Jig (22 page)

Fitzjohn
knew
.

He watched Houlihan take a pistol out of the pocket and turn very slowly towards the pilot, who stepped back a pace, his mouth open, a hand extended in front of his face.

The explosion of the gun roared in Fitzjohn's ears. He saw Braxton's face blown apart, the impact of the bullet throwing the body back several feet. Braxton lay face down under the fuselage of the DC-4, his arms pressed beneath his body. From the opening in his skull there was blood and grey fluid creating a puddle under his cheek. The co-pilot, Lessingham, stared at Houlihan in utter disbelief and then turned away, hurrying towards the rope ladder that hung from the door of the plane. He began to scramble upwards and the ladder swayed back and forth with the movements of his body.

Houlihan shot him in the back of the skull. Lessingham, caught in the strands of rope, twisted round, his face turning towards the hangar. One of his eyes was gone.

‘Jesus God,' Fitzjohn whispered.

Houlihan smiled. He went over to Braxton's body and kicked it gently. ‘Mercenary bastards,' he said. ‘You can't trust people who do things only for the money.'

New York City

In his hotel room Frank Pagan had found a radio station that played nothing but old rock and roll. He was lying on the bed and listening to the late Gene Vincent hiccuping through
Be-Bop-a-Lula
, when the telephone rang. It was Foxworth calling from London.

‘How are things in the land where people say Hi and Have a Nice Day?' Foxie asked.

Pagan turned Gene Vincent down. The connection with London was bad and Foxie's voice echoed.

‘Cold,' Pagan said. ‘Brass-monkey weather.'

‘I have a tiny snippet of info for you, Frank. It may interest you.'

Pagan massaged a bare foot. He stared at the window where the midday light, filtered by a drape, was pallid.

Foxie said, ‘Our old chum Ivor the Terrible is practically your next-door neighbour. Did you know that?'

‘McInnes is here? In New York?'

‘I am reliably informed by a young gal who works at the American fortress in Grosvenor Square that the Reverend Ivor McInnes obtained a temporary visa for research purposes.'

‘What's he researching? New ways to boil Catholics?'

‘Would you believe a book? A work of history?'

‘Didn't know he could read,' Pagan said.

‘He's staying at the Essex House,' Foxie said. ‘Thought you might like to know.'

Later, when he'd replaced the telephone and turned up the volume of the radio to catch Buddy Holly's
Rock Around the Ollie Vee
, he sat cross-legged on the bed and closed his eyes and turned Foxie's news around in his mind. It was the familiar old labyrinth again. It was the Irish version of Join the Dots. Why was McInnes in New York at this particular time? Pagan didn't buy the idea of Ivor writing a book unless it was a polemic concerning the satanic ideology of the Roman Catholic Church and nobody was going to issue him a visa for that kind of lunacy. So why was he here? Coincidence? Pagan never trusted coincidence.

He opened his eyes. There was a knock on his door. He went across the room, undid the lock. Zuboric came inside, rubbing his cold hands together. He sat down in an armchair and made a face at the music that filled the room.

‘Does it have to be that loud?' the agent asked.

‘Is there any other way, Artie? Great rock was intended to be deafening.' Pagan made no move to adjust the volume. Quite the contrary. He wished he could make it even louder, but the tiny radio was already at maximum.

‘What is with you and this music, Frank? You caught in a time warp?' Zuboric took a notebook out of his coat.

‘They don't make music like this any more. It's all so bloody humourless these days. People with pink and green hair taking themselves seriously, spouting messages I don't want to hear.' Pagan sat on the edge of the bed. The music had changed to Chuck Berry.
Maybelline
.

Zuboric had to raise his voice to be heard over the noise. ‘The shop in Little Italy belongs to a certain Michelangelo “The Saint” Santacroce.'

‘The Saint?'

‘That's what they call him. He doesn't exactly live up to it, though. Two terms in Attica. One for tampering with a jury. The other for illegal possession of automatic weapons.' Zuboric paused, looking over the top of his notebook. ‘Here's the kicker, Frank. The weapons were all nicely crated when Santacroce was busted. Crated
and
labelled. Guess where they were going?'

‘Ireland,' Pagan said.

‘You got it.'

‘What did the crates say? Butter?'

‘Holy Bibles.'

Frank Pagan lay back across the bed and inspected the ceiling. ‘What will they think of next?' he asked.

11

Roscommon, New York

It was seven o'clock before Celestine persuaded Harry Cairney he should retire. She escorted him upstairs, helped him undress. He was already sound asleep when she left the bedroom and went back down to the library, where Patrick Cairney sat in front of the log fire with a brandy glass in his hand. There was music playing on the stereo, Harry's music, the old Irish stuff he loved. Celestine turned the record player off. She sat down in the chair facing her stepson and picked up her own brandy from the coffee table. She looked at Patrick, as if she were trying to see some resemblance to his father in the young man's face.

‘Don't tell your father,' she said. ‘But I can only take Irish music in small doses. He's been playing it all afternoon. Too much.'

Patrick Cairney smiled. He'd been pleased to see his father leave the room because Harry had been headed in the direction of garrulous reminiscence, induced no doubt by the music. The entire afternoon had been filled with Irish tunes, ranging from
If You Ever Go Across the Sea to Ireland
to the inevitable rebel song
Kevin Barry
. Too much indeed, Patrick Cairney thought. An onslaught that dulled the senses after a while. Only Harry himself had been animated by the music, tapping his feet, rapping his fingertips on his knees, sitting sometimes with eyes closed and mouth half open, an old man travelling in old realms.

Once or twice, Patrick Cairney had felt so irritated that he'd wanted to turn the music off and go grab his father and shake him, as if to impress upon the old man the fact that all the songs in the world couldn't bring his private Ireland back to him. The same damn music, the same damn memories, and Patrick Cairney had heard them all a hundred times before. The brainwashed childhood, he thought. The childhood riddled through and rotted by Harry Cairney's nostalgia, his fake dreams. If Harry loved Ireland the way he claimed, then why had he never done anything about the troubles there? Why had he never – not
once
in all his years in Washington – gone on record as condemning sectarian violence and supporting some kind of acceptable solution? The answer was simple – it was enough for Harry to sit with his eyes shut and his foot tapping and listen to the same old goddam songs. His dreams were safe things, retreats from a world where men and women and children died needlessly, and torture and terror were a part of every child's vocabulary.

In the glow from the fire, which was the only source of light in the large panelled room, Celestine's face was half hidden by rippling shadows. Cairney thought the firelight gave her beauty a mysterious quality. She sipped some brandy, then set the glass down and extended her long fingers in front of the flames. She continued to look at Cairney, her stare disarming.

‘You don't understand this marriage, do you? You see a relatively young woman married to a man much older, and you wonder why.'

Cairney made a small sound of protest, but the truth was otherwise. He
had
been wondering.

‘Maybe you're even thinking I married Harry for money and security,' she said.

Again Cairney protested. ‘It never crossed my mind.'

‘I love him,' she said. ‘It's really that simple.'

Cairney finished his drink. ‘And he dotes on you.'

Celestine settled back in her armchair, crossing her legs. ‘I met your father quite by chance. I was doing PR work for one of those companies he lends his name to, a textile concern in Boston. They like to have Senator Harry Cairney on their stationery. He came to visit the company, and there was a luncheon in his honour, and we talked, and we met again the next day. He proposed to me within the week. I accepted.'

A whirlwind, Cairney thought. All during the afternoon he'd watched Celestine and Harry's mutual adoration society, the little touches between them, the long looks of affection they shared. And still, somehow, it didn't sit right with him except he wasn't sure why. The age difference, that was all. The curious contrast between this obviously healthy young woman and Harry Cairney's frailty. The other question that had gone through his mind was why a woman as vivacious as Celestine would want to lock herself away in the isolation of Roscommon. He had underestimated love, nothing more. It was an emotion he always underestimated.

Celestine stood up. ‘I wasn't looking for anybody, Patrick. Marriage was the very last thing on my mind. I'd already been through one, and I wasn't enchanted by the experience. And I'm not interested in Harry's money. I want you to know that.'

Celestine's shadow was large on the wall behind her. She stretched her arms, then ran her fingers through hair that settled back in place immediately, as if it hadn't been disturbed at all.

‘He charmed the heart out of me, Patrick. He's capable of that. He paid so much attention to me – he still does – that I felt like the centre of his universe. I was never in awe of him or his position. I didn't even
notice
the difference in our ages. It was all perfectly natural. I don't think anything in my entire life has ever been so natural.' She was quiet a moment, staring at Cairney with a frank look on her face. ‘Why do I feel I have to explain myself to you?'

‘You don't,' Cairney said.

‘Maybe I want you to like me. Maybe I don't want you to have any doubts about me. Maybe all I really need is for you to understand that I love your father and that I'll take care of him. He's a wonderful man, Patrick, and I want him to be really healthy again. It's just such a heartache to see him sick.' She smiled now and the expression of concern that had appeared on her lovely face dissolved. ‘Do you like to walk?'

‘Sure.'

‘I always take a stroll about this time,' she said. ‘Want to keep me company?'

Cairney got up. He turned to look from the window. Roscommon was in darkness. The moon lay under thick clouds.

They went downstairs. Cairney put on his overcoat, and Celestine dressed in a fur jacket. Outside, they crossed the expanse of front lawn in silence until they reached the shore of Roscommon Lake, a dark disc stretching in front of them.

They walked the shoreline to a stand of bare trees. There, Celestine paused and looked out across the water. The lake made a soft knocking sound, a whisper of reeds. Cairney glanced back the way they'd come, seeing the black outline of the house. He had a brief image of his mother, Kathleen, a tall, round-faced woman with the kindest eyes he'd ever seen on any human being. Kathleen, who had never really been at home in Roscommon because she disliked its size and location, had presided over the big house like some unwilling empress whose emperor was constantly elsewhere. Cairney smiled to himself because the memory was warm and good. It had about it the tranquillity of recollected love.

The sound of a vehicle broke the stillness. Headlights appeared through the trees. It was the security jeep, which parked some yards away. A man came towards them, carrying a flashlight. He was the same man Cairney had seen that afternoon.

‘Cold enough for you, Mrs. Cairney?' the man asked.

Celestine didn't answer. In the beam of the flashlight she looked unhappy. The man stood very still, shining the beam towards the shore of the lake.

‘Just the routine check,' the guard said.

Celestine turned away. When the man had returned to the jeep and the vehicle had moved off in a southerly direction, she said, ‘I hate them. They're always nearby. Even when I can't see them, I feel them.'

‘Why are they here?' Cairney asked.

‘Harry's idea. He mumbled something about protecting his valuables. He thinks somebody is going to rob this place. I pretend the security goons don't bother me. But they're a nuisance.'

She moved along the shore. Cairney followed. The moon broke free from clouds and showered the lake with silver. Celestine stopped, turned to him, laid a hand on his arm.

‘The trouble with your father is he thinks he's a young man all over again,' she said. ‘He thinks he can do all the things he used to do when he was in his twenties. I can't get him to stay in bed. He won't follow his physician's orders.' She sighed. She dropped her hand to her side. ‘I'm tired of telling him things for his own good.'

‘He's a stubborn man,' Cairney said.

‘Maybe he'd listen to you,' she said.

‘I doubt it. The Senator's never been much of a listener.'

‘Why do you call him that?' she asked.

‘The Senator?' Cairney shrugged. ‘I'm not absolutely sure. I guess I've always thought of him that way. The Senator from New York.'

‘It's just the way you say it. It's almost as if you resent the sound of the word. Or the man behind it.'

‘I don't resent him,' Cairney replied. ‘And I don't mean to sound that way either.' He paused now, listening to the rustle of some night creature foraging nearby. If you listened closely, as he always did, even the most superficially placid nights were alive with undercurrents of noise. Resentment, he thought. That was only a part of it. It was more, the sense of being locked constantly in a relationship that was composed of conflicting emotions. Pity and love. Annoyance and admiration. It was a deep conflict and there were times – especially in Ireland, where he felt as if he were stalked by the ghost of Harry Cairney's younger self, a spectre who had the knowledgeable persistence of a tourist guide – when it twisted inside him with the certainty of a knife.