Pray for Us Sinners (25 page)

A rusting five-bar gate blocked the path. He parked the car before the gate. “We're here.” He leaned over into the back, opened the rucksack, pushed in a bottle of wine and two plastic glasses, and took the satchel and a blanket from the seat.

“Here,” she said, “let me take something.”

He gave her the blanket and slung the rucksack on one shoulder.

The gate's hinges squealed. He took her hand, warm in his, and walked with her through the March noontime. Ahead, the mile of Gransha Point bent crookedly into the ruffled waters of Strangford Lough. The south wind made his hair dance on the collar of his denim jacket. The breeze pushed small whitecaps against the shore, and waves rocked the tidemark of bladder wrack and kelp. A rusted oil drum riding high on the rising tide scraped and clanged on the stones. Overhead, a flight of ducks beat into the wind, sunlight shining from the green of the drakes' heads.

“Mallard,” he said. She seemed uninterested. He pointed at another flock of small, busy birds strutting like avian marionettes along the shoreline, dun-coloured, long sharp bills probing in the weed. “Those are dunlin. Watch.” He clapped his hands. The flock rose, wheeling and darting in unison like a wisp of blown smoke. “Pretty, aren't they?”

He turned to her. “My da used to bring me here when I was wee.” He could picture his father standing, shotgun crooked over one arm, shaking his head, saying, “How many times have I to tell you, pick a bird; don't blaze away at the whole flock?” Marcus bent and plucked at the top of a grass tuft. “I'd come down on my own when I was older, whenever I wanted to get away from Bangor.” He decided not to tell her he had been a keen wildfowler. He knew Siobhan would not approve. “I've always loved the quiet of the lough and the birds.”

Siobhan said, “I didn't know you were a bird fancier.”

“Indeed, I am. And not just the ones with feathers.”

She tried to pull her hand from his. “I am not a ‘bird,' nor a ‘chick.'”

He wouldn't release her hand. “No, you're not. I'm sorry.”

He led her over the sea grass, past a peat-brown pool. He could see the Mourne Mountains, cloud capped, sombre where the clouds' shadows fell. Between the mountains and Gransha, islands lay green and lapped by waters as blue as the painted Plasticine he had once seen beneath a ship in a bottle. Blue as her eyes.

Ahead, a rough heap of stones made a lee. He remembered sitting beside it with his father, drinking lemonade and watching shelducks flying. He set the rucksack down, took the blanket from her, and spread it on the turf beside the rock pile, “So? Do you like it?”

“Yes,” she said. The sunlight was caught by her eyes, her hair—sapphires and burnished gold.

“I thought you would.” The words caught in his throat as he looked at her. “Come on. Sit down.” He sat on the rug and held his hand up to her, taking hers and pulling her beside him, seeing the smallness of her feet in flat-heeled shoes, the tautness of her legs under the black stretch fabric as she sat, legs tucked, and he thought of the tail of a mermaid.

“This is what Ulster should be like,” she said, “beautiful and peaceful. Why do people want to spoil it? Thank you for bringing me.” She kissed him, but her kiss was perfunctory.

Perhaps she was still upset that he had called her a bird. He leaned toward her, but she moved away, reaching for the rucksack. He sat back and waited until she opened the satchel and pulled out greaseproof-paper-wrapped bundles. “Ham with lots of mustard. Cheese and tomato. Hard-boiled eggs. Apples. And”—her eyes widened as she produced the bottle of wine—“Pommard?”

“Same one we had at the Causerie.” As he leaned across her to find the plastic glasses, he smelled her perfume, sweet against the salt of the day. “Presto.” He produced the glasses and a Swiss Army knife, took the bottle from her, drew the cork, and poured. “You're quiet today,” he said.

She took the glass and sipped. “Here.” She handed him a ham sandwich and took the other herself, biting into it, chewing. He watched the lines of her throat moving as she chewed and swallowed. “Come on. Eat up.”

He ate, all the while watching her, puzzling over her silence, as curlews cried overhead and the breeze blew to him the nectar scent of the whin flowers.

*   *   *

She wrapped the empty wine bottle in the sandwich papers and pushed it back into the bag. “I feel much better now.” She smiled and stood, brushing white bread crumbs from her black pants. Marcus rose, relieved to see her smile. She was half a head shorter, and he had to bend to find her lips.

He held her, kissing her mouth, her eyes, her hair. He stroked her hair, soft beneath his fingers. He unzipped the front of her anorak as she stood, head bowed, and he felt her breast beneath his palm.

She turned her head from him, leaning it against his chest. “Mike.”

He held her at arms' length and looked into her blue eyes. He saw them mist, the early tears turning the sapphires to opals.

“What's the matter?”

She shook her head, ponytail swinging. “You,” she said, “and the stupid things you do.”

“What? What stupid things?”

“God, Mike, you were great on Tuesday, getting those people into the clear, but then you said you'd have to think over whether or not you still wanted to find out about the Provos.”

“Maybe,” he said, knowing he was lying. “Maybe that wouldn't be such a good idea.”

“It's not just that. Did you have to be a hero last night?”

“In the pub?”

“Yes. In the stupid pub. Dad told me what you did.”

“But…”

“No ‘buts.' You could have been killed.”

“Come on. That was just like what I do for a living in Alberta.”

“I know that.” He saw her tears fall through her smile and wiped them away as she said, “Mike, I'm sorry. It's just—”

“Just what?”

She closed her eyes. “Mike, I could fall in love with a man like you, but I couldn't bear wondering every time he went out the door if I'd ever see him again.”

“But it's not like that.”

Her tears flowed. “But it will be.”

“What are you talking about?”

He heard a shrillness in her voice. “You want to meet someone in the Provos?”

Marcus's breath caught. He nodded, as a cloud veiled the sun's face and cast its shadow over Gransha Point.

“Dad's arranging for you to see somebody tomorrow.” She pulled away.

“Come on. I'm just going to meet someone. Talk to them.”

“About the Troubles. Did you not see enough on Tuesday?”

“That was different.”

“No, it wasn't. I hate the violence. I don't care about a united Ireland. I don't give a damn about Catholics and Protestants. I wouldn't care if you were a Protestant. I wouldn't care if you were a general in the British army…”

God, if she was serious it might not be as difficult as he had anticipated, once his mission was over, to explain to her why he had been pretending to be another man. “Do you mean that?”

She shook her head. “It doesn't matter. You want to meet the Provos.”

“But—” His mind was as troubled as the waters frothing against the shore.

“You'll meet them, you'll join them, and you'll be as evil as the rest of them. I want to love a man who does his job—not who fights a holy war. You saw what happened on Tuesday. Is that what you want?” She moved away from him and stood staring out over the lough. “I want to love you, Mike Roberts. I want to, but I can't.”

 

THIRTY-SEVEN

MONDAY, APRIL 1

Belfast Waterworks lies off the Antrim Road, near New Lodge. There are two reservoirs, disused since the water from the Silent Valley in the Mournes started to provide for Belfast's needs. Few people went there, except for some hardy water-polo players who thrashed in the frigid ponds on summer evenings. At break and lunchtime and after school, small knots of boys from Belfast Royal Academy, recognizable by their maroon and navy caps, would huddle against a hedge, furtively smoking. It was a good and private place.

Davy waited on a bench, watching the rain circles and rings meeting and overlapping on the oily surface of the pond. He remembered a day Da had taken him here. It had been raining and Da said the sky was crying for Ireland.

Jimmy should be here soon. He'd been bubbling with excitement yesterday morning, telling Davy how Roberts, the man he'd mentioned the night before, had defused a bomb in the pub. Jimmy was certain that if Davy wanted to know about Semtex, Roberts could tell him. He was bringing him here.

Davy hunched his shoulders. It was a grand day for ducks, but the rain was seeping through the fabric of his new raincoat—the old one had gone into the rubbish—and his leg throbbed. He looked out over the water and saw two men walking quickly around the granite-block banks of the reservoir. That looked like Jim, raincoat collar turned up, duncher pulled down. The other man was taller than Jimmy. Long dark hair, funny-looking moustache, the kind favoured by some of the younger Active Service lads. His jeans were dark from the rain and he wore a bright red windcheater.

Jimmy stopped in front of the bench. “How's about ye?”

“Rightly.”

“This here's Mike Roberts. Lad I was telling you about.”

The younger man smiled and offered his hand. “Pleased to meet you.”

Davy took the hand, noting its softness. “Oil man, are you?”

“That's right.”

“Where?”

“Alberta.”

“Hands is very soft.” Davy kept his gaze fixed on Roberts's eyes.

The lad laughed. “I'm a specialist. Explosives.”

“That's right,” Jimmy added. “Your man here knows all about Semtex, so he does. You should have seen him on Saturday night.”

Davy looked up at Jimmy. “Sit down and shut up like a good lad.” Davy turned back to the man who called himself Roberts. “Defused something, did you?”

“Aye.”

“You'd've been better off to run.”

“You're right.”

Davy detected a note of sincerity but said, “Aye. Well.” He saw how Roberts stood, shoulders hunched to the rain, but otherwise relaxed. Roberts seemed innocent, but Davy was not taking any chances. “I'm going to ask you a few questions.”

“Fair enough.”

“Where do you live?”

“Robina Street.”

“You're from Northern Ireland?”

“Bangor.”

“Where'd you live there?”

“Victoria Road. Number 4.”

“Semi?”

“Not at all, them's all big tall terrace houses.”

“Are you a Catholic?”

“No. I'm a fucking Hottentot.” Roberts grinned and crossed himself. “Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord be with Thee; Blessed art Thou amongst women, and blessed is the fruit of Thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, mother of God, pray for us sinners—”

“—now and at the hour of our death.” Davy finished the line. “Son, I never seen you in my life. Jimmy here thinks I can trust you. He says you want to meet the Provos.”

“I do.”

Davy stood. He was only an inch taller than Roberts. “Well, if you do, sit you there beside Jimmy and answer the questions.”

The young man sat, one shoulder facing his interrogator, legs crossed, arms folded, looking up warily from under his wet donkey fringe.

Davy began. “What's the difference between guhr dynamite and straight dynamite?”

“Guhr dynamite has an inactive base. Straight dynamite has an active base. Forty percent straight dynamite's forty-percent nitro, forty-four-percent sodium nitrate, fifteen-percent wood pulp, and one-percent calcium carbonate.”

“That's right.”

“Jesus, mister. It's the first thing they taught me.”

Jimmy held up a finger. “I told you he knows explosives.”

“Whist, Jim.” Davy ignored Jimmy's spluttering. “What's the minimum initiating charge for TNT?”

“Fulminate or hexamethylene triperoxide diamine?”

“Fulminate.”

“Zero-point-two-six grams. If it has a reinforcing cap.”

Davy recognized the man's knowledge of these conventional explosives was as good as his own, but the Security Forces might have trained an infiltrator in the making of unconventional charges, too. “Suppose you had some nitric acid, sulphfuric acid, and some methyl alcohol, could you get an explosive out of that?”

“Dead easy.”

Davy stiffened. “How?”

Roberts flipped his hair aside and grinned. “I'd give it to a bloke like you and ask him to make me a bomb. For God's sake, mister, how the hell would I know? We buy our stuff. We don't fucking well make it.”

Davy saw Jimmy laughing and could not help laughing himself. Maybe the lad was on the level.

“Say your name was Mike?”

“Aye.”

“All right, Mike. Why do you want to meet someone in the Provos?”

“It's kinda hard to explain. I grew up in Northern Ireland. I never thought much about politics, but I never got used to getting the shitty end of the stick because we were ‘Fenians.' It wasn't much fucking joy being a Catholic at a Protestant school.”

Davy saw how the youngster's lip curled. “Go on.”

“My da took us to Canada. Do you know, it didn't matter if you were Catholic or Protestant there. No one gave a shit. It was great.”

“That would be nice.”

“Aye. But, you know, you miss your own. Them Canadians have no sense of humour. I sorta stuck with the rest of the Irish lads. I met a fellow from Monaghan. He said he was in the IRA before he emigrated.”

“Go on.”

“He told me all about why he'd fought to free Ulster. I thought he talked a lot of sense. Sounded exciting, what he did. He'd to run because someone thought that the Brits had sussed him out. I thought I'd come and see for myself. Get it from the horse's mouth, like.”