by Mark McKay
‘What happened? What are you doing in Dublin? You never said anything about coming down.’
‘I heard the radio from here, while you were making the tea. That’s what happened.’
Siobhan put her tea down on the coffee table. She noticed a slight tremble in her hands, and her heart began to race.
‘Jesus, Michael, it said people had died. How many?’
‘Don’t know for sure – I’m pretty sure I’m the only one who got out though.’ He decided not to upset her more by mentioning Tom. ‘ I had a horse. You don’t need to know about it Siobhan, the less you know the better.’
She looked at him, her eyes widening. Suddenly she had both hands on his shoulders and was shaking him and shouting. ‘No I don’t want to know what you do. And I don’t want to be the one identifying your dead body on a slab somewhere. I don’t!’ She burst into tears and put her arms around him, holding him as tight as she could. She felt the shape of the Browning in his jacket pressing into her breast.
They stayed in that embrace, and Michael stroked her back. ‘I know girl, I know. I’m sorry.’
She finally released him and stood up, wiping away the tears and regaining some composure. ‘I’m finished now. I’m making bolognese, want some?’
‘Sure. I need to stay a night or two.’
‘Who knows you’re here?’
‘A couple of people in Belfast know I went to Cork. They know nothing about you.’
‘Stay as long as you need.’ She went back into the kitchen and opened the fridge.
‘Turn on the radio Siobhan, there might be more news.’
‘No.’ She took a deep breath, her heart still racing. ‘I’ve had enough news thank you.’ She found the mince in the freezer compartment. Without thinking she suddenly blurted out ‘Where’s your horse?’
He joined her and they looked at each other for a moment. Then they were both laughing, and some of the tension of the past half hour receded.
‘You got anything stronger than tea?’ he said.
‘No, I don’t keep much booze in the house.’
‘I’ll go out and see what I can find.’
She gave him a swift glance. ‘No, Michael, you stay right here. I’ll go out and get a bottle of wine in a minute.’ She smiled and threw a playful punch at his shoulder. ‘It’s good to see you. Tell me how they all are up North these days.’ She put her worry and shock to one side and began preparing dinner. ‘How’s Tom?’
Chapter 3
Harry eased the Land Rover into a parking space and looked up at the windows of Downey’s Accountancy Services. Impossible to know if anyone was there without going up, and normally neither Jack nor Litchfield arrived before 10. He locked the vehicle and went up to the office. Nobody around. He left a note to the effect that he would be in later after catching up on some sleep. He wondered if Litchfield knew yet just what had transpired last night. Surely he must. Harry decided not to dwell on it. He left the Land Rover keys on Litchfield’s desk and then walked back to the flat.
He expected Natalie to be on her way to work, so was surprised to find her sitting in the dining room, obviously waiting for him. She was dressed for work, in a dark knee length skirt and a light blue button up blouse, but she hadn’t put on any makeup as yet. Her dark hair, which she usually put into a ponytail before leaving the house, hung loose around her shoulders. She was looking stern and worried as he joined her on the sofa.
‘He called twice, first at 6 O’Clock then again at 7. Wanted to know where you were. I said he knew where you were, because he’d sent you to Cork to pick up some papers, but all he said was that you should call him as soon as you got back. Then I heard on the radio just now that there was a shooting last night, and I thought something might have happened to you, but that’s ridiculous isn’t it? You only went to get some papers.’ Her eyes were wide and misty, yet they bored into his with a steely intensity. ‘But I couldn’t get it out of my head. Why was that horrible man calling you? So I’ve been sitting here waiting and worrying, and inventing all sorts of stories about what could have happened, and...’ Suddenly she came to a dead stop, her eyes narrowing, anger distorting her features. Then she slapped him hard across the face.
‘Shit!’ Harry put his hand to his reddening cheek, shocked by the blow. ‘Nat, there was nothing to worry about, really...’
She looked back at him cynically, then her face softened marginally, though her eyes still blazed. Her voice was flat but clear. ‘I don’t believe you. Now I’m going to work.’
With that she rose from the sofa, retrieving her jacket from the back of the dining room chair as she walked through to the hall. She quickly adjusted her hair. ‘See you later.’ She slung her bag over her shoulder, opened the front door, and was gone.
Harry sat, head in hands, stunned. A tiredness, both mental and physical, started seeping through him. He couldn’t think, and his body became heavier with each passing second. Through the fog in his brain he registered irritation at Litchfield’s lack of foresight with his bloody phone calls. This was not how it was supposed to be at all, he reflected. Damn it, I need sleep. He dragged his body from the sofa to the bedroom, stripped down to his underwear, and got into bed. But even though he was tired, he found himself thinking back to earlier days, to his first meeting with Nat.
It was his second year at Uni. There was a concert on campus one evening; he couldn’t even remember who was playing now. It had been packed though, standing room only. A girl had brushed past him, knocking his drink from his hand as she did so.
‘Oh my god, I’m so sorry,’ she said.
He looked at his beer-stained arm, and then at her. There was a split second where something passed between them, like a flash of recognition, though he’d never seen her before. Then she smiled.
‘Can I get you another one?’
And that was it, they clicked. They started seeing each other. She was vivacious and sporty, and had just been chosen for the New Zealand Under 21 Netball team. Her enthusiasm for her sport and her sheer love of competition fascinated him. Sporty was the last thing he was. He loved his rugby, but strictly as a spectator. He knew he wouldn’t last five minutes on a rugby field. She teased him about his relative inactivity and he told her he burnt more calories thinking than she ever could playing netball. She was sharp witted too, and she wanted to know why people acted the way they did, hence her study of psychology.
It very quickly became serious. They didn’t need anyone else for company. They were entirely wrapped up in each other. In the summer of that year he remembered a camping trip they took. It was to one of the more isolated West Coast beaches in Auckland, and it was approached via a steep pathway through the bush. They parked the car and took two large packs consisting of a tent and two days supply of food and water then found their way down.
In the midday sun, the black sand, which glittered silver with iron filings, was too hot to walk on barefooted. The beach formed a kind of natural amphitheatre which swelled the sound of the waves into a constant muffled roar, and the place seemed so elemental and primordial that you could be forgiven for thinking you were the last remaining inhabitants on the planet. Nobody came along in the two days they were there to dispel that illusion.
They spent those days and nights swimming, walking, reading, making love, and most of all talking. Nat wanted a family but she also wanted a career, her own intellectual space as she put it. She loved New Zealand, but no matter how beautiful it was it existed in isolation from everywhere else. On the southern edge of nowhere. She wasn’t going to settle down until she’d done some travelling and seen how the other half lived.
Harry had no problem with that. No point in being a language student if you didn’t at least visit the countries whose languages you so assiduously studied. Even live there for a while if you could.
And so it had unfolded. Perhaps not quite as foreseen, they had come to Ireland rather than France or Germany, but it had proven nonetheless interesting. SIS was
certainly unforeseen.
That thought dragged Harry firmly back to the present. His mind drifted between annoyance with Litchfield and guilt at how his lying had provoked such a violent response from Natalie. The image of her aggrieved face was the last thing he was conscious of before drifting into a troubled sleep.
It was late afternoon, and already the light was fading in an overcast sky. A chilly wind whipped Harry’s face as he walked briskly from the flat to the office. His intention was to give his report on the previous evening’s events to Litchfield, and then head home to make peace with Nat. He was searching his mind for a diplomatic way to convey his displeasure about the unnecessary phone calls when he realised someone was calling his name. He looked quickly behind him. It was Jack Hudson.
‘Harry, good thing I caught you first. He’s in a foul mood. He was expecting you hours ago.’
‘Didn’t you get my note? I needed some sleep.’
‘Yes, we got it. Didn’t cut much ice with the boss though. What happened last night? No, don’t tell me here. We’ll be there in a minute.’
They walked on in silence. A few minutes later they entered the office. Litchfield was sat in his customary place, his face a picture of absorption as he studied a file laid on the desk. Harry took off his coat and glanced across the room, gauging Litchfield’s mood. Jack was filling the kettle at a sink on the far side of the office, his back to both of them.
‘Tea, Harry?’
‘No thanks, Jack.’
Litchfield looked up and glared at Harry. Then he glanced briefly at Jack’s back.
‘I’ll have some, Jack.’
‘Right you are boss.’
Litchfield turned his attention back to Harry, gesturing with an outstretched hand.
‘Take a seat, Harry.’
Harry did as he was told. He sensed the other man’s irritation and decided to check his own annoyance until Litchfield had vented whatever he wanted to vent. It wasn’t long in coming.
‘It would have been bloody useful if you’d been here earlier and I’d got your report on what happened last night. I’ve waited most of the day to get anything out of Hanson, who frankly was reluctant to say a great deal. I do, however, have this preliminary report now, which tells me that eight IRA men were shot dead resisting arrest, and not much else. Oh, yes, and one escaped. Anything you can add? What the hell happened out there?’
Harry recounted the events as he’d witnessed them. Litchfield’s eyebrows rose as he mentioned the man on the horse, but otherwise he showed little reaction.
‘I was too far away to know what went on, sir,’ said Harry. ‘All I know is they got all the arms and they shot everyone – except the one. In my opinion those men weren’t given the chance to resist arrest. It was all over pretty quickly.’
Litchfield leaned back in his chair and said nothing. He took a sip of tea, closed his eyes, and stayed immobile, thinking.
Harry was about to continue, but Jack raised a warning hand, and he held his tongue.
Then Litchfield returned to the room, eyes fixed once more on the file on his desk. He addressed Harry without looking up.
‘They’re still identifying these casualties. If Hanson’s mob was trigger happy then our escapee will no doubt relay that to his superiors. I would expect some retaliatory action as a result. Of course we don’t know who your horseman was, but we’ll put the Garda on high alert for known IRA men in Dublin. Not that it will help much, there are plenty of them around. However you cut it, we’ve inflicted a serious blow. And we’ve pissed off certain people more than we needed to. It was one thing to arrest them, another to cold-bloodedly massacre them. Yes, we’ll need to keep our wits about us for a bit.’ He closed the file, and gently thumped the desk.
Harry felt a tinge of unease. ‘I thought nobody knew about SIS in Dublin.’
Litchfield smiled, his glum mood seeming to dissipate. The charmer returns, thought Harry. He looked Harry full in the face.
‘Nobody does, Harry. Let’s keep it that way, shall we?’
Harry spent the next two hours translating a statement of IRA political aims and methods, supposedly for new recruits. Some of whom would no doubt need to improve their Irish before reading it, he thought. The language had been in decline since English rule in the 17th century, but it was enjoying a revival in Republican circles.
‘Surely there must be an English version of this in circulation,’ he muttered to no one in particular.
‘Yes, there is,’ replied Hudson. ‘When you’ve finished your translation we’ll compare them and see if there was anything deliberately left out of the English version. Sometimes you glean some small difference in expression, and that can lead to an insight you might otherwise miss.’
Harry grunted and continued writing. He hadn’t expressed his displeasure to Litchfield on the subject of early morning phone calls. He was disturbed that the man hadn’t stopped to think what conclusions Natalie might draw, given the fact Litchfield knew that she thought Harry was running a harmless errand. It didn’t give him a lot of confidence in the security of the operation, and that added to his worry. He checked his watch, almost 7pm. He needed to speak to his wife, though just right now he had no idea what he was going to tell her.
‘I’ll finish this tomorrow Jack.’ He placed the papers carefully into a manilla folder and carried it over to Hudson’s desk. Bidding both men a good evening, he donned his overcoat and set off for home.
She was in the kitchen when he arrived, slicing onions.
‘Still mad at me?’
She looked at him calmly but coolly. ‘Yes, I am.’ She followed his gaze to the knife she was holding, and smiled. ‘Not that mad.’ She put the knife on the worktop and proceeded to rinse her hands. ‘Tell me what’s going on, Harry.’ She put one of her wet hands to his cheek. ‘I’m sorry about that.’
He took her hand and they moved to the living room sofa.
‘I wasn’t collecting documents, I got drawn into operational stuff. The shooting you heard about on the radio – I was nearby.’
‘So much for translation work then.’
Natalie placed her hands in her lap and gazed steadily at them, saying nothing more. After a long minute of silence, Harry decided to come clean. He gave her the edited version of his evening at the beach, sticking to his role as translator and observer. He left out his sighting of the escaping horseman, and his initial meeting with Hanson.
‘I wasn’t needed in the end, so I left. Simple really.’
‘You weren’t needed because there was no one left to interview. That’s not simple, that just scares me. You can’t get involved in that kind of thing. I want you to stop working for them.’ Her face wore a determined look.
‘We need the money, Nat. My scholarship grant is minimal, savings are running low, and if you didn’t work we certainly wouldn’t last long.’
‘We could if we had to.’
She wasn’t going to change her mind. He sighed. ‘Ok. If I can’t agree that my duties are limited to just translating documents, then I’ll tell Litchfield what he can do with his job. I’ll discuss it with him tomorrow.’
Chapter 4
Michael hadn’t slept well. He’d woken twice, once from a dream of being surrounded by hooded men pointing machine guns at him. He’d fired at them, but his gun had no bullets and all he could hear were repeated loud clicks as he desperately pulled the trigger again and again. Then, the second time, he’d opened his eyes from a dreamless sleep and not known where he was. It took a few seconds to remember he was in Siobhan’s spare room. Thoughts of the beach crowded his mind, but eventually he’d drifted off again.
He got up around 7.30 and found Siobhan had already gone to work. She’d left a note though: ‘On early shift, help yourself to everything.’ He rummaged through the fridge and kitchen cupboards, eventually settling for fried eggs on toast and a large mug of tea.
The previous evening had been difficult after he’d told Siobhan that Tom was on th
e beach with him.
‘So he’s dead then. Another wasted life. Or do you not see it that way, Michael?’ She didn’t look at him, busying herself with the cooking. She slammed the frying pan onto the hob and filled it with mince. ‘Jesus, we all grew up together.’
He had no words of comfort to offer her. He muttered something about everyone knowing the risks.
She looked up, her face a mixture of grief and anger. ‘It’s madness. Sure I want the Brits out just as much as anyone, but not like this. We kill them, they kill us and everything stays the same. Except it doesn’t, does it? People I care about die.’
They’d eaten in silence. Siobhan didn’t want the TV or the radio on. After dinner they sat quietly in the dining room, working their way through the wine she’d bought. Siobhan alternated between staring out the front window and trying to read a book. Michael decided not to initiate any conversation. Siobhan was convinced of the futility of the armed struggle, and he knew that if he started any kind of dialogue she would simply steer the conversation back to that issue before long. It wasn’t something he wanted to discuss that evening. He could have done with a bottle of whiskey to dull his thoughts.
About 10ish Siobhan closed the book and got up.
‘I can’t concentrate. And I’m up early tomorrow. Good night.’ She turned to him and planted a kiss on his forehead. ‘Sleep well.’ She went upstairs.
Soon after, he did the same.
He finished his tea, and turned on the television. He caught the morning news. There was a report on the ‘Beach Incident’ as they had dubbed it. The eight casualties were mentioned, but nothing about the one who’d got away. He switched the set off.
He needed to report the ‘Beach Incident’ to his battalion commander in Belfast. Doubtless the word had already reached them up there. But they wouldn’t know who, if anyone, had survived or eluded capture. And they wouldn’t be at all pleased to have lost such a large weapons shipment. He anticipated an awkward conversation. Not wanting to use Siobhan’s phone, he decided to find a public phone box. Taking the spare key from its hook in the kitchen, he slipped on his jacket and walked out the door.