, though he wanted to let it all out. He knew if he started, he’d be going all night, and he wasn’t sure she would understand.

  Sitting opposite her, he felt less than perfect. She was a lovely girl, but just not him.

  He insisted on paying and they went back to her home.

  They made love. He’d known they were going to, though he’d convinced himself that wasn’t why he’d arranged to see her.

  Afterwards, he felt deflated and thought she did too. Her bedroom was on the top floor of the house, but the curtains were open and the moon provided a gentle night light. They lay silently in the half-darkness.

  Eventually she sat up and looked at him. ‘What’s it really like over there, David?’ she asked.

  ‘Cynical,’ he said. ‘Exciting, sometimes – moments of extreme excitement and fear followed by days of boredom. Dangerous. Confusing – that’s something a lot of people wouldn’t credit. And sordid sometimes. You hold so much power in the palm of your hand, but then you wonder if you really do. It’s like a hall of mirrors and you get so paranoid – so paranoid you don’t even know if you can trust your own side. And then you start wondering about, you know, what your criteria are. What war are yo
u fighting? To protect your source, or to beat the enemy? Except you know that the enemy is never going to be beaten …’

  She was lying on her side, looking at him. The house was warm, and she was naked from the waist up. ‘Perhaps you should take it less personally. Distance yourself …’

  ‘Easy to say,’ He felt a burst of anxiety. ‘Is, you won’t breathe a word of this, will you? I trust you, but they could really throw the book at me for even talking about it.’

  She shook her head. ‘Don’t get paranoid, David.’

  He laughed. ‘Until you’ve been over there, you don’t know the meaning of the word.’

  They were silent again and he listened to the sound of the city outside – traffic, the honk of a horn, the distant sound of a party in a house down the street.

  ‘Tell me something,’ she said. ‘These people – these … agents you deal with. Are they heroes or villains?’

  He laughed again and stood up. ‘A very astute question. I don’t know.’

  ‘Most people think we should hang the lot of them.’

  ‘Most people could write their knowledge of Northern Ireland on the back of a postage stamp.’

  ‘As cynical as ever, I see.’

  He shrugged, thinking that he didn’t see himself as a cynic.

  ‘Tell me, then. This man that you are … involved with—’

  ‘Woman.’

  ‘Woman?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Married? Children?’

  ‘Was – and yes. I don’t think I should say any more.’

  ‘OK, well, this … woman. What motivates her? I mean what makes her get involved? And what makes her work for you?’

  Ryan walked to the window and looked out across the rooftops, before turning round and leaning on a radiator. He looked back at her. ‘The honest answer is that I don’t know and I don’t think we would ever understand. The first is easier; she’s from a Republican – an IRA – family. She grew up surrounded by it all. Her brothers got involved – her father had been involved – so perhaps she wanted to impress them and the people around her. I don’t know. Perhaps she resented the soldiers, perhaps there was some incident of harassment – probably many in their case. It’s easy to see why she started.