Northern Spy

by Berry, Flynn

  I always feel vaguely self-conscious buying jars of his food at the supermarket, like someone is about to tell me I’m too young to have a baby. Which I’m not, of course. Not even close. A stranger did once look in my shopping basket and tell me to make homemade purées instead. “So much better for the baby.” There’s always someone, for a mother, ready to tell you to pull your socks up.

  I wipe the squash from Finn’s hands and face while he squirms in protest, remove his stained clothes and gently wrestle him into clean ones, change my own dirty shirt, wipe down the high chair, and kneel to mop the floor below it. I’m rinsing the baby food jar for the recycling bin when the exhaustion crashes over me.

  After his bath, I hold him on the bed, with a pillow folded under my arm. While nursing, Finn reaches to grip the strap of my top. He often does this, finds a hold to cling to, out of some instinct not to be separated from me.

  He’s falling asleep. I should move him to his crib, but instead I hold him in my arms, the two of us a still point. I want to stop time.

  And then, from nowhere, I see myself standing in front of a collapsed building. I see someone handing me a bullhorn, and myself slowly raising it to my mouth. I hear what I would say to him, if my son were trapped in rubble, scared, alone.

  Tears cover my face, my throat. We can’t leave here without his father’s consent. The only way for Finn to be safe is for this to stop.

  It’s not really a decision, is it? I’m going to become an informer. I’m going to do this knowing that the IRA’s punishment for informing is death, possibly a beating first, possibly torture. Because that’s no longer the worst that could happen to me, not even close, now that I have him.

  18

  Ifollow the narrow footpath between the dunes to the beach. A faded sign warns of riptides, with a diagram of how to swim out of one. Someone has strung pink ship’s buoys over the sign, their surfaces pitted from the water, and the familiar sight comforts me.

  At the end of the dunes, I step onto the beach. In the fog, the damp sand is like the floor of a tunnel. A lifeguard chair stands at the far end of the cove, its white frame almost invisible in the mist. The chair will be empty anyway, this early in the morning. I stretch my arms behind my back, like I’m warming up for a swim. I have a hooded sweatshirt and leggings on over my swimsuit, and the ends of my hair are curling in the damp air.

  There’s no reason for me to be scared, but I’m having trouble breathing. This degree of fear seems like proof that something is wrong, the way, when you’re a child, your fear is proof of a ghost in the room.

  I force myself to breathe. Everyone who does this is scared, I think. Everyone who has ever done this has been scared. I try to remember my certainty last night, while holding Finn. I’m a go-between, that’s all. It had sounded reasonable last night, but now I wonder how much of this is actually superstition, like if I agree to help, then Finn will be safe. As though it’s that simple, as though any of this has ever been fair.

  I stretch my back, watching white scraps of mist blow overhead. When I straighten again, I notice a dog at the far end of the beach, down by the water, and then its owner, a vague shape in the fog. It’s hard to tell if they’re moving toward me or away.

  I reach for my toes, and pressure builds behind my eyes. I stretch my arm across my chest as their shapes grow clearer. A black-and-white dog with wet fur, and a man in a navy tracksuit. The dog trots over to me, and I hold out my hand for her to sniff. She places a soft paw on my knee.

  The man stops a few feet from me with his hands in his pockets. He’s about my age, maybe a little older, tall, with brown hair. His nose narrows at its ridge, like a knife blade. I don’t know if he’s her handler or a passerby, Marian didn’t tell me what to look for.

  “What type of dog is she?” I ask.

  “A border collie.”

  “She’s lovely.” I rub behind the dog’s ears, trying to force myself to speak. This is it. I could still call it off, by smiling and walking past him to the water. “I’m Tessa,” I say finally.

  “It’s very nice to meet you, Tessa,” he says. “I’m Eamonn.”

  The sand shifts under my feet. Five minutes ago, I wasn’t an informer, now I am. We’ve only said hello, but that’s enough, the IRA would kill me for it.

  “Are we safe here?” I ask.

  “Yes,” he says, but I want to turn around, like at this moment someone in a ski mask might be coming over the dunes.

  “Would anyone from the IRA recognize you?” I ask. “Do they know who you are?”

  “No.”

  Behind him, a wave breaks, foam spilling down its face like an avalanche. “How can you be sure?”

  “We’re sure.”

  Eamonn has a local accent, and he doesn’t look out of place on this beach. He carries his body easily, like someone who swims or surfs. “Are you from here?” I ask.

  “Strabane,” he says, “but my family moved to London when I was twelve.”

  While he speaks, I listen for holes in his accent. He might not actually be Irish, his regular speaking voice might be Queen’s English.

  Eamonn tells me that he has been in Northern Ireland for two years under deep cover, posing as a restaurant investor. He is living on the coast now while supposedly scouting locations for an outpost of an expensive fish restaurant.

  “How long have you been doing this?”

  “Twelve years,” he says, and I search his face for signs of guilt. Since I was little, I’ve heard stories of how MI5 officers operate here, their bribes, blackmail, coercion.

  “Are you running other informers besides Marian?”

  “I can’t answer that,” he says. “I’m sure you understand.”

  “Have any of them died?”

  He looks down at the sand. “Are you worried about your sister?”

  “Yes.”

  “IRA operations fail about half the time. St. George’s wasn’t unusual, your sister’s not under undue suspicion. And if Marian ever signals for help, we’ll send in an armed unit to extract her. She has a panic button.”

  “What if she’s not at home?” I ask.

  “Oh, no, the button’s not in her house. It’s in one of her fillings.”

  My eyes widen. Marian had two cavities filled when she was fourteen. Our mother chose a silver amalgam, since it was cheaper than the porcelain veneer. I imagine telling my sister, at fourteen, what that cap would be used to hide one day, and her snorting, saying, Wise up.

  “We don’t expect her to need it,” says Eamonn. “Marian has been careful. And you’re helping her now. It would be much more dangerous for her to communicate with me by phone.”

  Studying him, I notice small welts like raindrops, one on the back of his hand, one under his eye. They’re burn scars, I realize.

  “We’re in the endgame,” he says. “The peace talks are progressing, a cease-fire might be announced any day now.”

  “Or it could be months.”

  “When it comes, it will mean the end of fighting in our lifetime, and our children’s lifetime.”

  “Do you have children?” I ask.

  He smiles, acknowledging his mistake. “No, not myself.”

  “I can’t leave mine.”

  “You won’t be asked to do anything that makes you uncomfortable,” he says.

  I raise my eyebrows. He starts to explain my legal rights as an informer, under RIPA and the code of conduct. “We don’t operate how most people imagine,” he says. “We tend toward caution.”

  I try to understand how this—meeting here, spying on the IRA—could possibly fall under caution. He doesn’t seem nervous. Is it just that his team is bigger than theirs?

  “Marian came to see me on Sunday,” I tell him. “They’d given her a polygraph test.”

  “Were there any surprises on the test?”

&n
bsp; “I don’t think so, she thought she’d passed or they wouldn’t have let her leave. What do you need me to ask her?”

  “Marian will know,” he says. His collie has wandered onto the dunes, and he whistles for her to return. I’d expected to dislike him. I’d expected him to be like some of my classmates at Trinity. Clever, rich boys, who stare past your shoulder while talking to you. Worse, actually. One of those boys, but with the power and assurance of having been recruited by MI5.

  Eamonn gives me a Visa gift card for two hundred pounds. “I’ll be checking the balance on this. If you use the card, I’ll know you’re ready to meet, and I’ll be here at seven the following morning. If you need to meet immediately, buy something that costs more than ten pounds.”

  He smiles at me, then walks away, clapping for the dog to follow him. I pull my sweatshirt over my head and drop my leggings. My hands feel clumsy and numb, like I’m wearing thick gloves. I wade into the cold water, then dive under a wave, close enough to feel it thunder against the length of my back.

  * * *

  —

  The road back to Greyabbey curves between tall hedgerows. After every bend, I look in the rearview mirror to check if a car has appeared behind mine. In my driveway, I climb out of the car and wait for a moment, listening to the engine click as it cools, then walk up the road to my friend Sophie’s house.

  “Thanks for minding Finn.”

  “Good swim?” she asks.

  I nod. “A little choppy.”

  At our feet, Finn and Poppy are banging pot lids against the floor. Poppy reaches over to take Finn’s, while he watches in awe. She’s three months older, everything she does fascinates him.

  “Can I drop her at six thirty tomorrow?” asks Sophie. “I could use a run.”

  “Of course. Do you hear that, Finn? Poppy will come over to play tomorrow morning.” He scoots closer to her, offering her another pot lid, which she ignores. As we leave, Finn sobs, twisting in my arms toward Poppy. “Oh, love, it’s all right.” I find a plastic shark in my bag, which he accepts with wounded dignity, still hiccupping.

  At home, I make toast and tea, in disbelief that the day is only starting. It feels like evening already, like we should be settling in for the night.

  On the bus into Belfast, I’m aware of every other passenger. You have to constantly reassure yourself, living here. No, that man isn’t acting strangely, no, those people aren’t signaling to each other, no, there’s nothing unusual about that suitcase. And now I need a new set of reassurances. No, that man isn’t staring at you, no, he doesn’t know what you’ve done.

  To a certain community, I’m now the lowest form of life. I should be shot and my body should be left in the road as a warning. My family should be ashamed of me. They should be ignored at church and in the shops, left standing alone at funerals and weddings, they should know that they’ll never belong here again.

  I think of our neighbors in Andersonstown on New Year’s Eve, holding hands in a circle for “Auld Lang Syne.” If this ever comes out, I wonder how many of them will say, “Tessa deserves whatever she gets. She has it coming.”

  * * *

  —

  At my desk, I switch between writing our running order for tomorrow and reading MI5’s website. This is not a good way to work. I need our program to go well this week, to prove that my mind isn’t elsewhere, that my work hasn’t been compromised, but so far I have no introduction, no payoff, only a handful of middling interview questions.

  Beside my document is MI5’s glossy, polished website. It has a day in the life of an intelligence officer, which includes dropping her children at school, briefings, foreign-language training, a lunchtime game of squash, and being home in time for dinner. She says the job is suited to family life, since by design you have to leave your work at the office, which stretches belief.

  There’s no day in the life of an informer, of course. The tone in the section on informing is less glamorous, more guarded.

  “All of our agent handlers have a significant amount of training before starting in this role,” it reads. “A major part of this training involves identifying and managing potential risks. Building up our relationship with you is at the center of this process. Both sides need to be open about what can and cannot be done.”

  What can and cannot be done. Marian breaking the bomb for St. George’s, Marian lying during a polygraph, myself stepping onto the beach this morning. That line will keep being adjusted, won’t it? They will keep pushing it further and further back.

  * * *

  —

  I’ve made little progress on our running order when Jim at the front desk calls up. “Tessa, we’ve a DI Fenton in reception for you.”

  I race down the stairs, pausing at the bottom to straighten my dress and lanyard. For the benefit of the others in the lobby, I greet the detective like a political guest, shaking his hand, smiling. Once we’re outside, I wheel around to face him. “You can’t come here. Please don’t come here.”

  “I thought you might have time for a break,” he says mildly. I stalk around the corner onto Linenhall Street, and we stop in a doorway beside the betting shop. Fenton says, “Has your sister contacted you?”

  “No.”

  He has no idea that Marian is an informer. The security service won’t tell the police unless necessary, to avoid leaks. I imagine how furious Fenton would be, after all the hours spent on her case, if he knew.

  “Has Marian ever asked to store anything at your house?” he asks.

  “No.”

  “Have you ever handled or transported explosives?”

  “No.”

  Down the road, people leave the fried-chicken shop holding grease-stained paper bags. “Is it any good?” asks the detective, and I shrug. He says, “I shouldn’t anyway, with the sodium.” He shakes his keys in his suit pocket, then fixes his gaze on me. “Tessa, what does nitrobenzene smell like?”

  I blink at him. “I have no idea.”

  Fenton considers me for a few long moments, then turns to go. He knows I’ve just lied. Nitrobenzene smells like marzipan. But I learned that from a news report on explosives, not firsthand experience. I don’t even know if it’s true.

  19

  I’m alone on the top deck of the bus. Outside, rain drips from shop awnings and the broad leaves of plane trees. The people without umbrellas are all hurrying, squinting against the rain, except for a group of schoolgirls with wet hair ambling slowly down the road. As we pass, one of them takes a lollipop from her mouth and lobs it at the side of the bus. From the lower deck, the driver curses, but he doesn’t pull over. We’d never get anywhere if he stopped every time a kid in Belfast kicked up.

  It’s Friday evening. I’m so pleased not to be making this trip tomorrow, to have two whole days in Greyabbey with Finn. On the ride home, I make extensive, luxuriant plans for the weekend—to cook, with Finn in his carrier, maybe almond croissants, to read him board books, to let him nap on top of me on the sofa. I want to fill the weekend with his favorite things, to make it up to him, what I’ve become involved in with Marian. He won’t have noticed a difference, but I feel like I’ve been on a long-haul flight this week, and now am coming home to him.

  When we reach the lough, tall clouds are sweeping over the black water toward the Mournes in the distance. The rain will be cold in the mountains, drifting over the slopes and filling the reservoir.

  The bus stops across from the Mount Stewart estate. Someone must have waved it down, a tourist, maybe. I look out, startling when Marian appears, standing at the side of the road in a raincoat, waiting for the doors to open. I’d wondered how she would find me again. I’d expected it to happen in Belfast, in one of the alleys off Linenhall Street, say.

  Marian climbs the steps to the top deck and slides onto the seat beside me. I fight the instinct to take her hand.

  “Are
you all right?” she asks.

  “Fine. Have they interviewed you again?”

  She nods. “They asked me about France. They wanted to know where we stayed in Carcassonne, if we met anyone.”

  “Why would they care about France?”

  “The government might have tried to turn me then. They sometimes make an approach when people are away on holiday.”

  “Did you convince them?”

  “Yes. I said we barely left our pool. I’m still on active service.”

  “But they’re watching you?”

  “Probably.”

  “Eamonn told me about the panic button. What would happen if you used it right now?”

  “A special forces team would stop the bus and extract me,” she says. “It wouldn’t take long, they have helicopters.”

  Catch yourself on, I think. No one’s sending any helicopters for you, you’re not that special. Except, of course, she is. She’s an asset for the British Crown. “Are they paying you?” I ask, and she nods. “How?”

  “They’re depositing money in a Swiss bank account.”

  “Do you not find that problematic?”

  Marian twists her mouth to the side. IRA members aren’t meant to be interested in money, as a point of pride. They tell stories about being offered a suitcase full of cash by the government to turn informer and laugh.

  “It’s practical,” she says. “I might have trouble finding work after this.”

  I open my mouth to argue, then stop myself. I’ve no call to criticize Marian for not upholding the IRA’s code of ethics.

  “The detective who’s looking for you came to my office. He asked if I’ve ever transported explosives.”

  “Oh, christ,” says Marian. “I’m sorry.”

  For the past two days, I’ve been waiting for the detective to interrupt our news meeting, or appear in the canteen during my tea break, this time with uniformed constables, to bring me in for questioning, to make my humiliation complete.