Pray for Us Sinners (20 page)

The drinks arrived. “I'll give you a minute to look at the menu.” The waitress lit the candle and withdrew.

“Cheers.”

“Cheers.” She sipped. A trace of lip gloss remained on her glass. She pushed her hair back with her left hand and picked up the menu.

“Looks lovely.”

“So do you.”

She did not blush, as he had hoped, but simply said, “Thank you, kind sir.”

A very self-possessed twenty-three, he thought. She might not be the pushover he'd been counting on. He scanned the list of starters and main courses. Nothing had changed since the last time he had visited the Causerie, here on Church Lane, the last Saturday night out of barracks before the bomb in the blue van had gone off. He knew he was taking some risk that the waitress, Peggy, might recognize him, but that risk added to the pleasure of being here with Siobhan. Certainly Peggy had not seemed to know who he really was. The long hair and the moustache hid a lot of his face.

“Well,” he said, “what do you fancy?”

“I'd like a shrimp cocktail and a steak.”

He waved to the waitress.

“Ready to order, sir?”

“Please. The lady would like a shrimp cocktail and I'll have half a dozen oysters. Fillet steaks for two.” He looked at Siobhan. “Medium rare?”

“Please.”

“Would you like a glass of wine?”

Siobhan nodded.

He said, “I'm not very good at wines.” He looked up at the waitress. “What do you suggest?”

“The Pommard's good with the steak, sir.”

“Fine.” He looked back at Siobhan. She was watching him, a suggestion of an upward tilt to the corner of her lips, little laugh lines at the corners of her eyes, the flame of the candle reflecting from deep within the blue. “What's so funny?”

“Nothing. I thought you were going to try to impress me. But you didn't mind telling the waitress that you don't know about wines.” She touched his hand. “I like that.” She tossed her hair. “Canadian men can be a bit—you know.”

He tingled to her touch and wanted her to put her hand back on his. He felt himself start to blush. Siobhan Ferguson. He may not have impressed her, but she sure as hell had turned the tables. He'd only known her for a few hours and already was basking in her presence.

*   *   *

She'd refused an after-dinner liqueur and had finished her coffee. Marcus had lost track of time. Perhaps his oysters had been tasty; he'd hardly noticed. Half of his steak had grown cold as he sat listening to the music in her voice, watching the play of candlelight on her face, her hair. He had paid no attention to the room filling up, the other diners.

He'd learned that she had emigrated to Canada, with her older brother Fergus, in 1970. Her mum and dad had wanted the children out of the line of fire. At first they had lived with her dad's sister in Toronto. Siobhan had trained in Belfast as a secretary, but her auntie persuaded her to spend a year at Ryerson taking an executive secretarial course. She now worked for a firm of Bay Street financiers. She lived alone in a small apartment on Eglinton Avenue. Fergus had gone into car sales and was doing well somewhere in the Niagara Peninsula—Welland, she thought—but they had never been close and had not kept in touch.

He told her about growing up in Bangor. He was more circumspect when it came to providing details about his own doings in Canada. It would be too easy to slip up with someone who actually knew the country.

“So,” she said, “what brought you back?”

“I dunno, really. The winters were pretty tough…” He put both hands on the table and leaned forward, lowering his voice, “You may not like this, but I've always been a bit of a Republican. I wanted to see for myself what was going on in Belfast.”

“Mike, my dad was in the IRA.”

He said, “You know, I'd love to meet someone who is involved. Find out what's really happening here before I go back to Alberta.”

“You surprise me.”

“Why?”

“How long have you been in Canada?”

“Years.”

“And you still think that the rubbish going on over here matters?” There was a tiny wrinkling of her brow.

“Well. I—”

Her frown deepened. “Ulstermen! Heads stuffed with romantic visions. If you've any sense, you'll go back to Alberta and leave the Ulster Troubles to the men who haven't enough sense to stop fighting a dead war.”

“Do you not think the Brits should get out?”

“I don't know. All I do know is innocent people are being killed and mutilated every day. And for what?”

“Ireland,” he said, knowing that would be the response of Mike Roberts. It sounded odd, he thought, coming from a British officer.

“Ireland?” She shook her head. “Ireland?”

“Yes.”

“I'd rather be in Canada. No one's getting shot there.”

“Maybe you're right.”

She put her hand on his, looked into his eyes, and said, “It's only a three-hour flight from Calgary to Toronto.”

He saw her face, the smile lines back round her eyes, and heard the promise. He wanted to get to know this Siobhan Ferguson—and get to know her very well.

Something distracted him. At a table in the corner, a man in a blue blazer was staring at them. Marcus recognized him. Knox. Robby Knox. Captain, 2nd Para. Marcus hadn't seen him come in. He looked away, avoiding the man's gaze. Christ, if Robby came over, Mike's cover would be blown. Good-bye mission, good-bye SAS, and probably good-bye Siobhan. She was not the sort of woman who would tolerate being deceived.

Marcus stole another quick glance. Robby was rising. Marcus stood. “Excuse me. Got to shed a tear.” He headed for the toilet. From the corner of his eye, he saw Robby following.

Marcus pulled his fringe down further, hunched his shoulders into his windcheater, took a deep breath, and unzipped. Christ, and the major had said to keep away from places like this. He felt a presence at his shoulder, heard the plashing and a puzzled voice say, “Marcus?”

He ignored the man.

“Marcus Richardson?”

He turned and thickened his Belfast accent to a slur. “You talking to me?” He looked Robby Knox directly in the eye. “My name's Mike, so it is.”

“Dreadfully sorry.” Knox smiled weakly. “Mistook you for somebody I used to know. Chap was killed, actually. Thought I'd seen a ghost.”

“No problem. Guinness'll do that to you.” Marcus hawked, spat into the porcelain, and zipped his fly. “Fellow the other night thought I was Elvis Presley. Take it easy, oul' hand.” He turned and left without washing. His palms were sweating.

Siobhan smiled as he took his seat. “Better?”

“Oh aye.” Marcus looked up as the Para captain passed and nodded. He gave Knox a broad grin.

“Friend of yours?” she asked.

“Not at all. Some English chap. He thought I was someone else.”

“Oh.” She smiled. “It happens to me, too. A youngster in Toronto Airport wanted my autograph. He thought I was that girl in ABBA.”

“Silly boy.” Marcus took the rose from the vase and handed it to her. “You're much more beautiful.”

This time she did blush.

She sat close to him on the bus ride home, hand in his, head resting on his shoulder, her warmth and musk exciting him. He held on to her hand as they walked from the bus stop.

It was dim in the little concrete garden. She fumbled for her key, turned, and kissed him, softly, chaste eiderdown on his lips. He held her, feeling her breasts against his chest, her breath warm on the side of his neck.

“Thank you, Mike Roberts, for a lovely evening.”

He pulled her to him, lips on lips, soft, enticing. The tip of her tongue met his, and he trembled.

“Siobhan, I have to see you again.”

Her reply was a kiss, longer, deeper. She pulled away. “I really have to go.”

“How about the pictures tomorrow night?”

“I'd love to.” She pushed the door open, light from the hall spilling in a pool round her, dancing in her hair and on the crimson rose in her hand.

“Six?”

She blew him a kiss. “Six.”

He stood looking at the closed door, the light gone, and Siobhan gone.

Marcus Richardson walked slowly through the dimly lit streets back to his grubby bed-sit. He could still feel the softness of her, her warmth, could still taste her. Careful, boy, he thought, there could be more to this than you can handle. A lot more. Christ. That had been close with the Para captain. The major would not have been happy if Marcus's cover had been blown because he had decided to take a girl into downtown Belfast.

He turned a corner, lost in his thoughts of her. In the distance, far away on the other side of Belfast Lough, he saw the undersides of the clouds lit by a garish glow, and moments later the slopes of the Cave Hill close behind him echoed a rumble like the clap of doom.

 

THIRTY-ONE

TUESDAY, MARCH 26

Davy stared through the window of the Malone Road bus. Strange skeletal bronzes hung on the wall of the Shaftesbury Square side of the Northern Bank. No human ever looked like those things. He'd never understood modern art, and at the moment there was a hell of a lot more he didn't understand—like whether he wanted to go on fighting. He wished he could have a cigarette. It seemed to be taking forever to get to Myrtlefield Park.

The Club Bar came into view. Ten thirty and already a couple of Queen's University students—he recognized their green, blue, and black scarves—were pushing their way through the swing doors.

The bus stopped outside the main university gates. Davy could see the cenotaph in the forecourt. A memorial to the Ulstermen who had died fighting for the enemy in both World Wars. There'd be no memorials to the girl he'd murdered in the wee hours of Saturday morning or to the Brit bastards that fell in Ulster. This conflict was no heroic struggle, honourable and glorious. It was like all civil wars: long, brutish, vicious, and dirty. It had just got a lot dirtier.

He'd been deluding himself, pretending that he was fighting the troops of the occupying power. The bombs he and Jimmy made must have killed and maimed scores of civilians. Civilians like the Mary Hanrahan girl. He'd read her name in the
Telegraph
.

The bus jerked to a stop at the front of the David Keir Building. The words
FACULTY OF SCIENCE
.
DEPARTMENT OF CHEMISTRY
were chiseled into a marble slab over the doors. Maybe, he thought, he should be teaching in there. He was a damn good practical chemist. Not smart enough to make Semtex, mind you, but there was someone in that building who would know how to use the stuff. He could just see himself talking to one of them professors. “'Scuse me. Could you tell me how to make Semtex work?” The idiocy of the thought brought a smile to his lips. It faded fast.

Well, maybe he wouldn't have to find out. Sean had said Davy's chance to use the plastique depended on how well the last attack had gone. He sighed. Did he give a fuck about the Semtex?

Yes and no. Yes. It was a matter of pride. Yes. He owed Sean Conlon. Sean had had faith in Davy, a faith that should be repaid. Yes. Semtex was always kept for special attacks, attacks on soldiers or peelers.

No. He never, ever wanted to hear, as he still heard Mary Hanrahan now, another little girl screaming, “Pleeease.”

He looked out the window. Fuck it—he'd missed his stop. He yanked the string that looped along the sides of the bus.

He dismounted, lit a smoke as he waited for the 71 bus to move off, crossed the Malone Road, turned right, and limped toward Myrtlefield Park.

*   *   *

“Come in, Davy.” Sean Conlon remained seated at the big table.

Davy crossed the carpet, pulled out a chair, and sat, back to the window, hands on the tabletop, the oil of his fingers making little blurred ovals on the polished wood.

“How are you?” The CO's voice was level.

“I've been worser.”

“You're back in one piece, anyhow.”

“Aye.” Davy picked at a fingernail. “I'm sorry I fucked up.”

“You didn't, Davy. It wasn't your fault.”

“It was. I let you down, Sean.”

“The fuck you did.” Davy saw no condemnation in Sean's eyes. “You did the best you could. No one's blaming you here.” Sean's gaze held Davy's. “All right. Now, just so you know, we've already had the other lads in.”

“What lads?”

“The ones you were out with. They all said you done good, that they'd be in jail up the Crumlin or in Long Kesh if you hadn't kept your head.”

Davy shrugged.

Sean rose. “There's someone here just wants to ask you a few questions.”

“Who? What questions?”

“Come on, Davy. You know the form. The information officer needs to debrief volunteers after a raid.”

“Oh. That.” Only a postmortem. He'd been to enough of those. “Fair enough. Go and get him. And, Sean. I'm sorry about the fuckup.”

“Give over, Davy. It's done.”

Davy watched as Sean walked to the door and left the room. He looked up at the great chandelier hanging over the table. Decent of Sean not to lay blame, but Davy knew very well where the fault lay. Both failing his CO and—ah, shit, he didn't want to think of her now. Anyway, someone was coming.

The man who accompanied Sean was not 2nd Battalion IO. The newcomer was thin, dark-haired, and wore spectacles with an eye patch. Davy saw in the eye behind the wire-rimmed glasses the colours of a dead fire. And about as much warmth. Davy began to rise in the presence of a strange senior officer.

“Stay where you are, McCutcheon,” the man rasped.

Davy lowered himself into his chair and let his hands fall limply into his lap.

Sean and the other man sat opposite.

Sean spoke. “Davy, this is Brigade IO.”

“Brigade?” Davy looked questioningly at Sean.