Faithless (42 page)

             
"No. I'm not good at decisions. I can choose shoes and things from menus. But not this."

             
He said, "I want to be honest and be able to look at myself in the mirror without thinking I'm a cunt."

             
"You're not a cunt. You're just misunderstood." She ran her finger down his nose.

             
"I'm being serious. I'm trying to get you to make a choice."

             
"To salve your conscience and make you feel honest and wholesome."

             
"To make us both feel honest."

             
"But you're mainly concerned about your own morals."

             
"Take this seriously. Last night you were out of control. Joe knows about us. We're lucky no one else does."

             
"Everybody in the Office thinks they know. Even if we weren't shagging they'd think we were so we might as well be."

             
"So how long does this go on for?"

             
She became pensive.  She shrugged. "I don't know. Until I'm brave enough to do something about it?"

             
He was silent.

             
"I liked Karen by the way," said Ailsa.

             
"Under other circumstances you'd probably get on well."

             
"Be best friends and do each others' hair? I can't see that happening. Not now. I can't see her ever forgiving me." She looked as if she were remembering something. "Did she say something about us having a threesome?"

             
"You were both smashed."

             
"I'll tell you someone else who was talking absolute balderdash - your friend Sue from K4"

             
"She's not my friend. I hate her guts."

             
Ailsa laughed. "Well anyway, she was very insistent on telling me some story about MI5 planting radio beacons on Czech diplomatic cars. I was giving her a look that anyone who wasn't a total fucktard would have realised meant - 'I.do.not.fucking.care.' but she kept on keeping on. I like that word fucktard by the way. I only just learned it." She laughed.

             
John sighed. "You can't say things like that. It's offensive."

             
She poked him in the chest with the slightly chipped red nail of the index finger of her right hand. "You're a puritan. If you weren't so good at sex, you might be in danger of being boring. Speaking of this, I am getting a familiar heat down in the Southlands."

             
He said, "Sue gave me the same story. She made a laboured point of telling me. Odd she should tell us both."

             
Ailsa snorted. "Odd? You're being a bit thick John."

             
"Why?"

             
"It's the oldest trick in the espionage book. The famous marked fiver. They feed us info and wait to see if it gets back to our Soviet masters. Not that we have any Soviet masters. They're probably just feeding it to a small number of people to rule them out or not given what Vinogradov told us. When we don't pass it on, they'll try someone else."

             
He rolled on his back and looked at the ceiling. "Do you believe there is a Soviet source in British intelligence?"

             
"John, I'm taking my bra off now. That is a signal that I have other priorities. I have a garden that needs moisture. I have a rose that needs to be coaxed into bloom."

             
He looked and saw the curve of her breasts. The last sun slanted through the window gilding her honey skin. He laughed out loud. "You're crazy. I've never met a woman like you."

             
"That's because there isn't one. Now get licking."

After they made love, she lay back and kissed his hair and his head lay nestled on her breast. "That was a nice orgasm, thank you," she said. "Actually I had two. Very good work."

             
"You're greedy," he said.

             
"I'm worth the effort and you love me really," she said.

             
"I do," he said. "It would be easier if I didn't"

             
She got up and walked towards the door. She was beautiful naked.

             
"That's a nasty bruise you've got there."

             
She stopped and raised her arms and looked them up and down. "Where?"

             
"There. On your side."

             
She twisted her neck. "Oh that. It's old."

             
"How did you get it."

             
"Walked into a door knob."

             
"Really?"

             
"I was probably drunk. Anyway I'm going to pee. Can I get you anything while I'm there?"

             
"By the way, I'm away Monday," he shouted through to her where she was out of sight in the en suite bathroom.

             
"Oh, going anywhere fun?"

             
"Not really. Work. I'm back Monday evening. Careful you don't walk into anything when you're in the bathroom."

5th October, 1985, Dublin:
  John flew out from Heathrow on Sunday afternoon. He told Karen he was going away with work and would be back Monday evening. He told work he had things to do round the house. The aeroplane landed at Dublin just after three p.m. There was a light drizzle and the wind was blowing from the east - from Russia across England and the sea. The Irish skies were leaden and John pulled up the collar of his coat against the wind. He bought a copy of the Irish Independent, which gave him a chance to look around. He then caught the bus into the city centre. All he had with him was a holdall with his wash bag and a change of clothes. He got off the bus at the Busáras and walked down to the Liffey Quay. The brown river ran high flushed with Autumn rain, on its way to the sea. He walked briskly down the quay and then crossed the river by O'Connell Bridge. He had never been to Dublin before but he had memorised the route he would take. He walked past Trinity College and stopped to read an information panel advertising the Book of Kells. As far as he could tell he wasn't being followed. He walked down Kildare Street and onto St Stephen's Green. He was booked into the Shelbourne Hotel under the name McIntosh. The hotel was ostentatious but he was nervous and did not take in the history and style of the place. He went up to his room and placed his holdall on his bed. In the small bathroom, he splashed water on his face. He had nothing to do that night and he was craving a drink to calm his nerves. He fought against the urge - it was still early. He switched on the television in the room. The signal was poor - the colour washed out and banded with flickering lines of white noise. The Irish news was on and there was some story about the forthcoming Anglo-Irish agreement about the governance of Northern Ireland. He couldn't concentrate on it. He flicked through the channels then switched the TV off. He went to the window. He'd booked one of the cheapest rooms and the view was of an enclosed yard to the back of the hotel with windows looking at each other round a concrete quadrangle. Then he went and lay on his bed and stared at the ceiling. He tried to read the paper and failed: the paragraphs wouldn't sink in. He wished he was with Ailsa. He missed his girls. He thought about what the fuck he was doing with his life and not for the first time regretted it all. He wondered whether his father would approve of what he was doing. In his greatest moments of doubt it was as if he had lit his life with a match. As if his life were a sheet of scribbled paper - a page filled with ideas that came to nothing. He pushed the thoughts away because if he thought them they might be true. And then he knew he had to go out and get a drink.

He pul
led on his coat. It was nearly six p.m. He hit the first bar - Shanahan's at ten past. He had a wallet full of Irish punts that he'd changed at Finchley post office. In the dark bar he ordered a Guinness and watched while the barman took a pint glass four fifth's already full. There was a line of similar pints already pulled in anticipation of future customers. The barman filled the glass and scraped off the foaming head with a flat knife. He handed John the glass and said, "
Sláinte"
in Irish Gaelic.

"Sl
àinte,"
said John in Scots Gaelic. The man merely looked as John took a deep swallow of the thick, bitter liquid and went to sit down on his own in a dark corner. It was still early and the pub was empty. No surveillance.

             
He finished the pint and pulled up his collar again as he went out of the door. It was raining heavily. He walked without knowing exactly where he was going. The glow of the first pint warming him. He felt suddenly elated. He saw a dark, welcoming bar to his right and went in. It was busier than the first place. He got another Guinness and because he was feeling bold got a Bushmill's whiskey to go with it.

             
He drank them slowly. Someone had left an Irish Times on the dark leather seat to his right. He made as if to read it - as interested in the people coming and going as he was in the the stories. He felt calmer. He knew what he was doing. He ordered another Guinness and another whiskey. He thought he'd better eat soon. The place filled up. A group of friends occupied the table to his left.

             
He watched as a dark haired woman in her mid twenties came into the bar. She looked around but didn't seem to see what she wanted. She looked at her watch, appeared perturbed then went and ordered a white wine at the bar. There were very few seats left and she came over and pointed at the two empty spaces to his right.

             
"Are these taken?" she said in an educated Irish accent.

             
He glanced up from the newspaper. She looked very Irish - shoulder length wavy black hair, high cheek bones, dark brown eyes. He shook his head. "No."

             
She smiled politely and sat down. For the next twenty minutes he pretended to read while he watched her sipping her wine and looking at her watch. Then, emboldened by the drink he said, "Rotten weather tonight."

             
She nodded. "I think it's put my friend off."

             
"Fancy another drink?"

             
She smiled. "No. I'll give him another ten minutes. Then I'll go."

             
They sat in silence for a further  then John said, "I'm here on business. But my meeting isn't until tomorrow, so I thought I'd come out."

             
"Sounds sensible."  She looked at her watch again. She had nearly finished her drink.

             
He waited again. "Sure you don't want a drink? Just to keep me company. And then if he does turn up he'll get jealous."

             
She frowned at him. "You're very sure of yourself Mr Englishman."

             
He shook his head. "I'm not English. I'm Scots."

             
"Ah," she looked suddenly interested. "I did my doctoral thesis into the spread of folk themes across the Gaelic culture province from Cape Clear to Cape Wrath. Do you know the song
Dónall Óg?
In Scotland it's known as
Fear a' Bhata."

             
He shook his head. "My grandma was from Skye. She spoke Gaelic  but she died when I was little. I'm from Edinburgh. Not much Gaelic there."

"You'd be surprised. If you know where to look." She reached over and shook his hand.  "I'm Eithne N
í Dhubhghaill. I lecture in Classical Irish at Trinity. I will take that drink. White wine, please." She gave a winning smile.

             
He got up and got himself another pint of Guinness and a white wine for Eithne.

             
"Thanks," she said.  "What's your name then?"

             
"Richard McIntosh. I sell maps."

             
"Very interesting Mr Mac an Taoisigh  or in Scots Mac an Taoisich - son of the prince. Was your father a prince?"

             
"No. He was a flawed but honourable man.  Anyway tell me about your friend," said John.

             
"Brendan Keating. He's in a band.
The Maniacs.
I don't suppose you've heard of them? He thinks he's gods gift to women and I'm lucky to have him."

             
"Sounds like a tool."

             
She sighed. "So my friends tell me. But he is the most beautiful man. Black hair in ringlets - eyes like summer sky. A roguish smile. And even if you're really angry with him he can charm the pants right off you. He'll have some half arsed excuse."