She turned, sodden, towards him. Her face was wet and her hair straggled and her clothes clung to her. ‘No, I don’t want a f***ing hand!’ she yelled, and tried to get to her feet. She put one hand down to steady herself as she pushed up, but the rock she was trying to get a grip on rolled to one side; everything else was silt and sludge, so she felt for the rock again, her fingers coiling around it looking for a proper grip. Except, as she turned it in her hand, she realised it wasn’t a rock, but a child’s head with staring eyes, and she screamed and screamed and screamed.
Up on the veranda, Linda Wray said, ‘Oh Christ’
61
A Last-Minute Reprieve
Ambassador Martin Brown almost had a heart-attack when his visitors were shown in. Siobhan he knew, of course, but the priest … The priest was the spitting image of the corpse he had only an hour ago sent off to be cremated. And only marginally a better colour.
Siobhan was ranting and raving before she sat down. ‘You can’t … how dare … we have rights … you will burn in hell for this!’ but the Ambassador only had eyes for this Father Damien.
‘I’m his brother,’ Father Damian said finally.
‘It’s uncanny. Are you identical twins?’
‘Yes.’
‘It’s funny how two brothers can take very different paths.’
‘Who says we took different paths?
‘Well,’ the Ambassador began, but then stopped. ‘Fair point,’ he said.
‘But as a matter of fact, we did,’ Father Damian said. ‘We were not close, Mr Ambassador, but nevertheless I flew here immediately I heard about his deteriorating condition.’
‘Yes, of course you did. We’re all dreadfully—’
‘Don’t give me that s**t!’ Siobhan exploded. ‘If you cared a fraction, you would not have treated Redmond like some kind of bad smell and shipped him off to be burned.’
‘The fact is, Miss O’Rourke, with all due respect to you, Father, he was becoming a bad smell. Nothing keeps in this climate. But besides that, we have clear and direct instructions from Mrs O’Boyle to cremate her late husband, so we had no option but to obey them.’
‘It’s not too late,’ said Siobhan. ‘We can still stop this. We need the address of the crematorium.’
‘I’m afraid I can’t give you that.’
‘This is his brother!’
‘I’m aware of that. And I’m sorry, Father, but in cases like this a wife takes precedence and therefore I must see that through. We really don’t need any kind of disruption.’
Father Damian clasped his hands gravely. ‘Mr Ambassador, Redmond is - was - my brother. And a human being. I should at the very least have the opportunity to say goodbye to him, and to conduct a short service.’
‘I understand completely, Father, but his wife was quite clear on this subject. Redmond is to be cremated. She did not wish his body to become - well, a political football. Certain people have what I would call an agenda …’
‘That’s outrageous!’ cried Siobhan.
He ignored her, while nodding sympathetically at the priest. ‘If it’s of any value to you, I myself said a few words over the body before sending it on its way.’ The words he had said were: ‘Burn in hell, motherf***er!’ But they didn’t need to know that.
In fact, he had said the words, especially the last one, very quietly. It was an act of bravado, but one without a living audience. Ambassador Brown now patted his brow with a crisply folded handkerchief. Siobhan was also sweating profusely. When he had first met her, her skin had been red and blotchy, then it had been sunburned, but now it was finely tanned. Father Damian looked uncomfortable in his collar and black shirt; the sleeves rolled up to the elbow. There was an air conditioner, but like democracy, it only worked occasionally, and even then it was never quite satisfactory.
‘It really is most unfortunate,’ Ambassador Brown continued, ‘but on the bright side, I have had no instructions as to how to dispose of the ashes. Father, it might be possible to release them into your safekeeping. Granted it’s not the same as getting …’ Ambassador Brown trailed off.
Siobhan stamped her foot. Literally. ‘You can still do this, Ambassador. Phone them now and stop the cremation - at least until we can reason with Mrs O’Boyle.’
The Ambassador glanced at his watch. ‘I’m afraid it’s too late for that.’
‘Rubbish! Nothing works on time in this country! I demand—’ At that moment, her mobile phone rang. She removed it from her bag, answered it, looked at the Ambassador, then said, ‘Excuse me,’ and hurried out of the office.
She was strident, very annoying but utterly predictable, as if she was playing a role, espousing a script. But in leaving the office, she’d left the Ambassador alone with a real, grief-stricken human being.
‘I’m very sorry about this,’ the Ambassador said weakly. ‘You say you weren’t close?’
‘Not at all.’ The priest leaned forward. ‘Mr Ambassador, can I ask you something?’
‘Yes, of course.’ Martin Brown lifted a cup of tea and sipped. It was the only cool thing in the office, and quite dreadful, but he felt the need to hold onto something.
‘If your brother died, and you were denied the opportunity to say goodbye, how would you feel?’
The room, which was quite spacious, suddenly felt claustrophobic. He had dealt with many bereaved relatives in his time as Ambassador both here and in other countries, but had always been able to retreat into meaningless platitudes when faced with a difficult situation. But now, one on one with this austere-looking priest with a genuine tear in his eye, Ambassador Brown realised that his only refuge was the truth.
‘I don’t have a brother,’ he said.
The door opened, and Siobhan strode in, holding the phone out before her as if it was Chamberlain’s scrap of paper or a telegram from the top of Everest.
‘It’s the Minister of the Interior, Senor Valdez. He’s ordering you to stop the cremation!’
It was. The reasons were ‘political and regrettable’.
The Ambassador first tried to usher Siobhan and Father Damian out of his office, so that he could phone the crematorium in private, but they refused to move. Siobhan beamed triumphantly as he lifted the phone and then spoke in fluent Spanish to the head of the crematorium. When he replaced the receiver, she said: ‘Never underestimate the influence of my Party.’
The Ambassador nodded gravely. ‘That may be, but you also should never underestimate the determination of a crematorium superintendent who wishes to knock off early for the weekend. I’m afraid Mr O’Boyle was cremated a quarter of an hour ago.’
The young woman’s hand went to her mouth in disbelief. Father Damian sighed.
‘My condolences to you, Father. This has been most regrettable. May your brother rest in peace.’
Siobhan rattled on for a while, but her heart wasn’t in it. She was beaten. When they’d gone, the Ambassador settled back behind his desk and called for fresh tea. He shook his head. Rest in peace. Redmond O’Boyle had spent his life in pursuit of precisely the opposite. The Ambassador opened a drawer and took out a fresh box of Jaffa Cakes. He put his feet up on his desk. Redmond O’Boyle’s arrest, incarceration and death had upset his rather sedentary life. At least now things could get back to normal.
His phone rang.
‘Yes, Catherine?’ he said to his young receptionist.
‘Ambassador, I have a Redmond O’Boyle on the line.’
62
Tales of the Riverbank
Margaret had to give a statement to the police, explaining how she came to be sitting in the River Lagan at all, and confirming that no, she had no idea there was a child’s dead head there, and no, she had never met the deceased or been involved in any way in the circumstances of his suspicious death or indeed had any idea where the rest of him was. ‘We have to ask,’ the nice policewoman said, the same one who’d got her the blanket to keep her warm - though it wasn’t doing much good; what she really needed was
to get out of her sodden clothes. When she’d said, ‘Occupation?’ Margaret had said, ‘Fashion designer,’ and then looked away, embarrassed, half-expecting the cop to laugh or suddenly demand evidence or treat it in some way as proof that she was involved in the murder of the boy because she’d clearly lied about how she earned her living. But the policewoman had merely written it down and moved quickly to the next question.
There were police swarming all around. The head remained in the water where she’d found it. The whole area was being minutely examined by the very same forensics experts and divers who’d failed to find it earlier. Walter, who had called the police on his mobile, had also given his statement, but he and Margaret were kept apart. His tan trousers were damp up to the knees where he’d leaped into the water to haul her out. It had taken the police ten minutes to arrive. For nine of those minutes she had wept silently against him. He had patted her back.
Later, as Margaret sat in the back of a police car, awaiting permission to go home, she watched as the mother and father of the dead boy were escorted down to the riverbank by the police officer in charge. It was grim. When they’d gone, broken and hysterical, the same police officer came over to her car and climbed into the back seat beside her. His eyes looked dead.
‘That must have been dreadful,’ Margaret said.
He nodded. He said who he was - Inspector Gary McBride.
‘That must have been very frightening, finding … that,’ he said.
‘It’s the single worst thing I’ve ever seen in my life. That poor child. The worst thing—’ She stopped suddenly at the memory of it.
‘It’s all right,’ said Gary.
She nodded gratefully, but couldn’t find her voice for a moment.
‘I’d get you a coffee, but they’re not here yet.’
‘It’s okay,’ she said. ‘The worst thing - his eyes were open.’
‘I know.’
‘I only looked for a moment - but it was like he wasn’t dead at all, and wanted to tell me what happened, but couldn’t. I’ll have nightmares tonight.’ She shivered.
‘It’s not easy,’ said Gary. He nodded vaguely towards another of the police cars. ‘This Walter North - your boyfriend?’
‘Did he say he was?’
‘No. Said you were friends.’
‘Huh.’
‘I asked him why you jumped in the river and he said because your lift doesn’t go all the way to the top.’
‘The bugger.’
‘I think he was only joking. Why did you jump in the river?’
‘I didn’t jump. I fell. Off the top of the rail.’
‘And what were you doing on top of the rail?’
‘I honestly don’t know.’
Gary smiled. ‘None of it’s easy, is it?’ Then he climbed out of the car.
She wanted to call after him, ‘None of what’s easy? What are you talking about? I’ve just seen a dead head, I don’t need someone to be cryptic, and you’re ten years too old for me, but you’re quite nice.’ But she just sat there until the policewoman came back and told her she could go.
She was offered a lift but said, ‘Sure, my car’s over there.” Then she was asked if she was okay to drive, or if there was anyone they should call, but she couldn’t think of anyone. Billy? Of course not. Maeve - I don’t think so! No, it was just her by her lonesome, trudging damp and deflated towards the newly laid car park at the Towerview Apartments. Hers and Walter’s were the only two vehicles left now, and he was already standing by his, clearly waiting for her.
‘All done then?’ he said, as she stopped beside him.
She nodded. ‘You?’
‘For now, yeah. Bit of a turn-up for the books, eh?’
‘Well,’ she said, ‘that’ll teach me to make a show of myself.’
‘You couldn’t have known.’
‘I know, but still. Who feels foolish now?’
‘You shouldn’t.’
‘It was your fault, losing your temper, then playing hard to get.’
‘I think if you ask around, you’ll find I’m extremely easy to get. As you are, apparently.’ It was out before he could stop himself. He hadn’t really meant it that way, but it was out there and she visibly stiffened. She shook her head.
‘I’m sorry,’ Walter said quickly.
Margaret took a deep breath. ‘Once bitten, twice shy is the expression. Not once bitten, shy for the rest of your life. I’m traumatised enough, I don’t need you sticking the knife in.’
‘I know that. I’m sorry, really I am. You’re soaking wet.’
‘Yes, I am.’
‘Do you want to get into my car and I’ll turn the heater on?’
‘I don’t think that’s going to fix it, Walter. I need to get home.’
‘Okay.’ He nodded. He jangled his keys nervously. She turned to go, then stopped.
‘Well?’ she asked.
‘Well?’
‘Aren’t you going to say anything?’
Walter looked lost for a moment. ‘Have a safe journey home.’
She raised her eyebrows. She started walking. The penny dropped.
‘Do you want …’ he called after her.
Margaret stopped. ‘Do I want what?’
‘Ahm. Do you want - you know, a drink. Something to eat. A pizza.’
‘I’m all wet, Walter.’
‘I know. Later. When you get dry. I could … follow you home.’
Margaret folded her arms. ‘If I say no, are you going to stand outside my house for three days and nights?’
‘Probably,’ said Walter.
63
Second Chance
Jimmy Marsh Mallow had a thousand things running through his mind to do with the head and the body and the missing bits and possible suspects and the way his team of detectives didn’t seem as energetic or keen as he had once been, so the last thing he needed was a blind date with another woman. She was the second of the three who had contacted him as soon as his file appeared on the Let’s Be Mates website. Having stood up the first one, and despite being widely regarded, not least of all by himself, as a standard-bearer for strong morals and honesty in Northern Ireland, he had not yet found the guts or gumption to email her explaining his reasons for no-showing. Nor would he. Perhaps because he didn’t want to admit any kind of a weakness. Jimmy Marsh Mallow didn’t apologise.
Number two was called Tracey Hill. She described herself as a widow, forty-one years old, worked two jobs - on the till in a Mace shop during the day and then as a barmaid in Robinson’s in the city centre, usually at weekends. She liked long walks in the country and reading history books. She was carrying a little excess weight, and her red hair was flecked with grey. She looked exactly like her photograph, sitting opposite him now in Deane’s on the Square.
He was mildly surprised to be there. He’d said on the phone to his daughter Lauren that he was tired, didn’t fancy it, he would call and cancel, but she shouted at him, said she hadn’t spent all that money for him not to at least try it, and he yelled back that he’d never asked her to do it in the first place and what he did with his life was his business. But he didn’t hang up, and eventually they calmed down. Lauren said she was only thinking of him, that he sounded tired and tense, and getting out and meeting someone new - other than someone he would arrest - would do him the world of good.
He felt at least a little like that now, cutting into his first-course salmon fishcake. Tracey’d ordered the same. She was funny - talking about the drunks in Robinson’s and the old women smelling of pee who came into the Mace for their cat food. Both of them steered clear of the fact that their other halves were dead. At least for the moment. The wine flowed. Marsh had parked the car outside, but he would leave it there, pick it up in the morning. He wasn’t stupid. More than one of his colleagues had lost their jobs over one extra drink, trusting on their colleagues looking the other way if they did get stopped. Misplaced trust, usually.
‘So walks in the country and
history books,’ Jimmy said.
‘Not at the same time,’ Tracey laughed.
‘Where do you walk?’
‘Oh, up over the Cave Hill. Down to Newcastle sometimes. The Mournes. Not so much since Danny …’
Marsh nodded. ‘It’s lovely down there,’ he said. ‘And the Silent Valley.’
‘Gorgeous,’ said Tracey. Then she put her knife and fork down, took a sip of white wine and said: ‘It’s odd this, isn’t it?’
‘How so?’
‘You know, two complete strangers sitting down for a meal. I mean, unless you excuse yourself after the first course and climb out of the Gents window, we’re going to be stuck with each other for at least a couple of hours.’
‘Well actually,’ said Jimmy, ‘I’ve been here before, and I can tell you for a fact that the Gents window isn’t big enough to climb out of.’
She roared at that. He glowed. He liked to make a woman laugh. It had been a long time.
‘But yes, I know what you mean,’ he went on. ‘You could be smiling at me, but thinking, What a moron, let me out of here.’
‘And you could be thinking, Christ, she looks nothing like her photo, who’s she kidding?’
‘You do look like your photo.’
‘It’s ages old.’
‘Well, you do. Very nice.’
He averted his eyes to his plate. She looked at her own.
‘Thank you,’ she said.
He smiled. After a few moments he said, ‘I was leaving a space there for you to say that I look exactly like mine.’
‘Yes, you do. Is your hair always so short?’
‘Easily maintained.’
‘It suits you.’
‘My wife used to say …’ He stopped. ‘Sorry.’
‘No, it’s okay, we’re both kind of beating around the bush, aren’t we?’ He nodded. ‘Neither of us wants to, you know, ruin things by getting all morbid, yet it’s natural. We spent so long with our partners, they’re a part of us and always will be, and when we talk about things, of course we have to mention them. It’s not a problem, really. How long were you married?’
I Predict a Riot Page 25