Dancing With Mortality (18 page)

‘I’ll see what’s in the fridge,’ she said once the car was
unloaded and they were back inside the flat.

‘Do you have anything to drink?’

She looked at him for a second, but made no comment. ‘Wait,’
she said.

She brought him a bottle of wine and a corkscrew. ‘I’m going
to cook. Open that for me please.’ She went back into the kitchen and a minute
later he could hear the sound of vegetables being chopped. He opened the bottle
then joined her. She gestured at the two wine glasses she had ready on the
worktop, and he poured.

‘You need to relax, Harry, you’re making me nervous.’

‘Yes, I know, sorry.’ He took a large sip of wine. ‘Damn, I
forgot to call the office. Oh, the hell with it.’ He topped up his glass. ‘Can
I put some music on?’

‘Help yourself.’

He took the bottle with him and, after a cursory look
through the CDs, settled for Miles Davis. He retreated to the sofa and let the
music and the wine slowly unwind his tension. After ten minutes Sabine came in.

‘Vegetable stew, it will take an hour or so.’ She looked at
the wine bottle. ‘You’re getting through that quickly.’

‘I’d like another if you don’t mind. Don’t worry, I’m a
happy drunk.’

‘Take it slowly then. You can be happy, just not
speechless.’

The wine was making itself felt, no doubt due to the fact
they hadn’t stopped for lunch, or bothered with breakfast. Sabine found a
second bottle and kept it within easy reach.

‘I’m rationing you till the meal is ready.’ She poured
herself a glass.

‘Who’s rationing you?’

‘I don’t need rationing, I have perfect self control.’ For
the first time that day he saw a hint of a smile.

When the meal was served they both found their appetites had
returned with a vengeance. ‘I should have made more,’ said Sabine. She brought
in the casserole pot and spooned the remainder onto Harry’s plate. ‘Finish it.’
He held up the empty wine bottle enquiringly. She said nothing, just took it
from him and went back to the kitchen, returning with a fresh one.

‘You know I have no idea where to get a copy of the Irish
Times in London,’ he said. ‘Must be somewhere in the City that sells it.’

‘When are you going back?’

‘I should really go to Frankfurt and get a flight tomorrow.’

‘Are we safe, Harry?’

‘I think you are. Where I’m concerned I’m not sure what to
think. Theoretically, I’m no threat to anyone. Just overreaction on my part,
that’s all.’

‘Keep in contact with me, won’t you?’

‘I will, don’t worry. Once this story has broken we will
have a better idea of where we stand. I’ll be calling you every day.’

‘I’m going to wash up.’

He finished the dregs of the wine while she was away.

‘I’m tired,’ she said on her return. ‘Are you?’

‘Yes, now you mention it.’

‘You take the first shower then.’

He set the water to as hot as he
could stand and then let it wash over his head and back and chest, easing away
the last remnants of tension. He put his hands high on the wall and raised his
face to the oncoming water, and tried to think of nothing at all. He didn’t
hear the shower door open, then Sabine had her arms around him from behind, and
he could feel her breasts pressing against him as she tightened her grip.

He gasped. ‘Sabine, what the...’

‘Don’t stop me,’ she whispered.

She kept one arm tight around him and began exploring his
body with her free hand. He felt himself responding straight away and realised
he had no intention of stopping her. He freed himself from her grasp, spun
around and kissed her long and hard.

‘Take me to the bedroom,’ she said.

Their passion was brief but intense. Then they lay quietly
together, absorbing the implications of what they’d done.

‘I think I had too much wine,’ she said. ‘Don’t be mad.’

‘I’m not.’ He ran his hand over the curve of her hip.
‘You’re still wet from the shower. I’ll get a towel.’

He dried her, taking his time. Then he dried himself, kissed
her and pulled the covers over both of them.

‘I thought you were tired,’ he said.

‘I am, I just got tired of waiting for the shower, that’s
all.’

‘Of course, how stupid of me.’

‘Will you be ok, Harry?’

‘I think so. Sleep now. Or are you going to attack me
again?’

‘No, I’ll ask your permission next time. Good night.’

The next morning he woke with a
headache and a raging thirst. Sabine was fast asleep beside him. Being careful
not to disturb her, he got out of bed and went back to his room to find some
clothes. Once dressed, he went to the kitchen and drank two glasses of water,
staring absentmindedly at the view from the kitchen window.

‘Hallo.’ She stood in the doorway, looking uncertain. ‘Could
I have some water?’

She drained the glass he passed her then came over to the
sink and refilled it. ‘I’m sorry about last night, Harry, I wasn’t thinking.
Can we just forget about it?’

‘Don’t apologise, I didn’t exactly resist. I think I’ve been
wanting that to happen for a while now. But yes, we should try to forget about
it.’

‘Ok,’ she said with a rueful smile. ‘Would you like some
breakfast?’

‘Yes, and will you drive me to the station later? I need to
get back home.’

‘Sure. Don’t forget you’ve got the syringe in the fridge.’

‘No. I’d better use that before I go.’ He felt a bit
nauseous. ‘Drank too much last night.’

‘The drugs and the wine don’t mix, Harry. If you want your
treatment to work you need to drink as little alcohol as possible – preferably
none.’

He knew she was right, and he was surprised at how difficult
it was to break the drinking habit, even when his health depended on it. That
would have to change.

Around mid-morning Sabine brought
the Golf to a stop directly outside the station entrance. They got out and she
watched as he unloaded his case and stood it on the pavement.

‘I want you to text me every evening from now on,’ he said.
‘I need to know you’re ok. I’ll try to call you, but it may not always
be…convenient.’

‘I understand. When will I see you again?’

‘I really don’t know if that’s wise.’

Her face was inscrutable. ‘Good journey then.’ She hugged
him. ‘Kiss me please.’

He kissed her for what seemed like minutes but was just a
long moment, then he turned away and went in to the station. When he looked
back she was getting into the car. He knew that not seeing her again was a
difficult choice to make, but it was the only one. He found a ticket machine
and fed it with notes, then, armed with his ticket to Frankfurt, he marched on
to the platform and turned his thoughts towards London.

Sophie had bought a Christmas tree.
It stood in the far corner of the living room, reaching almost to the ceiling.
He smelled it first, the sweet woody scent clearly discernible as he shut the
front door. A large box full of baubles had been left next to it, and the
lights were lying in a knotted heap at its base. There were a few strings of
silver tinsel wound through the lower branches, and he had the impression of
something abandoned, as though the decorator had been unavoidably interrupted,
or had simply lost interest.

He had texted Sophie on his way back from Heathrow to let
her know he was back, and this time he’d got a reply, saying she would see him
later. He’d also rung the office to let them know he’d be in the next day, and
they’d put him straight through to Gina.

‘You’re three days overdue, Harry. Out of simple courtesy
you could have let us know earlier, couldn’t you?’

‘I’m sorry about that Gina, something came up and I was –
delayed.’

‘I see. I don’t know what’s going on in your private life,
but I can’t have it affecting my professional life. I expect to see you
tomorrow, and if I don’t I’ll be thinking about terminating your contract and
getting someone who will turn up on a daily basis.’

‘I’ll be there.’ He’d winced at the tone of their exchange
and then found himself feeling surprisingly laissez faire about it.

He turned on the heating and shuffled through the mail.
Nothing that looked worth opening right now. He decided to have a drink and
think about what he was going to say to Sophie when she got back in a couple of
hours. He settled reluctantly for tonic without the gin, as there was no other
soft drink in the house and then wondered what to do next.

He had the lights working and on the tree when Sophie rang.

‘I’ll be at the station in ten minutes, come and get me
please.’ Her tone was neutral, as though she might be reserving judgement on
him. Soon find out.

She gave him a perfunctory kiss on the cheek and said
nothing on the journey from the station. When they got in she asked him to fix
her a drink and then went upstairs to change. He was in the kitchen when she
returned. She came straight to the point.

‘Who is she and what were you doing in Copenhagen?’

‘Her name is Sabine. You need to hear the whole story and
then you’ll understand why she was there.’

Sophie sighed. ‘Yes, something about Ireland wasn’t it? Tell
me then.’

He started with Jack Hudson’s appearance at the wine bar.
She looked incredulous.

‘But you haven’t heard from these people for years. Why
now?’

It was hardly a smooth narrative. There were further
interruptions:

‘You pretended to be a music journalist?’ with a wide eyed
shake of the head.

‘This was all happening while we were together in Freiburg?’
with a pointed look condemning his deception.

He was glad he’d left out the break in at Sabine’s
apartment. He stopped and made them both another drink prior to the Swedish
instalment. Sophie raised her eyes in surprise.

‘You’re drinking tonic without gin?’

‘I started medication just over a week ago. I’m trying to
cut down.’

‘You never said…’

‘I was going to, but we got onto this subject.’

They were sat at the kitchen table, and she stayed quiet
when he resumed, staring at the full glass in front of her with an air of
almost fatalistic detachment, as though she was being told something she knew
she should hear but didn’t really want to know about. When he got to Michael’s
shooting there was a sharp intake of breath, then she looked confused and
horrified in equal measure.

‘My god, what have you done?’

‘Nothing. I was in Denmark when I heard. They found him and
they killed him. End of story.’

‘And the press release?’

‘In the Irish Times any day now.’

She slammed her glass down, sending a spurt of gin and tonic
across the table.

‘Why couldn’t you just leave it all alone? You should have
told that man Hudson to go to hell. What do you think you’re going to achieve
anyway?’ She stood up. ‘I hope you’re satisfied, whatever it is.’ She moved to
the sink and began rinsing the spilt drink off her hands.

What I’d really like, he thought, is for someone to realise
Fitzpatrick is the informer and murderer I know he is, and then put a bullet in
him. He decided to keep this sentiment to himself.

‘I’m sorry, and you’re right, I should have told him to go
to hell. Once it started, though, I needed to see it through, and now it’s
over. There’s nothing more I can do, or need to do. Let’s draw a line under it
and move on.’

‘Have you told me everything?’

He wondered what his face was saying, and was glad she had
her back to him. ‘Yes, I’ve told you everything.’ He got up and moved to the
lounge, where he busied himself with opening the mail and pretending to be
interested in the contents.

She came in. ‘There’s some Lasagne in the freezer. Is that ok?’

‘Yes, that would be great.’

‘Tell me about these drugs you’re taking.’

She seemed to be distracting herself from any doubts she
might have about what he’d just told her, and he seized on the respite. He
filled her in on the treatment regime.

‘Any side effects yet?’ she asked.

‘Nothing to speak of. It’s early days though.’

His phone beeped, he had a text. Sabine – ‘Still here, Love
S x’

He sent off a quick acknowledgement, then, discarding the
half read mail, he decided it was time to embrace the Christmas spirit. He went
back to the tree and began festooning it with glittering glass stars and
multi-coloured baubles, making sure the dancing fairy had pride of place as
close to the top as he could get it.

He returned to work the following
day but found it hard to concentrate. He went out at lunch time and found a
newsagent near Cannon Street who sold the Irish Times, but even after scanning
it from front to back he could find nothing about a former IRA man accusing
another of being a British informer. The afternoon passed slowly, and just as
he decided he’d done enough for one day and was ready to leave, he had a call
from Sabine.

‘I thought you should know,’ she said. ‘I’ve been in touch
with Ingrid. The man she injured with the javelin died yesterday. Never
regained consciousness apparently.’

‘You called her? I thought we agreed to leave her alone.’

‘I couldn’t. She’s expecting to be charged with
manslaughter, but we think she’ll get bail. Anyway, I’m going back to help
organise the funeral. It’s next week.’

He knew then that he didn’t want to try and change her mind.
‘Give her my condolences. Just take care of yourself.’

‘If anything happens to me there’ll be a diplomatic
incident. I’m leaving a letter with my lawyer before I go to Sweden. It has enough
information in it to embarrass your intelligence services, I think. Maybe even
your Prime Minister.’

He was impressed. ‘Good idea, maybe I should do something
similar.’

‘Anything in the papers yet?’

‘No, I’ll let you know when there is.’

‘Ok. I’m taking a flight from Frankfurt tomorrow. And the
phone will stay on this time.’

It was the following day, the Friday
before Christmas, when the story broke. And it made the front page, or to be
more precise, the lower half of the front page.

________________________________________

Former IRA Man Says Republican Sinn Fein Treasurer Colin
Fitzpatrick is British Informer.

Michael O’Reilly, who was a member of the IRA from 1972
until he was forced to leave Ireland in 1982, was the sole survivor of the
ambush at Ballyrisode Beach in County Cork in 1981 that left eight men dead at
the hands of the SAS and deprived the IRA of a large arms shipment. There was
widespread speculation at the time as to how the SAS knew where the arms would
be delivered.

According to O’Reilly, he was on the run and staying with
his sister in Dublin only a day or two later when he was targeted by a hitman
representing his own organisation. The man told him he had been labelled an
informer, and in the scuffle that followed O’Reilly’s sister Siobhan was shot
and the hitman fatally wounded. Siobhan O’Reilly later died of her injuries.
Ambulance men, who acted as witnesses in the subsequent inquest, placed a man
answering O’Reilly’s description at the scene, who referred to her as his sister.

O’Reilly states that Colin Fitzpatrick, now a prominent
member of Republican Sinn Fein, was his battalion commander, and that he was
protecting his own role as an informer by attempting to silence O’Reilly. He
had no hard evidence to support this conclusion, and since leaving Ireland has
lived quietly for the last 15 years in Sweden, where he had no further reason
to revive his past.

When it came to his recent attention that British
Intelligence were showing an interest in his whereabouts, and that his father
was helping Belfast police with unspecified enquiries, he began to worry for
his own safety, and contacted this newspaper with what he considered to be ‘the
only insurance policy I may have.’ It was his assertion that he was to be
silenced to ensure that Fitzpatrick’s continuing role as an informer, who could
inflict significant damage on RSF, would never be revealed. O’Reilly hoped that
by bringing the issue into the open he might forestall any action contemplated
against him.

Mr O’Reilly knew that his evidence was at best
circumstantial, and accordingly this newspaper was dubious about the merits of
publishing the story. It now transpires however that Michael O’Reilly’s fears
for his safety were well founded. Two days after he spoke to the Irish Times he
was shot dead at his home in Sweden by an unknown assailant. That assailant was
seriously injured during the incident and has since died.

It is on record that Mr Fitzpatrick was a member of the IRA
prior to entering politics. We contacted the RSF office in Dublin to solicit a
reaction from him, but he has so far declined to comment.

________________________________________

Was it enough to sow the seeds of
doubt, he wondered. The next week should bring an answer. He’d bought two
copies of the newspaper, and he cut the front page from the second copy and
stuffed it into an envelope which he addressed to Sabine. He texted her to let
her know it was on its way and tried to focus his mind once again on his work.

They buried Michael in Kiruna on
Christmas Eve. Sabine called to tell him it had been a low-key affair, with
about a dozen mourners, none of whom were Irish. Ingrid had indeed made bail on
a manslaughter charge, and her lawyer was confident of getting her off on a
plea of self defence. Sabine would stay for a few more days and be home before
New Year.

Harry spent Christmas Day with his in-laws. They were no
doubt briefed in advance by Sophie, as they took a softly-softly approach to
the occasion. The chatter was constant as ever but it was conducted at a lower
decibel level, and the word ‘Ireland’ had been erased from the lexicon. If
Clive had been to Dublin on business since their last meeting he was making a
distinct effort not to mention it. Harry restricted himself to two glasses of
wine the whole day. Clive was concerned.

‘You all right, Harry? No shortage of booze if you want it.’

Harry said he was feeling rather tired, which in fact he
was, and two glasses had been plenty, he had no appetite for more. He spent the
latter part of the day in what he liked to think of later as a ‘thoughtful
stupor’ in front of the television.

There was a riposte to Michael’s accusations in the New
Years Eve edition of the Irish Times, this time on the inside front page.
Fitzpatrick refuted Michael’s assertion, saying that the accusation was one of
a bitter man who blamed the IRA for the death of his sister, which while
regrettable had never been specifically linked to the IRA. He had not been
Michael’s battalion commander in 1981, knew nothing of hitmen, and was not and
had never been in the pay of British Intelligence. Nor was he in any way
connected to the ambush on the beach. He was shocked at Michael’s death in
mysterious circumstances and concluded that under the circumstances he had no
case to answer.

How very convenient, thought Harry. He read the article
again, sat at his desk at work. He was due to finish early and have a quick
drink with some of his team as a run up to whatever festivities one might have
planned for later. The day had been relatively quiet, with a lot of the people
he would normally speak to out of the office, and no one took any notice of his
absorption in what might have been labelled ‘frivolous activity’ on a normal
business day.

He thought back on all that had happened since he and Sabine
had left Heidelberg only a few weeks ago. Was he now looking at the final
outcome of that journey and the revelations it had produced, all summarised in
a few words in a broadsheet – no case to answer?

He picked up the desk phone and dialled Gina. He hadn’t seen
her all day but he thought she was in. She was, and he said he needed a word in
person. A minute later he was in her office.

‘What is it Harry?’ She’d been a little brusque since his
return.

‘It’s short notice I know, but I won’t be back next year. If
you don’t mind I’d like to terminate the contract right now.’

She was momentarily shocked, then perplexed. ‘Harry, what
the hell is going on with you?’

‘You were right about my private life, that’s all. It’s
screwing up both our professional lives. There’s something I need to do, and
I’m afraid it takes priority over everything else. Sorry, but there it is.’

She looked at him in silence for a while and then shrugged.
‘Ok, if that’s how it is. Find someone to hand over to before you go. And leave
your pass at reception on the way out.’