Dancing With Mortality

by Mark McKay

  ‘Look, Jack, all of this shooting and me getting involved in things I had no idea I’d get involved in is making me very uncomfortable.’ He leaned forward to make his point. ‘I think if you continue to ask me to do things I didn’t sign up to do, then I have to quit. Natalie is scared, and actually, so am I.’

  Jack’s face hardened. ‘You told your wife what you’ve been doing?’ He almost spat the words.

  Harry felt his temper rising. ‘I didn’t need to. Mr Litchfield’s phone calls asking where the hell I was scared her half to death. She’s not stupid.’

  Jack stared fixedly at him. When he spoke again the vitriol had gone. ‘Alright Harry. Calm down, point taken.’ He got up and walked over to the sink in the corner and opened the cupboard directly underneath. When he came back it was with two glasses and a half bottle of Jameson’s. Harry raised his hand in protest and opened his mouth to refuse, but Jack cut in before he could say anything.

  ‘I’m about to tell you the facts of life, Harry. I suggest you might like to keep your options open on the drink.’

  He poured a half measure into both glasses, took a small sip from his own, and handed the other to Harry.

  ‘As Litchfield isn’t here, I can speak freely. Yes, you were brought in to do Irish translations, but what you weren’t told – what goes without saying as far as Litchfield is concerned, is that you will do anything within reason that we ask you to do.’ He paused to gauge the effect of his words so far. Harry was looking back at him with a mixture of astonishment and anger, but he remained silent. Jack continued.

  ‘You don’t quit SIS, Harry. You can walk out of course, and we can’t stop you doing that. But if at any time we need you again for anything – be it ten days or ten years from now, we won’t hesitate to let you know. And I can assure you it will be in your best interests to co-operate.’

  Harry stared in disbelief. He took a drink.

  ‘Fuck you, Hudson.’

  Unperturbed, Jack ploughed on. ‘Speech over. What will happen in all probability is that you’ll finish up here, go back to where you came from, and never hear from us again. There are no guarantees though.’

  ‘Jesus,’ breathed Harry. ‘Well let me assure you, that as long as I’m stuck in this office with you I will refuse to do anything from now on that doesn’t involve Irish translations. Understood?’

  Jack sighed. ‘Fine. You have holidays coming up, don’t you?’

  Harry was thrown. ‘What? Yes, there’s the Christmas break coming up, why?’

  Jack gently placed his empty glass on the desk. ‘The boss and I are just as concerned as you about the way things are going. The way the arms shipment was handled, and now this shooting of O’Reilly’s sister. It’s all getting rather messy.’

  Harry drained his own glass. He was glad someone else shared his anxiety about the situation. His anger abated slightly. ‘So what do you suggest, and what does that have to do with holidays?’

  ‘We’re closing the office for the festive season, starting early. As of next week, being second week of December, we’re all on holiday. Till further notice.’

  Harry felt that sense of unease again. ‘What are you worried about?’

  ‘Just keen to preserve our anonymity, that’s all.’

  ‘Christ, this is just great. The more I work here the safer I feel.’

  His sarcasm went unregistered. ‘I suggest you take a trip out of Dublin,’ said Jack. ‘See a bit of Ireland, it’s lovely.’

  ‘And freezing in December. Especially without a car.’

  ‘We’ve thought of that. You can borrow the Land Rover. All you need to do is fill it with petrol. What could be better?’

  ‘Alright, I’ll do that. Thanks. I wonder where O’Reilly is now.’

  Jack pursed his lips. ‘Difficult to say. Away from here I should think. We don’t actually know what he looks like, but that’s being rectified. Someone in Belfast is sending us a photograph. Should be here tomorrow. In the meantime, if you should run into him, let me know.’ Jack snorted at this witticism, and reached for the whiskey.

  ‘Pour me one while you’re at it,’ said Harry.

  Michael stamped his feet, warding off the cold. He stood by a bus stop about fifty yards from the hospital entrance, waiting. He’d worked as a hospital porter one summer before he finished secondary school, and he remembered the shift pattern. Either on at 7am and off at 3pm, or on at 2pm and off at 10pm. So he figured if he was in the vicinity at the right time, he’d catch Sabine on her way out.

  He’d seen plenty of women exiting the reception area around 3.30pm, some in uniform and some not, but she wasn’t among them, so he’d retreated to the hotel. Now at 10pm he’d returned and had been watching for her for ten minutes or so. He had good sight of the reception area from the bus stop, and it gave him a reason to be standing around.

  Five minutes later he spotted her. She was out of uniform, in jeans and an overcoat, and her hair was loose. But it was unmistakeably her. She was carrying a case that he realised contained some sort of musical instrument. And he wouldn’t need to chase her, because it looked like she was heading right towards the bus stop.

  He stood back in the shadows, letting her get closer. When she still had ten yards left to cover he stepped forward into the light of the shelter. He saw the brief hesitation when she realised who he was, then she was in front of him.

  ‘I wondered if I would see you again,’ she said. No smile this time.

  ‘Can we talk for a minute?’

  ‘Yes, if you want, I...’ she looked behind her at an approaching bus. ‘I must catch this bus. Coming?’

  They boarded the bus and took the wide back seat. She lay the case next to her.

  ‘Sit there please,’ she said, pointing to the space adjacent the case.

  He did as instructed. ‘I’m not here to hurt you.’

  ‘If you try, you will regret it. You want to know about Siobhan? There is no change from yesterday. She is conscious some of the time, but because of the drugs she isn’t speaking clearly. Actually, there is something you can tell me.’

  ‘What’s that?’ He rested his hand on the barrier between them, and tried to ignore her look of disapproval.

  ‘We have no details for next of kin. You are not suitable exactly. Where are your parents?’

  He looked away from her, directing his gaze at his reflection in the side window. ‘I phoned them this afternoon. They will be here tomorrow.’

  The tone of his voice had not gone unnoticed.

  ‘So, it was not an easy conversation then?’

  ‘It wasn’t. They blame me for going to see her in the first place. I couldn’t really disagree with that.’

  Sabine’s mood changed to one of concern and she reached across, covering his hand with hers. ‘What will you do?’

  He tried to hide his surprise at her sudden gesture. ‘Can’t stay in Dublin much longer. In fact, I’m not sure what the next move is. Now that my parents know about Siobhan...’

  They sat in silence. She made no effort to remove her hand. For him, it was simply good to be touched.

  ‘What’s in the case?’

  ‘Oh, it’s a saxophone.’

  ‘Doesn’t look very big.’

  ‘It’s an alto sax. I have a tenor too, but I didn’t bring it with me from Germany.’

  ‘And where are you going with this alto sax?’

  She finally lifted her hand. She seemed more relaxed now. ‘There is a bar I go to some nights. I sit in with a trio, on the last set of the evening.’

  ‘I see. Are you good?’

  She smiled then. ‘Good enough. Come and listen if you like. I can hardly stop you. It’s a free country.’

  He found himself grinning. ‘I’m afraid you were misinformed about that. But yes, I’ll listen for a while.’

  She was good. Not that he was a connoisseur of jazz by any stretch of the imagination, but he’d heard a bit. The trio consisted of piano, bass, and drums. The only thing he
recognised was ‘Take Five’, by Dave Brubeck. She played the sax part very well he thought, and the drummer delivered a great solo to back it up.

  The bar was in a side street off Temple Bar. For a Wednesday and so late the place was well frequented, with a mixture of Irish, Europeans and Americans. When they entered she’d immediately gone across to greet the band, and he’d warily found his way to a small corner table next to the kitchen. He knew it was stupid to be in a public place, but right now it seemed preferable to the four walls of his cheap hotel. The lighting was dim, the room was smoky and humming, and no one showed the least interest in him. He wouldn’t stay long.

  One hour and two beers later, she joined him, glass of wine in hand.

  ‘Hardly traditional Irish,’ he said.

  ‘Not tonight. Did you like it?’ Her earlier reserve had gone. She seemed quietly exhilarated by the music she’d helped create.

  ‘I liked you.’

  She didn’t reply immediately. She took a sip of wine then stared at the table for a while. When she looked up at him her face seemed determined and sad.

  ‘I want to explain something. I had an older sister, Monika. She was ten years older. She called me the “Mauer Mädchen”, which means the “Wall Maiden”, because I was born the day they started the Berlin Wall. And also because I used to stand in her way when I thought she was going to do something crazy. I was younger, but I always thought it was my job to look after her. She was always doing crazy things.’ She stared into the space over his shoulder.

  ‘Go on.’ He sensed her distress, but she obviously needed to say this.

  ‘She became a communist when she was 20. Always going to protests, and writing for some underground magazine. Anyway, in 1972 Baader Meinhof put a bomb in the US Army barracks in Heidelberg. It killed a lot of people. Monika was arrested. They knew about her from the communist stuff, but she wasn’t involved. The police beat her up badly. She was released later on. We thought she was ok, but a few days after we got her home she died. It was a blood clot in her brain. The police would not take responsibility.’

  She picked up the wine glass and took a long drink. Michael sat in stunned silence.

  ‘Since then I don’t care for the police very much. I still miss my sister. But I’m telling you this because I want you to understand why I said nothing about you. Not that I approve of what you do either, if what they tell me about you is correct.’

  ‘I’m sorry about your sister. I don’t know what they told you, but I fight for a cause.’

  ‘I hope your conscience is clear then.’

  She stood up and went to the bar. A minute later she returned with wine for her and a beer for him. Neither of them ventured another word. The pianist was doing a slow solo number while the bass player and drummer chatted over a drink nearby. Whirls of smoke drifted in and out of the stage lighting. The bar was starting to empty, and Michael realised it was well past midnight.

  Sabine finished her wine. She had her chair turned away from him with its back against the wall. She turned her head towards him.

  ‘I’m working a late shift tomorrow. Will you take me home please?’

  He gazed into the cool hazel eyes then drained his glass. ‘Alright. Let’s go.’

  They took a taxi. On the journey she leaned her body against him, head on his shoulder. Her free arm cradled the saxophone case, and she closed her eyes. He looked at her face in repose, wondering how she managed to shift so easily between the distress he’d seen in the bar and the serene stillness he saw now. She was a conundrum, one minute distant and disapproving, and then the next unexpectedly vulnerable and intimate. He looked out the window at the houses rushing by and let his mind wander.

  ‘Will you come in for a while?’ she asked as the taxi drew to a halt.

  He didn’t need to deliberate. ‘Yes, ok.’

  She lived in a tiny one bedroom flat, right under a dental surgery.

  ‘It’s very small, but I like it,’ she said, leading him down the hall and into the living room. She dumped her overcoat on the sofa. ‘It’s quiet at night too. Are you tired?’

  ‘No. Are you?’

  They looked at each other. Then she stepped forward and kissed him. He wrapped his arms around her and she buried her face in his chest.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she murmured. ‘Do you mind?’

  ‘No, not at all.’

  She took his hand and led him to the bedroom, turning on a lamp next to the bed. He sat down and took off his shoes and socks.

  ‘Wait,’ she said. ‘Let me get undressed first.’

  He watched as she took her clothes off. She stood in front of him and smiled. Then she knelt down and unbuttoned his shirt. When she saw the bandaged shoulder she stopped.

  ‘They said you were shot. I forgot. Does it hurt?’

  ‘Sometimes. I’m getting used to it.’

  She carefully removed the shirt and flung it to one side.

  ‘I will look at if for you later. Now, lie down.’

  He surrendered to her lips and her hands and the caress of her body, and for a while the events of the past few days left his mind completely. Afterwards she lay on top of him, her head on his chest, catching her breath.

  ‘Das war schön,’ she gasped. ‘Sorry, that was beautiful. I’m tired now.’

  He turned off the bedside lamp. ‘Yes, that was beautiful. Sleep now.’

  She was already asleep, in the same position. Michael lay staring at the ceiling. He’d disentangle himself later. For now he quietly stroked her hair and listened to her breathe.

  Chapter 7

  The temperature had dropped below zero in Dublin and there were occasional snow flurries, but nothing that settled for long. Harry walked up Grafton Street on his way back from Trinity. He wore an overcoat, scarf and gloves, and a woolly hat. It made the temperature bearable, until the wind blew. Then his heavy woollen overcoat became chiffon. The icy breeze went right through it, and right through him. Every time it happened he involuntarily hugged himself as he walked, trying to restore some warmth. He noticed that no one else seemed to be engaged in this ritual. They must know something I don’t, he reflected, they seem immune to it.

  Christmas lights and decorations were strung the length and breadth of Grafton Street. A bright smiling reindeer pulled a sleigh full of presents overhead. Just beyond that, the Irish name for Dublin, ‘Baile Átha Cliath’, stood illuminated in ten foot high sparkling letters. Numerous neon Christmas trees clung to the buildings on either side, winking on and off in unison. And the street was thronged with shoppers. He wound his way through the buzzing crowd, wondering what he could buy for Natalie on his limited budget.

  The Trinity term had finished for the year, and he had a lecture-free month till mid-January. Natalie had one more week of work then they could spend some uninterrupted time together till just after New Year. He just wished it wasn’t so cold. On the other side of the world in Auckland they’d be looking forward to a hot Christmas day and a visit to the beach. This time next year that’s exactly where he intended to be. Not that Dublin was without charm, it was just the weather that left something to be desired.

  With two clear weeks together they needed a plan. SIS was shutting down in a couple of days, and Harry was mindful of Jack’s recommendation to leave Dublin for a bit. He decided to call in on the travel agent at the far end of the street and see if they had any ideas for a cheap week somewhere in the Emerald Isle. He could pick up some brochures at least.

  Half an hour later he sat studying possible Christmas retreats in various ‘stunningly scenic’ locations in the Republic. Hotels in Wexford, cottages on the Dingle peninsula. Would there be any availability at this time of year? He really should have thought this out much earlier.

  He heard the door open, and a moment later Natalie appeared in the living room doorway, still attired in overcoat and reinforcing layers.

  ‘So cold out there. What are you looking at?’ She began unravelling her scarf.

&nb
sp; ‘Holiday brochures. I need you to help me to decide where we should go. And when.’

  ‘Alright. I’ll just get this lot off first.’

  A minute later they sat absorbed in the options.

  ‘There are plenty of hotels and cottages on the Dingle peninsula,’ said Natalie. ‘Maybe we’ll get lucky with the weather. I’m told it’s beautiful at any time of year.’

  They decided to call a few numbers and see if anyone could accommodate them the week following boxing day.

  ‘You can do that Harry. I’m going to Netball training tonight. I need the exercise.’

  She was still an avid Netball player, though not at the level she’d once enjoyed. She still liked to stay competitive though, and she’d found a local team to join not long after their arrival to ensure that she did.

  ‘You sure Nat? You look a bit tired actually.’

  ‘I spent most of the day trying to sell the benefits of cognitive therapy to a group of depressed patients. It was hard work. This will perk me up a bit.’

  ‘Tell them to exercise more, how’s that for a therapy?’

  She grinned. ‘Works for me. Maybe I should start a hospital team.’

  Harry took a chair into the hall and started dialling numbers. A few minutes later Natalie passed him on her way out.

  ‘Can I take the Land Rover?’ she mouthed, while he asked about the facilities on offer at the third hotel on his list.

  He picked up the keys on the hall table and handed them to her. She planted a quick kiss on his cheek and was gone.

  Eventually, Harry made a booking at a hotel on the shore of Dingle Bay. They could leave Dublin on the 27th and take in the New Year overlooking the sea. In the meantime perhaps he should think about getting a Christmas tree. And a present for his wife. But before that he needed to make his last call of the year on Litchfield and Hudson.

  Litchfield slid a folder across the desk.

  ‘Read this, Harry.’

  Harry opened the file. The first thing to meet his eye was a photograph of a man who looked roughly his own age. It was a black and white image, taken from the shoulders up. The face wore a half smile, and was broad and well defined. There was a certain softness around the eyes that didn’t quite fit Harry’s pre-conceptions of a hardened terrorist.