Dancing With Mortality (21 page)

Sabine answered the phone that evening, and he felt a rush
of relief when he heard her voice.

‘Did you understand my message?’ he asked.

‘Yes, I got it all. I admire what you’re doing, but will it
make any difference?’

‘It won’t send him to jail, if that’s what you mean.’

‘Then you’ve done all you can. Go home. You can’t hide in
Ireland forever.’

That evening, after he’d eaten and stoked the fire, he
thought over her words. Dingle was a way to avoid dealing with his issues and
nothing more. A probable divorce and the twenty years of unresolved guilt and
anger could all be conveniently shelved while he played at discrediting a
murderous Irish politician. He was marking time, and time was not a commodity
that he could take for granted anymore. In fact it was foolish to think that
he’d ever taken it for granted. It was time to stop procrastinating and get on
with the rest of his life, however long that might be.

He stayed two more days. The space
and the sea calmed him, and he felt the clean coastal air charging him with
energy on his walks along the cliff top. On the Thursday night he called
Deirdre and told her he’d be leaving the next day, and asked how she wanted to
be paid.

‘David will pay,’ she replied. ‘Hope you enjoyed it for the
short time you were here.’

‘I did. I just need to get home now, that’s all.’

‘I’ve been reading your story, Harry. Good luck, and come
back again some time.’

When he arrived back in Dublin he returned the car and took
a room for one night at the Harcourt. He would catch the bus to Belfast in the
morning and call in on Michael Senior and then fly out that evening. He rang
O’Neill to say he was back in town and to find out if he had time to meet. The
newspaper man was surprised to learn he’d left Dingle, and agreed to call in at
the Harcourt after work. When he arrived that evening he was excited.

‘Fitzpatrick will be on TV at 7.30, you might want to watch
it.’

He wouldn’t reveal anything else, but by his demeanour Harry
knew it must be important. He played along, and they had an early dinner in the
hotel restaurant before going up to his room and tuning in to the news.

Fitzpatrick was the leading item. It was a live broadcast,
and he was shown sitting at a kitchen table in what must have been his home.
Two grim faced men in suits, presumably RSF members, stood behind him, but the
camera focused exclusively on Fitzpatrick as he read from a prepared statement.

‘After recent newspaper reports and an internal
investigation by my own party, I would like to state that I have been working
as an agent for the British Intelligence Services since 1979. This is a role I
took up after being compromised in a manner I do not wish to disclose. I would
also like to state that I did not knowingly conspire in the murders of Siobhan
O’Reilly and Natalie Ellis in 1981, as reported in the Irish Times, and accept
no responsibility for these regrettable deaths. I am resigning from my position
of Treasurer with the Republican Sinn Fein party, effective immediately.’

He looked haggard and uncomfortable throughout, and refused
to take any follow-up questions. O’Neill was jubilant, thumping Harry on the
back and thrusting his fist in the air.

‘Bloody fantastic – the best result we could have hoped
for.’

‘I wonder how they found out,’ mused Harry. He felt
decidedly underwhelmed even though his efforts in the press had just been
vindicated.

‘They must have gone over that period with a fine-tooth
comb,’ said O’Neill, ‘and somewhere along the line he gave the game away. We’ll
never know in all probability.’ He gave Harry a curious glance. ‘You seem less
than pleased, Harry.’

Harry forced a smile. ‘I am pleased, of course I am. And a
bit shocked, I didn’t expect this kind of revelation, and so fast too. But he
lied about one thing as far as I’m concerned.’

‘You mean Siobhan and your wife? You’re being a little
optimistic to expect a murder confession on national television.’ He grabbed
Harry’s hand and shook it enthusiastically. ‘But you’ve won, Harry. Come on,
let’s go downstairs and have a drink on it.’

O’Neill had several drinks before saying his goodbyes. He
assured Harry that the story would be all over Ireland, North and South by
tomorrow morning, and wished him well for the future. Harry went back to his
room in a ruminative mood. Fitzpatrick had been ruined politically, and no
doubt his personal life would be miserable from now on too, and that was as
much as he, Harry Ellis, could do to hurt the man. Time now to bring down the
curtain and make his exit. His thoughts strayed to the shoebox in his suitcase,
and he had to resist the urge to entertain fantasies of bringing a more
permanent end to proceedings. The man wasn’t worth going to jail for.

The story had certainly reached the
O’Reilly household by the time he got to the West Belfast address on Saturday.
Mrs McDonald smiled broadly when she opened the door.

‘Harry, you’ve been busy.’ She made tea once again while
Harry joined Michael Senior in the living room. He extracted the shoebox from
his case and handed it over.

‘Surplus to requirements after all, was it?’ said the old
man, who to Harry looked happier than the last time they’d met.

‘I’ve fired one clip, actually. Just to see if I could still
hit anything.’

‘Indulging in a bit of nostalgia by the sound of it.’
Michael Senior cradled the gun between his hands and looked relieved to have it
back.

‘More like wishful thinking,’ replied Harry, and they both
laughed.

‘As a Republican I have to say you’ve done a good thing,
exposing that bastard. I hope your Intelligence colleagues don’t take it too
badly.’

‘I hope so too.’

He couldn’t stay long, the flight was due to leave in two
hours, so he cut his visit short and promised to stay in touch. The taxi had an
unimpeded run to the airport, and he checked in then went straight through to departures.
When the plane finally left the runway and began its steep ascent into the
overcast sky he felt an inexplicable sense of loss. Perhaps he wouldn’t see
Ireland again. The beauty of the country and the warmth of its people were
something to remember with pleasure, but they might never be enough to offset
the bitter memories of 1981, and the anguish he’d carried with him ever since.
Still, after all that had happened this time, the scales of justice had
undoubtedly moved towards equilibrium. Whether that would be enough to satisfy
him remained to be seen.

The house was cold and musty, and
the Christmas tree was still where he’d last seen it, looking distinctly
threadbare and tired. He opened a window to get some fresh if cold air into the
place, and the neat piles of needles underneath the tree began to stir and blow
across the room, so he shut it again. Judging by the stack of unopened mail
inside the door, he could be pretty sure that Sophie hadn’t been here in his
absence.

There was a letter from her solicitor in Fulham. Mrs Ellis
was starting a divorce action, and she was offering a clean break, which meant
selling the house and splitting the proceeds, with no further claims by one
against the other. He wondered if the situation could be retrieved, but felt
that he had betrayed her even though he loved her, or thought he loved her. And
he also knew how bloody-minded she could be. He wouldn’t try to change her
mind, the truth was he didn’t want to.

A clean break makes it relatively easy, he thought. There
were no children to complicate matters, and on the upside this was a chance for
him to downsize and cut back on expenses. He would accept her offer. Of course
this meant he’d need to start looking at flats or smaller houses and get this
one on the market. He would spend the next week organising estate agents and
scouting locations for his next address, and looking for his next contract.

He went upstairs to the bedroom. The gaping space in the
wardrobe told him Sophie had taken her clothes, and when he went to the
bathroom it looked distinctly empty without her array of toiletries in it. He
wondered if she would conduct the whole divorce action through her solicitor,
and if so whether he would see her again. Perhaps she’ll appear for the
ceremonial distribution of the CD collection, he thought. The prospect was
farcical, but he wasn’t laughing. He decided to draft a reply to the letter
after dinner and get things moving as quickly as possible.

The next week went by in a haze of activity. He spent the mornings
letting in estate agents to value the place and listening to them enthuse about
the wonderful job they would do in selling such a desirable residence, and how
delighted they would be to send him details of houses and flats in his price
range. He rang job agencies and checked the job sites on the web between these
morning appointments, and spent the afternoon driving around Kent wondering
where to live next.

By the end of the week he could put it off no longer. He
needed to know what Jack Hudson had to say and was perturbed by the fact Jack
hadn’t tried to call since leaving his message with O’Neill. Perhaps Harry’s
fait accompli had taken the wind out of his sails and he had no reason left to
talk, but until Harry knew the other man’s mind on the matter he would remain
uncertain of Jack’s ultimate intentions. There were no estate agents scheduled
that morning, so he did his best to put his worries about the call to one side
and dialled the number.

‘Hello, Harry. Good of you to get back to me.’ His tone of
voice seemed restrained, almost flat.

‘I was busy, but I’m sure you know that.’

‘Are you calling to resign?’

‘I wasn’t, but it seems an appropriate thing to do. Yes, I
resign.’

‘Accepted. You’ve cost us a great deal in time and effort,
not to mention the fact our operation against dissident Republicanism has been
set back several years. You should have considered your loyalties before
talking to the press.’

Harry was incensed. ‘The same way you did when you set me up
to be murdered by a car bomb up in 1981? You bloody hypocrite.’

He thought he must have touched a nerve if the slight tone
of apology in the reply was any indicator. ‘That was Litchfield’s decision. I
wasn’t consulted.’

‘Then tell Litchfield he’s a bloody hypocrite.’

‘I would, but he died of a heart attack a few years ago.’

Harry took a calming breath. ‘Look, Jack, I had my motives
and I think you understand them. I want to know now that I’ll be left alone,
and that I’ll have nothing further to do with you or SIS. Can you give me that
assurance?’

‘Yes, you’ll be left alone. We’re not vindictive people.
Your payments have been stopped and as far as we’re concerned you don’t exist.
I hope you’re satisfied with the outcome of your meddling in all this.’

Harry felt a weight lift. ‘Thank you. I did as much as I
could to discredit the man who killed my wife. I’ll have to settle for that.’

‘You mean you don’t know?’

‘Know what?’

Jack laughed, but it was an ugly sound. ‘Colin Fitzpatrick
was shot dead two nights ago outside his home in Dublin. By Michael O’Reilly
the elder, two in the chest and one in the head. Got quite a steady hand for a
man of his age.’

Harry was speechless for a moment.

‘Do you want me to repeat that?’ asked Jack.

‘What happened to him?’

‘O’Reilly? He’s been arrested of course. He’ll spend the
rest of his life in jail.’

Harry couldn’t quite take it in. He mumbled a ‘Goodbye’ and
ended the call. He wondered if Jack was lying to him and why he hadn’t heard it
from O’Neill, so he called the Irish Times for confirmation. O’Neill wasn’t
there but the journalist who answered the phone assured him it was just as Jack
had said.

Michael Senior had done what Harry couldn’t bring himself to
do. He went straight to the kitchen and found the best whisky he could lay his
hands on. He raised a glass in a silent salute to the octogenarian who had
dispensed direct justice for the murder of his two children, and by proxy had
avenged Natalie too.

Later that day he emailed Sabine,
not only to tell her about Fitzpatrick but to let her know he was being
divorced on the grounds of adultery, and that he was busy looking for a new
house and a new job. He promised to call her when he had all that sorted out.

In the following days he looked at houses for sale and
showed people around his own home. But it all felt like it was happening to
someone else, and he was only mildly interested.

He dreamed one night that he was on the boat again with Nat
in her long, clinging dress, but this time when she turned around she smiled
and took his hand. Then she looked into his eyes as if to say ‘it’s done now’
before her image dimmed and faded from view. He woke feeling refreshed and
unaccountably happy. If Fitzpatrick’s death was the catalyst for this
transformation then he knew it wasn’t quite right, but he didn’t care. Natalie
had been exorcised and allowed to rest, and that was all that mattered.

It had been several weeks since he’d
last seen Cindy, and although he often wondered if their sessions were actually
helping him, he had to admit he felt better for talking to her. Her consulting
room was his Confessional without the accompanying absolution. He’d never
thought of Catholic priests as unpaid psychotherapists, but there were
certainly parallels. Who needed Freud or Jung when 100 Hail Marys would do the
job? He called her office and made an appointment.

This time he was shocked to see her in a very smart black
trouser suit. It was a first as far as he could recall, and it must have showed
on his face.

‘I’m taking a more conservative approach,’ she said by way
of explanation.

‘Whatever for?’

‘Well,’ she began, looking a tiny bit embarrassed. ‘One of
my male clients said he found my normal attire distracting, and he wouldn’t
talk to me until I changed it.’