Dancing With Mortality (8 page)

‘Plenty of bloody relevance in my opinion.’

‘It depends on your politics it seems. I have some catching
up to do on that score.’

‘Speak English, boys,’ said Roisin, a bubbly 30 year old
paediatric nurse. ‘You’re being rude to Natalie, and I’m losing you too.’

Around 11pm it was time to go. They stood in the hall,
thanking their hostess and wrapping up once more against the cold.

‘I’ll drive, Harry,’ said Natalie. ‘You’ve had far too much
whiskey. Give me the keys.’

He handed them over. ‘I think I left my gloves in the
kitchen. I’ll grab them.’

He was back in a minute. He thanked Roisin as he adjusted
his gloves and scarf.

‘Is Nat in the car already?’

‘Yes, she wanted to get out there and get the heater going.’

He closed the door and began walking down the path leading
through the small front garden. The Land Rover was parked right ahead of him.
He could see Natalie smiling through the driver’s window.

As he stepped forward it was as though suddenly his senses
had gone out of tune, like a radio dial stuck on static. He heard a loud thump,
which was followed a split second later by a huge whoosh of air that lifted him
off his feet and hurled his body backwards, slamming it into the front door.
All he registered before losing consciousness was the sight of a roofless,
doorless, flame-filled Land Rover, along with a burning wave of heat searing
his eyes. Of Natalie he saw nothing.

It was a cloudless day, with a
bright blue gleaming sky. They sat in a dinghy, floating across a long, broad,
winding lake. Its still and even surface could have been blue Venetian glass.
The only movement came from the ripples fanning into ever larger circles as the
prow of the boat glided through the water. Its clarity was such that white
stones and smooth, large boulders were visible on the lake floor, easily twenty
feet below.

On either side, jagged green mountains observed their silent
progress, broken intermittently by the call of an unseen bittern or heron. There
was no other human being in evidence.

Natalie was standing near the prow with her back to him,
wearing a long white cotton dress. The breeze pressed it against her long body,
exaggerating her height. Her hair cut a ravine of black that flowed halfway
down her back. She was quite still.

For some reason he didn’t need oars, the boat moved
perfectly without them. He willed her to turn around. She complied with his
unspoken request, turning completely to face him.

But he couldn’t see her face. There was nothing but a dark,
impenetrable oval. Then as he watched she began to dissolve into thousands of
tiny sparkling blue crystals tumbling into the water, merging with that blue
Venetian stillness. He tried to tell her to stop, but his vocal chords wouldn’t
respond, and he shouted silently as she slipped away. The boat glided on, and
he remained sitting – transfixed and impotent.

His eyes snapped open. Such a vivid dream, it had unnerved
him. But now he couldn’t figure out where he was, or why he was lying in a bed
with a needle in his arm. He was aware of a dull throbbing in his leg, was it
left or right? Otherwise his body felt very light, as if he were suspended in
space. He thought he’d like to sit up, but when he tried nothing happened. So
frustrating. But being frustrated was too much effort. He’d try again later.
Still, there was something at the back of his mind which was just tantalisingly
out of reach. He wanted to know what it was. Then he heard voices.

‘Doctor, he’s awake.’

‘Ah, good.’ The voice came closer and then a face came into
view. ‘I’m Dr Fitzgerald, Harry. You’re in St. James’s hospital.’ A white
coated figure with a bearded face and dark eyes leaned over him. ‘The femoral
artery in your leg was severed. We’ve operated successfully, and you’ve had a
blood transfusion. You’re getting lots of morphine too, so you’re probably
feeling quite relaxed right now.’

Harry tried to respond, and something resembling English
must have issued from his mouth. He was drifting away again as the doctor
answered.

‘What happened? There was an explosion. Don’t think about
that now, Harry, just rest.’

No further encouragement was needed. Harry had exchanged the
world of severed arteries for the oblivion of dreamless sleep.

When he woke the next day he knew
she’d gone. The pain of it gnawed at his stomach and taunted his mind, telling
him one moment that it was just another dream, and the next that he wasn’t
asleep, his wife was dead. The morphine played with him, taking him far away
from the hospital bed to a place where nothing existed but pure and clear mind,
uncluttered by thought. Then something would click in his head, and the image
of the burning Land Rover would rush in to fill that space, making him relive
that split second again and again.

A day later, with his morphine dose reduced, he could
distinguish fact from fantasy. He remembered the explosion clearly, and now he
sat up in his bed in a state of emotional numbness, trying to accept that Nat
just wasn’t here anymore. And wondering what he would tell her parents.

Apart from his leg injury, he’d suffered nothing more than
bruising and concussion. Dr Fitzgerald informed him that he should be home in a
few days, and if all went well, walking normally in a month or two. Someone
from the Garda arrived to let him know that no one else at Roisin’s, or nearby,
had suffered more than a few minor cuts, all due to flying glass from shattered
windows.

‘And Natalie?’

The Garda man looked grim. ‘Car bombs aren’t kind to the
human body, Mr Ellis.’

‘No.’

‘We will be able to make an identification, I can tell you
that much. Perhaps you could tell me why someone would want to put a bomb in
your vehicle?’

‘No idea.’

The man gave Harry a quizzical look. ‘We’ll talk again later,
Mr Ellis, once you’re out of here. Meanwhile, I’ll need details of Natalie’s
next of kin. They’ll need to be informed.’

Harry gave him the address and phone number of Natalie’s
parents. The Garda man told him that someone from the Irish Consulate in
Auckland would give them the news personally. A part of Harry felt relieved.
How could he possibly tell Nat’s mother and father that his involvement with
British Intelligence had got their daughter murdered?

Then the same evening, Litchfield arrived. An expression of
sympathetic concern had replaced his customary irascibility, but not his
brusque delivery.

‘Harry, don’t know what to say, this is an appalling
situation. You have my sincere condolences.’

Harry made no reply. The sight of Litchfield had triggered
him rapidly out of his emotional numbness into a state of mounting anger. He
didn’t trust himself to speak.

Litchfield, taken aback by the silence, looked slightly
embarrassed. He blinked furiously for a moment or two and then ploughed on. ‘Of
course, we will take care of everything – any expenses you incur in your
recovery, funeral costs, anything at all.’

‘How did they know?’ asked Harry, his voice low and furious.

‘Know? I can’t answer that at the moment, some breach of
security, they must have found out about our Dublin operation. We weren’t as
anonymous as we thought.’

‘Yes, I’d figured that out already. Was O’Reilly involved?’

Litchfield hesitated for a moment, as though debating
something with himself. When he replied he’d regained his composure.

‘Yes, I believe he was. I should know more in the next day
or two. In the meantime we need to discuss what we’re going to do about your
continued safety.’

‘How can you possibly know it was him?’

‘He certainly has motive, don’t you think? If it wasn’t him,
then it was someone from the Republican Brotherhood. I certainly intend to do
my best to pinpoint that person.’

‘I want to know when that happens.’ Harry stared out the
window, thoughts of retribution clouding his grief. He missed Litchfield’s
little nod of satisfaction.

‘Alright Harry. Let me tell you what we need to do.’

He went on to advise Harry on the measures required once he
left hospital. Removal to a safe house while he convalesced. A suspension to
his studies if at all possible.

‘And we’ll arm you too. If you haven’t used a gun before,
Jack will be able to help with instruction. As soon as you’re walking properly
again you should get out of Ireland. We’ll sort out the details later.’

Then, once again expressing his sympathy, he left. Harry lay
back in bed replaying the visit. Not once had Litchfield mentioned Natalie’s
name.

He was discharged a few days later.
Jack Hudson collected him and drove him to his new address. It was a semi
detached two bedroom house about 15 minutes drive South of Dublin. Harry
offered no conversation during the drive, and Jack took the opportunity to
explain his new situation.

‘We moved all your belongings from the Harcourt Street
flat.’ He registered Harry’s sharp glance. ‘Don’t worry, no damage was done
getting in. We can do some things efficiently.’

They arrived, and Harry noted that Jack was as good as his
word. Nothing seemed to have been left behind. Almost nothing. The unopened
Christmas presents were on the living room table – the tree was missing.

‘Someone will look in on you every evening. A Mrs Meehan.
She’s totally reliable.’

‘The Garda wanted to speak to me again,’ began Harry,
remembering that his official visitor had promised to get the terrible news to
Nat’s parents.

‘We’ve spoken to them,’ Jack replied. ‘They won’t bother you
any more. But I think both Natalie’s and your parents need you to contact them
as soon as you can.’

‘God, I don’t know what I’m going to tell them.’

‘Actually, we can discuss that later. I’m so sorry, Harry,
about all of this. You need to take it one day at a time for the foreseeable
future. I will do my utmost to help you.’

‘Sure, Jack. Thanks.’

And so Harry’s convalescence began.
He had no desire to return to his studies, and asked Jack to communicate his
decision to Trinity. His left leg was sore and would continue to be for a few
weeks. The house had a garden backing onto a small wood, and he walked there
every day with the help of crutches, allowing a little more weight to be borne
on the leg as he began to heal.

He made the calls that he’d dreaded to both sets of parents.
The event had been reported in the New Zealand media. A statement issued by the
IRA had claimed that the bomb was the unauthorised work of a ‘rogue
individual’. To Harry’s mind that could only mean one person.

Jack had advised him that for the moment he should say it
must have been a case of mistaken identity, unless he wanted to reveal details
of his work for SIS. Which neither they nor Harry wanted. Natalie’s remains
were to be buried in Dublin, and Harry assured his father that he would be on
the way home very soon.

There was the funeral itself, which was attended by Roisin
and her colleagues. Harry couldn’t stop thinking that the whole event was too
surreal to be true. They’d come from the other side of the world, been married
so briefly, and suddenly in a country far away from home one of them had simply
ceased to exist. The pain he experienced in the certain knowledge of Nat’s
death was mixed with this sense of the surreal as he worked to regain his
fitness. Getting back to full strength was all he could focus on, the longer
term future had no shape at all.

The New Year arrived. He spent it alone in the house, though
Mrs Meehan, who was a middle-aged, robust, and practical woman, tried to engage
him in conversation for an hour or two. She brought Sherry with her to
facilitate this exercise and, although Harry partook of a couple of glasses, it
still proved hard to get beyond small talk. Alone or in company, the pain was
the same.

One morning that week Jack arrived. He found Harry in the
kitchen, staring out the back window with a mug of tea in hand.

‘Brought this for you,’ said Jack. Harry turned to see him
place a handgun on the kitchen table. ‘It’s for self defence only of course.’

‘The only thing I’ve ever shot at was a deer on a hunting
trip years ago. That was with a rifle of course.’

‘Did you hit it?’

‘Yes, I did.’

‘This is a handgun. You shoot people with this, preferably
at close range. We’re going for a drive in the country now, to do some
practice.’

An hour later they were deep in Irish countryside, looking
for somewhere secluded and preferably private. They found a wooded area down a
side road, parked the car, and proceeded into the shelter of the trees. When
they reached an open area, Jack stopped.

‘This will do.’ He’d brought a cardboard target, complete
with bullseye. He taped it against a tree and they both stood back about 30
feet.

‘Right, Harry. This is a Walther PPK, very popular with the
Ulster Defence Regiment right now. You load the bullets into the magazine like
so...’ Once he’d done it he made Harry repeat the exercise, then the magazine was
slotted into the gun.

‘It’s semi-automatic. Shoot once and you have a reloaded
barrel. Try it. Use both hands to steady it.’

Harry did as instructed. He spent 15 minutes shooting at the
target until Jack was satisfied he knew what he was doing. Then they returned
to the cottage.

‘If you feel like doing more practice, then Mrs M will take
you out,’ offered Jack, as they sat at the kitchen table drinking tea. He
smiled at Harry’s startled expression. ‘In her youth she was something of a
crack shot, so you’ll definitely improve.’

‘Might just do that,’ replied Harry.

‘When you leave the house take it with you, safety on of
course. It’s licensed in your name.’ He rummaged in the small holdall he’d
brought with him, and extracted the paperwork. ‘And check any vehicle you
intend to drive from now on. Under the bonnet and under the chassis. Got it?’

‘You’re making me nervous.’

‘You’re safe here, Harry. Just take precautions anyway. And
we won’t be operating from our former office in future. As far as we’re concerned
you’re out of the picture, but I’ll look in on you until you’re fit again. You
have my number.’ Jack stood and prepared to leave.

‘Any news on O’Reilly’s whereabouts?’ asked Harry.

‘Not yet. But now we know what he looks like it won’t be too
long before we find him. Remember that he might not actually be the man
responsible.’

‘As far as I’m concerned, he’s totally responsible.’ Harry’s
face had assumed a stony determination. ‘I’d like to meet that bastard.’

Jack gave him a hard stare then laid a reassuring hand on
his shoulder. ‘Concentrate on getting yourself well again, and leave O’Reilly
to us. Can you do that?’

‘Sure, I’ll do my best.’

Jack nodded, picked up his holdall, and left.

Pre-Christmas, Michael’s decision to
leave Dublin was still on hold. First he wanted his passport, and to make that
happen he called his father and asked him to retrieve it from a PO box in
Belfast. When Michael Senior had digested the implications of his son’s
situation and realised the limited to non-existent options on offer, he agreed.
He had never taken the militant path his son had chosen, but he understood the
temptation.