The Living (23 page)

I paused, thinking of George, his matted jumpers and ready laugh, his robust stance on printer errors … his political sympathies.
Our side
.
Or theirs
. Where did the Police Service of Northern Ireland fit into that schema?

‘I work for a small publisher in Dublin called Bell Books,' I said.

‘And your boss's name?'

‘George Sweeney.' My voice was very small.

Phillips repeated, ‘George Sweeney. And what's in this document that George Sweeney needs?'

‘I don't know,' I said. I was on auto-pilot. My mind was shutting down, refusing to co-operate with me.

Phillips waited.

I went on. ‘He didn't tell me what it was. He just said it was corroboration for a book we're publishing in the spring.'

‘And that's what you believe is the case?'

‘Yes, of course.'

‘Tell me about this book.'

Again I hesitated, recalling the obsessive elusiveness of Eddie MacDevitt, the trouble his book had already brought upon my beloved uncle, and not least, the searing look Nicky Fay had given me as he left Starbucks. I was in deep waters here, and I didn't know enough to keep safe. ‘It's just a memoir,' I said. ‘It's by a guy called Eddie MacDevitt. He's not famous or anything.'

‘And what has Nicky Fay got to contribute to this memoir?'

‘I don't know. George asked me to collect the document for him while I was here for the concert. That's all.'

Phillips sighed. ‘And if I put you on the spot and told you to make an educated guess? Hmm?' He looked at me, eyebrows raised and mouth bunched in a sceptical expression.

I was unable to hold his gaze; I dropped my eyes. I licked my lips and took a breath. ‘I'd guess that maybe Nicky Fay and Eddie MacDevitt might have a connection through Republican circles?'

Phillips feigned astonishment. ‘You don't say!' He wrote laboriously. ‘Republican. Circles.'

I shrugged.

‘I'll tell you what I think, Miss Houlihan,' said Phillips, serious again. ‘I think you know more than you're telling. You and your nimble-footed companion. What's his name, by the way?'

A bitter marble of unease now, rolling around in the pit of my stomach. Had they arrested Matthew too? Was he maybe in another room in this very building, being questioned about me?

‘Matthew Taylor,' I said, feeling like a traitor.

Phillips made a note, then leaned towards me and spoke even more quietly than before. ‘What
else
did Nicky Fay give you?'

I blinked. ‘What do you mean?'

‘What do I mean? Well, you tell
me
. Was it information? A message for someone, maybe?'

I was hollow with fear. Whatever about Matthew, I couldn't give them Uncle Fintan. I shook my head and lied. ‘No. He just gave me the memory stick and told me to give it to George on Monday.'

‘Monday,' said Phillips. He stopped writing, sat back and folded his arms, gazing calmly at me. Neither of us said anything for a long time.

At last Phillips spoke again. ‘Now, if you'll please have a look over my notes and sign at the bottom if you feel they are an accurate record of what you said.' He passed over a single page, covered in cramped, clear writing.

‘I – what? Are we finished?'

‘I'm afraid not. We'll be back in a wee while to check one or two details.' He put his pen and pad back into his briefcase and waited for me to read the notes. Notwithstanding my near-inability to make sense of anything at this point, they seemed perfectly clear and fair to me. Phillips stood up then, and he and Hall went outside, shutting the door behind them.

I sat in a welter of nerves, wondering if this was a strategic move on their part. Did they disbelieve me? Were they trying to catch me out? It made no sense. I poured myself some more water and sipped it slowly. When would they come back? The silence in the room was thick and heavy. More than anything else now, I wanted my bed.

Time passed. How much, I had no way of knowing. The next time the door opened it was not Phillips but another male officer, accompanied by a woman who introduced herself as Inspector Nolan. She called me Cate, and wanted to know how long I'd been working at Bell Books and how I'd got the job. Her niece worked in publishing too, she said, in London.

Nolan also took notes by hand. Just as I began to relax, she turned the conversation back to Nicky Fay. She wanted to know everything about our meeting this morning. I told her what I could remember.

‘What else did he say to you, Cate?' she asked, echoing Phillips. ‘Who else did you talk about?'

‘Nothing,' I insisted again. ‘Nobody.' I felt sick.

Nolan paused. ‘And so he gave you a memory stick with some documents on it?'

‘Yes. Or maybe just one document.'

‘Did you open it?'

‘No.'

‘Why did you take it with you when you went on stage tonight?'

‘I don't really know,' I said. ‘He told me not to lose it. I felt safer bringing it with me.'

‘Now, the man you were with when you were stopped by Sergeant Hall,' said Nolan, and looked at me with eyes harder than before. ‘What's his name again?'

My breath caught. ‘Matthew Taylor.'

‘Boyfriend?'

‘Ex-boyfriend,' I said, because that seemed inevitable now.

‘And what was he doing at the Waterfront tonight?'

I looked down at my hands, wondering if I was going to break down and sob. All I could think of was the warmth of Matthew's skin in the darkness. ‘He's in the same choir as me,' I said.

‘Carmina Urbana.'

‘That's right.'

‘And do you know why he ran away while you were being arrested?'

I shook my head.

‘Would you care to speculate?'

He had a
gun
. I looked up at her. ‘I suppose he must have had something to hide.'

Nolan finished writing with a decisive full stop and passed me over three pages of notes. ‘Please sign the bottom of each page.'

‘When will we be finished?' I asked her. I felt impossibly small and weak.

She smiled and shook her head. ‘Oh, we've a way to go yet, so we do.'

My eyes widened. How long could they keep me here, anyway? I had absolutely no idea.

Nolan collected her things and left with her silent colleague, and I was alone again. This time, though, I had not long to wait. After just a few minutes, the door opened again, and Phillips and Nolan came back in together. This time, it was a double act, with Nolan taking the notes and the two of them pelting me with questions. Over again we went through all I had told them before. For good measure they asked me to repeat the details of my meeting with Nicky Fay
backwards
. I had no notion what good that would do them, but I gave it a try.

I was close to the end of my endurance. There was nothing left to squeeze out of my exhausted brain. I moaned at the two of them to stop, but they went on. There was so little to tell. At the end of the day, no matter how many times they repeated their questions, I still couldn't tell them who David Cornwell was or how he might relate to Noel or Eric or Frank. At last they seemed to come to the same conclusion. They handed me yet more pages to sign and left.

As the door shut behind them I stood up and began to pace,
favouring my stinging foot. I was fully awake now, scared and impatient. There must be some sort of limit to how long this could go on. Why did I have to be such an ignoramus? I let out a long, loud sigh, and something about it put me in mind of a scale, so I sang some. Up and down, humming and trilling as though I were warming up for a performance. I opened right up into the top of my range, let every cavity in my head vibrate, didn't care how much noise I made … until I recalled the camera in the corner of the room and stopped abruptly.

The silence that fell then was thicker and heavier than ever. I tried leaning against the wall for the sake of variety, but it didn't help much. I considered lying on the floor, but I changed my mind when I took a closer look at it. I sprawled across the table for a while, which was not as comfortable as one might have thought.

I
WAS, REGRETTABLY, STILL
prone on the table when there was a tap at the door and Sergeant Hall came in. I scrambled to my feet.

The police officer was looking more pleasant than I'd seen her thus far. ‘Miss Houlihan, you've been extremely helpful tonight. Thank you for that.'

‘OK …' I said.

‘That's it,' she said. ‘You're free to go.'

An avalanche of relief poured down my slopes, engulfing all in its path.

Hall showed me out. Phillips met us in the corridor and handed me back Nicky Fay's memory stick.

‘Goodnight,' I said to the two of them, aware of how inappropriate it sounded. I stepped out into the icy air, feeling cautiously cheerful. I understood none of what had happened, but I was free. I started walking as best I could in wthat I hoped was a likely direction.

Every atom of cheer drained precipitously away when I saw Matthew standing under a streetlamp a short distance down the road. I was empty, barren of fortitude or firmness of purpose to bring to bear on this situation. I simply kept walking towards him. Past him. He fell into step beside me. We walked in silence, with just a little more space between us than there might naturally have been.

‘Um, hello,' Matthew said after a while.

‘I don't think I can talk to you.'

‘Please, Cate.' He touched my arm. I shrugged him off.

I was looking for landmarks, hoping I was heading in towards the centre of the city, somewhere I might recognize. I felt utterly lost.

Matthew began again. ‘Look, I know you've had a difficult evening—'

‘You brought a gun to our concert.' I spoke barely above a whisper.

‘That's right, I did.'

I stopped walking. ‘So, who were you going to assassinate?'

‘Oh, no.' He shook his head. ‘You've got the wrong idea.'

‘Look—' Anger rose in me.

He reached out a hand and touched my arm briefly. ‘Cate, it's all right.'

‘It's bloody not, you know.' I started walking again. It was better than hitting him.

‘I wasn't going to assassinate anyone, OK?'

‘Yeah.' I kept looking straight ahead. Some part of me was enjoying the moment. He'd spoken almost petulantly. He didn't like me treating this as though it were something I had a right to know about. But he was the one who'd said
love
. ‘You weren't planning to use the gun, then?'

‘I wasn't!'

‘Who was the target? Which of the delegates?'

‘Oh, for goodness' sake, Cate. I'm not a bloody terrorist.'

I wasn't even particularly interested in the answer to my question, I realized. It was all the same. ‘You'd call it
freedom fighter
, would you?'

‘No!' He darted round to intercept me and stood blocking my way, reaching both arms to me now, moving to touch me but stopping short. ‘Cate. Please. I've told you. You've got the wrong idea.'

I looked at him, his face earnest and strained in the streetlight, his eyes full of distress. Everything went very still. A monstrous thought was taking ghastly shape. ‘Well, what are you, then? Some kind of … undercover agent?'

He said nothing, but blinked his assent.

I gasped and took a step back. ‘You mean … like … MI5?' I managed.

He gave me a distorted little smile. ‘Six, actually. Overseas work.'

‘Oh, my god,' I whispered. I whirled past him and set off along the street, walking as fast as I could. He kept pace, saying nothing. I could see his worried face out of the corner of my eye, but I wouldn't look at him. I couldn't think of anything more to say.

There was a fire in my mind. This was unbearable. I had spent fevered hours absorbing the revelation that Matthew was a gunman, a terrorist, intent on causing harm in the name of some political ideal. A man on the run from justice. And now even that unsavoury picture was shattered. This man, the man I had thought of as rational and kind – maybe even one who might provide an antidote to past hurts – this man who had delighted me, who had held me in his arms in the dark, was not a terrorist. Not an assassin. Not a wrong-headed ideologue with romantic notions of armed struggle and blood sacrifice. Just a spy. A fucking British spy.

This was the twenty-first century. Surely things had moved on.

I was frozen. I kept walking.

‘Cate, please – just try to understand – it's not what you imagine—'

‘How the fuck would you know what I imagine?'

‘Cate, this is me. I haven't turned into a different person. I helped you, Cate.'

‘You
helped
me, did you?'

‘Yes, I fucking helped you! You'd still be in police custody if I hadn't intervened. I took a big risk for you. A
big
risk. The least you could do is thank me.'

‘I should
thank
you, now? Oh, that's fucking rich!'

I sped up. Matthew snorted in frustration and kept pace.

‘Look, Cate, slow down. I'm trying to talk to you. Stop!' He reached out an arm to bar my progress.

‘No fucking way!' I growled. I barged past him and was off down the street, running, stumbling, limping away as fast as I could. My heart thudded, and I kicked off my shoes before they twisted my ankle for me. I could hear him behind me, calling my name. Coming closer. How could I have let him touch me? How could I ever have thought that he would keep me safe?

I heard his breath, his feet on the pavement, felt his hand on my arm. ‘Get off me, you sick fuck!' I shook his hand away, kept running.

‘Cate! Please! Listen!' He grabbed at me again.

I spun round to face him. ‘How dare you! How fucking dare you lay a hand on me! How dare you even speak to me when you're a … you're a—'