Dancing With Mortality (7 page)

‘Wait,’ she said. ‘Let me get undressed first.’

He watched as she took her clothes off. She stood in front
of him and smiled. Then she knelt down and unbuttoned his shirt. When she saw
the bandaged shoulder she stopped.

‘They said you were shot. I forgot. Does it hurt?’

‘Sometimes. I’m getting used to it.’

She carefully removed the shirt and flung it to one side.

‘I will look at if for you later. Now, lie down.’

He surrendered to her lips and her hands and the caress of
her body, and for a while the events of the past few days left his mind
completely. Afterwards she lay on top of him, her head on his chest, catching
her breath.

‘Das war schön,’ she gasped. ‘Sorry, that was beautiful. I’m
tired now.’

He turned off the bedside lamp. ‘Yes, that was beautiful.
Sleep now.’

She was already asleep, in the same position. Michael lay
staring at the ceiling. He’d disentangle himself later. For now he quietly
stroked her hair and listened to her breathe.

The temperature had dropped below
zero in Dublin and there were occasional snow flurries, but nothing that
settled for long. Harry walked up Grafton Street on his way back from Trinity.
He wore an overcoat, scarf and gloves, and a woolly hat. It made the
temperature bearable, until the wind blew. Then his heavy woollen overcoat
became chiffon. The icy breeze went right through it, and right through him.
Every time it happened he involuntarily hugged himself as he walked, trying to
restore some warmth. He noticed that no one else seemed to be engaged in this
ritual. They must know something I don’t, he reflected, they seem immune to it.

Christmas lights and decorations were strung the length and
breadth of Grafton Street. A bright smiling reindeer pulled a sleigh full of
presents overhead. Just beyond that, the Irish name for Dublin, ‘Baile Átha
Cliath’, stood illuminated in ten foot high sparkling letters. Numerous neon
Christmas trees clung to the buildings on either side, winking on and off in
unison. And the street was thronged with shoppers. He wound his way through the
buzzing crowd, wondering what he could buy for Natalie on his limited budget.

The Trinity term had finished for the year, and he had a lecture-free
month till mid-January. Natalie had one more week of work then they could spend
some uninterrupted time together till just after New Year. He just wished it
wasn’t so cold. On the other side of the world in Auckland they’d be looking
forward to a hot Christmas day and a visit to the beach. This time next year
that’s exactly where he intended to be. Not that Dublin was without charm, it was
just the weather that left something to be desired.

With two clear weeks together they needed a plan. SIS was
shutting down in a couple of days, and Harry was mindful of Jack’s
recommendation to leave Dublin for a bit. He decided to call in on the travel
agent at the far end of the street and see if they had any ideas for a cheap
week somewhere in the Emerald Isle. He could pick up some brochures at least.

Half an hour later he sat studying
possible Christmas retreats in various ‘stunningly scenic’ locations in the
Republic. Hotels in Wexford, cottages on the Dingle peninsula. Would there be
any availability at this time of year? He really should have thought this out
much earlier.

He heard the door open, and a moment later Natalie appeared
in the living room doorway, still attired in overcoat and reinforcing layers.

‘So cold out there. What are you looking at?’ She began
unravelling her scarf.

‘Holiday brochures. I need you to help me to decide where we
should go. And when.’

‘Alright. I’ll just get this lot off first.’

A minute later they sat absorbed in the options.

‘There are plenty of hotels and cottages on the Dingle
peninsula,’ said Natalie. ‘Maybe we’ll get lucky with the weather. I’m told
it’s beautiful at any time of year.’

They decided to call a few numbers and see if anyone could
accommodate them the week following boxing day.

‘You can do that Harry. I’m going to Netball training
tonight. I need the exercise.’

She was still an avid Netball player, though not at the
level she’d once enjoyed. She still liked to stay competitive though, and she’d
found a local team to join not long after their arrival to ensure that she did.

‘You sure Nat? You look a bit tired actually.’

‘I spent most of the day trying to sell the benefits of
cognitive therapy to a group of depressed patients. It was hard work. This will
perk me up a bit.’

‘Tell them to exercise more, how’s that for a therapy?’

She grinned. ‘Works for me. Maybe I should start a hospital
team.’

Harry took a chair into the hall and started dialling
numbers. A few minutes later Natalie passed him on her way out.

‘Can I take the Land Rover?’ she mouthed, while he asked
about the facilities on offer at the third hotel on his list.

He picked up the keys on the hall table and handed them to
her. She planted a quick kiss on his cheek and was gone.

Eventually, Harry made a booking at a hotel on the shore of
Dingle Bay. They could leave Dublin on the 27th and take in the New Year
overlooking the sea. In the meantime perhaps he should think about getting a
Christmas tree. And a present for his wife. But before that he needed to make
his last call of the year on Litchfield and Hudson.

Litchfield slid a folder across the
desk.

‘Read this, Harry.’

Harry opened the file. The first thing to meet his eye was a
photograph of a man who looked roughly his own age. It was a black and white
image, taken from the shoulders up. The face wore a half smile, and was broad
and well defined. There was a certain softness around the eyes that didn’t
quite fit Harry’s pre-conceptions of a hardened terrorist.

‘Is this O’Reilly? Looks harmless enough.’

‘Well, he’s not. Read on.’

There were a few typed A4 pages under the photo, summarising
what was known or guessed about the man. Harry read out the salient parts.

‘Known to have been a member of the Provisional IRA in
excess of five years… Suspected participant in bomb attack on Army barracks
near Crosmaglen… Alleged to have been the gunman responsible for the deaths of
two off duty soldiers in a Belfast pub in 1978… Involved in cross-border arms
smuggling in 1979, not apprehended as his appearance unknown, but seized
documents mention him by name…’ He closed the file and sat staring at the
photo. ‘Lots of allegations here. If they don’t know what he looks like, where
did this come from?’

‘Courtesy of O’Riordan. Where he got if from I don’t know,
but he assures me it’s recent and genuine. We’ll check it with the ambulance
crew, just to be sure. Then we’ll let the Garda have it.’

‘Can I keep this?’

‘Yes. I have copies. Leave the typed pages here.’ Litchfield
leaned back in his chair, folding his arms. ‘I’ve decided to close the office
tomorrow, once I have confirmation of this photo. Jack is on his way back to
England for Christmas, and I’m right behind him.’

‘London, is it?’

‘For me it is. I think Jack is going to a sister in
Cornwall. Take the spare keys with you Harry. I’m not anticipating any
activity, but you’re our man on site, so to speak.’

‘I’ll be out of Dublin from the 27th. Nat and I are taking a
trip to Dingle. I want to use the Land Rover while we have it.’

Litchfield yawned. ‘Good. Glad to see you took Jack up on
his suggestion. Anything else you need?’

‘I’d just like to use the office phone to call home on
Christmas Eve. It’ll be Christmas morning there. Do you mind?’

A smile of magnanimity lit up his chief’s face. ‘Of course
not, Harry. I’m sure Her Majesty’s Government can stand the cost. And have a
Merry Christmas.’

When Michael opened his eyes the
next morning the bed was empty. He could hear signs of life in the next room,
and he swung himself out of bed and into trousers and shirt.

Sabine stood in the small kitchen adjoining the living room,
barefooted but wearing her coat.

‘I’m cold,’ she explained. ‘And I can’t find socks. The
heating will come on soon, it’s on a timer.’

‘Perhaps I should go out and get something for breakfast.’

‘I’m boiling some eggs, I made two for you. And there’s
toast.’

She turned to face him, holding the coat tight around her.
‘I was a little drunk last night. But I don’t regret bringing you here, or what
we did.’

He stepped forward to hug her, and felt her melt into him.
‘Me neither. You did surprise me a little though.’

She seemed satisfied with his response. ‘Let me finish the
eggs. Then I’m going to look at your shoulder, and after that we need to talk.’

He stroked her back. ‘Fine. What are you wearing under this
coat?’

‘Nothing at the moment. You just concentrate on breakfast,
please. Go and sit down.’

They ate mostly in silence. She looked at him almost shyly
once or twice, which he found ironic given her confidence in the bedroom only
hours earlier.

She finished her tea. The determined look was back. ‘I don’t
know what your plans are. The doctors think Siobhan will be fine if there are
no complications in the next 48 hours. Do you want to stay here until then?’

‘Why are you doing this, Sabine? You know the Garda want me.
The longer I stay, the riskier it is.’

‘I will know that before you do, I think. And I know you
will only find me again until you know Siobhan is well. It’s better if you stay
here. Then in a couple of days you can go back to your people.’

‘Ah, that’s exactly what I can’t do.’

‘I don’t understand, why not?’

He explained the events that had culminated in the situation
he now found himself in, from the beach to the shooting at Siobhan’s.

‘They think I betrayed them, so now I have everyone looking
for me.’

‘What will you do?’

‘Disappear. Exactly how, at the moment, I don’t know.’

‘So, you aren’t a terrorist anymore. Good.’

He gave her a sharp look of rebuke. ‘I was never a
terrorist. I told you, I fight for a cause.’

She held his gaze. ‘Yes, well I’m glad you have to stop.’
Then changed the subject. ‘Let me see your shoulder now.’

‘I left the spare bandages at the hotel.’

‘I have some things here, I just want to make sure it is
clean.’

After looking at the wound, which appeared to be healing,
they agreed that Michael would retrieve his belongings from the hotel and
return to the flat. And then, once Siobhan was out of the woods, he could
decide on his next move.

‘Are you staying in Dublin for Christmas?’ he asked.

‘Yes, I will go to my Aunt for Christmas day, but otherwise
I’m working.’

‘What brought you here in the first place?’

‘My mother is Irish. I had never met my Irish relatives, so
I thought I’d come here and work. Just for a short while. That was six months
ago.’

‘What do you think of us, then?’

‘Everyone has been very nice to me. You have some strange
customs though.’ Her eyes crinkled mischievously.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Constantly following women until they agree to do whatever
you want. We Germans would never behave like that.’

‘I see. Let me assure you we only do that in exceptional
circumstances. I wouldn’t want you getting the wrong impression.’

She grinned and stood up. ‘That’s a relief.’ Her arms stretched
overhead as she yawned. ‘It’s warming up in here now. I don’t need this
anymore.’ The overcoat came off. ‘We have two hours before I leave for work.
Come back to bed.’

That afternoon he left Sabine’s flat
and walked for ten minutes. Then he used a taxi to go back to the hotel. It was
a safer option than public transport, or walking any more than necessary. The
proprietor looked at him without interest when he explained he was going back
to Belfast earlier than planned. He wrote out a receipt and wished Michael a
good journey.

On the return journey he sat in the back seat of the taxi,
trying to formulate some sort of plan. He wasn’t helped by the driver’s views
on Dublin’s chances against Kerry in their forthcoming Gaelic Football
encounter. The man’s commentary didn’t seem to require much in the way of a
response, so he half listened and tried to think.

Dublin, if not the whole of Ireland, was now too hazardous
for him to remain. If he could get across the Irish Sea to Liverpool he could
at least regroup. He had a passport in a false name he could use, but
retrieving that would mean going back to Belfast. And he was putting Sabine at
risk just the way he had with Siobhan. If anything happened to her he couldn’t
live with himself. Whatever he decided in the long term, he would definitely
leave Dublin the day after tomorrow.

‘Natalie, move it, we’re going to be
late.’

It was Christmas Eve. The tree stood glittering with silver
and gold baubles in one corner of the living room. The presents had been bought
and laid beneath it. With only the two of them the pile was hardly impressive,
thought Harry. Still, the spirit of Christmas had permeated at last, and he
felt almost festive.

‘They’re expecting our call in five minutes, where are you?’

Natalie emerged from the bathroom. ‘Don’t panic. Just
applying the finishing touches.’

She wore a clinging backless black dress. His eyes widened
appreciatively.

‘You look great. If you don’t freeze to death before we get
there.’

‘Roisin’s place isn’t far. I should be ok for ten minutes in
the car with my coat on.’

They’d been invited for a Christmas Eve drink by one of
Natalie’s colleagues. But first they needed to phone both his and her parents
downunder to wish them a Merry Christmas. They both wrapped up and headed for
the Land Rover.

They reached the office in two minutes. Harry felt a rare
helping of goodwill towards Litchfield for allowing him the use of the office
phone. Purely seasonal, he reasoned. He placed the first call with the
International operator and spoke to his folks. The line was mostly clear, with
the occasional echo that resulted from the 12,000 mile connection time. It was
a warm morning in Auckland, and a barbecue was planned for later in the day.

The same ritual was repeated for Natalie then they moved on
to Roisin’s house.

It was a convivial evening. There were several couples from
the hospital. They all knew Natalie, but Harry had been only a name to them
until tonight. To them he was Natalie’s husband, the Irish scholar. Two of the
men spoke fluently, and he found himself sharing whiskey and conversation while
alternating between both languages.

‘Are you writing a dissertation Harry?’ asked one of the
Irish speakers.

‘Yes. The subject is “
The relevance of the Irish language
in 20th Century Ireland.
”’