A minute later, they were in a side road. They left the car. They ran to another, Connolly in the back, lying on the floor, the car beginning to move already, the distant wail of sirens. Connolly shut his eyes, trying to make the noises go away, trying to forget the smells, trying to rid his head of that single image. Charlie’s face. Gone.
After a while, the car slowed down. Normal road noise. The low burble of conversation in the front. Connolly began to relax. His hands were still pushed down hard between his thighs, foetal position, the ultimate crouch. He unclenched his hands, letting the gun fall to the floor, realizing for the first time what it was that he’d been holding between his knees. He looked down, making sure, knowing already that he’d blown it.
The balaclava, for God’s sake. The fucking balaclava.
NINETEEN
The naval dockyard at Gibraltar lies on the western side of the Rock. The long seaward breakwater offers protection against the heavy Atlantic swells rolling in over the Bay of Algeciras, and there’s a fine view of the entire base from most of the hotels that dot the Rock itself.
On the late afternoon of Monday 29th March, much to the surprise of a visiting Ministry of Defence civil servant making a routine call to his office back in London, the long black shape of a submarine appeared from the south and tied up alongside. The call over, the civil servant rummaged for his battered Zeiss binoculars and returned to the balcony of his room. The submarine, nicely in focus against the rough grey stonework of the quay, belonged to the Swiftsure class, fast-attack boats, hunter-killer, nuclear powered. The number on her conning tower identified her as HMS Spartan. Spartan, he knew from the briefing notes in his attaché case, was playing a key role in Exercise Spring Train with the First Flotilla. What, therefore, was she doing back in Gib?
The civil servant went shopping for an hour. When he returned to his room, he could see at once that the submarine was still there. He lifted the glasses again. Dusk was falling, and they’d switched on the big sodium floodlights along the dockyard quays. Spartan’s forward hatches were open, and there were dockyard workers on the long slope of the submarine’s bow. Tied up alongside was another submarine, and the civil servant recognized the outline of an “O” class boat, one of the smaller, diesel-powered craft. He peered through the glasses, scanning left and right. There was a pile of cylindrical objects on the quay behind Spartan. The cylinders were packed in crates, and he could clearly see the distinctive red markings of the dummy torpedoes. He scanned left again. The diesel submarine also had her forward hatches open. More torpedoes were appearing, the old Mark Eights, swinging high in the air between the two submarines, then winching slowly down into Spartan’s forward compartments. He racked the focus a moment, sweeping up, looking for the one clue he needed. He found it in seconds, a single red flag, flying from Spartan’s stubby topside mast.
The civil servant lowered his glasses and retreated to the warmth of his room. The spring days cooled early, and it was already chilly in the wind. He sat down on the bed, a frown on his face, pondering the red flag. Live torpedoes, he thought. She’s loading live torpedoes.
The soldiers arrived at Mairead’s house an hour past midnight.
Two men pushed around the back, assault rifles at the ready, their faces daubed with greasy stripes of cam cream. One of them kicked over the neat square of empty milk bottles Mairead had left for the morning. Cats scattered in the darkness. A light appeared at the back of the house behind.
Half a minute later, the unit in position, the young captain knocked twice on the front door. Mairead, who’d been waiting for them since dusk, pulled her dressing-gown around her at the head of the stairs. The kids were away for the night. Knowing what would happen, knowing it was inevitable, she’d packed them off to friends.
Mairead put the light on and began to creep downstairs when there was a splintering of wood at the front door. The door burst open and the tiny hall was suddenly full of soldiers. One of the soldiers saw her on the stairs and raised his gun, and she screamed, and turned, and began to run back to the bedroom, but there were hands around her waist, and she found herself slipping down the stairs again, her nightie and dressing-gown riding up over her thighs, the metal treads on the stairs bumping against her shins. She hit out at the figure behind her, a mad flailing in the dim light of the forty-watt bulb, and she felt a sudden sharp pain in the kidneys that took her breath away. Then she was on the floor, in the hall. She could smell the dog on the lino, and there were a pair of boots an inch away from her eye. She looked up, gasping, wondering why the men bothered with the strange green make-up. War paint, she thought to herself. Savages.
The captain took her through to the kitchen. He found some matches and lit the gas under the kettle. He did it at once, without comment, the closest he could get to an apology. Then he told her to sit down at the kitchen table. She did so.
“I’ve orders to search your house,” he said.
She nodded dumbly, knowing she ought to protest, knowing that compliance was as good as an admission of guilt. “Why?” she said.
“Because there’s been an incident.”
“What kind of incident?”
“A killing. A murder.”
“Where?”
“In the city.”
He looked at her. It took more than camouflage cream to disguise the contempt in his face. He was young. He had a very English accent. Mairead rubbed her back again, trying to ease the pain.
“But why me?” she said. “Why here?”
“Orders,” the officer said.
Mairead nodded, listening to the sound of boots overhead, the rasp and creak of floorboards being pulled up, drawers wrenched open, then a thud that shook the whole house as something heavy was tipped on its side. The officer was watching the kettle. He made no attempt to ask her questions. She began to wonder why.
“I thought the police did this?” she said. “The RUC?”
The officer ignored her. Said nothing. She persevered.
“Why you?” she said. “Why the military?”
The kettle began to sing and the officer reached up for the battered metal tea caddy on the shelf above. Then the door opened and another soldier appeared. He was carrying a white envelope. Mairead had never seen it before. He gave it to the officer.
“Upstairs, sir.”
“Whereabouts?”
“Under the woman’s pillow.”
The officer nodded, dismissing the soldier. The door closed again. The officer glanced at Mairead.
“What’s this?” he said.
Mairead looked at the envelope. She recognized Connolly’s careful script. Her name. The way he wrote it. The flourish after the final letter.
“I don’t know,” she said.
The officer opened the envelope. There were two sheets of paper inside, the writing closely spaced. He began to read it, then skipped on, checking the name at the end.
“Derek,” he said, looking up. “Who’s Derek?”
Mairead stared at the letter, wondering what to say, whether to deny it all, to do what she knew other women had done, to tell these animals to get out of her house and leave her alone. Then the door opened again and there was another man standing there, an older man. He wasn’t a soldier. He wasn’t in uniform. He wore brown corduroy trousers. He had an old leather jacket on. He had freckles, and swept back hair. The young officer stood to attention and snapped a salute. He was still holding the letter. Mairead just watched.
“Sir?”
The older man nodded, not bothering to return the salute. He looked at Mairead.
“Do you live here?” he said.
Mairead nodded.
“Yes,” she said.
“Where’s Connolly?”
“I don’t know.”
“I said where’s Connolly?”
“I don’t know.”
The older man glanced at the young officer. The officer gave him the letter and the envelope and left the room. The door closed behind him.
The older man sat down and Mairead looked at him. Connolly’s chair, she thought. Derek’s favourite spot. The older man bent to the letter. He read it carefully. Then he looked up.
“Do you know where he’s gone?”
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
He nodded. There was a brief silence. He looked at the letter again.
“When did you last see him?” he said at last.
Mairead hesitated. She knew the question was coming. She’d known all day. She’d made up her mind what her answer was to be. But now, here, with this man in her kitchen, it wasn’t so simple. She could feel the anger in him, the rage. He must have known Charlie, she thought. He must have liked him. He was still looking at her, one finger on a sentence in the letter.
“Well?” he said.
She looked at him, seeing it all again, Charlie, the noise, the bangs, the thin film of blood on the window closest to the pavement. Charlie had fallen on his back across the front seats. Wherever you looked, wherever you put yourself, you couldn’t avoid seeing him, the mess on the front of his head where his face had been. She blinked, dropping the curtain, shrouding the memory.
“This morning,” she said.
“Where?”
She looked at him again, pleading, wanting him to believe her, wanting him to go away, wanting them all to go away.
“Here,” she said.
The other man nodded. He proffered the letter.
“Have you read this?”
“No.”
“Read it.”
He gave her the letter and got up and went to the gas stove. The kettle was boiling. He turned it off and poured hot water into the teapot. Mairead tried to read the letter, tried to get the words in the right order, to shake the sense out of it. Derek had gone. He’d done what he had to do, done what was necessary, and he wasn’t coming back. He loved her. They’d be together again. Sometime. She looked up. The man at the gas stove was a blur.
“Sugar?” he said.
She nodded, numbed. She heard him stirring the tea in the pot, brisk, everyday movements, real life. She looked at the letter again, tears pouring down her cheeks. Two deaths, she thought. One public. Charlie. One private. Hers. The man sat down and put the teapot between them.
“Do you love him?” he said.
She blinked at him. There was a new note in his voice, something she hadn’t heard before, something close to kindness.
“Yes,” she said.
“Does he love you?”
She nodded at the letter. “What do you think?” she said.
There was a long silence. The other man bent towards her.
“Do you know what he’s done?” he said at last.
She looked at him for a while. He knows, she thought. He knows I was there. He knows what happened. He’s seen Charlie since. He’s been to the hospital, the morgue, wherever. He’s seen what I saw. She lowered her eyes to the letter, not wanting to look at him any more, ashamed. He leaned forward across the table, his voice quickening, not hostile, not angry, but somehow more urgent.
“You had a meeting, didn’t you,” he said, “with Charlie?”
She nodded. “Yes.”
“This afternoon. One o’clock.”
“Yes.”
There was another long silence. She reached for the pot of tea, then felt his hand on hers, restraining her. Not yet, he was telling her. Not yet. Soon. But not yet. She looked up, uncertain, knowing full well what his next question would be.
“Who else knew about your meeting?” he said.
She closed her eyes. She shook her head. She’d seen Connolly in the other car. She’d watched him, curious, wondering who his friends were, who he’d got the lift from, where they were going to let him off. She’d seen the car slowing. She’d seen him raise the gun. She’d seen the car stop. She’d tried to shout. A warning. To Charlie. To Derek. To anyone. Anyone who’d listen in this God-forsaken city. But the shooting had started, and the noise, and people running all over the place, bits and pieces of shopping spilled on the pavement, and Charlie not there any more, and she’d known then that it was all too late. No point, she’d thought. No point even staying. And so she’d run, like the rest of them, up the street and away. She opened her eyes. The question lay between them, unanswered. She sniffed.
“Derek knew,” she said, “I told him.”
The other man nodded. “Did you see it? Did you see what happened?”
“Yes.”
“What happened?”
“Derek killed him. Shot him.” She closed her eyes again. “Derek did it.”
“So where is he now?”
She stared at the letter.
“God knows,” she said.
The other man looked at her for a moment, then picked up the teapot. He poured two cups, pushed one across the table. He spooned in the sugar and she told him to look in the fridge when he asked about the milk. The house was quieter now. She wondered whether the soldiers had gone. She reached for the tea. It was sweet, two sugars, the way she liked it. She cupped her hands around it, shivering.
“What now?” she said.
The man leaned back. “You’ve got a choice,” he said. “There’ll be a police investigation. They’ll want to talk to you. Maybe not tomorrow. Maybe not this week. But soon enough.” He shrugged. “So you can stay here and wait for the phone to ring …”
“Yes?”
“Or we can do something else.”
“We?”
“Yes.” He looked at her. “You and me.”
There was a long silence. Mairead sipped at the tea again.
“What’s that, then?” she said. “What can we do?”
“We can get you away from here.”
“I’ve got kids.”
“I know.” He paused. “We can set you up somewhere else.”
“Where?”
“UK. Mainland. Somewhere nice.”
“Why should we want to do that?”
The man looked at her, not answering. She asked him the question again. He reached for his tea. She picked up the letter and read it again slowly. Then she looked up.
“If we stayed here …” she said, “what would they do to us?”
“Who?”
“The police.”
The other man shrugged. “I don’t know,” he said. “But the police would be the least of your problems. You were off to meet a Brit. You were consorting with the enemy.” He paused. “I don’t think it’s the police you should be worrying about.”
She stared at him. “Would that come out?” she said. “Would everybody know that?”
“Almost certainly.”
She swallowed hard, reaching for the tea again, the warmth, the comfort. She thought about it, the neighbours, the kids, Danny’s friends, the old nightmare. If they knew about Charlie, about the meetings … If she was to stand up in court and have the truth come out … She shuddered.
“When do I have to make the decision?” she said. “When do you have to know?”
“Now.”
“Now?”
“Yes.”
She blinked. “So when would we go? Away?”
The man smiled at her. “Tomorrow,” he said. “First light.”
Connolly awoke late, eleven o’clock, the sun streaming in through a chink in the curtains. He blinked and sat upright in the narrow bed. Far away, he could hear the sea. Closer, the lowing of cattle. There were gulls, too, wheeling above the cottage.
He looked round. The room was built in the roof. The walls sloped inwards, and there were a couple of small dormer windows. There was a white shag rug on the bare floorboards, and a selection of DIY furniture: a single chair, a chest of drawers, a small wardrobe. The place smelled new, of chipboard and freshly sawn timber. There was a dressing-gown on a hook on the back of the door. The dressing-gown was red.
Connolly got out of bed and pulled back the curtains. From the window, he could see across a meadow to a
beach. The beach was cupped in a small bay. Across the bay was a finger of rock that pushed into the sea. The sea, like the sky, was a startling blue. The beach was almost pure white, completely unmarked. To the left, a narrow track ran down to the beach. The track was hedged on either side with fuchsia. Connolly opened the window and took a deep breath. The air was full of farm smells, and there was the scent of the ocean, too. Connolly smiled, leaning on the window ledge. The wood was already warm. There was barely any wind. The air was soft. Paradise, he thought.
After a while, Connolly stepped back into the room, leaving the window open. He got dressed and went downstairs. On the ground floor, the cottage was open plan, a single room running the full length of the place. There were big picture windows and a scattering of cheerful holiday furniture. Last night, arriving, he’d seen none of this. He’d been driven across the border west of Armagh. They’d swopped cars in Dundalk, and yet again two hours or so further south, a small village miles from anywhere with a single shop and a dog with three legs. The last part of the journey had taken place after dark, an ancient Datsun, driven by a small, hunched man who’d barely said a word. The journey had ended past midnight, total darkness, on a road by the coast. There’d been a track of sorts, off the road, and a gate, and the dim outline of a small white cottage, and the man had produced a key, and let him in, and taken him upstairs with the help of a tiny pencil torch. Whether he’d used the torch because there were no lights, Connolly didn’t know, but he’d got into bed, and pulled up the duvet and listened to the old Datsun bumping away into the night. The Datsun had taken with it the last of what he wanted to remember about the most terrible day of his life. He didn’t need a light. He didn’t want to know what the room looked like, where he was, what might happen next. All he wanted to do was to sleep. And to forget.
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