Faithless

by Tony Walker

  He said, "Sue gave me the same story. She made a laboured point of telling me. Odd she should tell us both."

  Ailsa snorted. "Odd? You're being a bit thick John."

  "Why?"

  "It's the oldest trick in the espionage book. The famous marked fiver. They feed us info and wait to see if it gets back to our Soviet masters. Not that we have any Soviet masters. They're probably just feeding it to a small number of people to rule them out or not given what Vinogradov told us. When we don't pass it on, they'll try someone else."

  He rolled on his back and looked at the ceiling. "Do you believe there is a Soviet source in British intelligence?"

  "John, I'm taking my bra off now. That is a signal that I have other priorities. I have a garden that needs moisture. I have a rose that needs to be coaxed into bloom."

  He looked and saw the curve of her breasts. The last sun slanted through the window gilding her honey skin. He laughed out loud. "You're crazy. I've never met a woman like you."

  "That's because there isn't one. Now get licking."

  After they made love, she lay back and kissed his hair and his head lay nestled on her breast. "That was a nice orgasm, thank you," she said. "Actually I had two. Very good work."

  "You're greedy," he said.

  "I'm worth the effort and you love me really," she said.

  "I do," he said. "It would be easier if I didn't"

  She got up and walked towards the door. She was beautiful naked.

  "That's a nasty bruise you've got there."

  She stopped and raised her arms and looked them up and down. "Where?"

  "There. On your side."

  She twisted her neck. "Oh that. It's old."

  "How did you get it."

  "Walked into a door knob."

  "Really?"

  "I was probably drunk. Anyway I'm going to pee. Can I get you anything while I'm there?"

  "By the way, I'm away Monday," he shouted through to her where she was out of sight in the en suite bathroom.

  "Oh, going anywhere fun?"

  "Not really. Work. I'm back Monday evening. Careful you don't walk into anything when you're in the bathroom."

  5th October, 1985, Dublin: John flew out from Heathrow on Sunday afternoon. He told Karen he was going away with work and would be back Monday evening. He told work he had things to do round the house. The aeroplane landed at Dublin just after three p.m. There was a light drizzle and the wind was blowing from the east - from Russia across England and the sea. The Irish skies were leaden and John pulled up the collar of his coat against the wind. He bought a copy of the Irish Independent, which gave him a chance to look around. He then caught the bus into the city centre. All he had with him was a holdall with his wash bag and a change of clothes. He got off the bus at the Busáras and walked down to the Liffey Quay. The brown river ran high flushed with Autumn rain, on its way to the sea. He walked briskly down the quay and then crossed the river by O'Connell Bridge. He had never been to Dublin before but he had memorised the route he would take. He walked past Trinity College and stopped to read an information panel advertising the Book of Kells. As far as he could tell he wasn't being followed. He walked down Kildare Street and onto St Stephen's Green. He was booked into the Shelbourne Hotel under the name McIntosh. The hotel was ostentatious but he was nervous and did not take in the history and style of the place. He went up to his room and placed his holdall on his bed. In the small bathroom, he splashed water on his face. He had nothing to do that night and he was craving a drink to calm his nerves. He fought against the urge - it was still early. He switched on the television in the room. The signal was poor - the colour washed out and banded with flickering lines of white noise. The Irish news was on and there was some story about the forthcoming Anglo-Irish agreement about the governance of Northern Ireland. He couldn't concentrate on it. He flicked through the channels then switched the TV off. He went to the window. He'd booked one of the cheapest rooms and the view was of an enclosed yard to the back of the hotel with windows looking at each other round a concrete quadrangle. Then he went and lay on his bed and stared at the ceiling. He tried to read the paper and failed: the paragraphs wouldn't sink in. He wished he was with Ailsa. He missed his girls. He thought about what the fuck he was doing with his life and not for the first time regretted it all. He wondered whether his father would approve of what he was doing. In his greatest moments of doubt it was as if he had lit his life with a match. As if his life were a sheet of scribbled paper - a page filled with ideas that came to nothing. He pushed the thoughts away because if he thought them they might be true. And then he knew he had to go out and get a drink.

  He pulled on his coat. It was nearly six p.m. He hit the first bar - Shanahan's at ten past. He had a wallet full of Irish punts that he'd changed at Finchley post office. In the dark bar he ordered a Guinness and watched while the barman took a pint glass four fifth's already full. There was a line of similar pints already pulled in anticipation of future customers. The barman filled the glass and scraped off the foaming head with a flat knife. He handed John the glass and said, "Sláinte" in Irish Gaelic.

  "Slàinte," said John in Scots Gaelic. The man merely looked as John took a deep swallow of the thick, bitter liquid and went to sit down on his own in a dark corner. It was still early and the pub was empty. No surveillance.

  He finished the pint and pulled up his collar again as he went out of the door. It was raining heavily. He walked without knowing exactly where he was going. The glow of the first pint warming him. He felt suddenly elated. He saw a dark, welcoming bar to his right and went in. It was busier than the first place. He got another Guinness and because he was feeling bold got a Bushmill's whiskey to go with it.

  He drank them slowly. Someone had left an Irish Times on the dark leather seat to his right. He made as if to read it - as interested in the people coming and going as he was in the the stories. He felt calmer. He knew what he was doing. He ordered another Guinness and another whiskey. He thought he'd better eat soon. The place filled up. A group of friends occupied the table to his left.

  He watched as a dark haired woman in her mid twenties came into the bar. She looked around but didn't seem to see what she wanted. She looked at her watch, appeared perturbed then went and ordered a white wine at the bar. There were very few seats left and she came over and pointed at the two empty spaces to his right.

  "Are these taken?" she said in an educated Irish accent.

  He glanced up from the newspaper. She looked very Irish - shoulder length wavy black hair, high cheek bones, dark brown eyes. He shook his head. "No."

  She smiled politely and sat down. For the next twenty minutes he pretended to read while he watched her sipping her wine and looking at her watch. Then, emboldened by the drink he said, "Rotten weather tonight."

  She nodded. "I think it's put my friend off."

  "Fancy another drink?"

  She smiled. "No. I'll give him another ten minutes. Then I'll go."

  They sat in silence for a further then John said, "I'm here on business. But my meeting isn't until tomorrow, so I thought I'd come out."

  "Sounds sensible." She looked at her watch again. She had nearly finished her drink.

  He waited again. "Sure you don't want a drink? Just to keep me company. And then if he does turn up he'll get jealous."

  She frowned at him. "You're very sure of yourself Mr Englishman."

  He shook his head. "I'm not English. I'm Scots."

  "Ah," she looked suddenly interested. "I did my doctoral thesis into the spread of folk themes across the Gaelic culture province from Cape Clear to Cape Wrath. Do you know the song Dónall Óg? In Scotland it's known as Fear a' Bhata."

  He shook his head. "My grandma was from Skye. She spoke Gaelic but she died when I was little. I'm from Edinburgh. Not much Gaelic there."

  "You'd be surprised. If you know where to look." She reached over and shook his hand. "I'm Eithne Ní Dhubhghaill. I lecture in Classical Irish at Tr
inity. I will take that drink. White wine, please." She gave a winning smile.

  He got up and got himself another pint of Guinness and a white wine for Eithne.

  "Thanks," she said. "What's your name then?"

  "Richard McIntosh. I sell maps."

  "Very interesting Mr Mac an Taoisigh or in Scots Mac an Taoisich - son of the prince. Was your father a prince?"

  "No. He was a flawed but honourable man. Anyway tell me about your friend," said John.

  "Brendan Keating. He's in a band. The Maniacs. I don't suppose you've heard of them? He thinks he's gods gift to women and I'm lucky to have him."

  "Sounds like a tool."

  She sighed. "So my friends tell me. But he is the most beautiful man. Black hair in ringlets - eyes like summer sky. A roguish smile. And even if you're really angry with him he can charm the pants right off you. He'll have some half arsed excuse."

  "Sounds like a tool."

  She shook her head. "Men love him too. He's such a good bloke. He can fix your car and play guitar and if you invite him round for Sunday dinner he's lovely to your auld ma too."

  "Why did he leave such a lovely woman as yourself all alone if he's such a saint?"

  "He'll have been helping a sick baby or rescuing a old man from a fire or something. Anyway, you're a desperate man yourself with the lovely woman crack. "

  John laughed. "You're safe." He pointed at his wedding ring.

  She smiled. "Now I do indeed feel safe to tell you that you're a fine thing Richard McIntosh. Are you very much in love?"

  He nodded. "Sick with it."

  "Very romantic. She's very lucky. Do you have kids?"

  "Yes. Two girls."

  "And what did you name them?"

  "Morag and Eilidh."

  Eithne seemed delighted. "Is iad ainmeacha deasa Gaelacha a tá ann!"

  "Sorry?"

  "I said they were lovely Gaelic names! Are you sure you don't want me to tell you about the poems of Uilleam Mac Dhunléibhe - the Islay poet who wrote Eirinn a' gul - Ireland weeping. How he looked over from Islay to Ireland and heard the stories of the sea divided Gael and wept at the destruction of our culture at the hands of the hated English."

  "Some of my best friends are English."

  "Mine too, of course. They make wonderful muffins. More drink. Yours is a Guinness?"

  John nodded. He was feeling befuddled.

  She came back with the drinks. "So tell me about your lovely wife. How long have you known her."

  "Since I was 16. I fell in love with her first time I met her. I played a stupid football game to impress her."

  "I'm impressed."

  "So was she. I think. She's beautiful too."

  "I expected no less."

  "But she has her problems."

  " Mrs McIntosh is only human."

  "Who?"

  "Mrs McIntosh. Your wife."

  "Ah yes. Well she suffers from depression and she tried to kill herself."

  "That's sad."

  "She's really moody. I walk on eggshells. Never know when she will explode."

  "She doesn't understand you?"

  He shook his head. "She doesn't."

  "I've heard this line before."

  "You're safe. I'm in love."

  "Well at least you've got that. That's good isn't it?"

  He shook his head. "I'm not in love with my wife. I'm in love with someone else's wife. It's a fucking disaster."

  "Oh dear. Have you shagged her?"

  John winced. "Yes. But only a couple of times."

  "I don't think it's the amount of times you've done it that is the crux of the matter."

  "But I love her."

  "But she's still married to someone else."

  "I know. I'm a cunt."

  "Some people would call you that. You just seem mixed up. Let he who is without sin cast the first stone and all that. I shagged a married man once. He was my professor. I loved him too."

  "Don't you think loving them makes it better?"

  "Not really. But I know where you're coming from. He didn't leave his wife by the way. Neither will yours."

  "But she hates her husband. He's a total wanker. She hates him. She wants to be with me."

  "Then why isn't she?"

  "It's not as easy as that."

  "Kids?"

  "No."

  "Then what's stopping her leaving him?"

  "I don't know. But I do believe she loves me."

  "Words are cheap Richard. Judge people by what they do not what they say."

  John said, "I want to be honest. I'm just never honest and I hate it."

  "Of course you do. She should be too. It's not just you in this."

  "It'll break Karen's heart."

  "So leave the other one."

  "I can't. I love her."

  "You need to do something."

  "Yes, but when will be the right time?"

  "Now?" said Eithne. "Never? Come on let's go somewhere else."

  "Ok. But I can't drink too much more."

  "Sure. Come on."

  She led him out into the rainy night. She linked arms with him like she was his sister. She guided him through the darkness of the Dublin Streets. They came to the door of a club. Eithne led him in. She spoke to the people at the door in Irish. She whispered to him. "This is the Gaelic League Club - Club Chonradh na Gaeilge. You aren't supposed to speak English in here."

  "Then what will I speak?" Drunkenly he said, "I can speak in Russian if you want."

  "That's interesting," said Eithne. "Did you know that the Gaelic languages and the Slavonic languages both use a system of opposing palatal and dental consontants? Narrow and broad in Irish, soft and hard in Russian."

  "I didn't know that. Well I knew about soft and hard in Russian."

  "Ok, now pretend to be Russian."

  "Seriously?"

  "Seriously. They don't like Brits here."

  There followed a bizarre couple of hours where John sat drunkenly in a dark room surrounded by Eithne and a group of serious Irish men all conversing in Gaelic. Every now and again they would turn to him and he would say something in Russian and smile. They kept buying drinks. When no one was listening Eithne would turn to him and say "Enjoying yourself?"

  He nodded. "This is very weird." If the men around him realised that not only was he British, but also a serving MI5 officer, they would kill him. But they wouldn't find out. He was too good a liar. He revelled in the danger and the deceit and the Guinness. Then one of the men - dark haired and serious looking in a checked shirt said, "So, Mr Ivanov - are you a Communist or some kind of White Russian émigré?"

  John coughed and in his best faux Russian accent, making it sound as accurate as if his life depended on it. He said, "Yes, konyeshna. I'm a Communist. Call me Sergei."

  "Well Sergei. My name is Pádraig - paw-draig" he said laboriously pointing at his chest as if John was an idiot child. "I too am a Communist. I'm a member of the Irish Socialist Republican Party"

  "But I'm a nationalist not a Communist," said Eithne. "My loyalty is in my country and my people."

  Pádraig waved at her to dismiss her. They were all drunk. "No, she's wrong. My loyalty is to my class. Irish, Russian, English, American - the solidarity is with the working class. Bosses the world over exploit the poor. It doesn't matter if they speak your language."

  "Like the Highland Clan chiefs cleared the highland clans to make room for sheep and profit," said John.

  "You speak very good English Sergei. And I agree with the point you're making but keep your voice down. We're not supposed to speak English in here."

  He shook John's hand vigorously. "Workers of the world unite. We have nothing to lose but our chains. So where are you from in Russia, Sergei?"

  "I'm from Lyubertsy - it's a suburb of Moscow."

  "And why are you in Ireland?"

  "I sell maps."

  "I didn't think there was a market for Soviet maps. I bet you're really a KGB agent," he s
aid and winked.

  John laughed and shook his head. He took another mouthful of Guinness.

  "At least," said Pádraig, "you're the right kind of spy. This place is riddled by MI5 informers. Fucking traitors. If we found one of them he'd be bundled into a car and wake up in the Bog of Allen with a fucking hole in his fucking head."

  "You're right," said Eithne. "I think treachery to your own kind is the worst sin."

  John stood up. "I feel very sick."

  Eithne stood up with him and stroked his back. "I'd better be going too," she said.

  "What about your rock god boyfriend?" said Pádraig.

  "What about him?"

  "Well you're going home with a Russian spy."

  "I'm not so going home with him. Me and Richard are just friends."

  "Richard? I thought he was called Sergei?"

  Eithne shook her head. "He is. That's what I meant."

  "Sergei doesn't sound like Richard. Is this one of your jokes Eithne?"

  "What do you mean?"

  "Is our Russian really Russian?"

  "Of course."

  "To be honest I don't care what he is as long as he isn't a fucking Brit."

  "Das vidanye, Pádraig," said John.

  "Aye, good night Mr KGB. Give her one for me."

  It had stopped raining when they got outside. Eithne was doubled up in paroxysms of laughter. "What a gas. You really pulled it off. That's the best laugh I've had in ages."

  "I really do feel sick you know," said John.

  "Where are you staying?"

  "The Shelbourne."

  "There must be some money in map sales."

  "Work's paying. Not me."

  "Anyway, it's not far. I'll walk you round."

  She linked arms with him again and they walked across the grass and trees of St Stephen's Green. A tramp had made his bed by a bush. Outside the hotel she said, "Have you got coffee in your room?"

  He shrugged woozily. "Not sure. Maybe. Just those little sachet things though. And little plastic pots of milk. Not real milk."