Slip of the Knife (37 page)

She kept thinking about her dad. Couldn’t shove him to the back of her mind the way she usually did, but his company felt comfortable today, as if he was supporting her elbow, helping her.

She needed to be alone when McBree came. Eriskay House was blighted by death already but Callum was there, eating dry bread, enjoying the countryside. She could get Dub to drive out with her and make him come back to the city with Callum. She could tell him she was meeting a contact from British Security, top secret, ask him to come out and get her the next day. If Dub promised to stay with Pete and her mother and she made sure McBree knew where she was, they should be safe enough.

She had one last thing to do, though. She could do it on the way out to Ayr. Garrett’s suggestion. She smiled when she thought about the taciturn police officer. Decent woman.

THIRTY-TWO

MARTY

I

An unfamiliar van was parked outside Trisha’s house, a rusted burgundy van with painted back windows and empty food wrappers on the dashboard. Paddy had never seen it before but knew exactly what it signified.

She bolted for the front door and fitted her key, Dub and Pete hurrying after her. As soon as she saw the light from the living room she knew that the television was on and the lights off. Her brothers, Marty and Gerry, were home from London.

They looked up at her from the settee, side by side, cups of tea and the trail of biscuit crumbs on the arms. Marty slipped his eyes back to the television but Gerry tried a smile, sensitive enough to be a little shamefaced about his sudden appearance.

“All right?”

She didn’t answer him.

Marty had changed his style since he moved to London. He had grown his hair long and was dressed in a threadbare checked shirt, jeans and scuffed Converse trainers. Gerry had stuck to a plain T-shirt and jeans, clothes his mother could have bought for him in a charity shop.

“Not pleased to see us?” Marty kept his eyes on the television screen.

“I know why you’re here.”

Pete squeezed past her legs and threw himself at his uncles. They caught him, making a fuss of him without smiling. Gerry let Pete slide down his legs and yanked him back onto the settee by an arm and a leg.

“Mum phoned ye about her?”

Marty answered for both of them. “Aye.”

“It’s more complicated than you think. You both know what Mary Ann’s like. She can’t talk about things, describe things.”

“Is she pregnant?”

“No,” said Paddy sharply, worried about Pete picking up on the conversation. “Just, you don’t know what’s going on.”

Pete pulled himself free. “Where’s BC?”

“Visiting his dad,” said Gerry. “He’ll be back soon.”

Dub sat down in an armchair that their father had always used, nodding his hellos. The boys had known him forever and didn’t question his presence, just nodded back, glancing at the television again to break off contact.

A sudden clack of plates from the kitchen announced Trisha’s presence.

“You two keep Pete in here,” Paddy ordered her brothers and stepped into the kitchen.

Standing facing the door as she came in, beyond a table set with five places, Trisha glared at her, bitter as a Mafia widow.

“Mum—”

“You didn’t tell me.”

“Mum—”

Trisha had raised five children, her husband had been unemployed for five years before he died, had a breakdown that no one ever acknowledged and died a terrible death, but Paddy had never heard her shout as savagely as she did now. “You didn’t tell me.”

Shocked by the violence of her own voice, Trisha clutched the back of a chair to steady herself. The Church was the only certainty left to her.

“Sit down, Mum.” Paddy took her arm and backed her into a seat, pushing her up against the table to trap her. The teapot was underneath the tea cozy, the tea still warm enough if a little stewed. Paddy poured out a cup and put milk in it, setting it in front of her mother, taking a seat next to her and ordering her to drink.

Holding the cup with two hands, Trisha lifted it to her mouth, gurning at the strong tea but taking another sip anyway.

“She only told me three days ago,” said Paddy. “When did you hear? Mary Ann was here three days ago, wasn’t she? Did she tell you then? Because if she did you’ve known longer than me and I should be shouting at you.” Her mother looked out into the living room again. “So you called them and told them to come home. For what? To batter Father Andrew? Why?”

“Because of what he did to her.” Trisha’s face contorted with shame and pain.

“He didn’t rape her, Mum. She’s in love with him.”

“In love?” Trisha slammed the cup down on the table. “In love? What would you know about that? Love isn’t taking a shine to someone you’ve met once or twice, it’s living together year after year, getting through bad times, caring for each other, nursing each other.” She was rocking back and forth in the chair, missing Con, her softer self.

In the living room someone turned up the television to keep the sound of the conversation from Pete.

Paddy couldn’t bring herself to mention her father directly. It would hurt too much. “Mary Ann’s grown up. She knows her own mind.”

“She knows nothing about life.”

Paddy took her hand and Trisha melted towards her. “You’re kidding yourself. She’s seen more than you or me or both of us. She works in a soup kitchen and she’s been beaten up more than once. She might not know anything about our world but she knows a lot of stuff we don’t.”

Trisha looked deep into her bitter tea. “He’s a man of the Church. A priest. How could he?”

“And you think she’s passive in this? Because she’s a woman?”

Trisha yanked her hand away and showed Paddy her palm. “Don’t you bring your women’s lib into this.”

“For fucksake, Mum, Mary Ann isn’t a child. We’re none of us children anymore. Women can instigate relationships. It’s not like the old days. We’re not all sitting against the wall waiting to get danced.”

Trisha looked despairingly at her cup. Her white roots were showing and her back was bowed. She looked old and spent.

“Mum, she’s nearly thirty. She’s a woman.”

Trisha turned on her. “I suppose you’re pleased. You never wanted her to take her final vows, did you? You never take communion, never go to confession.”

But Paddy wasn’t going to act sorry. She had been hiding her lack of faith since she was seven. For a long time she genuinely believed that everyone in the family would get marked down on the Final Day because of her, that she herself was damned to hell by a God she didn’t like or respect. It was a terrible load and she’d been carrying it alone. “I don’t get religion,” she said defiantly. “But I love Mary Ann and I want her to be happy. Battering her boyfriend won’t make her happy. I hope she gets married and has fifty children. She’d be a brilliant mum.”

The possibility that there would be a time beyond this moment, that Mary Ann might marry and give her grandchildren, hadn’t occurred to Trisha. She sipped her tea and thought, catching her breath to speak but stopping.

Paddy could see it all unraveling: Trisha would send the boys to see Father Andrew. They were so protective of Mary Ann she knew it would get physical as soon as he opened the door. The housekeeper would call the police and the boys’d be up on a charge. The story would get out, everyone would be ruined and Trisha’s shame would be compounded.

“Being happy isn’t all there is to life,” Trisha said eventually. “There’s doing the right thing and duties and honor.”

“Is it honorable to lie and pretend she has a vocation if she doesn’t? Because she’ll do that to please you. Mum . . .” Paddy started crying before she even spoke his name. “Dad wouldn’t want this.”

Trisha’s head dropped forward. Con’s name had been unspoken since they emptied his clothes from the cupboard.

They sat together, clasping hands until their fingers turned white, crying silently while the ghost of Con flitted cheerfully around the kitchen, making tea, emptying bins, arranging chairs for visitors, showing off lucky finds from his aimless walks.

Finally, Paddy licked the wet from her lip, forced a breath into her chest, and spoke. “My gentle wee daddy wouldn’t want this.”

II

Sitting on her old bed, looking across at Marty perched on Mary Ann’s, Paddy realized that she couldn’t remember seeing her brother in this room when they all lived at home. He and Gerry had their own bedroom, their own hangouts, their own secrets. Neither of the boys was a talker. Since they moved to London they phoned their mother once a week to tell her they weren’t dead and lie about their chapel attendance, but that was as intense as the interaction got.

Marty was wary when she caught his eye in the gloomy living room and nodded him out to the hall, led him up the steep carpet-padded stairs, to sit under the bare lightbulb on the two narrow single beds with balding chenille bedspreads. His knees stayed together, steadying hands on either side of his thighs, looking around at the unfamiliar walls and the half-pulled curtains.

They hadn’t liked each other much when they shared a house and it felt strange that she should be about to ask so much of him.

“What is it?” he said, forcing himself to look at her. “Is Mum ill?”

“No.” She took a deep breath, wanted a cigarette but couldn’t smoke because Pete would be sleeping here tonight. “I have to ask you and Gerry a massive favor.”

That caught Marty’s attention. “Money?” He gave a half smile.

“No. Look, I’m involved in something heavy. Two of my friends have died—”

“Have you got AIDS?”

She felt a familiar heat on the back of her neck. “Marty, shut up and listen, will ye?”

Marty stood up. The beds were low and he seemed very tall; his black hair fell over one eye as he leaned towards her. “You always fucking do this.”

She was supposed to ask him what, what did she always do, and then they’d slide into the deep track marks of their well-worn argument: she was a bossy, self-important cow, he was a bully, she was fat, he was stupid, yeah, well, fuck you then, and fuck you too.

“Someone tried to kill Pete last night. A man, an Irish Republican I’ve been writing about, broke into Burns’s house and tried to stab Pete because he couldn’t find me. It was a warning. It’s me he wants.”

Marty dropped back down to sit on the bed, staring at her. It was the traces of fear in his eyes that made her see it: he looked so much like Con it was all she could do to stop herself from crying again. “I need you to watch over Pete.”

He took her hands in his, easing her thumbs out and baring his wee sister’s palms.

“Why? Where are you going?”

She took another deep breath. “I have to go and meet him.”

The words hung heavily in the air between them as Paddy looked out of the window at the tree nodding in the summer breeze at the end of the garden.

“Can’t I come with you?”

“I need you to watch over Pete.”

When they first moved in, her father thought the tree was a bush and left it. She’d found out recently that it was a sycamore. Every summer it grew taller and more lush until now it dominated the whole garden, the only feature that rose above a rusting washing machine peeking like a commando over the tips of the tall grass. No one had ever liked that tree but Paddy. She loved it for daring to be beautiful in an ugly place.

Marty pressed her palms together, warming them in the circle of his own hands.

“Can’t you call the police?”

“The police are protecting him. He’s killed two people already and they warned me off investigating him.”

“Call the papers?”

“The two guys he killed were the papers.”

Marty looked terrified. “Me and Gerry could hide in the van and—”

“No.”

“We could get a gun—”

“No. We’re not that kind of people. He’s after me and whoever is with me, Marty. He’s been doing this for twenty years . . . Please trust me. I could spend an hour explaining and I’ll still have to go by myself.”

He was holding her hands tight now, his head almost in her lap. He whispered, “Will you leave Pete here?”

She nodded at the window.

“Will he come for Pete tonight?”

“Not if I go to meet him.”

She looked back at her brother. He was stroking her hands and crying, face red, chin quivering, and now he really looked like her daddy. Con cried a lot at the end. Spontaneous outbursts of limitless sadness.

“We, um . . .” Marty broke off to sniff. “We’ll take turns staying up. We’ve got baseball bats in the van and we’ll keep knives by the settee. If you do meet him—” He shut his eyes and curled over his knees, tensing his back into a tight curve. “We’ll move home and mind Pete.”

She pulled her thumbs free and cupped Marty’s hands in hers, lifted them, holding them to her cheek.

Slowly, he rocked forward until their heads were pressed tight together.

He pressed so hard he numbed her scalp.

THIRTY-THREE

FROM A MILE UNDER WATER

I

She called Pitt Street and asked for Knox. The receptionist put her through to a secretary. DCS Knox wasn’t in right now but she wondered if she could take a message?

“It’s really him I need to speak to,” Paddy told her. “It’s quite urgent.”

“Well, I’m very sorry but he won’t be back in again tonight.”

Paddy couldn’t go and wait in the cottage on her own all night if McBree didn’t know where she was. He’d come after Pete and find him in the house with her mother and brothers. It would be a massacre.

“It’s about Martin McBree, I have some—”

“Just a moment.”

She heard two soft-tone beeps and Knox picked up.

“This is Paddy Meehan. I’ve got McBree’s pictures, the last few copies. I want to hand them over.”

He thought for a moment. “That’s nothing to do with me,” he said.

“Tonight. Eriskay House, off the Ayr road. There’s a small sign for the house, shortly before the Troon petrol station on the roundabout.”

“Why are you telling me?” He sounded so casual and self-assured it made her furious.

“Knox, I will get around to you.”

“Will you?” He was smiling.

“I know about you.” She had nothing on him, but the more threatened he felt the more likely he was to call McBree immediately.