by Mark McKay
‘Is this O’Reilly? Looks harmless enough.’
‘Well, he’s not. Read on.’
There were a few typed A4 pages under the photo, summarising what was known or guessed about the man. Harry read out the salient parts.
‘Known to have been a member of the Provisional IRA in excess of five years… Suspected participant in bomb attack on Army barracks near Crosmaglen… Alleged to have been the gunman responsible for the deaths of two off duty soldiers in a Belfast pub in 1978… Involved in cross-border arms smuggling in 1979, not apprehended as his appearance unknown, but seized documents mention him by name…’ He closed the file and sat staring at the photo. ‘Lots of allegations here. If they don’t know what he looks like, where did this come from?’
‘Courtesy of O’Riordan. Where he got if from I don’t know, but he assures me it’s recent and genuine. We’ll check it with the ambulance crew, just to be sure. Then we’ll let the Garda have it.’
‘Can I keep this?’
‘Yes. I have copies. Leave the typed pages here.’ Litchfield leaned back in his chair, folding his arms. ‘I’ve decided to close the office tomorrow, once I have confirmation of this photo. Jack is on his way back to England for Christmas, and I’m right behind him.’
‘London, is it?’
‘For me it is. I think Jack is going to a sister in Cornwall. Take the spare keys with you Harry. I’m not anticipating any activity, but you’re our man on site, so to speak.’
‘I’ll be out of Dublin from the 27th. Nat and I are taking a trip to Dingle. I want to use the Land Rover while we have it.’
Litchfield yawned. ‘Good. Glad to see you took Jack up on his suggestion. Anything else you need?’
‘I’d just like to use the office phone to call home on Christmas Eve. It’ll be Christmas morning there. Do you mind?’
A smile of magnanimity lit up his chief’s face. ‘Of course not, Harry. I’m sure Her Majesty’s Government can stand the cost. And have a Merry Christmas.’
When Michael opened his eyes the next morning the bed was empty. He could hear signs of life in the next room, and he swung himself out of bed and into trousers and shirt.
Sabine stood in the small kitchen adjoining the living room, barefooted but wearing her coat.
‘I’m cold,’ she explained. ‘And I can’t find socks. The heating will come on soon, it’s on a timer.’
‘Perhaps I should go out and get something for breakfast.’
‘I’m boiling some eggs, I made two for you. And there’s toast.’
She turned to face him, holding the coat tight around her. ‘I was a little drunk last night. But I don’t regret bringing you here, or what we did.’
He stepped forward to hug her, and felt her melt into him. ‘Me neither. You did surprise me a little though.’
She seemed satisfied with his response. ‘Let me finish the eggs. Then I’m going to look at your shoulder, and after that we need to talk.’
He stroked her back. ‘Fine. What are you wearing under this coat?’
‘Nothing at the moment. You just concentrate on breakfast, please. Go and sit down.’
They ate mostly in silence. She looked at him almost shyly once or twice, which he found ironic given her confidence in the bedroom only hours earlier.
She finished her tea. The determined look was back. ‘I don’t know what your plans are. The doctors think Siobhan will be fine if there are no complications in the next 48 hours. Do you want to stay here until then?’
‘Why are you doing this, Sabine? You know the Garda want me. The longer I stay, the riskier it is.’
‘I will know that before you do, I think. And I know you will only find me again until you know Siobhan is well. It’s better if you stay here. Then in a couple of days you can go back to your people.’
‘Ah, that’s exactly what I can’t do.’
‘I don’t understand, why not?’
He explained the events that had culminated in the situation he now found himself in, from the beach to the shooting at Siobhan’s.
‘They think I betrayed them, so now I have everyone looking for me.’
‘What will you do?’
‘Disappear. Exactly how, at the moment, I don’t know.’
‘So, you aren’t a terrorist anymore. Good.’
He gave her a sharp look of rebuke. ‘I was never a terrorist. I told you, I fight for a cause.’
She held his gaze. ‘Yes, well I’m glad you have to stop.’ Then changed the subject. ‘Let me see your shoulder now.’
‘I left the spare bandages at the hotel.’
‘I have some things here, I just want to make sure it is clean.’
After looking at the wound, which appeared to be healing, they agreed that Michael would retrieve his belongings from the hotel and return to the flat. And then, once Siobhan was out of the woods, he could decide on his next move.
‘Are you staying in Dublin for Christmas?’ he asked.
‘Yes, I will go to my Aunt for Christmas day, but otherwise I’m working.’
‘What brought you here in the first place?’
‘My mother is Irish. I had never met my Irish relatives, so I thought I’d come here and work. Just for a short while. That was six months ago.’
‘What do you think of us, then?’
‘Everyone has been very nice to me. You have some strange customs though.’ Her eyes crinkled mischievously.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Constantly following women until they agree to do whatever you want. We Germans would never behave like that.’
‘I see. Let me assure you we only do that in exceptional circumstances. I wouldn’t want you getting the wrong impression.’
She grinned and stood up. ‘That’s a relief.’ Her arms stretched overhead as she yawned. ‘It’s warming up in here now. I don’t need this anymore.’ The overcoat came off. ‘We have two hours before I leave for work. Come back to bed.’
That afternoon he left Sabine’s flat and walked for ten minutes. Then he used a taxi to go back to the hotel. It was a safer option than public transport, or walking any more than necessary. The proprietor looked at him without interest when he explained he was going back to Belfast earlier than planned. He wrote out a receipt and wished Michael a good journey.
On the return journey he sat in the back seat of the taxi, trying to formulate some sort of plan. He wasn’t helped by the driver’s views on Dublin’s chances against Kerry in their forthcoming Gaelic Football encounter. The man’s commentary didn’t seem to require much in the way of a response, so he half listened and tried to think.
Dublin, if not the whole of Ireland, was now too hazardous for him to remain. If he could get across the Irish Sea to Liverpool he could at least regroup. He had a passport in a false name he could use, but retrieving that would mean going back to Belfast. And he was putting Sabine at risk just the way he had with Siobhan. If anything happened to her he couldn’t live with himself. Whatever he decided in the long term, he would definitely leave Dublin the day after tomorrow.
‘Natalie, move it, we’re going to be late.’
It was Christmas Eve. The tree stood glittering with silver and gold baubles in one corner of the living room. The presents had been bought and laid beneath it. With only the two of them the pile was hardly impressive, thought Harry. Still, the spirit of Christmas had permeated at last, and he felt almost festive.
‘They’re expecting our call in five minutes, where are you?’
Natalie emerged from the bathroom. ‘Don’t panic. Just applying the finishing touches.’
She wore a clinging backless black dress. His eyes widened appreciatively.
‘You look great. If you don’t freeze to death before we get there.’
‘Roisin’s place isn’t far. I should be ok for ten minutes in the car with my coat on.’
They’d been invited for a Christmas Eve drink by one of Natalie’s colleagues. But first they needed to phone both
his and her parents downunder to wish them a Merry Christmas. They both wrapped up and headed for the Land Rover.
They reached the office in two minutes. Harry felt a rare helping of goodwill towards Litchfield for allowing him the use of the office phone. Purely seasonal, he reasoned. He placed the first call with the International operator and spoke to his folks. The line was mostly clear, with the occasional echo that resulted from the 12,000 mile connection time. It was a warm morning in Auckland, and a barbecue was planned for later in the day.
The same ritual was repeated for Natalie then they moved on to Roisin’s house.
It was a convivial evening. There were several couples from the hospital. They all knew Natalie, but Harry had been only a name to them until tonight. To them he was Natalie’s husband, the Irish scholar. Two of the men spoke fluently, and he found himself sharing whiskey and conversation while alternating between both languages.
‘Are you writing a dissertation Harry?’ asked one of the Irish speakers.
‘Yes. The subject is “The relevance of the Irish language in 20th Century Ireland.”’
‘Plenty of bloody relevance in my opinion.’
‘It depends on your politics it seems. I have some catching up to do on that score.’
‘Speak English, boys,’ said Roisin, a bubbly 30 year old paediatric nurse. ‘You’re being rude to Natalie, and I’m losing you too.’
Around 11pm it was time to go. They stood in the hall, thanking their hostess and wrapping up once more against the cold.
‘I’ll drive, Harry,’ said Natalie. ‘You’ve had far too much whiskey. Give me the keys.’
He handed them over. ‘I think I left my gloves in the kitchen. I’ll grab them.’
He was back in a minute. He thanked Roisin as he adjusted his gloves and scarf.
‘Is Nat in the car already?’
‘Yes, she wanted to get out there and get the heater going.’
He closed the door and began walking down the path leading through the small front garden. The Land Rover was parked right ahead of him. He could see Natalie smiling through the driver’s window.
As he stepped forward it was as though suddenly his senses had gone out of tune, like a radio dial stuck on static. He heard a loud thump, which was followed a split second later by a huge whoosh of air that lifted him off his feet and hurled his body backwards, slamming it into the front door. All he registered before losing consciousness was the sight of a roofless, doorless, flame-filled Land Rover, along with a burning wave of heat searing his eyes. Of Natalie he saw nothing.
Chapter 8
It was a cloudless day, with a bright blue gleaming sky. They sat in a dinghy, floating across a long, broad, winding lake. Its still and even surface could have been blue Venetian glass. The only movement came from the ripples fanning into ever larger circles as the prow of the boat glided through the water. Its clarity was such that white stones and smooth, large boulders were visible on the lake floor, easily twenty feet below.
On either side, jagged green mountains observed their silent progress, broken intermittently by the call of an unseen bittern or heron. There was no other human being in evidence.
Natalie was standing near the prow with her back to him, wearing a long white cotton dress. The breeze pressed it against her long body, exaggerating her height. Her hair cut a ravine of black that flowed halfway down her back. She was quite still.
For some reason he didn’t need oars, the boat moved perfectly without them. He willed her to turn around. She complied with his unspoken request, turning completely to face him.
But he couldn’t see her face. There was nothing but a dark, impenetrable oval. Then as he watched she began to dissolve into thousands of tiny sparkling blue crystals tumbling into the water, merging with that blue Venetian stillness. He tried to tell her to stop, but his vocal chords wouldn’t respond, and he shouted silently as she slipped away. The boat glided on, and he remained sitting – transfixed and impotent.
His eyes snapped open. Such a vivid dream, it had unnerved him. But now he couldn’t figure out where he was, or why he was lying in a bed with a needle in his arm. He was aware of a dull throbbing in his leg, was it left or right? Otherwise his body felt very light, as if he were suspended in space. He thought he’d like to sit up, but when he tried nothing happened. So frustrating. But being frustrated was too much effort. He’d try again later. Still, there was something at the back of his mind which was just tantalisingly out of reach. He wanted to know what it was. Then he heard voices.
‘Doctor, he’s awake.’
‘Ah, good.’ The voice came closer and then a face came into view. ‘I’m Dr Fitzgerald, Harry. You’re in St. James’s hospital.’ A white coated figure with a bearded face and dark eyes leaned over him. ‘The femoral artery in your leg was severed. We’ve operated successfully, and you’ve had a blood transfusion. You’re getting lots of morphine too, so you’re probably feeling quite relaxed right now.’
Harry tried to respond, and something resembling English must have issued from his mouth. He was drifting away again as the doctor answered.
‘What happened? There was an explosion. Don’t think about that now, Harry, just rest.’
No further encouragement was needed. Harry had exchanged the world of severed arteries for the oblivion of dreamless sleep.
When he woke the next day he knew she’d gone. The pain of it gnawed at his stomach and taunted his mind, telling him one moment that it was just another dream, and the next that he wasn’t asleep, his wife was dead. The morphine played with him, taking him far away from the hospital bed to a place where nothing existed but pure and clear mind, uncluttered by thought. Then something would click in his head, and the image of the burning Land Rover would rush in to fill that space, making him relive that split second again and again.
A day later, with his morphine dose reduced, he could distinguish fact from fantasy. He remembered the explosion clearly, and now he sat up in his bed in a state of emotional numbness, trying to accept that Nat just wasn’t here anymore. And wondering what he would tell her parents.
Apart from his leg injury, he’d suffered nothing more than bruising and concussion. Dr Fitzgerald informed him that he should be home in a few days, and if all went well, walking normally in a month or two. Someone from the Garda arrived to let him know that no one else at Roisin’s, or nearby, had suffered more than a few minor cuts, all due to flying glass from shattered windows.
‘And Natalie?’
The Garda man looked grim. ‘Car bombs aren’t kind to the human body, Mr Ellis.’
‘No.’
‘We will be able to make an identification, I can tell you that much. Perhaps you could tell me why someone would want to put a bomb in your vehicle?’
‘No idea.’
The man gave Harry a quizzical look. ‘We’ll talk again later, Mr Ellis, once you’re out of here. Meanwhile, I’ll need details of Natalie’s next of kin. They’ll need to be informed.’
Harry gave him the address and phone number of Natalie’s parents. The Garda man told him that someone from the Irish Consulate in Auckland would give them the news personally. A part of Harry felt relieved. How could he possibly tell Nat’s mother and father that his involvement with British Intelligence had got their daughter murdered?
Then the same evening, Litchfield arrived. An expression of sympathetic concern had replaced his customary irascibility, but not his brusque delivery.
‘Harry, don’t know what to say, this is an appalling situation. You have my sincere condolences.’
Harry made no reply. The sight of Litchfield had triggered him rapidly out of his emotional numbness into a state of mounting anger. He didn’t trust himself to speak.
Litchfield, taken aback by the silence, looked slightly embarrassed. He blinked furiously for a moment or two and then ploughed on. ‘Of course, we will take care of everything – any expenses you incur in your recovery, funeral costs, anything at all.’
‘How did they know?’ asked Harry, his voice low and furious.
‘Know? I can’t answer that at the moment, some breach of security, they must have found out about our Dublin operation. We weren’t as anonymous as we thought.’
‘Yes, I’d figured that out already. Was O’Reilly involved?’
Litchfield hesitated for a moment, as though debating something with himself. When he replied he’d regained his composure.
‘Yes, I believe he was. I should know more in the next day or two. In the meantime we need to discuss what we’re going to do about your continued safety.’
‘How can you possibly know it was him?’
‘He certainly has motive, don’t you think? If it wasn’t him, then it was someone from the Republican Brotherhood. I certainly intend to do my best to pinpoint that person.’
‘I want to know when that happens.’ Harry stared out the window, thoughts of retribution clouding his grief. He missed Litchfield’s little nod of satisfaction.
‘Alright Harry. Let me tell you what we need to do.’
He went on to advise Harry on the measures required once he left hospital. Removal to a safe house while he convalesced. A suspension to his studies if at all possible.
‘And we’ll arm you too. If you haven’t used a gun before, Jack will be able to help with instruction. As soon as you’re walking properly again you should get out of Ireland. We’ll sort out the details later.’
Then, once again expressing his sympathy, he left. Harry lay back in bed replaying the visit. Not once had Litchfield mentioned Natalie’s name.
He was discharged a few days later. Jack Hudson collected him and drove him to his new address. It was a semi detached two bedroom house about 15 minutes drive South of Dublin. Harry offered no conversation during the drive, and Jack took the opportunity to explain his new situation.