Betrayal (14 page)

She knew she was being unkind, that it was just because things had been going badly for her. Ballylurgen was no better, no worse than any other village of two hundred souls. It had a Catholic day school, the boys out playing hurley in the yard and Father O'Donnell in his cassock with the wind flapping at it to make him look like a tall, gaunt old rook in a sea of shouting to which the shrill blasts of his whistle did not the slightest bit of good.

She stopped on the road, for the school and the adjacent church were not the usual, but a little ways from what might be termed the heart of the village. One of the boys was particularly good. Very fast with the stick and the eye. Goal after goal to the dismay of the opposing team and the cheers of his mates.

They'd choose up sides again tomorrow and Father O'Donnell would see that the boy was on the other team.

The wind blew at her skirt. Mary grabbed a fistful to bind it to her legs. After a rain, the light over the fields and hills with their hedgerows seemed always greener, sharper, clearer as if washed.

Another gust came, a stronger one. She grabbed her tam, letting go of the skirt which billowed well up above her knees before she could beat it down.

Seen from the bell tower of the church, the Fraser woman was wearing knee socks today but not the Stewart Hunting of a green tartan skirt. Instead, it was the soft, greyish white of the Stewart Dress with its lines of red, green, yellow and that lovely shade of blue.

O'Bannion kept the field glasses trained on her, now that he'd seen the coast was clear. As so many times since they'd first met, he thought her not just proud and pretty, but beneath it all, tough and determined, and he wondered then, as he stood out of sight and the shouts of the boys came up to him, what she'd do.

That business of the O'Neill girl couldn't have gone down well with Mrs. Mary Ellen Fraser. ‘Necessary,' Fay had said and he'd known enough not to have challenged her, the larger issue being far more important, but would the threat of a tarring be enough? Would that woman out there not find herself forced into such a situation, she'd throw herself away and betray them all in one last proud act of defiance?

The wind tugged at her hair. She continued to watch the boys, and the shrill blasts of the whistle seemed only to make her forget her cares. He knew it was but a moment for her, a brief escape. He found a gladness in himself and wondered at it harshly before setting it coldly from him.

Dublin had got through to Berlin again. They'd had the rendezvous already chosen for the Nazis, a place right under the noses of the British, right where they'd suspect it least, but the Fraser woman mustn't get wind of the location until the end. There must be no chance of her giving that away. Everything had to go like clockwork. The exchange had to be made. The Kapitänleutnant Erich Kramer and the information he would be carrying in return for much, much more. For everything.

He would have to watch what Fay and Liam said to the woman. He had the thought that she would try her damnedest to find out the location of the rendezvous. She would want to know that desperately because by now she must have had inklings that for her, life would take her no farther. They'd have to kill her.

O'Bannion let the glasses settle on her one last time. She was laughing. Not knowing that she was being watched, she was taking delight in the play of small boys and the antics of an old priest.

When the ball came out on to the road, as it often did, she madly set the bicycle down and ran like the blazes after it, wound up and pitched it back. ‘Haroo!' he heard her yell, and he wondered then again if he hadn't softened towards her, and he knew that this would only get in the way and that she'd use it if she could, that she'd use every little thing she could to betray them all.

4

Kevin O'Bannion was watching her from beneath a hawthorn whose berries were scarlet, the thorns some three inches long and of a deep purplish brown. The leaves, having turned to russet, were falling about the ruins over which the ancient branches had spread, Mary hearing them and nothing else.

He'd been leaning against the inner part of one of the stone walls, smoking a cigarette and waiting. ‘So you've come at last,' he said, as if there could have been any doubt in the matter, as if the note someone had left in her carrier basket in Ballylurgen—she in one of the shops—hadn't been found by her and read.

‘Yes, of course I've come,' she answered tightly, not stepping closer but having tucked the bike out of sight.

No danger then of them being seen from the road. ‘Did you take him the gun?' he asked. She was even prettier now that he had a chance to see her up close without Fay and Liam around.

Mary found suddenly that, unlike the walk out from Padrick Darcy's smithy, the nearness and aloneness of herself and O'Bannion unsettled her in more ways than one. Perhaps it was that closed-in feeling the walls exuded, perhaps the absence of the others. In any case, she didn't like the feeling and found she couldn't understand it in herself.

He was no longer squinting at her and when he asked about the gun again, she said, ‘Yes, I took it to him. It … it wasn't easy, though. Major Trant and Colonel Bannerman suspect I'm up to something, as does Jimmy Allanby.'

‘I thought they might. Did you tell Kramer he'll get the cartridges when we're satisfied with the negotiations?'

‘No … No, I didn't.' What was there in that look of his?

‘Was he glad to get the gun?' he asked, smiling knowingly.

Mary tensed. ‘Yes, he … he was glad to get it.'

Then she'd been upset by Kramer's elation and had been worrying ever since. ‘Why didn't you tell him the gun was empty?'

His sudden harshness was frightening; the dark grey eyes held nothing now, no sympathy, no attempt to understand how difficult it had been and still was.

Well
? his look demanded. ‘I didn't, that's all.'

‘Is it that you're continually needing lessons?'

‘It was despicable what you people did to Caithleen. An act of cowards not rebels.'

‘Cowards, was it? From what I hear, your Captain Allanby was no better.'

‘He's not my “captain.” I despise him as much as I … Look, I didn't mean that. I …' They were all alone. The road wasn't far but she'd never make it and he knew it too, had seen her thinking this.

‘Oh but you did mean it, Mrs. Fraser. You despise us more than you do Jimmy Allanby, but he would have torched that girl and then what would you have believed?'

Mary glanced away. Suddenly she had to avoid his scrutiny, couldn't seem to bring herself to face him. ‘It's not important what I think. What is important is that I'm to take the girl to Dublin this weekend. I'm to put her into the hands of the authorities there who'll see she gets safely over to England.'

‘Good.' O'Bannion gave her a moment to consider the terseness of his response, knew then that she'd have to be broken gently, knew, too, that she hadn't even wondered why the Brits had chosen Dublin instead of Belfast which was one hell of a lot closer and far more logical. ‘You've made a deal with the colonel?'

She would have to face him. ‘Yes, but it has nothing to do with you and the others.'

‘You're full of surprises. Enlighten me.'

She mustn't tell him everything. ‘They want me to spy on the prisoners for them.'

He'd let it come as a sigh. ‘Correction. They want you to tell them who hanged that man in there.'

‘Yes.' The wind, gusting in the enclosure, tugged at the wiry black hair that was receding from his forehead but was still thick and crinkly. ‘Am I to stay at the White Horse Inn again, or is it now too dangerous?'

‘Is it that they suspect you're up to something else?'

‘I wouldn't know. How could I? Trant and the colonel are together in this, as is Allanby. I may never know how much they're aware of until it's too late. In the past they must have heard me repeating things the prisoners had said, but … but stupidly I hadn't been aware of their having used me like that. It's probably why Trant and the colonel agreed to let me into Tralane in the first place. They knew I'd be bound to pick things up and pass them on.'

She'd been thinking things over, all right. Muscling that pretty little head of hers around it all. ‘There's a slab of stone next to that wall. Let's sit out of the wind. We'll be safe enough for a while.'

Mary knew she'd no longer have to face him when they leaned back against that wall, but why had he suggested it? To put her off her guard, to pry everything out of her while there was still time, or simply to be alone with her so as to get to know her better? With Fay Darcy and Liam Nolan she could almost gauge the trend of their thoughts; with him it was more difficult. He still hadn't told her if she was to stay at the White Horse again, still hadn't told her anything much.

‘Why are you doing this?' she asked.

She had smoothed that tartan skirt of hers over those shapely thighs, had leaned back and was feeling grateful for the chance not to have to face him. Best then to let it come easy, best not to rattle her too much. ‘Because we have to. There's no other way of looking at it for us. Too much has happened in the past.'

As if to emphasize this, he took out his revolver but said suddenly, ‘Don't be frightened,' and breaking the cylinder open, let one of the cartridges fall into his hand, knew absolutely that she must be bone-terrified.

The slug was fat and ugly and she'd know it soon enough, but had he been too conscious of her feelings? wondered O'Bannion. Was the woman getting to him with those downcast eyes of hers? ‘You're to take this to Kramer, Mrs. Fraser. Tell him we've been in contact with C-and-C U-boats via Berlin. They want him badly, and we'll know soon enough if they'll pay the price.'

‘Which is?' she heard herself asking, but he wouldn't tell her, of course, for he'd gone from trying to be considerate, to being brutal and that could only mean he had been angry with himself for letting his thoughts show.

O'Bannion pressed the bullet into that palm of hers and closed the fingers over it, just as he'd done with the revolver at the Darcy place. He took out another cigarette and, lighting it, sat back with the gun still in his lap.

Inhaling deeply, giving her a moment, and why not? he said, ‘You'll be told when it's all arranged and not before then. Your German must know something vital, Mrs. Fraser. Have you any idea what it is?'

She'd have to give him something. ‘Only what you said before, that the British may have captured Erich's boat with all its codes and things.'

‘He could send that over on Mrs. Tulford's wireless and probably already has in that first message you took to her.'

‘Not if he was afraid of jeopardizing the escape and Mrs. Tulford herself. But … but it might be more than that—some new device we have for detecting enemy submarines. That would be vital information Erich wouldn't want to trust to just anyone, wouldn't it?'

She had used
we
and
enemy
without having realized it, had been searching for reasons herself. He'd not say anything then. He'd see if she ran on with it like a fellow conspirator.

‘Perhaps they've all come to a consensus of what's been happening to their U-boats,' said Mary. ‘Erich's U-121 was supposedly sunk in January but there have been others since—at least three that I know of have officers in Tralane.'

O'Bannion knew that he was impressed but that her figuring things out for herself could be both a good and a bad thing. Berlin wanted Kramer—that was clear enough. They might well pay the price they'd been asked, and then again, they might not. The Germans were far from easy. They didn't trust the Irish any more than he and the others trusted them, and she'd have reasoned this out too. No doubt Kramer's superior officers had agreed to let him be the front man because he'd succeeded in being intimate with her but Kramer would not have been given the Tulford woman's address. He'd have had to get that from someone higher up and that could only mean they must be wanting to break someone else out with him. She would not have been told this, but had she thought of it? If so, she was definitely not saying. A woman then who could go on giving her thoughts aloud and yet still hold something back even when afraid the next bullet could well be for herself. And if not that, then the hangman's noose.

The wind teased the cigarette smoke from him, she catching whiffs of it now and then, she exuding a sensuality he found troubling, for she wasn't really aware of it, but was it fear that made her like this, he wondered, or simply the nearness of him?

‘Mrs. Fraser …?'

‘Yes?' she asked, stiffening in alarm at the sound of his voice.

‘Has Kramer said he'd take you with him?'

The nod she gave was that of a realist. Still staring at the bullet, she felt the metal of its brass casing, then that of the lead slug.

As she put it away, he heard her saying, ‘I don't want any killing. One won't be of much use, will it?'

As if that, in itself, made it easier for her conscience.

Exhaling the last of the smoke, he quickly stubbed the cigarette out and brushed away the soot mark, saw her notice this, a woman then who, even though afraid, could find the will to search for every little detail in the hope it might be useful.

He'd give her a grin and let her in on it. ‘You never can tell who'll come by to have a look.'

‘Isn't one of the others watching out?'

She had pinned her hair back at the sides and had tied it behind with a bit of brown velvet to match, but several strands had come loose down there on the road by the school and the sunlight had found these, bringing out the coppery tints, the cloud shadows only darkened.

When her throat tightened under such a scrutiny, he said almost brutally, ‘For now that's all. Tell Kramer you'll be in touch with Mrs. Tulford. You're to stay at the White Horse right enough. See if he gives you anything for her to send over. It's my bet that he won't, but ask it of him anyways. Tell him you have no other choice but to find out which of them were responsible for the hanging of that man. If he wants out badly enough, then he has to cooperate.'

‘But … but why? What's it to you people whether Trant and the colonel find out who hanged that man?'

He'd let her see him drop his eyes down over her. Involuntarily she pressed her hands against those thighs, failing entirely to realize how provocative the gesture was. ‘Why the interest in a hanging that wasn't one of ours? Is it not obvious?'

When she shrugged, he let her have it, ‘Because you're going to have to lead the British into thinking you'll cooperate. They won't have it any other way, and you know that as well as I, but you must always keep them waiting for a little more even if you do chance to find out who was responsible.'

Long after he had left her, Mary remained sitting with her back to the wall, exhausted by the encounter. Shutting her eyes, she let her hands move firmly down over her thighs right to the knees then slowly back up and down again, trying to ease the tension only to realize that she'd been doing this as he'd looked at her. Had he thought to get her to believe she could seduce him into being careless?

He would know she wasn't fool enough to think such a thing. Then why had her hands been on her thighs like that when she'd known he was looking at her in such a way? Had she secretly wanted to feel the touch of him?

‘I hate myself,' she said, and getting up, went over to her bicycle to leave the ruins to the softly falling leaves.

The shed was behind the house and well off to its left. As Mary turned in at the drive, the last of the light streaked the sky, etching the plum-coloured clouds that lay like flat, elongated strings of mountains in the west.

Riding under the copper beeches—immense things, they were—she went into the deeper darkness of the wisteria whose long arbour stretched almost to the stable. Hopping off the bike, she walked it along the path that turned off here to the shed, she cursing the sound of the sprocket, for she didn't want to have to talk to William just now, didn't want to have to talk to anyone.

The shed gave out on to the gardens and was used for all sorts of things. Tools, firewood, peat and vegetables, apples, paints and turpentine, the smells of these being everywhere. A kind of sanctuary.

Leaning the bike against a pillar post, she picked her way through to the workbench. The house was in total darkness, the blackout curtains all thoroughly drawn. Mrs. Haney never let a chink of light escape. Every evening now Bridget would be sent out to check, then the two of them and William would be off home. They didn't live far—about a mile back of the garden along a path across the fields.

Mary knew that it couldn't be easy for them to make that walk, that each evening now, it would be getting harder and harder. Caithleen would have to be taken to Dublin, and the sooner the better.

There were baskets and pots of bulbs on the bench—tulips, daffodils, hyacinths and crocuses—things they'd forced and had had around the house last winter. Hamish loved gardening, loved so many things …

What light there was gave a rippled mirror-sheen of darkness to the windowpanes as she listened to the wind, to the sound of the crickets and then to that of William's quiet and deferential knock at the mudroom door.

He'd be told to see if her bike was back. She had about two minutes and in that time so many things to think about.

A thin film of grease still clung to the bullet. Reaching out, she picked up one of the daffodil bulbs, pressed her middle against the edge of the workbench, was momentarily lost to the bullet and the paper dryness of the bulb, she seeing Hamish in the garden in his old clothes, for he loved nothing better unless it was his fishing. She knew she would never be able to face him with the truth of what she'd done, that she mustn't ask for his help—they'd kill him if she did, but softly said, ‘Darling, please help me before it's too late.'