No Enemy but Time (35 page)

‘Thanks, but no. We didn't go through that time without rows, I'm afraid. She sees everything in terms of criticism of her brother.'

Harvey remembered the night he overheard them quarrelling. He was on duty as a bodyguard then, and the human element was none of his business. It was impossible to be objective now. He knew and liked them both, but his sympathies were leaning more and more towards the husband. Thank God he wasn't married any more.

‘Why did you lie to me?'

Claire didn't flinch. ‘I had to; the last time I told you we'd met, you went through the roof.'

‘After that speech in New York,' he reminded her.

‘After your speech in the House,' she countered. ‘Talking about the Irish as if they are murderers and terrorists. It did you a lot of good with your party, but how do you think I felt about it?'

He turned away from her. ‘I don't know,' he said. ‘I don't know how you feel any more, or how you think. But don't lie to me next time he sneaks over to see you. Tell me. It'll save a lot of embarrassment.'

‘All right, then you can tell your spies they don't have to watch me any more. God, to think of it!'

‘They're not my spies,' Neil Fraser said. ‘They're watching your brother because he's an enemy of this country, and a number of people have been killed by the people he supports. I was threatened myself, if you remember. See him if you have to, but don't put me in the position of not knowing next time.'

He closed the door of their room and went out. He hadn't told her that Michael Harvey was his informant.

It took two months to plan the robbery on the Kildare Street branch of the Bank of Ireland. Quinlan chose that particular branch because the armoured truck bringing in the week's takings from a number of large stores and businesses came on a Friday morning. It was impossible to hijack the truck or stage an armed raid during the transfer of the money because there was a heavy escort of police which surrounded the truck and the bank during unloading. Security was far too tight. So it was decided to send a group of three men into the bank in the early afternoon. There would be sufficient cash in the tellers' safe for weekend withdrawals. Three men could grab the money and get out quickly.

Quinlan set a regular watch on the bank for a month, using a rota of the men who would carry out the robbery, so they were familiar with the interior, the exits on to the street, and the identity of the under-manager and the chief cashier. He planned everything down to the last detail. He chose men with a criminal past, one of whom had organized a successful wages snatch in Limerick two years before, when the local IRA were hard-pressed for funds.

Sean Filey was informed, but not involved in the planning. He was not a man of action; his role was to watch Arbuthnot via Marie and the Brogans, and to keep him in line till the money was in their hands and could be paid into the Boston Irish Bank. The first thing he did was to speak to Kevin Ryan in the States and ask him to cancel Frank's trip over. It would be a big help to a project on hand if Kevin came to Ireland instead. His nephew was in need of moral support. Kevin listened and said he'd think about it. Moral support had only one meaning. Frank was wavering. Kevin wasn't surprised. Even Mary Rose had been shocked by the violence in the North and the murder of the Queen of England's cousin. Kevin had trimmed his sails to the wind of public opinion and cancelled a speaking tour. It might be good for Frank if he went over to Ireland, and good for him too. His own batteries needed recharging. He called Sean Filey back and said he'd come and stay for a few weeks at the Half House. And he'd set his nephew straight at the same time.

It was a beautiful spring. The land burgeoned into its dazzling greenery, the hedgerows spilling over with clouds of white May. It was the time of year that Frank loved best. The daffodils would be ablaze at Riverstown now, and the river in full flood, washing away the bank and messing up the trout fishing. He thought of his home, and whatever he said to Claire, his grandmother's house was no substitute for the place where he had grown up.

And Marie's presence was becoming a burden. He didn't look forward to coming back with her in the evenings and pretending that their relationship hadn't changed. She grated on him, because she was tense and insincere; most of all he recognized that she was miserably unhappy, and that he was the cause. It couldn't go on, but he didn't know how to end it. They made love because she could still arouse him, but the aftermath was emptiness, with a tinge of self-disgust. She would have to face the fact that after their years together, nothing had grown and most of what they used to have had died. For him, he realized, but not for her. That was his dilemma.

It was mid-May and they were driving back from Dublin together. She said suddenly, in the bright voice which was an affectation, ‘There's a fantastic new restaurant opened on the Curragh. One of the girls was telling me about it at lunch today. Why don't we go out tonight and have dinner?' She didn't wait for him to answer. ‘It'd do us both good to get out and have an evening. We're stuck at home too much. And I've a pretty new frock I want to wear for you.'

She was trying so hard he hadn't the heart to refuse. Perhaps it might give him the opportunity to talk to her.

‘Why not? I'll ring up and book a table.'

Marie put her hand on his knee and stroked it. ‘You're so good to me,' she said. ‘You spoil me, Frank. When we come home, I'll do a bit of spoiling for you.'

She came down the stairs and stood, so he could admire the dress. It was certainly pretty. By any standard she was a woman who made heads turn. She'd have no difficulty finding another man. They'd be falling over themselves if she were free, and thanks to him and her job, she had met a lot of influential people.

‘You look very nice,' he said kindly. ‘That colour green suits you. It's not too bright.'

‘Green for Ireland,' she said, and clung to his arm as they walked to the car.

They were driving along the main Naas road through Sallins when he slowed down as they approached the bridge.

‘What are you stopping for?'

‘There's old Donny. I'll just say hello and give him a few bob.'

‘Who's Donny?' she asked.

‘He's a simple old fellow, loves to stand and watch the train come through from Dublin. He's been on that bridge as long as I can remember. When Claire and I were children we used to give him some of our sweets on a Sunday.'

He pulled in to the side. Marie frowned. There was a dirty figure in a torn jersey leaning over the parapet.

Frank called out, ‘Donny!' and he turned. He had the watery eyes and slack mouth of an idiot. He grinned and waved. Frank opened the door.

‘Come and say hello,' he said. ‘It'd make his day.'

She got out reluctantly. She had beautiful new shoes and the gutter was dirty. Frank seemed quite at home with the half-wit. He called her over and said, ‘Donny, this is Miss Dempster, a friend of mine.'

He stared at her and grinned, and a trickle of saliva ran down his chin.

Marie said briefly, ‘Hello, Donny. Frank, darling, we'll be late.'

‘Where's Claire?' she heard him ask. ‘When's she comin' back?'

‘Soon,' Frank assured him. ‘How's the mammy keeping?'

‘She's keepin' herself well. Would ye have a cig on ye?' He waited, head cocked on one side, and extended a very dirty palm.

‘I haven't,' Frank said. ‘But here's a pound. Buy yourself a packet. Take care now.'

‘God bless ye,' Donny said. ‘There'll be a train in a minute.'

Frank got back into the car. Marie was already in her seat. ‘Poor devil,' he said. ‘He lives for the sight of a train. I don't think he knows whether he's seen one or not. It's the waiting he likes.'

Marie grimaced. ‘He's so filthy. Why do you bother giving him money? He'll only go to the pub.'

He said, ‘Donny's never been in a pub in his life. All he has is the trains and a few cigarettes. He's harmless, everyone round here knows him.'

‘People like that make me sick,' she said. ‘I bet he's not as simple as he makes out. I can't bear idiots, they're so creepy.'

Frank saw her in the driving mirror: the hard mouth drawn down, the look of disgust on her face. For all her political convictions, there wasn't room in her heart for one helpless child of nature. He thought suddenly, That's why I could never love her. She has no compassion.

He knew what would happen when they got home. She stopped by the stairs and reached up to kiss him, her tongue probing against his lips.

He drew back. ‘Marie,' he said quietly, ‘it's no good. You know it's no good.'

She stepped away from him. ‘Why do you say that, Frank? It's always great with us. Let me show you tonight. Let me try.'

He shook his head. ‘No. Why don't we go in and sit down? It's time we talked this out.'

He gave her a drink; she was very pale and silent. ‘We've had some wonderful times together,' he said. ‘But it hasn't been right for a long time. We've both tried; I know you have perhaps more than me. It hasn't worked, Marie.'

‘You're not in love with me,' she said flatly. ‘That's the reason.'

‘I've never said I was,' he reminded her. ‘You understood that from the start.'

‘Oh, sure I know what you
said
.' Her tone was bitter. ‘But I hoped I could make you change your mind. The trouble is, you're in love with your own sister.'

Frank didn't move. She waited, having dealt the dagger blow, but nothing happened.

After a moment he said, ‘I want you out of this house tomorrow. If you need more money than I've already settled on you, you can have it. I also want you out of the bank. From tomorrow.' He turned and walked out, closing the door quietly after him.

Marie stood alone in the room, marooned in the silence. There had been no row, no exchange of insults and reproaches. She could have coped with that, perhaps salvaged something at the end of it. He might have hit her, and she would have welcomed it. Instead there was that cold dismissal. He'd given her notice to quit as if she were a servant. Not just the house, but the job. Everything was cut from under her. Sean Filey would want to know why. She felt such a surge of hatred that her stomach heaved. For a moment she thought she was going to be sick then and there.

She had aimed at his heart, and only succeeded in mortally wounding herself. Upstairs Frank undressed and went into a spare room to sleep. He didn't know which disgusted him most – Marie, or himself for having taken up with such a woman. By tomorrow she would be gone. And something fundamental would change in his life when she was out of it. His aversion to her was part of that change.

She didn't go to her mother. She packed some clothes, and told the Brogans she was going to visit relatives in Galway. They noticed the size of the suitcase and judged it would be a long stay. She couldn't take everything. The accumulation of ten years needed a trunk. He'd been very generous, she thought savagely, looking at the cupboards filled with clothes, the dozens of pairs of shoes, the mink coat and the fashionable silver fox jacket, hats in boxes, drawers full of underclothes. She'd send for them later.

But now she needed to get out of the house and have time to think, and plan what explanation to give to Filey and his superiors as to why she had lost her position at the Boston Irish Bank. They'd care much less about her personal relationship coming to an end. The job was another matter. How could she explain that she had been sacked? They wouldn't like it, if they thought she'd brought that on herself. She'd have to find another reason, something that would take the blame off her and lay it square on Arbuthnot. She thought of him as Arbuthnot now. No more as Frank. Hating him was a relief; she only wished she'd realized before how much less painful it would be than to love him. Now she could ease her own pain by injuring him, and it gave her a fierce satisfaction. He'd pay. He'd pay for the rejection and that final insulting dismissal, showing her how little she meant to him. Not worth a good row, even, when any other man would have laid into her with his fists for what she'd said.

But first she had to get away and work out how to protect herself. The thought came back to her as she drove off in the smart BMW sports model he'd bought her a year ago. There must be a way to punish that sister as well. Some means of wreaking a vengeance upon her, just when it seemed Claire had triumphed over her.

She set off on the road to Dublin and booked herself in to a quiet suburban hotel. She stayed there for a whole day before she put a call through to Sean Filey. By that time she had worked out her story to the last detail.

Kevin had arrived at the Half House with Mary Rose and their eldest son, Patrick. He was glad to be home; the splendid house always gladdened his heart. He'd retire there, no question. He hadn't said so to Mary Rose, but it was easier now that his brother had died. She'd found the family a bit of a trouble. There'd been jealousy and backbiting, as you might expect, but Mary Rose took it to heart. His lump of a sister-in-law was to blame, and now that Shamus was gone, Kevin didn't bother himself about her. The sons were farming and the unmarried daughter was at home looking after them all. He wanted his son to get acquainted with the place, and get to know people. He had pleased Kevin by saying how impressed his friends at college would be when he showed them photographs. He was not a clever young man, but he was steady. With his father's money and his grandfather's business behind him, he'd do all right. His mother thought he was the best son in the world. She'd made murmurs at one time about the priesthood, but Kevin had quickly ruled that out. A daughter a nun was one thing, but his eldest boy had a business to take on. Not to mention the Half House one day.