by Ed McBain
Connor blinked and rubbed his hand wearily across his face, but at last he looked at her, surprise and a fleeting gratitude in his eyes.
Bridget smiled. “It’s happened as long as young men have courted great men’s daughters, and I expect it always will. It’s hard to fall in love with a man who’s in your own father’s mould, just younger and weaker. He has to succeed for himself. Can’t you see that?” She had felt that about Connor twenty-five years ago. She had seen the strength inside him, the fire to succeed. His unbreakable will had been the most exciting thing she could imagine. She had dreamed of working beside him, of sharing defeat and victory, proud just to be part of what he did. She could understand Roisin so well it was as if it were herself all over again.
Bridget had been lovely then, as Roisin was now. She had had the passion and the grace, and perhaps a little more laughter? But the cause had grown grimmer and more violent since then, and hope a little greyer. Or perhaps she had only seen more of the price of it, been to more funerals, and sat silently with more widows.
Connor stiffened. The moment was past. He looked at his watch. “It’s nearly time we were going. Be ready in twenty minutes. Where’s Liam?” He expected her to know, even though she had been here in the kitchen with him. The requirement for an answer was in his voice.
“He’s gone to see Michael. He knows when to be back,” she answered. She did not want an argument just as they were leaving, and they would have to sit together in the car all the way to the coast, verbally tiptoeing around each other. Liam would side with his father, hungry for his approval whatever the cost. She had seen his unconscious imitating of Connor, then catching himself, and deliberately doing differently, not even realizing it when he began to copy again. He was always watching, weighing, caught between admiration and judgment. He wanted to be unique and independent, and he needed to be accepted.
Connor walked past her to the door. “He’d better be here in ten minutes,” he warned.
The journey to the coast was better than she had feared. The bodyguards followed behind so discreetly that most of the time she was not even aware of them. Usually she did not even know their names, only if she looked at them carefully did she notice the tension, the careful eyes, and perhaps the slight bulge of a weapon beneath their clothes if they turned a particular way, or the wind whipped a jacket hard against the outline of a body. She wondered sometimes what kind of men they were, idealists or mercenaries? Did they have wives at home, and children, mortgages, a dog? Or was this who they were all the time? They drove in the car behind, a faintly comforting presence in the rearview mirror.
She still wished they were all going west to the wildness of the Atlantic coast with its dark hills, heather-purpled in places, bog-deep, wind-scoured. It was a vast, clean land, always man’s master, never his servant. But even this gentler coast would be good. They would have time together to be at ease, to talk of things that mattered only to them, and rediscover the small sanities of ordinary life. Perhaps they would even recapture some of the laughter and the tenderness they had had before. Surely neither of them had changed too much for that?
She spoke little, content to listen to Liam and Connor talk about football, what they thought would happen in the new season, or the possibilities of getting any really good fishing in the week, where the best streams were, the best walks, the views that were worth the climb, and the secret places only the skilled and familiar could find.
She smiled at the thought of the two of them together doing things at which they were equally skilled, no leader, no follower. She was prepared to stand back and let that happen, without thinking of herself, or allowing herself to miss Connor because he gave his time, and his pleasure in it, to someone else. She was glad he had the chance to let go of the responsibility, not have to speak to anyone from the Party, and above all not to have to listen to their bickering and anger. She would be happy to walk alone along the beach and listen to the sound of the water, and let its timelessness wrap itself around her and heal the little scratches of misunderstanding that bled and ached at home.
They reached the village a little after five. The sun was still above the hills and only beginning to soften the air with gold. They stopped to buy fresh milk, eggs, an apple pie and a barbecued chicken to add to what they had brought, then drove on around the curve of the bay to the farther headland. Even Connor seemed to be excited when they pulled up at the cottage standing alone in a sheltered curve, almost on the edge of the sand. He looked around at the hills where they could climb, then across at the windows of the village where the first lights were beginning to flicker on, the dark line of the jetty cutting the golden water and the tender arch of the fading sky above. He said nothing, but Bridget saw his body relax and some of the tension iron out of his face, and she found herself smiling.
They unpacked the car, the guards, Billy and Ian, helping, Billy slender and energetic, his dark hair growing in a cowslick over his forehead, Ian fair-haired with freckles and strong, clever hands. It was he who got the gas boiler going, and unjammed the second bedroom window.
When everything was put away they excused themselves. “We’ll go up the rise a little,” Billy said, gesturing roughly behind him. “Set up our tent. It’s camouflaged pretty well, and in the heather up there it’ll be all but invisible.”
“But don’t worry, sir,” Ian added. “One of us will be awake and with our eyes on you all the time.” He gave a slight laugh. “Not that I don’t feel a fraud, taking money to sit here in the sun for a week. Have a nice holiday, Mr. O’Malley. If ever a man deserved it, you do.” He glanced at Bridget, smiling a little shyly. “And you, ma’am.”
She thanked them and watched the two of them get back into their car and drive away up the hill until they disappeared into what seemed to be a hollow where the track ended, and she turned back and went inside. The air was growing cool and she realized how happy she was.
They ate cold chicken and salad, and apple pie. Liam went to his room with a book.
Bridget looked across at Connor. It was twilight now and the lamp on the table cast his face into shadows, emphasising the hollows under his cheeks and the lines around his mouth.
“Would you like to go for a walk along the beach?” she invited.
He looked up as if the question had intruded on his thoughts.
“Please?” she added.
“I’m tired, Bridget,” he said, his voice flat. “I don’t feel like talking, especially if you’re going to try explaining Roisin to me. You don’t need to. I understand perfectly well that she’s young, thinking of having children, and she wants peace. Just leave it alone.”
“I wasn’t going to talk!” she said angrily. “About Roisin, or anything else. I just wanted to be outside.” She added in her own mind that there used to be a time when they could have talked about anything, just for the pleasure of sharing ideas, feelings, or being together, but it sounded sentimental, and it exposed her hurt too clearly. And companionship was of no value once you had had to ask for it.
She went out of the door onto the hard earth, and then a dozen yards across it, past the washing line and through the sea grass to where the sand was softer, cool and slithering away under her feet. The evening was calm, the wave edge barely turning over, pale under the starlight. She walked without thinking, and trying to do it without even dreaming. By the time she came back her face and hands were cold, but there was a warmth inside her.
In the morning Connor seemed to be more relaxed. He was even enthusiastic about going fishing with Liam, and hummed to himself as he sorted out and chose his tackle, instructing Liam what he should take. Liam looked over his shoulder at Bridget and raised his eyebrows, but he accepted the advice goodnaturedly, secretly pleased. They took sandwiches, cold pie and bottles of water, and she watched them climb up the slope side by side, talking companionably, until they disappeared over the crest.
It was a long day without them, but she was happy knowing how much it would plea
se Liam. Connor had sacrificed much for the cause, and perhaps one of the most costly was time with his son. He had never spoken of it, but she had seen the regret in his face, the tightening of his muscles when he had to explain why he could not be at a school prize-giving, or a football match, or why he could not simply talk, instead of working. At times it had seemed that everyone else mattered more to him than his own family, even though she knew it was not true.
At midday Ian came down to make sure everything was still working in the house, and she did not need anything. Billy had followed Connor and Liam, at a discreet distance, of course.
“It’s fine, thank you,” she told Ian.
He leaned against the door in the sun, and she realized with surprise that he was probably no more than thirty-two or three.
“Would you like lunch?” she offered impulsively. “There’s still some apple pie—enough for one, and I don’t want it.”
He smiled. “I’d love it, Mrs. O’Malley, but I can’t come inside for more than a moment or two. Can’t see the road.”
“Then I’ll put the pie on a plate, and you take it,” she said, going inside to fetch it before he could refuse.
He accepted it with evident pleasure, thanking her and striding away up the hill again, waving for a moment before he disappeared.
Connor and Liam came back, faces flushed, delighted with their success. For the first time in months Bridget heard him laugh.
“We’ve caught more than enough for us,” he said triumphantly. “Do you want to go and ask Ian and Billy if they’d like a couple?” He turned to Bridget. “You’ll cook them, won’t you?”
“Of course,” she agreed, liking the thought, and beginning immediately as Liam went out of the back door. She had them ready for the pan when he came back again, walking straight past her to the sitting room. “Dad, I can’t find them!”
“Go back and look properly!” Connor said with impatience. “And hurry up! Ours’ll be ready to eat in a few minutes.”
“I have looked,” Liam insisted. “And I called out.”
“Then look again,” Connor ordered. “They can’t be far. At least one of them is on duty. The other one could have taken the car for something. Maybe gone to the pub to fetch a crate of Guinness.”
“The car’s there,” Liam told him.
Connor put his newspaper down. Bridget heard the rustle of it. “Do I have to go and look myself?” he demanded.
“I’ll go!” Liam was defensive, the friendship and the equality of the afternoon were gone. He marched past Bridget without looking at her, angry that she should have seen it shatter, and went outside into the darkness.
She took the frying pan off the heat.
It was another ten minutes before Liam came back alone. “They’re not there,” he said again, this time his voice was sharp, edged with fear.
Connor slammed the newspaper down and came out of the sitting room, his face tight and hard, the muscle jumping in his jaw. He walked past both of them and went outside. They heard him shouting, the wind carrying his voice, fading as he went up the hill.
Liam said nothing. He stood awkwardly in the kitchen, looking suddenly vulnerable, and acutely aware of it. He was waiting for Connor to return, successful where he had failed. He dreaded looking stupid in his father’s eyes, far more than anything Bridget might think of him.
But when Connor came in quarter on an hour later his face was white and his body rigid, shoulders stiff. “They’re not there,” he said angrily. “Damn it, they must have walked over to the pub in the village.” His mouth closed in a thin line and there was an icy rage in his eyes.
For the first time Bridget was touched with real fear, not of his temper but of something new, and far uglier. “They won’t be far,” she said aloud, and the moment the words were out of her mouth she realized how pointless they were.
He spun round on her. “They’re out of earshot!” he said between his teeth. “If you screamed now, who’d hear you? For God’s sake, Bridget, use your brains! They’re supposed to be bodyguards! We may not be in Belfast, but we’re still in Ireland! I’ll have them dismissed for this.”
Bridget felt the heat burn up her face, for Ian and Billy who had taken trouble to help, and even more for herself. She knew her words had been foolish, but he had had no need to belittle her in front of Liam. His lack of regard for her hurt more than she wanted to face. It was probably part of growing up, separating the man from the boy. But she was losing him, and each new widening of the gap twisted inside her.
“Don’t worry, Dad,” Liam said awkwardly. “No one else knows we’re here. We’ll be okay. We can always fry them up tomorrow.”
Connor hesitated, his anger easing out of him. “Of course we will,” he agreed. “It’s a matter of discipline, and loyalty.” He turned to Bridget, no warmth in his eyes. “You’d better put the extra fish in the fridge, and do ours. It’s late.”
She did as she was told, and they ate in silence. It was a long evening. Connor and Liam talked a little, but not to her. She did not intrude, she knew she would gain nothing by it, and only invite them to make her exclusion more obvious. She saw Liam glance at her once or twice, anxious and a little embarrassed, but he did not know what to say.
She went to bed early. She was still awake an hour later, and heard Connor come in, but she made no movement, and he did not attempt to waken her, as if it had not even occurred to him.
She woke to hear a steady banging, and it was several minutes before she understood what it was. There was someone at the door. It must be Billy and Ian back, probably full of remorse. They were wrong to have gone, but she wanted to protect them from Connor’s anger. In theory it could have cost him his life, but actually no harm had come of it. They wouldn’t have been gone no more than that brief half hour of suppertime. And no one had ever attempted to harm him physically. It was all just threat.
She swung her feet out of bed, slipped her coat over her nightgown, and went to answer before Connor heard them. She closed the bedroom door softly and tiptoed across the hall to the front door. She opened it.
It was not Billy and Ian there, but three men she had never seen before. The first was tall and lean with fair brown hair and a slightly crooked face that looked as if he laughed easily. The one to the left of him was darker, his features more regular, but there was a seriousness in him that was heavy, almost brooding. The third man was thin with bright blue eyes and hair with a strong tinge of auburn in it.
“Good morning, Mrs. O’Malley,” the first one said with a smile. “It’s a beautiful day, is it not?” But he did not look at the sweep of the bay, glittering in the sun, or the dark headland behind them.
It was a moment before the chill struck her that he knew her name. Then it came with a cold, tight knot.
He must have seen it in her eyes, but his expression altered only fractionally. “My name’s Paddy.” He gestured to the dark man. “This is Dermot.” He motioned the other way. “And this is Sean. We’ve brought some fresh eggs with us from the farm over the way, and perhaps you’d be good enough to cook them for us, and we’ll all have breakfast together—you and Mr. O’Malley, and us—and the boy, of course.” He was polite, still smiling, but there was no question in his voice, no room for refusal.
She backed away from him. It occurred to her for an instant to close the door on him, but she knew he could force his way in if he wanted. “Come back in half an hour, when we’re up,” she said quite sure even as she spoke that he would refuse.
“We’ll wait in the sitting room.” He took a step towards her, holding out the open box of eggs, smooth and brown, faintly speckled. There were at least a dozen of them. “We’ll have them fried, if that’s alright with you? Sean here has a fresh loaf of bread, and a pound of butter as well. Here, Sean, give it to Mrs. O’Malley.”
Sean held them out and Bridget took them from him. She needed time to think. She was angry at the intrusion, but she dared not show it. As she led the way to the sitti
ng room and watched them go in easily, as if they had a right to be there, she thought how often she was angry, and suppressed it because she was afraid of making it worse, and losing what she already had. She had done it for so long it was habit.
Connor was sitting up when she returned to the bedroom.
“Where have you been?” he said irritably. “Did you go out to warn Billy and Ian? I know you!” He swung his feet out of bed and stood up. “You’ve no idea of the gravity of it. I don’t tell you of the threats I get, there’s no need for you to know, but going off as they’ve done is a betrayal of me—and the cause.”
“No, I didn’t!” she said curtly. She was frightened and angry, and the accusation was true in spirit. She would have, had they been there. “There are three men in the sitting room to speak to you . . .”
For an instant he was motionless, frozen in time and place. Then slowly he turned to stare at her. “What men?” His mouth was so dry his voice was husky. “What men, Bridget?”
She swallowed. “I don’t know. But they won’t go until you speak to them. They’re waiting in the sitting room. They told me to get them breakfast.”
He was incredulous. “They what?”
“I don’t mind!” she protested, wanting to stop him from quarrelling with them needlessly. She was used to men with that hard, underlying anger in them, and the threat of violence close under the surface. Religious politics always seemed to be like that. She wanted it over as soon as possible. Let the wind and the sea wash them clean from the taste of it. She started to dress.
“Where the hell are Billy and Ian?” She heard the first cutting edge of fear in his voice, higher and sharper than the anger. It startled her. She swung around to look at him, but it was gone from his face, only fury remaining.
“Don’t you dare make their breakfast!” he ordered. “Tell them to come back when I’m shaved and dressed . . . and I’ve eaten.”
“I already did, and they won’t do it,” she replied, fastening her skirt. “Connor . . .” she gulped. She felt separate from him and she needed intensely to have the safety, the courage of being together. “Connor . . . they aren’t going to go until they want to. Just listen to them . . . please?”