The White Tower (13 page)

‘You don't have to believe me. Phone up. Find out for yourself. Bridget's father spoils her, but the receptionist has a mind of her own.'

The gracious host, firmly in control, Fallon led the way back to his shop and extended his hand towards the telephone. ‘Please. It'll cost a wee fortune to call from your hotel.'

I gritted my teeth against his sarcasm, snatching at the phone. My hand shook as I listened to it ring, then asked for Bridget Connell.

There was a slight pause before a smooth English voice replied, ‘I'm sorry, but we have no one of that name working here. We have a Mr Frank Connell. Would you like me to put you through to him?'

‘No, thank you.'

Fallon leant back against the computer table and crossed his feet in front of him. He looked infuriatingly relaxed.

‘Bridget was the longest-running player wasn't she?' I asked him. ‘After Niall.'

Fallon nodded.

‘She was loyal to both of you.'

‘Up to a point.'

‘You're trying to make a fool of me,' I said, ‘because you think that way you'll get rid of me. You'll intimidate me and make me look stupid and then I'll leave. It won't work. Intimidation just makes me dig my heels in.'

Fallon laughed. ‘Is that an Australian character trait?'

‘I would have thought it was an Irish one.'

‘May I make a suggestion? Whatever you think of me, think about this. The name
Castle of Heroes
is taken from Yeats, and some of the ideas, but physically my castle was modelled on a real one, on Dunluce. I'd like to show you Dunluce as it's meant to be seen. Will you let me do that?'

‘When?'

‘How about tomorrow morning?'

. . .

Though I'd been looking forward to it, I was scarcely aware of my surroundings as I walked to the end of the street and took the path that led down to the ocean. In the half light of the evening before, I'd thought the path went more or less straight down, and had been prepared for a scramble, but now I realised that it sloped gradually, following a contour of the basalt cliff. Getting down would take longer than I'd thought, and I was already feeling hungry.

The sea was iron grey, as was the sky above it, but there was little wind and it wasn't really cold. The path was narrow and I concentrated on not losing my footing. It took me about twenty minutes to reach a large sign, a red on white warning that bathing was unsafe, above the last slope to the beach. I wondered what the summer tourists did. There was sand, but it was coarse and muddy looking. Sea-scoured rocks covered most of the beach. Close up, the waves were huge, and so monochrome and regular that they seemed solid, not made of water at all, but some new form of plastic.

Ahead of me, a dog was taking itself for a walk, dashing at the shorebreak, then madly backing off, barking at the waves. From a distance, the dog could almost have been Fred, but Fred wouldn't have shown that much energy or initiative unless there was a promise of food at the end of it.

As a child I'd learnt to pretend, to perform, no matter how I was feeling, and I took this for a commonplace that everybody learnt, and could put into practice when they chose. I would never be a good actor, but I understood the principles. How could I have been so wrong about Bridget Connell? And was I wrong about her? I wouldn't put it past Fallon to have bribed the receptionist to lie to me.

I knew now why Bridget's face had seemed about to break into a grin. It was complicity, the knowing smile of a fellow deceiver. She'd known I wasn't who I said I was, and she'd been waiting for me to catch up with her and share the joke.

Ivan had warned me that the trip would be a waste of time. He knew the sorts of people Bridget and Sorley Fallon were likely to be, people who delighted in game playing—well, that much I could have worked out for myself—but also people for whom secrets, aliases, were crucial, not an aspect of behaviour they could take or leave.

Fallon was a young man. I put his age at somewhere around twenty-eight, certainly no more than thirty-one or two. His way of life seemed unusual for a man of his age and looks. He'd known I was coming, and had prepared his story with its literary references and hard to swallow conclusions. I wondered if it would have been better to turn up unannounced. What would Fallon have done if I'd dropped out of the sky and surprised him?

Even as I was thinking this, I knew I couldn't have done it. I could never have got on the plane without a meeting already arranged. I thought of Moira, how she'd kissed me on the cheek, looking proud and hopeful as she'd said good luck.

The other reason I didn't think it would have worked for me to try to catch Sorley Fallon by surprise was that I suspected this was next to impossible. His self control ran so deep that it was scarcely touched by my appearance, even less by my ham-fisted questions. I wished I was a better interviewer. Maybe there was some course I could take when I got home.

Say Niall had been helping to raise money for a militant republican group, and Fallon was involved. Say Niall had said or done something that made Fallon angry, and Fallon had retaliated. Perhaps Niall had been expelled from the group, for which the execution of Ferdia had been meant as a symbolic warning. But even if all this was correct, where did it take me? Where could I go from here?

. . .

I rang Bridget Connell's number from the B&B.

‘Good one,' I said when she came on the line.

She laughed, a youthful, happy laugh, delighted to have fooled me. ‘What did you think of him?'

‘Charming,' I said. ‘A perfect Irish gentleman. How do you get away with it?'

‘At the factory? To tell you the truth—'

‘Yes?'

‘It bores me now.'

‘The bird car's nice.'

‘Isn't it though? You know, I didn't make any of that up.'

‘It had a certain ring. Tell me about Niall and Dr Fenshaw.'

‘Niall really didn't spell anything out, just that there was a problem at work and he was upset and worried.'

‘What else was worrying him?'

A long silence, then Bridget said, ‘He thought someone was stalking him on the MUD.'

‘Who?'

‘The stalker kept changing his character.'

‘You recognised the same person behind different characters?'

‘Niall said it was. Poor guy, he got so spooked. I watched his back for him. We worked a buddy system. It made him feel better for a while.'

‘Did you think he was imagining it?'

‘He had some idea who it was. Then everything blew up. Fallon went ballistic and announced that execution. I quit and told Niall he should too. I thought he was going to.'

‘What about the stalker?'

‘I saw him off a few times. He had different handles. Blacksnake was one.'

‘That sounds Australian.'

‘I did try and watch Ferd's back for him,' Bridget said. ‘Everything was such a mess.'

. . .

Fallon said, ‘You know, the name Dunluce is Irish for fort. There's been a fort here since the tenth century.'

Setting out, he assured me that the castle was by far the best viewed on foot from the coast path, rather than the road.

‘You're in for a treat Sandra.' He swallowed the a's in my name. In the clear light of the morning, he seemed relaxed and open to any questions I might ask, chatting about the Antrim coast and the MacDonnell clan who'd owned Dunluce for centuries.

I felt myself slipping underneath a border, not a strong stark one, a cliff face, but milder, a creek bank maybe. On one side was the pleasure of this unusual young man's company. I did not like to think what was on the other. Apart from small birds, we were alone on the cliff path, but instead of letting this make me anxious, I decided to enjoy the sun on the grass, the cliffs and view of the sea.

‘How did you feel about women players?' I asked, thinking once again of Bridget.

‘Maeve, Queen of Connaght, was a woman, Cuchulain's greatest foe and a match for him in cunning if not bravery.'

‘How did you feel about Bridget playing an island warrior?'

‘Well now,' Fallon smiled. ‘I thought she was just right for it.'

The ocean looked completely different. Instead of forbidding, solid-seeming walls of grey, it was blue and far enough below us to seem like something out of a travel documentary. It reminded me a little of the southern coast of Victoria, around Port Campbell. The wind was cold and I was glad I'd worn a jacket. The sky was blue as well, with a line of clouds close to the horizon.

Bridget might have rung Fallon after I'd spoken to her. They might have discussed how best to deal with me. I reminded myself how little I knew about these people, their allegiances and loyalties. They obviously thought lying to me would be easy. But maybe that wasn't such a bad thing. Maybe one of them would get too smart.

‘You know Sandra, it's no shame to kill or be killed by a Hero,' Fallon said.

I didn't want to rehash the peculiar ethics of his MUD. We could spar back and forth for days about it without getting anywhere.

He continued in a hard voice, ‘I built the Castle. I ran it. No one
had
to play.'

We walked in silence for a while. The path became narrower, stony. I let Fallon take the lead.

‘I must say after meeting you I'm curious,' he said. ‘You don't seem like the crusading type.'

‘Crusading?'

‘I'd pictured you as a do-gooder.'

‘I feel sorry for Moira Howley, Niall's mother.'

‘And that's all?'

‘Actually, it's quite a lot.'

I stayed a few steps behind Fallon, not that, if he planned to push me over the edge, it would make a difference. The path, which had been wide enough for two people to walk side by side when we started out, narrowed gradually until it was barely wide enough for one. Mentally, I measured the distance between myself and the cliff edge. One step off the path, another, then nothing but sweet air.

I glanced back the way we'd come, to the small, enclosed fields. I put out my hand to steady myself, feeling underneath it crumbling dirt, the ever-present basalt.

I said, ‘Any number of players could have been dialling up from Canberra.'

Fallon didn't argue the point. He lifted his eyes to the horizon. ‘Around the next curve and we'll see it. You're lucky it's a fine day. I've been up here in the rain and fog. All weathers.'

‘Niall claimed he was being followed, stalked.'

Fallon was still looking out over the sea. It seemed that he answered reluctantly. ‘It was an action MUD. One of the things it was
about
was being followed, chased, and killed.'

‘Whoever was harassing Niall might have had a purpose outside the MUD.'

Fallon repeated, ‘If he didn't like it he could have left.'

‘Why did
you
like it?'

‘Because it gave a purpose and a shape to life.'

We drew near enough to make out Dunluce's tower and gatehouse, the battered wall that was a continuation of the cliffs, protecting the buildings behind it from storms and savage winds. Under a clear sky, the castle looked benign, though it was easy to imagine its outline barely visible through fog, its grey stone struck by storm.

‘Can we go inside?'

‘Of course. It's open all year round.'

The entrance was right at the back and it took us a while to get there. We paid our admission to a bored-looking young woman who said hello to Fallon.

I would have been glad for him to stay and talk to her—indeed, I would have liked nothing better than to be left to wander around on my own—but after explaining to the woman, who looked amused to hear it, that he was showing the local attractions to his Australian visitor, he guided me with him through the turnstile.

The castle buildings covered so large an area that the outer wall might once have enclosed and protected a whole village. We crossed mounds of shockingly green grass, passed bits of walls with signs explaining what they'd once been attached to.

Fallon said, ‘You can't get onto the outer wall. It isn't safe.'

‘Well then'—I glanced at him to see how serious he was—‘I'll get as close to it as I can.'

I was feeling strangely detached from everything, from the ruins, the history. I was glad of the cold breeze around my ears keeping me alert, pleased to find that there were few other sightseers.

Fallon had told me as we were leaving the village that I should take my time, that he had all day if I did, as though what he wished me to see and understand could not be rushed.

A fence about twenty metres from the outer wall warned visitors to go no further. I climbed over it. With a grunt of annoyance, Fallon did the same.

Close up, the outer wall was obviously not in good nick at all. Parts of it were okay, enough to give a solid impression from a distance, but many stones had fallen, and it looked as though the next big storm might send great chunks of it crashing into the sea.

I walked to the edge and looked down. There wasn't a single bush, no vegetation other than grass and lichens. Closer to the ocean, there was only rock, a sheer drop.

Fallon stood a couple of metres behind me. I put out my hand and ran it along one of the stones that had become dislodged, nudging it to see how much it would take to send it careering downwards.

‘Why did you want me to come here?' I asked.

Fallon walked right up to me and laid his hand on the same stone, not as I had done, out of curiosity, and to gauge its remaining strength. It seemed an act, a reminder, of possession.

‘Who told you another player was stalking Ferdia?' he asked.

‘Bridget Connell.'

‘I thought we'd established Bridget is a liar.'

‘That doesn't mean she can't decide to tell the truth. And Niall, the more I learn about him, the more he strikes me as a truthful person.'