Dancing With Mortality (9 page)

‘I’ll post you the key today, Dad.’

‘Fine. We’ll be back in Dublin on the 19th, to see Siobhan.
I’m told she’s sitting up now, and making good progress.’

‘Put the passport in an envelope and address it to Sabine
Maier, Alexander Ward.’ He spelled out her name. ‘Then leave it at the
reception desk and she’ll pick it up for me.’

‘Who on earth is she?’

‘Just a friend. She’ll be working that day. You might even
meet her. I won’t be here, I’m leaving Dublin tonight. I need to find a safe
passage across the sea to England. Once I’ve arranged that I’ll be back to pick
up the passport.’

‘Keep in touch, Michael. Your mother will be worried sick.’

‘I’ll call you from a phone box once I’m settled. You might
have to accept the charges though.’

He ended the call shortly afterwards, dropping the letter
containing the key in a nearby mail box on his route back to Sabine’s flat. She
was getting ready for a late shift when he arrived.

She turned from her contemplation of the nearly boiled
kettle as he came into the tiny kitchen.

‘Is it done?’

‘They’ll be here on Saturday. My Dad will leave an envelope
addressed to you at reception.’

She looked both annoyed and confused. ‘Why can’t you just
meet him? Isn’t that easier? I thought that was the arrangement.’

He put both hands on her shoulders. ‘I can’t wait around
here till Saturday. Me being here puts you in danger, and I’ve already been
here longer than I should have. I’m leaving later today.’

She twisted away from him, turning back to the steaming
kettle, busying herself with making tea. When she’d poured two cups she turned
back to face him.

‘Where will you go?’

‘To find a way out of here. That’s all you should know,
Sabine.’

‘Alright. And won’t you need a passport for that?’

‘Well, I’ll be back in a week, and then maybe we can
celebrate Christmas together.’

She smiled. ‘Good. Come and drink tea with me then.’

She gave him a quick kiss. In the living room, she leaned up
against him on the sofa, and he drew her to him with an encircling arm. They
said nothing, enjoying their tea and their closeness, till it was time for her
to leave for work.

When she’d gone Michael went into the bedroom searching for
his rucksack. He emptied the contents on to the bed. Some spare underwear,
t-shirts and a jersey, all purchased by Sabine when she realised how little he
had to wear. The bottles and towels he’d taken on his flight from Siobhan’s had
long been disposed of. And there was the money. He checked it – still in excess
of two thousand pounds.

How much would an opportunist fisherman demand in exchange
for a no questions asked passage across the Irish Sea? Assuming he could find
said fisherman. He’d know soon enough. If he could get no positive response
from a discreet enquiry in two or three harbour pubs, then it would be time for
plan B, whatever that might be. The only alternative to leaving by sea was
staying, and he’d need to come up with something far better than that.

Howth was a busy fishing port not far from Dublin. He would
spend the next week in a cheap hotel and get to know a few of the locals in the
popular drinking haunts. If the timing and the price was right, he should be
able to strike a deal.

He repacked everything, put on his jacket, and took one last
look around. Nothing forgotten. The Browning was in its familiar place, and the
money was at the bottom of the pack. Apart from warm clothes, he didn’t really
need anything else. He set off to find a taxi.

It proved much easier than
anticipated. He checked into a place about ten minutes walk from the port
itself, saying he was looking for work on a trawler as a fishing hand. He was a
big man and looked physically capable, and initially no one questioned his authenticity.

The proprietor of the hotel was an ex-fisherman himself, and
partial to a drop of whiskey of an evening. Fergus O’Malley had spent the best
part of his adult life at sea, and knew plenty of people still on the boats. He
sat with Michael in the hotel’s little bar late one evening, a few days after
Michael’s arrival. The other residents had an early start and had retired for
the night. They sat in two comfortable leather armchairs set in front of a
roaring log fire, glasses in hand.

Fergus was in late middle age, his weatherbeaten face lined
by years of exposure to biting sea spray and bitter gusting wind. His eyes wore
a permanent squint, as though he stood forever on a trawler deck, ducking the
elements. Looking at Michael he saw none of the same signs of a seagoing man,
and he was curious.

‘If you don’t mind me saying Michael, you don’t look like
you’ve much experience of the fishing game. What brings you to it now?’

Michael glanced across at Fergus, trying to read his
expression.

‘I need a job, that’s all.’

Fergus grunted. ‘This is hard work. Must be something else a
young man can turn his hand to that doesn’t involve being battered by the
elements every day, and coming home smelling like a halibut.’

Michael decided to test the water. ‘You’re right, of course,
it isn’t my first choice. I have a job lined up as an HGV driver in Liverpool.
But because of a little local difficulty I can’t travel using the normal
routes. So I’m stuck here, for now.’

Fergus looked at the contents of his glass, his squint
suddenly liberated by the raising of his eyebrows. ‘I see. So of course you
came to a fishing port. Well you wouldn’t be the first.’ He drained his glass.
‘Another?’

Michael nodded. Fergus retreated behind the bar and then
reappeared with refills. He handed one to Michael. ‘Slainche.’ They raised
glasses and drank.

‘Let’s say, Michael, that there are people who might help
you discreetly across the sea from here. But it will cost you. Five hundred
pounds. Do you have that sort of money?’

‘I do,’ replied Michael.

‘I hope so. I don’t want to make enquiries on your behalf
for nothing. I doubt that anything can be arranged before January now. But
leave it with me, I’ll see what can be done.’

Fergus was as good as his word. He found a man willing to
make the run in the second week of January. Michael advanced £150 as a goodwill
gesture, and the deal was done. All he had to do was turn up on the day.

He knew Sabine would be with her Aunt on Christmas Day, so
he decided to stay where he was and travel back on Boxing Day. At the hotel it
was business as usual on the 25th, with slightly better food and plenty of
drink. He was sat in the bar when a news flash interrupted an ad break on the
television. It was a report of a car bomb explosion in Dublin the previous
evening. The victim, a young New Zealand woman. The IRA had issued a statement
denying direct responsibility. Instead the action had been attributed to a
‘rogue individual’ acting without authorisation. The Garda were pursuing
‘active leads.’

He was in momentary shock. He quickly looked around to see
if anyone had noticed. Fergus was looking directly at him, his face
expressionless. Then he turned to serve someone at the bar. The afternoon
became evening and there was no sign of any further interest in the matter from
Fergus. Feeling relieved, Michael made ready to leave the next day. He realised
just how much he wanted to see Sabine again. He was sorry that their reunion
would be tempered with the knowledge that soon he would leave Ireland for good.

At first she seemed quite sanguine
about his impending departure. When he got back and told her about his travel
arrangements her only comment was ‘Yes, well now you have a definite date
then.’

He couldn’t help but feel disappointed.

Her actions, however, were more eloquent. In the days that
followed, her lovemaking became more frantic and demanding, as though she
wanted to ingest the very essence of him. When she left him to go to work he
felt a foretaste of the pain of their approaching separation. Would he ever see
her again? The thought only made him want her more, intensifying their union
when she returned from whatever shift she was on.

Sabine had collected the passport without incident, but had
not met his parents. They debated about whether she should smuggle in written
notes to Siobhan, but deemed it too dangerous. Sabine would deliver a letter
from Michael once he’d left the country.

‘I don’t see her that often now she is getting better,
anyway,’ explained Sabine. ‘She will be discharged soon I think.’

They made a plan to break cover on New Years Eve. Sabine
would be playing saxophone with the trio again at a small jazz club to usher in
1982. He wanted a last chance to hear her and be out together before he left.
The risk seemed worth it.

It was a risk he didn’t take. The preceding evening Sabine
returned, around 10.30. He took one look at her and knew something bad had
happened.

‘Is it Siobhan? It can’t be, surely.’ His look implored her
to tell him no.

She began to cry. ‘Oh, Michael, she was fine. Then a few
hours ago she began to haemorrhage internally. They took her to theatre but
they couldn’t stop it. She died on the operating table. I’m so sorry.’

She embraced him tightly, sobbing for his loss and the pain
she’d brought home with her. For a minute he stared into space, unable and
unwilling to accept it. Then he felt his own tears hot on his cheeks, and he
began to cry as he hadn’t done since he was ten years old.

Harry was reading a book, with
limited success. His eyes were on the page but his mind wouldn’t focus. He
would turn a page and then realise he’d absorbed nothing of the previous one.
Fleeting snapshots of Nat in earlier times came unbidden into consciousness,
and he found himself chasing her image down a labyrinth of memory that had only
one exit on Christmas Eve.

 He closed the book, looking out the living room window at
the grey shrouds of cloud. It wasn’t raining at least. He would take the
opportunity to navigate the woods with as little reliance as possible on his crutches.
He could walk around the house unassisted for minutes at a time, but his left
leg ached too much to try the same thing for extended periods outside the
house.

He stood up, making his way to the hall. As he reached for
his overcoat from the coat rack he heard the key in the front door. It opened
to admit the stout and smiling figure of Mrs Meehan.

‘Harry, off somewhere interesting?’

He smiled in spite of himself. ‘Just to the bottom of the
garden I’m afraid. Need the exercise. A thought struck him. ‘Unless you’d help
me with some target practice that is.’

 ‘Target practice?’ She was momentarily surprised. ‘Ah, that
Jack Hudson has been overstating my expertise again, has he?’ She didn’t wait
for a reply. ‘Get your gun and plenty of ammo and let’s see what you can do
then.’

They drove in her battered Morris 1100 to an isolated farm
property and then down a one lane track that was little more than a tractor
furrow to an empty barn.

‘They know me here, we won’t be disturbed.’

The barn was almost 50 feet long. At the far end bales of
hay were stacked against the wall, and in front of them stood what looked like
two archery targets.

‘Let’s see how you go from a distance then,’ said Mrs M. She
moved to a line scoured into the dirt about 40 feet away. ‘Take the one on the
left, and aim for the bullseye.’

Harry discarded his crutches and stepped up to the line,
trying to distribute his weight as equally as possible without too much
discomfort. He took careful aim and fired six shots at the target. ‘How did I
do?’

‘Just a minute, let me have a go.’ He handed her the gun and
watched as she steadied it in both hands and then fired smoothly at the right
hand target. ‘Let’s have a look.’

They checked the results. Harry had put one in the bullseye
and the others within a six inch radius. Mrs Meehan on the other hand had
landed three bullseyes and drilled a triangle with the other three directly
around it.

‘Where did you learn to shoot like that?’ asked Harry.

‘I served as a Greenfinch in the Ulster Defence Regiment for
a few years. We didn’t carry weapons on duty but we were trained to use them. I
had my own for personal protection.’

He looked at her with interest. He really couldn’t picture
the forty something slightly overweight woman in front of him as a soldier. She
read his thoughts.

‘It was almost ten years ago, Harry. I was younger, slimmer
and a lot fitter then.’

They spent another half hour in the barn and she helped him
with sighting and correct handling of the weapon. Then it was time to go. The
evening was drawing in as she manoeuvred the car back up the tractor furrow and
on the road towards home.

‘You heard about the O’Reilly girl of course, did you not?’
she asked him as the Morris 1100, whose suspension had seen better days, sped
less than gracefully through the dusk.

‘No, heard what?’ In fact he hadn’t thought about Siobhan
O’Reilly at all recently. She’d been erased from his memory until this moment.

‘She died before New Year, in hospital. The same hospital
you were in. You were practically neighbours. Do you never watch the news?’

In fact he very rarely switched on the TV or radio, and
admitted to this shortcoming. ‘To be honest I’d forgotten all about her.’

Mrs Meehan gave him a sideways glance. ‘Well it’s her
funeral tomorrow. No doubt the O’Reilly family will turn out. Might even see
our man Michael there.’ Her face betrayed nothing.

Harry was incredulous. ‘You’re joking, that’s exactly what
the Garda and anyone else looking for him will be counting on. He’d be mad to
go. Where will it be?’

‘St. Patrick’s Church In Belfast. He has more chance of
evading capture there if he decides to go. And in Ireland we don’t always do
the sane thing Harry. Runs against the grain sometimes.’

Harry said nothing. She was right about that. Based on his
experience of the last few weeks, he could only conclude that sanity had become
a rather scarce commodity.

It was dark early the following
morning, and raining steadily. The taxi Harry had ordered drew up outside. He
lay his crutches across the back seat and watched while the driver adjusted the
front passenger seat as far back as it would go, so he could straighten his leg
when he wanted to.

He climbed in and they drove off. The windscreen wipers beat
a steady rhythm against the intensifying downpour, and the driver flicked the
headlights on to full beam as often as possible. It could have been midnight
and not 7am.

‘How long to Belfast?’

‘In this weather, between two and three hours.’ His driver
looked disconsolately at the road ahead.

‘Take your time.’

The rain stopped shortly after and they made good time,
arriving at St Patrick’s around 9.30. The service was at 11.00, and although
the church was open there was nobody inside. He gave the place a quick
inspection. It was spacious and light, the pews arranged in a shallow
semi-circle around an ornate marble altar. He wondered how many people would
come. A notice pinned by the door on his way out confirmed that the service for
Siobhan O’Reilly would indeed take place as scheduled. He decided to retreat
for an hour, somewhere he could sit down. He found a café close by. Sitting at
a table by the window he had a clear view of the church 100 yards away. He
ordered tea and a bacon sandwich, and waited. If there was anyone else waiting
for a sighting of O’Reilly at his sister’s funeral, he couldn’t spot them.

People began to arrive. It was difficult to make out faces
at this distance. O’Reilly’s photo was on the table in front of him, but Harry
was doubtful of matching it with the man himself. Still, had he not come all
this way in the hope of doing exactly that?

Then the funeral cortege pulled up, and the coffin was
carried inside. If one of the pallbearers was O’Reilly he certainly couldn’t
tell from this vantage point. He waited till everyone had gone in and then he quietly
slipped in himself and positioned himself in a seat towards the rear of the
church.

When the readings were done and a few hymns sung, it was
over. The pallbearers once again shouldered Siobhan and bore her out. They were
followed by what he assumed were her parents, and various relations. A few
mildly curious looks were cast his way. Then the church was empty. Among all
these assorted people he’d seen no one resembling the man in the photograph.

Just as he prepared to go he detected some movement on the
far side of the room. Someone who had been partially obscured by a pillar had
just stood up. It was just the two of them left in the church, the officiating
priest had disappeared.

The man behind the pillar began walking towards the altar,
and Harry realised he was heading towards a door located just to the right of
it. As he stood up to get a clearer view his pew scraped loudly against the
stone floor, and the man stopped. He turned to face Harry.

They were some distance apart, but there was no doubt. It
was O’Reilly. Harry had one crutch supporting his left side, and he quickly
drew his gun from his coat with his right hand, aiming it square at Michael’s
chest.

‘Who are you?’ asked Michael, staring in slight bemusement
at the armed and apparently lame man in front of him.

‘I’m the man whose wife you murdered. Christmas Eve.’

‘Your wife?’ Michael stayed as still as he could, hands by
his side. ‘The New Zealand girl? That wasn’t me.’

‘You or your friends, it’s all the same.’ Harry felt his leg
beginning to throb. He sat down, and that freed up his other hand to steady the
gun. He couldn’t miss.

‘I’m sorry about your wife.’ Michael looked haggard. ‘I
buried my sister today. Have you thought about what that might mean?’

There was no reply. Now that Harry finally had O’Reilly in
his sights it was proving difficult to pull the trigger. He’d never shot a man.
Michael sensed his hesitation.

‘Are you going to fire a gun in a church?’ Still no reply.
Michael took a measured breath. ‘I’m going to walk out that door now. You do as
you see fit.’

He turned and walked away. Harry’s hands were trembling. He
wanted to fire, but his body refused to co-operate . As the door closed behind
Michael he lowered his gun, placing it on the pew next to him. He sat there with
his head in his hands, feeling nothing but despair.