Nell (24 page)

“I want you t' stay away from her, Danny. No more meetin's with her. We'll send someone else.”

“I'm chief negotiator in the talks, Robbie. Who else is there t' send?”

Wilson's hands tightened on the wheel. “Sit tight. I'll sort it out.”

They rode in silence until a conviction rose so strong in Frankie's chest he could no longer keep it inside. “She won't turn me in, Robbie. No matter what she knows, she won't go t' the law.”

Wilson glanced at him speculatively. “I hope you're right, lad, for all our sakes.”

The
Belfast
Telegram
and the
Irish
Times
both carried it on the front page: “Northern Ireland's Minister to Hold Press Conference.” Frankie turned on the television and sat back in an easy chair, too preoccupied with the images flashing on the screen to admonish Connor for climbing onto his lap and dripping brown sauce on his shirt.

Jillian, her hair pulled back into a classic twist that emphasized the dramatic bones of her cheeks and the moss green of her eyes, stared at him from the tube. She appeared completely poised, but Frankie, who had memorized every nuance of her speech patterns, heard the husky timber of nervousness in her voice.

“Last summer,” she began, “Northern Ireland witnessed a degree of public disorder which left a mark of shame. It damaged the image of this community in the eyes of the world. All of us, the people of Northern Ireland, have suffered. Since I was appointed secretary of state for Northern Ireland, I have made it clear that the problems associated with the marches have been my number one priority. I am sorry to say that my efforts, along with those of many others, have not borne fruit. I have no doubt that accommodation is the desired outcome of the vast majority of people in Northern Ireland.” She drew a deep breath before continuing.

“Because an agreement could not be reached, and after a scrupulous weighing of factors and applying the law, the chief constable of the RUC has decided that the parade will continue under certain conditions. Mr. Flanagan has full authority. It is the rule of law. While I understand his position, a position that was taken because an accommodation could not be reached, I deeply regret this course of action.” Her eyes were very bright and wide as she lifted a water glass to her lips.

“Let me be quite clear. I never wanted a position where there was a need for an imposed decision. Like the vast majority of people in this country, I wanted to see a local accommodation. I have done my absolute utmost to achieve that and will continue to do so. In the future, we will bring forward new legislation on parades. In shaping our proposals we will take into account the fears and sensitivities these issues arouse on all sides. To those who may be considering revisiting last year's tragedy on their friends and neighbors, let me say this:

“Think before you act. Think about the families whose lives you might threaten, whose hopes you will dash, whose chances of a decent job, a decent home, a decent future will diminish. No one is challenging the dignity and worth of the nationalist identity. Your voice is heard, and I will continue to listen—always. You have my word on that.”

Frankie watched as she stepped back away from the microphones. He continued to watch as she extended her hand to members of the press corps and moved among them, weaving her way toward the door. He kept watching as clips of her speech were rerun. Only when Connor's head drooped against his shoulder and he realized they were sitting in total darkness did he stand, turn off the telly, and carry his son to bed.

He stayed in the shower for a long time. When the water cooled he toweled himself dry and slid between the sheets of the bed he'd once shared with Colette. Resting his arm on his forehead, he stared at the cracked ceiling.

Sleep eluded him. He glanced at the clock. It was after ten. Too late to call. Reaching for his wallet, he extricated the slip of paper from between the sheets of plastic and dialed anyway. She answered on the second ring.

“Jillian,” he said after a moment of silence, “it's Danny Browne.”

He heard her catch her breath.

“Hello, Danny,” she said warily. “Is something wrong?”

“No. I just wanted to tell you that I saw you on television. You were very good and very convincing.”

“Thank you.” Her voice was warmer now. “How is Connor?”

“Poor little bloke. As well as can be expected.”

He heard her silence and then the rushed words, nonchalantly offered as if fearing rejection. “He's welcome at Kildare anytime. You both are. Just let me know.”

“That's very kind of you.”

Silence, awkward and absolute, separated them.

“Well?” she asked at last.

“Well what?”

“Will you come?”

Again, there was silence.

“Danny?”

This time, he heard her voice behind the words, and his heart leaped in his chest. “Aye, lass,” he said softly. “We'll be pleased t' come.”

He never knew what triggered the rush of emotions that swept over him when he hung up the phone. Whatever it was, he couldn't stop it. His eyes ached, his shoulders shook, and the tension that he carried around within him every waking moment relaxed in a flood of tortured memory.

Turning his face into the pillow, he wept for the women in his life, the one he'd trusted with his secret, the one who'd taken him in and borne him a son, the one he'd lied to, cried with, burned for, and dreamed of, long before he'd learned a Catholic from Ulster had no right to dream.

Portadown, Northern Ireland

Jillian rubbed her arms, accepted the mug of milky tea from a woman with a sweet face and a tired smile, and walked to the end of Garvaghy Road, where the women's peace camp had been hastily constructed. Reporters were everywhere, swarming the small town with their equipment and unfamiliar faces.

Keeping her head down, she made her way through the milling crowd of cameramen, hoping to go unrecognized. Her slender build and straight shoulder-length hair gave her the appearance of a much younger woman. Denim trousers, canvas shoes, a backpack, and a light pullover aided her disguise. The women of Garvaghy Road knew who she was, however, and more than one thoughtful glance followed her as she walked, drank her tea, and stared down the road toward Drumcree Church.

Street artists were finishing several three-story murals on the walls of a large building. In huge white letters, Jillian made out the words “Reroute Sectarian Marches.” In the background, young girls were step-dancing on the road with the word “
Failte
” across the top of their banner and “
Bother
garbh
achaidh
” along the bottom. Another wall had two hands crossed at the wrist and tied with ropes of the Tricolour and the Orange Order, its message “Peace with justice.” The atmosphere was one of nervous anticipation. Plans for a street festival the following day were in full swing.

At six o'clock in the evening, men and women lined up along the length of Garvaghy Road carrying signs calling for the rerouting of the parade. A car rigged with loudspeakers encouraged everyone to come out of their houses. Children were assigned to knock on doors prevailing upon everyone to participate. The air was charged with a tingling electrical excitement.

At eleven o'clock that night, Jillian stared at the armored vehicles rolling down the streets of Portadown. They were moving in to secure the area around Drumcree Church. Her nerves were stretched thin and humming with anticipation. Convinced that the march would be pushed through, she still naively hoped that at the final hour something would be done to stop it. “Please let them come to their senses,” she said out loud.

“Don't count on it,” said a voice from behind her.

Turning, she looked up into Frankie Maguire's handsome, unsmiling face. “I was wishing, that's all,” she whispered.

“What are you doing here, Jillian?”

She winced. He did not sound at all pleased with her. Had she imagined his voice on the phone the other night? “I wanted to see what happened firsthand.”

“The newspaper would have been a better source.”

“You're here,” she pointed out.

“Not by choice.”

Jillian held her mug upside-down and poured out the remains of her cold tea. “Where else should I be?”

Frankie bit down hard on his tongue. She was as courteously polite as ever, and he was a rude bastard. “It isn't safe for you here,” he said quietly. “Your sex won't protect you. The police are fully prepared to kick, throw, beat, and arrest anyone caught on the street.”

“If I am kicked, thrown, beaten, and arrested, I can assure you someone will be very, very sorry.”

“If you aren't killed or paralyzed by a plastic bullet.”

She remembered Colette. “Oh, Danny. I'm so sorry.”

His eyes were the color of smoke. “This has nothing t' do with anyone but you. Go home.”

“No.”

His face went blank while his eyes moved over her, objectively noting the classic purity of her features, the worn trousers, the nubby pullover, and the sport pack hitched over one shoulder. Jillian Graham was more appealing and far more approachable in faded denims than she had been in a designer suit. She was also more obstinate, or had she always been this way and he hadn't noticed?

He remembered a freckle-faced firebrand leaping to his defense, reducing her mother to tears and her father to howls of irresponsible laughter. In those long-ago, careless, sunlit days, no one dared cross Jilly Fitzgerald of Kildare Hall. But this was different. She was in way over her head, and it was time someone did.

He reached for her hand, enclosing it in a viselike grip. “You're coming with me. We'll find a place t' sit this one out.”

“Where are we going?”

“Keep quiet.”

Jillian allowed him to lead her across the road, down a small side street, and into a modest home that had recently been occupied. A kettle still boiled on the stove, and the bathroom mirror was thick with steam as if someone had just showered. “Where's Connor?” she asked, leaning against the counter and rubbing the wrist he had just released.

“With Mrs. Flynn.” He spooned tea leaves into a pot. “What do you hope to accomplish here, Jillian?”

She looked surprised. “Nothing, really. The rest isn't up to me.” He handed her the cup. The heat warmed her hands. “I feel so removed from it all,” she confessed. “Everything I know comes from what I've read. It isn't enough. I feel as if I were blind.”

Frankie swallowed a mouthful of hot, sustaining tea. “We're not expectin' you to change what can't be changed. No one person can do that.”

“What time is it?”

“Nearly midnight.”

She looked around. “Where are we?”

“Sean Dunbar's home. He's the Sinn Fein representative in the area.”

“Nothing is scheduled for hours yet. Do you think he'd mind if I napped on his couch?”

Frankie shook his head. “I'll wake you if anything happens.”

Within minutes, she was asleep.

He watched her for a long time, her hand curling against her chin, the way her hair spilled across the cushion, her lashes resting like gold-tipped crescents against her cheeks, the even rise and fall of her chest when she breathed. She turned only once, sighing deeply, lashes fluttering, arms settling bonelessly into familiar places.

It hit without warning, instantly, irrevocably, like the glancing blow of a boxer's punch. How long had it been? Two years? Three? A lifetime? Had he
ever
known that kind of desperate, hopeless desire, the kind that weakens the knees, strips clean the defenses, and exposes the longings hidden deep in one's soul?

He drew in his breath, walked unsteadily into the kitchen, turned off the light, and sank down into a straight-backed chair. The darkness settled him, bringing with it a semblance of sanity. Jillian was beautiful, and he was lonely. Colette's passing had stirred the embers of appetites he'd repressed since her accident. He was a man, for Christ's sake, and a bloody tolerant one. Three years was a long time. The platonic nature of his marriage had been Colette's choice, not his. It was only natural for a man, celibate against his will, to react when confronted with a lovely, compassionate woman who obviously adored his son.

It was impossible, of course. She was an aristocrat and a Protestant, not to mention his political adversary. The press would hang her for a conflict of interests that would make the Windsor scandals appear tame in comparison. He would end this cat-and-mouse game they played. After tonight, the only communication he would have with her would be across the bargaining table during peace talks.

The shrill blast of the community siren pierced the silence. Frankie leaped from his chair and headed for the sitting room. Jillian met him halfway, her eyes wide with terror.

“They've sounded the alarm,” he said quietly. “It means British troops have secured the area around Drumcree Church.”

“What shall we do?”

“Nothing.”

“You didn't come here to wait in Sean Dunbar's house.”

“No. But I didn't expect to find you, either.”

Her eyes flashed. “I'm going outside, Danny,” she said deliberately. “Don't try to stop me.”

He watched her sling the backpack over her shoulder, push open the screen, and walk through the door. Cursing, he flipped off the sitting-room light, zipped his jacket, and followed her. When he caught up with her and took her hand, she did not pull away. He found a spot on the corner with a good vantage point.

Peaceful protesters shouting encouragement lined the road. Above the joviality, Jillian heard the cadence of marching feet. Within minutes, the RUC, outfitted in black and wearing complete body armor, sealed off every route into the Garvaghy Road and encircled the protesting residents who began singing the strains of “We Shall Overcome.” British Saxons and RUC armored Land Rovers moved into position.

It was nearly dawn. Fingers of morning light streaked the sky. Slowly, the police fanned out and approached the crowd. The protesters linked arms, tightened their circle, and began to pray. Jillian bit her lip. She wanted very much to look away, but Frankie's mocking glare kept her eyes stubbornly fixed on the nightmare unfolding before her.

Targeting the perimeters of the circle, the RUC began peeling away individuals, one and two at a time. Four policemen, swinging clubs, waded into the middle. They lifted the clubs above their heads and brought them down, full force on the heads, shoulders, backs, and arms of the protesters. Across the street on the sidewalk, another unit assumed the kneeling position, took aim, and fired. Bodies fell to the ground. Shouts, screams, and profanity sounded through the peaceful dawn.

Pressing the back of her hand against her mouth, Jillian watched as heads split open and nationalist blood spilled, once again, on the streets of Ireland. She did not protest when Frankie's arm came around her, his hand pressing her head into his shoulder, his voice murmuring a soothing mantra in a language she did not understand.

After three hours of physical brutality and military precision, the occupation and containment of the Garvaghy community was complete. The wait for the march began in earnest. Tensions were high.

Frankie pulled Jillian into the shadow of a building to avoid the inevitable confrontations among residents, the soldiers, and police. Hours passed. He no longer felt his feet. Jillian slept occasionally, her body a limp weight against his chest.

It was Sunday morning, and Saint John's Parish Church was surrounded with barbed wire. Surrounded by British tanks and soldiers in full riot gear, local priests carried tables to construct an altar for an open-air mass. Catholics assembled and knelt on the concrete while their priests prayed. Cameras flashed, and reporters spoke with hushed voices into their microphones.

At one o'clock in the afternoon, they came, a somber group of twelve hundred Orangemen, marching in rows through the ominous silence, backs straight, eyes forward, faces tight with fear, orange sashes bright beneath bowler hats.

An angry murmur surged through the crowd. “You call yourselves Christians!” a woman screamed.

“Rot in hell!” a man called out.

Within minutes, they were gone. But the rage of the community had increased. Nationalists spewed venomous insults at the RUC. Young men raised their fists and chanted to each other from the rooftops, “I-R-A, I-R-A, no cease-fire, no cease-fire.”

Jillian watched in shocked silence as the citizens of Garvaghy Road were left to strip away the barricades, ropes, and barbed wire from the contained areas. “We can still sort it out,” she said under her breath. “This is over. Next year will be different.”

“Will it?” Frankie's mouth twisted bitterly. “When will you people recognize an ultimatum when you see one? The Catholics of Garvaghy Road are telling you that they want no part of Thomas Putnam's peace train so long as it has just two carriages, first class and Catholic.”

Someone else might have assumed her unnatural pallor was the result of shock or pain. But Frankie, sensitive to her slightest nuance, knew that it was anger, white-hot and all-consuming.

“How dare you call me one of them.” Her voice vibrated with rage. “How dare you sit across the negotiating table in the name of peace and deny that you're a terrorist when you've just admitted that you believe all power grows out of the barrel of a gun.”

When he didn't answer, she smiled sadly. “I thought better of you, Danny Browne. I believed in the man who was Colette's husband. I hoped—” She took a deep breath. Her mouth trembled.

Words failed him. He reached out, but she backed away.

“Don't touch me.” Her voice broke. “Please, don't touch me. I can't bear it.” With a final anguished look, she turned and crossed the desolate street.

***

Bertie Ahern, the Irish Taoiseach, called the march a travesty. John Bruton, the Fine Gael leader, expressed regret over the course of events concerning Garvaghy Road. Eamon O'Cuiv, the new minister of state for the Republic of Ireland, criticized the heavy-handed approach of the RUC and the British troops. Thomas Putnam, prime minister of England, was furious.

Amnesty International had publicly denounced the actions of the British government and demanded that Mr. Putnam bring Britain's laws into line with international standards in relation to Northern Ireland and to set up a human rights commission. The group called for an inquiry into the significant numbers of deaths while in police custody.

Putnam's youthful forehead was furrowed as he walked back and forth across the wooden floor of his office at No. 10 Downing Street. His secretary's voice floated through the speaker phone. “Mrs. Graham is on the phone, sir.”

He pushed the red light. “Jillian, are you there?”

“Yes.”

“You've seen the papers?”

“Yes.”

His voice rose. “What in bloody hell are we to do?”

“I beg your pardon?”

He could not miss the frost in her voice, and it grated on his already sensitive nerves. “I apologize,” he said stiffly. “What is your opinion on the matter?”

“I would do exactly as they ask.”

“That's preposterous.”

“Why?”

“It makes us look like fools.”

Was he imagining the edge to her words, or was Jillian Graham actually impatient with him?