Twisted Agendas (8 page)

“Ma’am, do ya know how we get to the debatin’ chamber that’s on C-Span?” A man in pointy-toed cowboy boots asked, his wife in a pink tracksuit standing beside
him.

“No clue.” She turned back toward the vacating line of children. “Wait for teacher, please.”

Outside, three policemen stood chatting near the vaulted entrance, their Victorian-era helmets and submachine guns they carried a study in contradiction. She passed them, looking straight ahead.
Deciding it prudent not to use the nearest tube station, Piper limped off at a leisurely pace bound for Waterloo station that lay across the river. Though she removed her shoes, hoisted her skirt
and jogged across Westminster Bridge as soon as she reached it.

Piper cooked what she referred to as ‘comfort food’, a batch of minced beef shaped like a loaf that she served with buttered sweetcorn and mashed potatoes. Her
lodger Pat was also present. Now they’d spent some time together, Danny found him friendly and intelligent though the circumstances of their introduction were never far from his mind.

After eating, they went into the living room to watch the news. Following a segment about a proposed congestion charge for central London, a report followed about a security breach at
Westminster. With the parliament building serving as a backdrop, a Metropolitan police inspector stated they had no further information about the identity of the woman who’d come to Doctor
Paisley’s office masquerading as an American journalist. When probed further by the journalist, the policeman admitted it could have been an assassination attempt by the Real IRA.

“The Provos should have got him years ago,” Pat said, his lips curled in disgust. “With the elections looming, I bet Paisley’s blowing this whole thing up just to get out
of living up to his part of the bargain once the IRA decommission their arms.” He sat back on the sofa. “The Provos should never have agreed to disarm.”

A crude sketch of the suspect with slicked back hair, pert nose and a sullen expression flashed on the screen. Piper edged forward in her seat and peered intently at the screen.

“That doesn’t look like me, right?” she said.

Pat laughed.

“I’m serious. It’s me who went to see him.”

Pat slapped his thighs. “You’re quite a joker.”

Danny smiled. “You know, there is a similarity.” He winked at Pat.

“Are you serious?” Piper asked, her face full of concern.

The phone rang, and Danny answered it. “It’s Todd.” He held out the phone.

“She’s a card, eh?” Pat said.

“She is that.”

As they watched the rest of the news, Danny heard Piper say she was going to dye her hair as a precaution in case the sketch appeared in the newspapers. Pat’s brow furrowed and he looked
at Danny.

“You weren’t coddin’,” Pat said, after Piper hung up.

“No, but offing him wasn’t on the agenda.”

Danny couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Just when he’d decided his imagination had been running riot about Piper, that his father’s warnings had made him paranoid.

“More’s the pity,” Pat said.

As Piper explained what had occurred, Danny was incredulous.

“With that sort of nerve, you’d make a hell of a volunteer,” said Pat. “Wouldn’t you agree, Danny?”

“I don’t know anything about that sort of thing.”

“Nor do I.” Pat paused and looked at the television. “Yer tone seems very anti, though.” Pat’s eyes flickered with annoyance or menace. Danny wasn’t sure
which.

“Don’t you approve of what they’ve done through the years?”

Danny’s instinct was to be silent but also felt he was every bit as entitled to state his opinion as Pat. “I think it’s moot, Pat.”

Pat’s eyes changed to slits. “What’s ‘moot’ mean?”

“Pointless,” said Piper.

“Why would you say that?”

“The fighting’s over now. It doesn’t matter what my opinion is... ”

“You fucking hear what this man’s sayin’?” Pat said.

“Don’t get all bent out of shape,” said Piper. “He’s only saying what people are thinking.”

“What kind of man are you anyway?” Pat said, turning back to Danny.

As he rose out of his seat, Danny raised his hands but Pat snatched his jacket off the armrest. “Is the tricolour flying from Belfast City Hall yet?” he asked. “Last time I
saw, it was still the bloody Union Jack.

Pat reminded Danny of some of the bullies at his school. They were so pugnacious, so quick to take offence.

“Hey listen Piper, no more visits to parliament, at least not for a wee while.” He hugged Piper and then smiled at Danny. “That was some dinner she made, wasn’t
it?”

Danny couldn’t answer, he was so amazed at how quickly Pat’s mood had changed.

Though he’d vowed not to look at the shotgun again, Piper’s escapades at Westminster brought Danny’s uneasiness about her back and he wondered if
there’d been a sinister reason for her going there. He knelt and stretched his hand toward the far right corner of the wardrobe where he’d placed the weapon, hoping his fingertips would
feel its smooth metal snout. He felt nothing but the rough grain of the wardrobe. He shifted the bottoms of the dresses, trousers and coats and peered inside. The gun was no longer there.

Saying she needed a break from her revision and as his German course hadn’t yet begun, Piper insisted on taking Danny on what she’d called a ‘tour of
London’s offbeat places.’ After calling at the US Embassy to renew her passport, they’d visited Saint Giles, a quaint church where Oliver Cromwell was married, and paid two pounds
apiece to climb to the top of the Monument so he could see out over the city. They were now standing in front of a three-storey house in Craven Street where the statesman Benjamin Franklin had
lived for sixteen of the eighteen years he’d spent in London.

Throughout the tour, Danny wondered how to bring up the anxiety he felt without insulting her if he was wrong. Standing before the old house afforded him an opportunity.

“Franklin was a revolutionary, wasn’t he?” he said to Piper, who’d now dyed her hair a colour she described as ‘Irish red’. To Danny, it looked the same
colour as an aubergine.

“I think of him as an inventor first.”

He pretended to mull. “Pat a bit of the revolutionary, eh?”

“Hmm. I read in a magazine back home they’re planning to open this house to the public at some point.”

A squadron of pigeons passed over the rooftops on their way to nearby Trafalgar Square.

“I think Pat supports terrorism judging from last night’s comments.”

“Franklin was very friendly with the landlady’s daughter Polly. Apparently he treated her as a second daughter while he lived here. They remained lifelong friends.”

“Do you support terrorism?”

“Polly was at his bedside when he died in Philly.”

“I mean, could you shoot anybody?”

Her deflections were as rude as they were admirable. He’d always found it difficult to turn a tricky conversation, especially with his father. Unsure now how to proceed without getting
angry, Danny glanced across the street while he considered his options. A man in a beautifully cut denim shirt with a yellow Venetian lion on its breast pocket was at the bus stop. He’d seen
the tourist at Saint Giles taking photographs. The man looked up from his newspaper and their eyes locked for an instant, before Danny turned back to Piper.

“You’re avoiding my questions, Piper. Why?”

Her eyes remained fixed on the shiny black front door of the house. “One person’s definition of terrorism is another’s definition of war.”

“Is that something you learned on your course?”

“It’s what I believe.”

“How come you believe that?”

“Well, seeing as we’re at Franklin’s old pad, let’s consider the case of the American patriots first. They didn’t jump on some ship and sail to England to
ask
the King for independence. They knew they’d get their asses thrown in jail. Instead, they raised an army and used guns to fight and make the English understand the colonies wished
to be free. That was war. And it worked. But to the English, it would have been terrorism, except it was called rebellion back then.” She looked about as if checking to see if anyone was
listening, then took a step closer toward him. “Now let’s consider the British occupation of your homeland. The British have tried for years to make the public believe the IRA are
terrorists. But they’re not. They’re a legitimate, disciplined army. They’ve used their guns and bombs to bring the British to the negotiating table.” She paused and looked
hard at him. “And to answer your other question, I’d have no problem shooting somebody in that kind of situation. I think anyone who cares about freedom and justice would agree with
me.” She paused again. “What’s your thinking here?”

He wondered now if she might be in the IRA. There’d been Americans in its ranks in the past. She’d stuffed writings into her bra that she didn’t want the police to see. She
owned a gun. She’d gone to Westminster in search of Paisley. Did he dare ask if she was an IRA volunteer? Did he really want to know? Was he just being paranoid? If he shared what he was
thinking and he was wrong, she’d laugh. He’d be utterly humiliated. Worse, she’d think he was ungrateful, and taking advantage of her kindness.

Horns blared from the traffic circling Trafalgar Square. Two could play the avoidance game.

“My thinking’s you made your hair a bit too red.”

“Who’s avoiding now?”

“You need to tone it down.”

“Opinion or hair?”

After they’d eaten lunch, Piper suggested going to the Three Tuns, a student pub that looked seventies institutional.

“I’ve had class in here,” Piper said, as she set two pints on the table.

“I figured that was a tutorial going on over there.” He nodded toward a corner where five students and a man with silver hair were gathered around two tables.

Five minutes later, Todd entered and walked up to them, his eyes fixed on her hair. “Didn’t recognise you for a sec’.”

“You like?” Piper touched her hair self-consciously.

His eyes cut to Danny and then he turned back to Piper. “I thought you were studying at home today.

“I needed a break.”

Todd set his satchel on the table. “Thought we had a deal, dude.”

Danny looked at him nonplussed. “I’m not sure what you mean.”

“Weren’t you supposed to let me know when you were stopping by here and she and I’d show you around together.”

“I’m not showing him round here today,” Piper said, before Danny could reply. “I took him to a few spots round the city this morning and came here for a drink as an
afterthought.”

“That’s why you took the day off. Sightseeing?”

Piper sighed. “No.”

He turned to Danny. “How’s the flat hunt going?”

“I’ve been looking hard, believe me.”

“You wanna beer, Todd?” said Piper. “My treat.”

He ignored her. “Tried any agencies yet? They’d find you something real quick.”

“Danny’s welcome to live with me as long as he likes,” said Piper.

“Live with you, huh?” Todd laughed, but it was hard and sharp. “How come you’ve never made me that kind of offer?”

Notices were posted all over the dusty window of the corner shop and Danny stopped to read them when he came out from buying the milk. They were the usual assortment of
temporary work positions he’d seen before, ads from carpenters and plumbers, housewives offering their services as a babysitter and an old handwritten plea for information about a lost
two-year-old calico cat. The words ‘SHARE HOUSE WITH FRIENDLY OWNER – IMMACULATE CONDITION’ jumped out at him as he came to the last row of ads. Posted eight days ago, he assumed
the room would already be rented, but memorised the telephone number and called when he got home.

An answering machine picked up. The female’s voice very posh. He didn’t leave a message. His father, an expert salesman, taught him leaving messages was the hallmark of an amateur,
ceded unnecessary control to the other person who might never return the call. The post dropped with a clatter through the letterbox. He found the local newspaper among the pile and scanned the
accommodation section, immediately spotting the same ad among the classifieds. Now nervous the owner would be inundated with responses, Danny called again, blurting into the answering machine
he’d recently moved to London, that he was solvent and leaving both Piper’s landline and his mobile number.

For an hour, he lay on the couch willing the phone to ring like a lovesick teenager. It rang just before eleven, but it was only his mother who’d confused the week his course was scheduled
to begin. By twelve, the woman still hadn’t rung. He went to Oxford Street to buy a pair of trainers. On his return, a light was blinking on the answering machine.

“Hello, this is Julia Ralston calling for a Danny Connolly,” the voice said. “I’ve had a large number of responses, but if you’re still interested I’ll be at
home until three.”

He checked the time and picked up the phone.

“Ralston, hello.”

“Danny Connolly here. I left a message that I’m looking to rent.”

“You sound Irish.”

Her statement made Danny’s heart skip a beat. Some English people, especially the posh ones, didn’t like the Irish. “I’m from Northern Ireland.”

“With that accent, I’d never have guessed.” She laughed. “I’m just showing someone around the place now.”

He wondered if he was being given the brush-off. “When can I see it?”

“I’m making a decision soon. Can you hold a minute?” Without waiting for his reply, he heard a thud as the receiver was set down, then heard her call out to someone to go out
and take a look at the garden. “Sorry about that, when can you come over?”

“Right now.”

“I’m leaving for work in five minutes.”

“When, then?”

“Eight tomorrow morning.”

When she gave him the address, Danny couldn’t believe it. The house was also on Chumley Street.

He waited ten minutes until he was sure she would have left and then went in search of the house. A woman wearing sixties-style, pitch-black sunglasses came out of a house and
climbed into an old Jaguar as he was crossing underneath the railway bridge. Unsure if it was the owner, he crossed the street to the antique shop. He checked out the displays until the car drove
off and then made his way to the address he’d been given. It was the right house and he was surprised. The home looked bizarre, its brick façade was painted powder blue, the front door
dark purple.