*
The same week, McVeigh flew back to Israel. Billy went with him, sitting in the window seat, his nose pressed against the perspex. At Ben Gurion airport, McVeigh hired a car. They drove north along the coast to Haifa. Then they cut inland, up into the mountains, past Safed, past Rosh Pinna, down into the Hula Valley, the long white road through the orchards.
They reached the kibbutz at dusk, the light golden, the temperature still in the eighties. McVeigh parked the car and they walked down the hill, following the path to the schoolhouse, McVeigh nodding to faces he remembered, risking the odd word of Hebrew, raising a smile. Outside the schoolhouse, the kids were playing football, and Billy stopped, tugging at his father’s hand, wanting to know how to ask for a game. McVeigh smiled, wading in, intercepting the ball, passing it to Billy. Billy trapped it, flicked it into the air, juggled it from foot to foot, aware of the other kids watching him. Bringing the ball down, he chipped it to the nearest boy, someone his own age, and McVeigh left him there, walking into the schoolhouse, glad to get out of the heat.
Cela was in the classroom. She was writing on the blackboard, big round characters, a teacher’s script. Hearing the door open, she glanced round.
McVeigh stood by the door. He was bathed in sweat. He grinned. ‘Hi,’ he said.
Cela looked at him for a moment, her hand still on the blackboard. Then she turned round and stepped towards him, picking her way between the desks. She had chalk on her hands. She rubbed them on her shorts, then reached up and touched McVeigh’s face. ‘You,’ she said, smiling.
McVeigh nodded, putting his arms around her, holding her. Outside, he could hear Billy calling for the ball.
‘Me,’ he agreed.
The Devil's Breath Page 48