This Irish House (19 page)

Liam didn't bother to call before knocking on the door of Deirdre's room at Queen's. She was family, after all, and he knew her schedule of classes. She was free for the rest of the morning. Laughter greeted him, and a muffled, “You're early. Come in. I'm not quite ready.”

“It's Liam,” he said, turning the knob and stepping inside.

Deirdre poked her head out of the bathroom. “Uncle Liam. I wasn't expecting you. I'll be out in a minute.”

He sat down on a chair and perused the bookshelves. His formal education was sketchy but, characteristic of his race, he was a reader. The greats were here, Yeats, Fitzgerald, Swift, O'Casey and Wilde, but there were new ones as well, O'Flaherty, Behan, Heaney. As much as Deirdre protested the requirements of her liberal arts education, she was well-read.

Sporting a hint of perfume, Deirdre walked out of the bathroom, hair shining and straight with a hint of red in the rich brown length. She kissed Liam's cheek. “Is everything all right?”

“Nothing's changed, if that's what you mean,” replied Liam coming right to the point. “But I've a few questions to ask you, lass.”

Deirdre looked surprised. “What kind of questions?”

“It appears that your brother's situation is something of a mystery.”

Deirdre whitened. “Has something happened to Kevin?”

“You know that he's been released.”

She nodded. “Mum told me.”

“Did she tell you anything else?”

“What do you mean?”

Liam leaned forward. “The thing is, Deirdre, your uncle Dom feels it's a bit odd for Kevin to have been sentenced the way he was, without bail or exceptions, and then released so suddenly. What do you think?”

Deirdre's brow wrinkled. “I'm grateful. I haven't thought about that part at all.”

“Do you know anything about his situation?”

She hesitated.

Liam sensed she was hedging. He smiled warmly, persuasively. “Your mother came to us and asked for help. It won't be easy if we know nothing.”

Deirdre sat down on the edge of her bed. “All I know is that Kevin has been experimenting with drugs for some time now. I've tried to talk to him but he won't listen.”

“He's not alone.”

“I think it's more than that. I think he's been selling them.”

“Why would he do that?”

Deirdre shrugged. “Money.”

“Why does Kevin need money?”

“I don't think he
needs
money, Uncle Liam. It's more than that. Something isn't right with Kevin. Nothing's really been right for us since—”

A knock on the door interrupted them. Deirdre jumped up. Her cheeks were flushed. “It's my friend. We were going out.”

Liam stood. “I'll be leaving.”

Again the knock sounded.

Deirdre hesitated.

“Aren't you going to answer the door, lass?”

Deirdre opened her mouth and closed it again without saying anything. She crossed the room and flung open the door. A young man Liam recognized walked into the room. It was the lad from the pub.

“Hello, again,” Liam said.

The boy reached out to shake his hand. “It's a pleasure to see you again.”

“I don't recall your name.”

“Peter Clarke.”

This time the name rang a bell. “Where are you from, Peter?”

“Belfast.”

“Where in Belfast?”

“Stranmillis Road.”

There were only a few Catholic families on the trendy Stranmillis Road and Liam knew all of them. “Where did you go to secondary school?”

The boy's cheeks were as red as Deirdre's but his voice was firm and clear and exactly what Liam expected. “The Benedict Academy.”

“Is your da Geoffrey Clarke?”

“Aye.”

Across the tension-filled room Liam's eyes met Deirdre's. She glared back at him defiantly. Maintaining eye contact with his niece, Liam spoke. “I haven't kept up. Is your da still with the RUC?”

The Adam's apple in the boy's throat jumped. “Aye.”

Liam walked out the open door. “Enjoy your morning. I'll be seeing you soon, Deirdre.”

Neither Peter nor Deirdre answered.

Liam took the stairs slowly. He had much to think about. Deirdre was seeing a Protestant and Kevin was a drug peddler. It still didn't explain everything. He wondered how much Kate knew and, if it was as much as he thought, how she was managing.
Still
waters,
Patrick had called her. The term was appropriate. What would Dominick think? Liam tried to imagine his brother's reaction. Dominick would reach conclusions that Liam would never consider.

* * *

Deirdre waited by the window until she saw her uncle crossing the green. Then she turned on the boy standing in rigid silence behind her. “Did you have to tell him?”

He didn't pretend to misunderstand her. “Did you want me to lie?”

“Yes.”

“I'm not willing to do that, Deirdre, not for you or anyone.”

Deirdre pressed her hands together to stop their shaking. “He knows. He'll tell my mother and then every-thing will be ruined.”

“Why?”

Her eyes flashed. “Are you really that naive, Peter?”

“I don't consider myself naive at all. I'm just not willing to let this Catholic-Protestant thing rule my life.”

“You're not just a
Protestant,
Peter. Your father is an RUC constable. He's probably arrested members of my family.”

“I won't apologize for my father. He's a good man.”

“Is he an Orangeman?”

Peter looked embarrassed. “Aye.”

Her lip curled. “I thought so. All RUC arrests of Catholics are a sham.”

“Do you think Protestant arrests are also a sham?”

“It isn't the same.”

“Why not?”

“There is no reason to arrest Protestants unless they commit crimes. It's different for us. They hate us because we're Catholic.”

His fists clenched. “You've been brainwashed, Deirdre. If you really believe that, and if you're typical of the Catholic population, there is no hope for us.”

She smiled sadly. “In our eyes, there are no good men in the RUC.”

“I'm not my father, Deirdre. I have no control over what he does.”

She was very white and very resolved. “This isn't going to work, Peter. I'm sorry. You'll have to leave now.”

He stared at her. “What are we doing that is so unacceptable? We have fun together. We talk. We study. Is that so wrong?”

She wet her lips and wondered how to explain and whether it was even worthwhile to do so. Peter was kind and decent. He deserved an accounting. “My father's murder was never investigated. The RUC said there was no evidence. My mother, my brother and I witnessed his murder.” Her eyes filled. The pain gathered in her throat choking her words. “They shot him down in front of us and then, for good measure, while he was bleeding all over the floor, they shot him again in the head.”

Peter groaned. “I'm sorry. More than anything I wish it hadn't happened to you but I'm not responsible. The people I know would never do such a thing. They would want the murderers to be found.”

“The RUC don't want them found. They told us there was nothing we could do.”

“Don't do this, Deirdre,” Peter pleaded. “I thought we were friends.”

“No,” she said. “We're not.” She stood there, a slight, straight figure, waging a battle with circumstances for which she was no match.

K
ate drew on the lip of the inhaler, sucked the mist deeply into her lungs, counted to twenty and waited for the familiar rush to ease the tightness in her chest. It happened more often, lately, this closing of her air passages, the bands of tension tightening around her middle until she was forced to pull over to the side of the road or sit down in any available seat, scramble for her Ventolin inhaler, ignore the inquiring looks and simply wait until the episode was over.

A finger of light broke through the morning fog and flickered over the Twelve Bens, green with vegetation from spring rains. Perhaps there would be sun today. She stuffed the inhaler into the pocket of her windbreaker, pulled out her gloves and jogged down the sidewalk to the path leading toward the beach. She'd taken a break and returned to Ardara, hoping that a night spent in her own bed would work its restorative magic, her bed that no longer held any joy, any hope of love or sex or pleasure. She pushed the thought away. Her own problems could wait. Her priority was Kevin. She saw him every day. His visitation was no longer restricted and each time it was harder for her to leave. He was so pathetically grateful to see her. She couldn't bear to disappoint him. Today her father would be there. She had taken advantage of the opportunity and come home.

Wind whipped at her face reddening her cheeks, bringing tears to her eyes. She'd reached the sand now. Her calves ached. It was harder to move. She increased her pace, felt the bite in her chest, the sting in her thighs. The ocean was slate-gray, the color of the sky. Gulls shrieked and circled the pilings. Something brown leaped against the gray water, a sea lion. Waves crashed. The smells of sea and salt and fish mingled together.

She'd found her pace. Two minutes went by, three, four. She pushed herself steadily forward, lifting first one foot, heavy with morning fatigue and straining muscles, and then the other, forcing herself, harder and harder for the elusive feeling that had become her addiction. Despite the cold, perspiration gathered on her forehead, on the back of her neck, in the valley of her breasts. Then she felt it, first in tiny trickles, then a wave, rising, cresting, falling and, finally, a rushing stream of lightness, a wellness of being, a euphoria. It swept over her, through her, filling her, an affirmation, a reassurance that she would manage, that Kevin would recover, that Patrick's murderers would be brought to justice, that Deirdre would lose the brittle veneer that prevented her from trusting anyone other than those blood-related.

Kate reached the dock. Gasping, she slowed to a stop, pressed her hand against her side and bent over from the waist. Six miles. She felt empowered. Today she would return all of the calls on her voice mail. Today she would ring the prime minister and demand to be told exactly what was happening with Patrick's investigation. Another thought swam up out of nowhere. Today she would find out why her husband had regularly frequented a first-class restaurant in Belfast and why he'd never bothered to mention it, he who mentioned everything.

Dominick was a full fifteen minutes early for his visit with Kevin. The same man from the day before led him through a long hallway to a sitting room with two couches facing each other. A patterned area rug, a wooden mantel with carved animals and misty prints of spring in Connemara were the only decorative touches. Otherwise the room was empty.

“I'll tell Kevin you're here,” the man said and disappeared down the hallway.

Dominick sat down on one of the couches and looked at his watch. One minute ticked by. He drummed his fingers on the small end table, his thoughts on what he needed to accomplish later that day.

Footsteps sounded on the floorboards. He looked up to see his nephew standing uncertainly in the doorway.

“Uncle Dominick?” The words came out like a question.

“Aye, it's me, lad. How are you doing?”

“I'm grand,” the boy stammered. “What are you doing here?”

“Your mum said you were in a bit of trouble. I thought I'd come and see if you needed anything.”

Kevin's face lit with his sudden smile. Dominick's throat burned. The resemblance to Patrick was remarkable, the same cleanly chiseled features, black hair and fair, freckled skin, the same lean height and flashing smile. The world had not deserved Patrick Nolan. Perhaps it was right that he had gone to a better place. Dominick had lost his religion long ago, even before his brother's bloody execution, but he was born and raised a Roman Catholic from the Falls. For generations his ancestors had fought, bled, died and buried their children under the limestone and in the bogs of Ireland for the privilege of practicing that religion. It wasn't something one could easily deny. Dominick understood that. His faith came and went with his moods and just now it had come back to him with a vengeance. What in bloody hell had Patrick's son gotten himself involved in?

Kevin settled in across from him. “I'm glad you came. I was wondering—” He hesitated.

“Go on.”

Kevin looked around. “Do you think they can hear us.?”

Dominick pulled out a cigarette and offered one to his nephew. Kevin declined. Dominick lit the end and slipped the matches back into his pocket. “I don't think so, lad.” He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and lowered his voice. “Is there something you're wanting to tell me?”

The boy swallowed and nodded.

“Start from the beginning.”

Kevin looked at the clock. “We only have an hour.”

“Do what you can.” Dominick's voice was soothing, persuading.

The boy instinctively responded. “He wants me to inform,” the boy blurted out.

“Who does?”

“Mr. Anderson.”

“What's he looking for?”

“Drugs, I think. That's what I'm here for, selling cocaine. They put me in Long Kesh. It was the only way I could get out.”

“Why you?”

Kevin's brow wrinkled, marring the smooth, young skin. “He said there was no one else who could get in, no one new besides me. He said no one would suspect me because of my history and who I was. He thinks the same people who were in the IRA run the drug trade in Belfast.”

“He does, does he?” Dominick watched the flame-lit point of his cigarette and the curl of smoke drifting toward the ceiling. Everything had its own time, its own pace. Deliberately he gentled his voice. “Think very carefully, lad. Did he mention who it is that he wants?”

Kevin's eyes went blue and clear, Patrick's eyes. “He wants you, Uncle Dom, and Liam, too.”

John O'Donnell watched his daughter cross the street at the signal and enter the restaurant. He stood and waved to her from his booth in the corner. She spotted him immediately. “Hello, Da,” she said, kissing his cheek, taking the seat across from him. “Sorry I'm late. How is Kevin, today?”

“I wasn't able to see him. He already had a visitor this morning.”

“Oh?”

“I waited to see who it was.”

Her father was a storyteller. Kate had learned that long ago. There was no point in rushing him.

She pulled a piece of brown bread from the basket and buttered it. There was no brown bread at home. Deirdre and Kevin preferred white.

“He stayed the whole hour, and me shivering in the cold of my car. I started the engine a few times to give myself a bit of the heat.”

“It's not even winter, Da.”

“It's ten degrees, Katie.”

She acknowledged the temperature and gently steered her father back to the point of the conversation. “Who was Kevin's visitor?”

“It was your brother-in-law.”

Kate froze.

Gratified by her obvious surprise, John leaned closer. “It was Dominick Nolan, himself. Now what would he be wanting with our Kevin?”

She lifted the water glass to her lips with shaking hands and feigned a smile. “I don't know. He is Kevin's uncle. Maybe he's worried about him.”

“If he was so worried about any of you, he would have shown his face at any time in the last six years.”

“That's not fair, Da,” Kate protested. “We haven't exactly made him welcome.”

“He's an IRA man, Katie, even now when it isn't necessary and no one approves.”

“My point exactly. Dominick knows we don't approve of him.”

John sipped at his tea.

Kate noticed right away. Her father was the rare Irishman whose stomach rebelled at a second drink but he wouldn't refuse the first one. “Have you given it up completely, Da?”

He nodded. “Drink addles a man, makes him old and spent before his time.”

“Good for you.”

“Never mind about me. What will you do about Kevin?”

The barman called out to them. “The shepherd's pie is tasty today.”

“I'll have fish,” Kate replied.

“The same for me,” echoed her father.

“Two fish plates it is,” the man said disappearing through the double doors. He was both cook and barman when his wife shopped for supplies in Dublin.

Kate crossed her arms and looked at her father. “All I want is for Kevin to come home and be normal. I'm terrified that won't happen. Right now, he's where he needs to be. I can't imagine a better place for him. We have Neil Anderson to thank for that.”

“The policeman?” John swore under his breath. “How can you even think that way, Katie?”

“Because it's true. We certainly weren't getting anywhere with Kevin.” Her voice shook. “He was involved in a shooting, Da. He could have been killed or paralyzed for life. Our Kevin. Whatever I thought was bothering him was nothing compared with this. Isn't that ironic? I see children like Kevin every day and I couldn't recognize the signs in my own son.”

He patted her hand. “Don't kick yourself, Katie. You've been a good and loving mother. This isn't your fault.”

“It's someone's fault, Da. Not every child goes down this path.”

“No, they don't. Deirdre didn't.”

Kate smiled. “You're trying to cheer me up and I thank you. But Deirdre isn't likely to have Kevin's problems. They're completely different people. Besides, Deirdre has her own demons to shake. I wonder if she'll ever have a normal life.”

“Because of what happened to Patrick?”

Kate nodded.

John turned his water glass around on the wooden table. “How is the investigation coming along?” he asked casually.

“It isn't.”

“Perhaps it's better this way.”

His words stung. She turned on him. “How can you say that? Anything is better than not knowing.”

“I'm not so sure.”

“What are you telling me, Da? Patrick's death destroyed my family. Do you think I should just give up without knowing why my husband was the target of an assassination team?”

“You already know that, Katie. Patrick worked with the IRA. He defended criminals, murderers, and he defended them successfully. More than a few wanted to see him dead.”

“He wasn't the only defense attorney for the IRA.”

John was silent. There was only so much he could say. Kate would find her way without him. She was closer than she'd ever been. He knew it would bring her great pain, but in the pain would come healing, for herself and her children.

Kate sat in the leather chair of what was once Patrick's home office and stared at the telephone. Hers was an old argument, one she had with Patrick too many times to count. He was loyal to his family while she wanted no part of Dominick Nolan's politics or the entire Nolan family.
You
did
ask
him
for
help,
a voice in her head reminded her. Fairness demanded that she give him a chance to explain. She picked up the phone and dialed the number of the Sinn Fein office in Belfast.

“Dominick Nolan, please.”

“I'm sorry,” a pleasant female voice replied. “There is no one by that name here.”

“This is his sister-in-law, Kate Nolan.”

Instantly the voice changed. “One moment, Mrs. Nolan. I'll see where he can be reached.”

Kate punched in the numbers the woman gave her. This time Dominick answered.

She came right to the point. “I understand you visited my son this morning.”

“Good afternoon, Kate. It's grand to hear from you.”

His voice was cool, amused, superior.

“You haven't seen Kevin in years, Dominick. Why now?”

“I was concerned about my nephew. Don't forget it was you who came to me.”

“The situation has changed. He's no longer in prison.”

“Obviously.” Now the voice was sarcastic, hard. “I wondered why you didn't bother to tell me of the change in his circumstances.”

“There wasn't time.” Even she recognized the pathetic nature of her excuse.

“There was time enough for other things, wasn't there, Kate?”

The pounding started in her chest and moved to her throat, her temples, the tips of her fingers. “I'm not sure what you're talking about,” she stammered.

“Your job makes it difficult to understand which side you're on. Does being the police ombudsman mean you're required to break bread with them, even the one who set up your son, my brother's son?”

The ringing in her ears drowned out his words. “Are you having me followed, Dominick?”

“I'm not that interested in you, Kathleen. But you are something of a celebrity here in Belfast. When you dine at an expensive restaurant with an Englishman who makes his living as an expert in terrorist operations, you'll be noticed.”

She swallowed. “Tell me how he set up my son.”

Without sparing her any of the details, he told her.

Kate carried her teacup to the breakfast room where the skylight picked up the last lingering rays of sunlight, bathing the room in a lemony haze. The windows faced the sea. The furniture was warm oak, the plants perennially green, the temperature a lovely sixty-five degrees. She sat down at the table and stared out into the late afternoon.