Reaper

by Hurley, Graham

  Now Scullen picked up the paper again and scanned the article for a third time, making quite sure. “Argentina,” it warned at the end, “will soon seek other means of solving the dispute, unless there is a speedy settlement.” Scullen read the phrase, and then pushed the paper away again, a gesture of quiet applause for the English diplomat. Like the man in the dress circle, he’d got the plot exactly right.

  He got up and paid for the coffee. McParland joined him on the street outside. They drove to a hotel half a mile away where Scullen had booked a room. Later, God willing, the boy Connolly would be joining them. Then he planned a trip round the zoo, an appropriate backdrop, he thought, for yet another survey of the goods on offer. First though, there was South Georgia to attend to. The Falklands. The looming hostilities. Scullen stepped into the hotel, and found the tiny phone booth at the end of the hall. He dialled a number from memory and glanced at his watch. Finally a woman’s voice answered. She had a faint German accent.

  “It’s me,” he said carefully, “I think the answer’s yes.”

  Jude Little had been at the house just one night when Buddy took the phone call.

  Friends had surprised them both, the evening the ambulance had brought them back from the Regional Spinal Unit. There’d been flags around the door, little Union Jacks tucked in amongst the Virginia creeper, and food and drink laid out in the kitchen. There’d been sausage rolls, and baked potatoes, and a huge bowl of hummus – enough, said Jude, to keep her going for a month. There’d been wine, and music, and the party had gone on long past midnight. Jude had been installed in the living room, the conversation and the laughter swirling around her, old friends on chairs circling the bed, kids too, their chins on the blanket, their eyes wide. Auntie Jude, they’d thought. Off to bed so early.

  Jude had cried at it all, total surprise, an easier homecoming than she’d ever anticipated, and Buddy, too, had been moved to tears. Towards midnight, everyone a little drunk, he’d slipped out into the darkness. Only one of the horses was left now, Duke. Buddy had found him in his box in the stable yard, a cloud of white breath on the cold night air. The big horse had ducked his head and shaken his ears, seeming to sense that his mistress was finally home, and Buddy had looked at him, stern, real eye contact.

  “Your fault,” he’d said, “your bloody fault.”

  Next morning, Buddy had got up early, meaning to clean the house and finish the washing up before Jude awoke. But when he tiptoed quietly downstairs, her eyes were already open. She could move her head now, in any direction, and she watched him through the open kitchen door as he filled the sink with water and began to soap the dirty dishes.

  “Me next,” she said.

  The washing up done, and the tea brewing, Buddy switched on the electric fire and began to warm the living room. The busiest month of his life had included installing central heating, essential – said the hospital – if Jude was to be safe from chest infections. One of the side effects of paralysis, Bishop had explained, was a general lowering of resistance. From now on, Buddy was to be the guardian at Jude’s gate, scourge of the world’s known germs. Nothing, he’d determined, would get past. No chest infections. No kidney infections. Nothing that might steal through and take her from him. The central heating, though, was proving temperamental. Overnight, for some reason, it had switched itself off. Thus the need for the electric fire.

  They had breakfast while the room slowly warmed. Buddy propped Jude’s body up against a stack of pillows, and fed her porridge by the spoonful. He decanted tea into a baby’s plastic cup and held it to her lips while she sucked and rolled her eyes and made loud gurgling noises. She’d had three glasses of wine the previous evening, the first alcohol for three months, and the booze had left her dehydrated. They had a second pot of tea. And then a third.

  By now, the room was warm. Buddy offered the plastic cup a final time. Jude shook her head.

  “Bolt the door,” she said.

  Buddy looked at her, not quite understanding.

  “The door,” she said again. “Bolt it.”

  Buddy went to the back door and locked it. The front door was already bolted. He was back by her bed.

  “Curtains?” he enquired.

  Jude nodded. “Close them,” she said.

  Buddy pulled the curtains. The room sank into semi-darkness, shafts of daylight down the stairs, the hum of the electric fire in the hearth. He looked at Jude again. Some new hospital routine, he thought, something they never told me about.

  “Now what?” he said.

  She looked up at him. “Take your clothes off,” she said.

  “Me?”

  She rolled her eyes again. “Who else?”

  Buddy hesitated. “Why?” he said at last.

  She looked at him. There was a comma of porridge at the corner of her mouth. Buddy lifted a finger and wiped it off, and her tongue caught him in the act. She sucked the end of his finger for a moment or two, still looking at him. Buddy smiled at her. He felt uncomfortable. She let his finger go.

  “Off,” she said, “get your clothes off.”

  Buddy smiled, wiser now. “There’s no need,” he said softly, “honestly.”

  “Who says?”

  “I say.”

  “And me? Do I get a say?”

  “You’re …”

  He stopped and shrugged, embarrassed at what he’d so nearly said. Then he shrugged again and began to loosen the zip of his jeans. Jude nodded, her point made.

  “Thank you,” she said, “Mr Do-It-All.”

  “I’m sorry. I only meant …”

  “I know what you only meant.”

  “Oh?” He looked down at her.

  She nodded. “You only meant to tell me to go easy. Little Miss Cripple. Know my place …” She smiled tightly up at him, angry. “Right?”

  He nodded. “Right,” he said.

  She looked away for a moment.

  “At least you’re honest,” she said.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “You said that before.”

  “I meant it.”

  She nodded and said nothing for a moment. Then her head turned back on the pillow.

  “OK,” she said, “now the rest.”

  Buddy took his pants off, then his sweat shirt. He could feel the electric fire against the backs of his legs. She gestured him forward with her eyes. He stood by the bed. It was a very high bed, designed to make nursing easier. She grinned.

  “You’re going to need a stool,” she said. “Short ass.”

  Buddy closed his eyes for a moment. Ridiculous, he thought. He fetched a small wooden box from the kitchen, stood on it beside the bed. Jude examined him closely.

  “Beautiful,” she said, “come here.”

  Buddy glanced down. Nothing happened. Jude looked up at him, a request, a favour.

  “Help me,” she whispered, “please.”

  Buddy did so. It took a long time. Finally, she kissed him, softly, on the tip. Then she looked up again.

  “You could fuck me properly,” she said, “only I won’t feel a thing.”

  Buddy nodded, but said nothing. “So this’ll have to do. My treat. OK?”

  The phone call came an hour later. A woman’s voice, a strong Irish accent.

  “My name is O’Hara,” she said, “I work for a Catholic charity organization.” She paused. “It’s about your wife. I wonder whether I might come and talk to you both.”

  She arrived within the hour in a small white car. She parked outside the stable yard and picked her way down the muddy path, a stout, bulky figure in a long black coat. Buddy met her at the front door. She stepped inside and Buddy took her straight through to the living room. There was a new fire in the hearth and the smell of air freshener, something lemony. He introduced her to Jude. He felt wonderful.

  “Exhibit A,” he said. “My wife.”

  Jude smiled a greeting. The woman reached forward and touched her face, a rare, intimate greeting, someone who knew about paraly
sis, someone without embarrassment or fear.

  “I’m pleased to meet you,” she said, unbuttoning her coat, “my name’s Mary O’Hara.”

  Buddy looked at her. She was middle aged, about forty. She was stockily built with a warm, dimpled face, framed with red curly hair. She wore a crucifix at her neck, and no rings on her fingers. She accepted Buddy’s offer of tea, and sat down beside the bed. She looked at Jude. She had very pale grey eyes.

  “I’ve read about you,” she said.

  Jude blinked. “You have?”

  “Yes.”

  Out in the kitchen, pouring the tea, Buddy closed his eyes. He’d never told Jude about the article. He’d never thought he’d have to. The appeal, the money, even Pascale’s operation, had just disappeared, past tense, something they didn’t even discuss any more. He stepped out of the kitchen, interrupting the conversation.

  “The local paper did an article,” he told Jude quickly. “About you.”

  “They did?”

  “Yes. They got in touch. Asked me lots of questions.”

  “What did you say?”

  “Oh,” he shrugged, “this and that.” He looked at the woman. “You read it?”

  “We did.”

  “We?” Buddy frowned, moving the conversation on. “Who’s we?”

  The woman sat back a moment, one leg crossed over the other. She explained that she represented a big Catholic charity. The charity was based in Dublin. They’d read about Jude’s accident, and they knew about Pascale, and under certain circumstances, they were prepared to help. Buddy stared at her. He was still carrying a dishcloth and a wet tea-cup.

  “Help?” he repeated blankly. “What kind of help?”

  The woman looked at Jude and smiled at her. “We’d pay,” she said. “For your wife to have the operation.”

  The woman stayed an hour. She said that her charity was amply funded and that its job was to relieve individual suffering. To this end, she travelled widely, assessing individual cases. Discretion in this matter was entirely her own. Religion or race were no bar. She’d made enquiries elsewhere, and she knew about the circumstances of the accident, and – standard procedure – she’d already cleared Jude’s case with the charity’s trustees. The only stipulation they wanted to make concerned her fitness for the journey and the operation. They wanted to be sure that Jude could cope physically, and to this end they proposed to fly her to Dublin for an assessment by designated physicians. With that single promise, they’d be happy to meet Pascale’s bill, and additional expenses, in full.

  “Why?” Buddy asked.

  She looked at him. “Because it is God’s will,” she said.

  There was a silence. Buddy swallowed hard. Jude looked up at her.

  “Is this God’s will?” she said. “Me? All this?”

  The woman glanced down at her. “Yes,” she said, “it is.”

  Connolly met Scullen by the Monkey House in Dublin Zoo. He’d phoned the number he’d been given from the station, and McParland had answered. Over the past four weeks, he’d managed to get on terms with the man. False or otherwise, he’d even been permitted to use his Christian name.

  “Thanks, Sean,” he said, “the Monkey House it is.”

  Connolly found Scullen sitting on a bench eyeing a cage full of chimpanzees. He’d bought a bag of peanuts, and he was shelling them methodically, one by one, tossing them into the cage. The smaller of the two chimps was always the first to the peanuts. The fat one couldn’t be bothered.

  Scullen moved up the bench, and offered Connolly the last of the peanuts. Connolly shook his head.

  “No thanks,” he said.

  Stooping from the bench, Scullen began to tidy the semicircle of shells around his feet into a neat pile, collecting them up and shovelling them into the empty bag. He’d had Connolly picked up five weeks ago. Two men had gone to his flat in the Ormeau Road, and waited in a car outside. When Connolly had arrived, midday, they’d intercepted him before he got to the door, and driven him south, across the border, into the outskirts of Dundalk.

  There, in a small council house, they’d taken him upstairs to a bare back room, lino on the floor, two chairs, and some rope. They’d tied him to one of the chairs, and left him for three hours. There were splashes of blood on the skirting board, and a battered wooden box in the corner. In the box were an assortment of blunt instruments, and an old Black and Decker drill. There was a clear plastic case for the drill bits, but most of the bits were missing. The bit in the drill itself was on the large side. There was blood on that, too, though from a distance it looked like rust.

  Late afternoon, Scullen had arrived. He’d gone straight up to see the boy. When he’d met him before, in the cottage, down in Armagh, he’d smelled the fear on him. Now though, to his surprise, there was something else entirely, a sense of composure rare to this terrible room. Connolly had looked him in the eye, steady as you like.

  “Get these off,” he said, nodding at the ropes, “and then we can talk.”

  Scullen had looked at McParland, and said OK, and McParland had obliged. The ropes off, Connolly had shaken the stiffness out of his wrists and asked for his pullover back. McParland had given him the pullover. Connolly had dragged it over his head, and stood up, and swung his arms round for a while, and then sat down again.

  For the next fifteen minutes, no interruptions, no promptings, he’d told Scullen exactly what he’d wanted to know. He’d told him how Mairead had given him the rendezvous in Dublin, how he’d persuaded Leeson to fly over with him, how they’d taken the Saturday flight. He described the girl that had met them at the airport, and the car chase that followed. He told Scullen about getting Leeson back to London, the state of the man – cheerful, content – and his own brief few days out at Carshalton with his mother. On his way back to Belfast, he said, he’d called in to say goodbye to Leeson and found him dead in his own kitchen. He explained about Ingle, about the afternoon in the police cells, and about the deal he’d been obliged to strike. He held nothing back, and at the end – when Scullen asked him why the Brits had staked out Dublin Airport, who’d told them – he simply shrugged.

  “Obvious,” he said.

  “Not to me.”

  “Obvious,” he repeated. “They knew about Francis.”

  “Francis?”

  “Leeson. They knew he was gay. They knew he was a security risk. They simply followed him.”

  “But they were waiting. At the airport.”

  “Then they must have checked the flights. His phone’s bugged. Bound to be. I’d have talked to him about it. They’d have known.”

  Scullen had nodded. Saying nothing.

  “Who’s they?” he said at last.

  “Ingle’s lot. Special Branch.”

  Scullen had nodded again, musing, wondering how much – if anything – the boy knew about Nineteenth Intelligence, the real threat. Back by the window, Connolly had broken the silence.

  “There’s a point to all this,” he said.

  “All what?”

  “All this stuff I’m telling you. Ingle. Special Branch. The Brits.”

  “Oh?” Scullen had looked enquiring, his big black coat wrapped tightly around him. “And what might that be?”

  Connolly had hesitated a moment, hating the melodrama, but knowing exactly what he wanted to say. Ten years of study, of books and essays and conversation. Two years of lecture work, tight little tutorials up at Queens, the chance to explore it all first hand. A year of Mairead, a pace or two behind the front line, the framed pictures of Danny, the widow the movement never forgot. And now this, at last, the real thing. He’d looked up at Scullen.

  “I’m supposed to be touting for Ingle,” he said. “Doesn’t that excite you?”

  Scullen had nodded. “It might,” he said.

  “There must be things you want to tell them? The Brits? Ingle? There must be things you want them to believe?” Scullen had acknowledged the point with the merest nod. “Then I’m your man. Your
delivery boy. Federal Express. Whatever you say, goes.”

  “To Ingle?”

  “Yes.”

  Scullen had nodded, looking for the trap. “A conversion,” he’d said at last. “Remarkable.”

  In the five brief weeks since, Scullen had met Connolly on a number of other occasions. Each time, the meetings had been over the border. Each time, the invitations had been unannounced, the precautions watertight, the field-work immaculate. Not once had there been any suspicion of surveillance, not a shred of evidence to confirm Scullen’s innate conviction that he was being set up. When they met, they talked about the broad issues – nothing specific, nothing operational – and Scullen had begun to warm to the young academic. He was quick. He was sympathetic. He was witty. And he was remarkably compliant, a good listener, a willing ear. Scullen’s tastes weren’t the same as Leeson’s. He had little sexuality of any kind. But none the less, he began to understand what it was that had attracted the older man. Connolly, in a curiously attractive way, was extraordinarily naïve, a blank sheet of paper on which the next man – or the next woman – scribbled whatever they chose.

  Now, walking slowly past the alligator pit, Scullen paused.

  “Tell me,” he said, “why this decision of yours? Why come to us?”

  Connolly thought about the question for a moment. The longer answer he’d been formulating for several years. It had provided a raft on which they’d floated their conversations over the past month. It had to do with the covert exercise of state power, the animal that lurked in the deepest recesses of Whitehall, the depth and complexity of the con trick that had begun to envelop the England he thought he knew, the fingerprints of the State he’d come to hate. But there was another reason, too, a bit closer to home, the practical application of all that theory. He glanced up at Scullen.

  “They killed Leeson,” he said simply. “I know they did.”

  Charlie knew it had got personal the day the photograph appeared on Miller’s office wall.