Dancing With Mortality (19 page)

Sophie had invited some of the
neighbours around for New Years Eve, and they stayed up past midnight to
welcome in 2002. He didn’t mention his intentions till the afternoon of New
Years Day.

‘I quit the bank.’

‘What?’ She’d been nursing a mild hangover and was stretched
out on the sofa. ‘Did you say you’d quit?’

‘Yes, I’m flying to Belfast on Thursday.’

He had her full attention as she sat bolt upright. ‘I don’t
understand. Why?’

‘I have some calls to make. Then it’s over.’

She considered this for a moment and then laughed
derisively. ‘I thought it was already over. How many more times do I have to
listen to this? Will you never stop?’

‘Try and understand, Sophie, I...’

She cut him off. ‘Understand? What do you think I’ve been
trying to do? Are you really going to Ireland? Or is it Lanzarote, or
Copenhagen, or is it Heidelberg maybe?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Did you sleep with her, Harry?’

She caught him totally off guard with that, and his face was
answer enough.

‘I thought so. You do whatever you like, but when you get
back don’t expect to find me here, and you can start thinking about finding
somewhere else to live while you’re at it.’

She walked calmly up the stairs to the bedroom and then
slammed the bedroom door violently. This was not the start to the New Year he’d
envisaged.

He landed in Belfast just after 1pm
and then took a taxi straight to the address Michael had given him. He hadn’t
rung in advance, on the assumption that the call might be recorded. It was a
small terraced house in a street of small terraced houses, and he could see the
peace wall that still divided the two communities rearing up two streets behind
it. He rang the bell and waited. Presently the door was answered by a grey-haired,
middle-aged woman wearing a dirt-smudged blue apron over a brown cotton blouse
and loose-fitting jeans.

‘What can I do for you?’ She was businesslike but not
unfriendly.

‘I’m here to see Mr O’Reilly. I’m a friend of his son.’

She looked at him impassively for a moment and then waved
him in. ‘Just a minute, I’ll tell him you’re here.’

He stood in the hall. Directly ahead there were stairs
against the adjoining wall, leading up to the second level, and to his right
there were what he took to be two reception rooms, though both doors were shut.
The woman, who he thought must be the housekeeper, had walked directly down the
hallway into the kitchen area and was talking quietly to someone out of view.
He heard the squeak of a chair being pulled back, and then she came out and
beckoned him in.

Michael Senior was standing at the kitchen table with a look
both curious and sad clouding his features. His hair, still abundant, was white
and close cut, and for a man of eighty-something he retained an impressive
bulk, reminiscent of his son. The eyes were the giveaway though, the same pale
blue. His voice, when it came, was soft, but still deep and clear, and heavily
Belfast accented.

‘You say you know my son?’

‘Yes,’ said Harry, extending his hand. ‘We met in Sweden
recently. He asked me to come and see you.’

There was a slight hesitation in the grip, but the older
man’s handshake was firm. ‘You know he’s dead, don’t you?’ he said, almost
diffidently Harry thought.

Harry nodded. ‘Yes, he wanted me to talk to you if anything
happened to him.’

‘What’s your name?’

Harry introduced himself, and after Michael Senior bid the
housekeeper, who identified herself as Mrs McDonald, to make some tea, he was
ushered through to the sitting room.

There were two large armchairs and a sofa arranged around a
fireplace, in which an artificial fire was burning. His eye was caught by two
photos on the mantelpiece, one of Michael in earlier years and another of a
redheaded woman.

‘Is that Siobhan?’ he asked. Michael Senior nodded. It was a
simple head-and-shoulders portrait which must have been taken when she was
around 20 years old. The fiery red hair and the blue eyes were the first thing
to hit you, then the sheer energy of her youth in her smile and radiant
complexion. She had very clear skin for a redhead, he thought, and she was
pretty.

‘I thought you might be another of those bastards from the
intelligence community,’ said Michael Senior. ‘But there’d be no point in them
coming back. They found him, didn’t they?’

‘Yes, I’m pretty sure that’s what happened. I’m sorry for
your loss. But I want to tell you how I met Michael, and what we found out
together.’

The tea arrived. Mrs McDonald showed no sign of leaving the
room, and seeing Harry’s hesitation Michael Senior assured him that he could
talk without reservation in front of her. Harry told them the whole story, from
his arrival in Ireland and his part time job with SIS, through Nat’s death and
the 20 year gap right to the events in Sweden and directly afterwards.

‘So you do work for British Intelligence then,’ said Michael
Senior, looking slightly bewildered.

Harry smiled. ‘When it suits them I think. I’ve been used
rather than employed, if that makes sense. It’s personal now.’

‘That’s some story, Harry. And you believe this Fitzpatrick
man to be a British informer then?’ Michael Senior had listened almost without
interruption and with deep concentration. His age hadn’t as yet dimmed his
powers of comprehension as far as Harry could tell. ‘There was a Fitzpatrick
Carpentry here in Belfast way back,’ he continued. ‘I remember him. Didn’t know
he’d gone into politics though. To be honest, Harry, I pay no attention to it
now. I’ve lost two children to the Republican cause, which is ironic as I’m one
myself. Anyone who still espouses the politics of violence is a bloody fool for
my money. But revenge I do understand.’

‘Yes, I suppose when it comes down to it, revenge is what
we’re talking about. Or justice if you’re being charitable.’

Mrs McDonald went out to brew a fresh pot. ‘Have you come
equipped for justice, Harry?’

Harry was momentarily perplexed, then he clicked. ‘No, you
don’t understand. I have no intention of shooting anyone. I’ll tell you what I
plan to do.’

He explained his intentions to the older man, who regarded
him dispassionately as he did so. When he’d finished, Michael Senior thought
about it for a while and then rose from his armchair and walked across to a
sideboard on the far side of the room. He opened a drawer, his back to Harry.

‘I’ve outlived two children and a wife, Harry. It’s
unnatural and it makes me sad. We’ve only just met but I’d like to think I
won’t have to outlive you too. If you’re going to do what you say you are you
should think about self protection while you’re here.’

He came back carrying a shoe box, which he placed on the
coffee table. ‘Open that.’

Harry lifted the lid. Inside, on a bed of coarse white
cloth, lay a Walther PPK with several clips of ammunition.

‘They used to be very popular with the Ulster Defence
Regiment,’ said Michael Senior.

‘Someone told me that once. Aren’t you being a little
melodramatic?’

‘Just take it. If you don’t use it, return it to me on your
way home. But frankly, at my time of life I don’t care if they trace it to me
or not.’

Harry took a long look at the gun, thinking the last time
he’d held one of these he’d pointed it at this man’s son. He shook his head in
wonder. ‘Alright, I’ll take it. Do you have a holster?’

‘Mrs McDonald, do we have a holster for the gun?’ shouted
Michael Senior.

Mrs McDonald popped her head round the door and spotted the
open shoe box. ‘Sure we do, Michael, I’ll fetch it. And keep your voice down,
do you want the whole street to know we’re armed?’

Harry made some space for the gun in his suitcase. He drank
another cup of tea then asked Mrs McDonald to ring for a taxi.

‘Where to, Harry?’

‘The nearest bus station. I’m going to Dublin.’

He assured Michael Senior that he’d call again on his way
back.

‘Watch the newspapers over the next few days,’ he said. ‘It
might get interesting.’

The older man seemed rather detached. He shook Harry’s hand
as they parted. ‘Whatever happens it won’t bring my children or your wife back.
Don’t let your anger cloud your judgement, Harry. We’ve been doing that here
for years and it’s done us no good whatsoever.’

He thought about that parting remark as he watched the peace
wall dividing Catholics and Protestants pass him by in the taxi. The division
seemed to him to be more tribal than religious, and rooted in so much history
that any attempt to dismantle it would require a shift in hearts and minds that
would make the fall of the Berlin Wall look like a walk in the park.

He turned his mind to his own problems. A wife on the verge
of leaving and an illness as yet unmanifested. And soon his credibility would be
tested too. All much easier to solve than the issue of Northern Ireland, he
thought, and laughed quietly to himself.

The taxi driver gave him a queer look. ‘Something I said?’

‘No, sorry. Just thinking out loud I guess.’

The bus station came into sight. ‘We’re here,’ said the
driver.

Harry paid the man and got out. Next stop, Dublin.

 He got off the bus at Grafton
Street. Dublin didn’t seem that much different, not around here anyway, though
he noticed Grafton Street had been pedestrianised since his last visit. The
revitalisation of the Republic’s economy was more evident in the shiny office
blocks in the financial district on the other side of the river. He walked up
Grafton Street and past St. Stephen’s Green till he got to Harcourt Street. He
tried to remember where the flat had been and was shocked to find he wasn’t
sure anymore. The Harcourt Hotel hadn’t moved, and he took a room for a week,
unaware that 20 years before Siobhan had also been here.

He could have stayed elsewhere, but right now he wanted to
remember how it had been and how it had felt, to revisit the Harry Ellis who
was an Irish student and had a career lined up as a language scholar. And how
that ambition had been irrevocably extinguished one Christmas Eve so long ago.
It could be seen as a masochistic indulgence if you were a critical observer,
but to him it was a necessary part of preparing himself for what was to come.
He had a pint of Guinness in the bar downstairs and then, after a room service
meal, got an early night.

He phoned the Irish Times the following morning and asked
for the journalist whose name Michael had left him. He wasn’t available, so he
left a message to the effect that he had information he wanted to share on the
Colin Fitzpatrick story, and would Mr O’Neill kindly return his call.

He spent the morning at Trinity college, this time as a
tourist. He took a tour through the Old Library, which contained the Book of
Kells, and although he’d seen the manuscript before he couldn’t help but be
captured anew by the ornate beauty of the pages on display. He was on the way
out of the college when the phone rang. It was David O’Neill.

‘Where did you get my name, Mr Ellis?’

‘From Michael O’Reilly, or Sullivan if you prefer.’

‘I see. What’s your interest in this story then?’

‘I want to make a statement that you can use as an addition
to your story. I met Michael shortly before he died. We had a common interest
in Colin Fitzpatrick.’

O’Neill sounded cautious. ‘That’s interesting of course, but
to be honest Mr Ellis it looks as though the story really doesn’t have much
life left in it. As Fitzpatrick says, he has no case to answer. It will be
difficult to prove otherwise.’

Harry had wondered if this might be the first reaction.
‘Before you kill it then, will you do me the courtesy of listening to what I
have to say?’

There was a pause, then O’Neill made up his mind. ‘Ok, do
you know where the offices are?’

‘D’Ollier Street?’

‘Yes. Come by at 2pm and ask for me at reception.’

O’Neill was in his forties, Harry
guessed, a tall, slim, and vibrant man with a shock of curly black hair and a
beard shot through with grey. He collected Harry from reception and led him to
a meeting room two floors above.

‘We won’t be disturbed here,’ he said. He placed a pocket
tape machine on the table between them. ‘Do you mind if I record this?’

‘Be my guest.’

O’Neill switched the tape on and sat back, crossing his
arms. ‘What have you got for me then?’

Harry took a deep breath. ‘You need to hear it from the
beginning. In 1981 I was living here in Dublin with my wife Natalie and
studying Irish at Trinity College. I had a part time job doing translation
work…’

Throughout the narrative O’Neill’s reaction veered from
initial incredulity through amazement and finally to barely contained
excitement. He didn’t interrupt, and when Harry had finished he leaned forward
to switch off the tape. ‘Jesus wept.’ He thought for a moment. ‘Did you bring
any ID?’

Harry reached into his jacket pocket, and pulled out his
British and New Zealand passports. ‘Will this do?’

O’Neill checked the documents and pushed them back across
the table. ‘I’ll need to run my standard checks on dates and places. Normally
I’d ask you for a photograph, but that might not be a good idea just yet.’

‘What do you think will happen?’

‘With you being the second person to name Fitzpatrick, and
being the victim of a bombing that was so close to Siobhan O’Reilly being shot...’
He thought some more. ‘And you’ve named names. We will lobby for a public
enquiry, though to be honest the chances of getting one are slim. But this will
certainly put more pressure on him.’

‘Good.’

‘If there was an enquiry your testimony would be vital.
Unless of course...’ He stopped and looked at Harry with real concern.

‘Unless I don’t get to testify, is that what you’re
thinking?’

‘To put it bluntly, yes. I don’t want you on my conscience
too. Where are you staying?’

Harry told him. O’Neill stared at the table, and Harry could
almost see the cogs turning as he considered the implications. He finally
looked up. ‘Ok, if we go public with this I want to do two things – first, get
you out of sight, and second line you up for a television interview. Are you
prepared to do that?’

‘Whatever it takes.’

‘Alright. Go back to the Harcourt now and stay by the phone.
I may ring you to clarify some things. I’ll work on this for the rest of the
day, and if we’re going to publish, it will come out tomorrow. Then over the
weekend we can gauge the reaction. I’ll be in touch later.’

Harry left, feeling both trepidation and a lightness of
spirit he’d forgotten he possessed. It looked like the ‘shitstorm’ might be
unleashed after all. And all he had to do was stay out of harm’s way when it
was. At least there’d be no miffed Republicans to contend with this time, he
reflected. But considering who he might have to contend with instead brought
him precious little consolation.

When O’Neill began to call at
regular half-hourly intervals asking for more details on various parts of his
story he knew it would all go ahead, and it was confirmed later that evening.
He was advised to leave Dublin and find a quiet spot in the country.