Читать книгу A Secret Worth Killing For - Simon Berthon, Simon Berthon - Страница 11

October 1993

It’s the same boy who was in the library two days ago, the one she gawped at, the one she’d never seen before. Only this time he’s got there first and taken her seat. Maire wonders if it’s coincidental or deliberate, then chides herself for being so soft. He’s probably not given her a thought. Nor should she give him one. That’s not what she’s here for, and not what she’s spent the last two years for.

This is the final year – the year she will propel herself on the future that will transport her from home, family, place, class. From the past. It’s the year she’ll get away. For twenty-six months – she counts them – she’s stuck by the rules she agreed with her brother and devoted herself like a nun. No distractions, no entanglements, head down. No staring.

But two days ago it was impossible to avoid the curl of brown hair falling so silkily on his collar, seeming to surface from nowhere. She’s buried in the close print of an American court’s judgement not to return an IRA killer of a British soldier because it’s a political act. It excites her. Law is not just dry argument or sterile litigation: it can bring political change, too.

She relaxes to let the moment of revelation sink in. Her eyes settle idly, unintended, twelve feet away on the other side of the study table and somehow lock onto him. He sits ramrod straight, head forced downwards with an awkward angularity, glued to the thickly bound volume on the rectangular oak slab, a statue of concentration. She reckons he’s in his mid-twenties, glinting brown hair falling in soft waves over his ears and neck – and that one curl in particular. His pencil is held tight between his teeth – good, white teeth. She can see part of one leg encased in weathered blue jeans crossed over the other. He still has a black leather jacket on – it outlines broad shoulders and a flat stomach. He reads on. She stares longer than she means before rebuking herself and forcing her eyes back to her book. He never looks up – not that she notices, anyway. Thank God!

Now he’s back.

She’s suddenly conscious of the beads of sweat on her flushed cheeks, invisible to others, a torrent to her. Outside it’s a balmy autumn’s day, the early mist clearing, the sun breaking through. As she skirted the river on her twenty-five-minute walk to the library, warmth seemed to rise even from the water itself, the trees alongside glowing islets of deep ochre. Right now, the perspiration is an embarrassment, which only seems to feed the sweat.

She’s hung her overcoat on the hooks outside. Within the overheated library, she raises her arm to remove her jumper. It sticks to her T-shirt, raising it above the waist of her jeans. She quickly pats down the shirt to cover herself. The jumper removed, she shakes her hair – and uses the movement as a cover to cast him the quickest of looks.

Where to sit? She can’t go too near him and places her books at the opposite end of the table. But, if she raises her eyes, she will be forced to look inwards, unable to escape him as there is nothing beyond except the unbreachable wood panelling of the library walls.

She sits down.

His eyes seem held by an invisible glue to the thickly bound legal volume. After a few minutes, she glimpses him running his hand through his hair and furrowing his brow. She feels him straining to understand the complexities he’s buried in. She trains her own eyes to her book.

A vibration in the table hints at his repeating the action. Twice. Each time, she holds her face down. Then, a furtive glance. Like two days before, he doesn’t respond. As if he hasn’t even seen her.

The minutes pass, she sticks in a frozen immobility. She takes a deep breath and lets out a sigh. No reaction. She feels her concentration wavering – unusual for her. She restrains herself for what must be a full hour, but then can’t help a peep at him. She senses him lifting his chin and turning towards her. It’s a tracer bullet, stunning her into dropping her head. Flopping from the executioner’s blow. Her cheeks burn – she must be colouring like a strawberry.

Shortly after midday, she closes her volume, restores it to a shelf and makes to go. She turns her back and has an instinct he’s watching her. She doesn’t look round to check. She half hopes he is. Avoiding, as always, the library canteen, she heads outside, up Dawson Street to her regular sandwich bar in a lane just off to the right. Arriving there, she tells herself to catch on.

Routine is restored. She orders her usual toasted cheese-andtomato sandwich with a pack of crisps, which she sits on a stool beside a long Formica shelf to eat. She will then get a coffee and head out for a quick breath of air and her one piece of shopping before returning to the library. She is unusually hungry as she licks stray strands of melted cheese from her chubby fingers and off her light-red, varnished nails.

He’s coming through the door.

‘Hey!’ he exclaims.

She tells herself not to jump or shriek, but the sound of her heart beating drowns the words they exchange. ‘Oh, hi.’

‘I didn’t know you used this place,’ he says.

She must stay cool. ‘I was gonna say the same to you.’

‘Ah well.’ He turns back, orders his own sandwich, then looks round at her again. ‘Fancy a coffee?’

‘I gotta go to the chemist. Then head back.’

‘Can it wait?’ She frowns. ‘Tell you what,’ he continues, ‘I’ll cancel my sandwich. Let me get the coffees and I’ll walk with you.’

‘OK.’ The word seems to have auto-popped out – he’s already ordering the coffees and she’s suddenly walking down the street beside him.

‘You’re a Brit!’ It’s almost a shriek – she can’t help herself.

‘Does it matter?’ he asks innocently.

‘Does it matter? Christ!’ She pauses. He shrugs his shoulders, as if to convey that it’s nothing to do with him.

‘Course it doesn’t fucking matter,’ she says. ‘Why would anyone think that?’

He feels an idiot. ‘Sorry, I—’

‘But you’re a bit of a posh Brit,’ she interrupts. ‘Whaddya gonna do ’bout that, then?’ She’s putting on the full accent and idiom of the working-class girl from the North. She doesn’t know why. But transcending both is the restored timbre of her voice. Pure and unfiltered, the clarity of mountain water.

‘I’ll take lessons,’ he replies.

‘Hope you’re a fast learner.’ His apparent discomfiture makes her laugh.

She finds herself behaving skittishly, pricking him with tiny taunts and conveying nothing of the blast of pleasure she’s feeling. Why can’t she be herself? He doesn’t seem to mind and, almost quaintly, stretches out his right hand with a theatrical show of formality and introduces himself.

‘David.’ And then, hesitantly, his surname. ‘David Vallely.’

Shaking the hand with a mocking delicacy, she responds with her own introduction.

‘Maire McCartney.’

‘Moira. Nice name,’ he says, mispronouncing it. ‘I thought it was Scottish.’

She corrects him. ‘You say it like this. More-a. OK? Spelt M-A-I-R-E.’

‘Sorry, I never heard it.’

‘That’s OK. It’s common enough here.’

‘So Dublin, then,’ he says, happy now to place her.

‘Wrong city. I got away.’ There’s a sharpness that brings silence.

She thinks about his name. An English boy called David Vallely. A nice ring to it – Irish origin somewhere down the line. It occurs to her, now she thinks about it, that it’s great he’s a Brit. There may be plenty of those at Trinity but in her world he’s a stranger, an outsider. Someone with no connection to home.

They walk down the lane and turn left into Grafton Street, past the statue of Molly Malone and her cart, erected five years before and still too unblemished.

‘I wouldn’t say she’s pretty enough for Dublin’s fair city,’ he says.

‘Not just posh, but sexist too, eh?’ The accusation comes with exaggerated alarm.

‘Just an aesthetic judgement,’ he tries to assure her.

‘Course she’s not pretty. She was a street hawker and tart in an eighteenth-century, shite, British colonial town. Whaddya expect?’ She flares her nostrils at him.

They have reached the chemist and she turns in while he waits on the pavement. She feels embarrassed – although it’s only cream she’s been prescribed for a couple of spots bugging her. What’s he thinking she’s in there for?

When she walks out of the chemist the thumping has quietened and she wills herself to scrap the artifice. No need either to give him the big smile she’s suppressing, no need to encourage.

‘It’s such a great day,’ he says.

‘Yes,’ she replies absently.

‘How about a stroll?’

She hesitates, then raises an eyebrow as if to say ‘give over’. He waits silently, a plea in his eye.

‘I shouldn’t,’ she says. ‘Time to get back to the library.’

‘It’s not a prison.’

‘OK, just this once.’ Her face at last breaks into a hint of a smile.

‘Great.’ He’s the cat with the cream.

They end up in St Stephen’s Green on a bench. He raises his polystyrene cup. ‘Cheers.’ She smiles and raises hers too.

‘So,’ he continues, ‘you must be doing law.’

‘Yeah. Third year, finals coming up. I work all day and night. No distractions.’ She wants to make it harder for him. ‘And I gotta finish my dissertation.’

‘What’s it on?’

‘It’s kinda on postwar evolution in international law. I’m mainly focusing on extradition treaties.’

‘That’s amazing,’ he exclaims. ‘The thesis for my master’s—’

‘You’re doing a master’s?’ she interrupts. ‘That’s why I never saw you in the first two years.’

‘That’s right,’ he continues. ‘But here’s the thing – my specialism is the International Court of Justice in The Hague. Maybe I can help you.’

‘Or maybe I can help you,’ she retorts smartly. They beam with shared pleasure at their common interest.

‘Wouldn’t it be great if every day was like this?’ she suddenly says. ‘Look at it, leaves turning but still golden, sun shining, heat in the air. Fuck’s sake, this is Dublin in autumn.’

‘I know,’ he says.

‘There’s something unreal about it, isn’t there?’

He looks at his watch and cries out, ‘Hell, the time! I’ll be late for my supervisor.’

‘I should get back to work, too.’

They walk back to the library together. As they part, he says, ‘It was great to talk. Maybe we can do it again next week?’ She’s suddenly deflated but tries not to show it. ‘I’d say a drink tonight but there’s a friend I promised to see.’ He pauses. ‘And then I’m away for the weekend.’

‘Course you are, posh boy.’ She states it flatly. ‘Anyway, I forgot, Film Soc’s showing Battle of Algiers. Been meaning to see it since I was born.’ She hopes her recovery is swift enough to let him know they’re parting on equal terms.

‘Long live the revolution, then.’ He smiles and turns in the direction of the Law Faculty.

Did he spot her tug of disappointment when he said he was away for the weekend?

Not that she’d have been able to spare him more than an hour or two. Mrs Ryan’s staying overnight in Limerick, so away for both the Saturday and Sunday, and she’s got the kids full-on – not a weekend to look forward to. Why did she blurt out Film Soc showing Battle of Algiers? No chance of escaping to see that. Maybe Blockbuster will have a VHS. If not, she should be able to find a review of it somewhere to clue herself up.

What will he be doing? As they part at the library, she watches him until he disappears through an arch. His broad shoulders taper down to slim hips and long, floating legs. She feels she’s never seen such a perfect man’s body. The unreality of it all strikes her again with renewed force.

As the slow weekend drags on she keeps seeing his disappearing backside. It’s both a distraction and an irritant in the life she’s made herself endure. She knows the kids well enough by now but keeping them fed and entertained on the single note Mrs Ryan left is wearying. Kevin’s got a match for the under-elevens, which Roisin’s still young enough to be cajoled to watch. Brian is contemptuous of his younger brother’s sporting prowess and refuses to come, staying at home to play on his Atari. She tries to josh him into getting some fresh air but finally gives up. On their return, they pass him on a street corner slouching with his ‘gang’. She suspects he’s been smoking and hopes it’s nothing worse. It’s only a few minutes to the badlands of Sheriff Street and the kids start too early these days. She suspects there’s too much in him of what of she’s heard about his absentee father.

She manages to find a couple of hours on Saturday evening to work. Her eyes soon tire. She tries to resist slumping in front of the TV. She couldn’t get a VHS of Battle of Algiers but the student mag has a preview of it, which should give her enough to get by. She thinks of students thronging in bars, laughter, kisses, falling over drunk, falling into bed. The thought makes her sit up straight, wipe her eyes, stand up and open the front door to breathe the street air, and return to her book.

Sunday morning has Mass to fill the time and Brian isn’t yet bold enough to duck out. She dutifully accompanies the children to the altar rail to receive Communion – just a blessing for Roisin, who’s doing confirmation class this year – and senses a stroking of her hand from Father Gerry as he lays the wafer in her palm. She jerks her head up at him with a flinch of fury, but he’s gone. He’s youngish, mid-thirties, she guesses, the trendy priest of the Dublin badlands. Couldn’t be a better match for it.

The church is well stocked with young couples trailing toddlers and babies who add their music of chirping and screeching. They leave her as cold as the church itself and the dirty priests that preside over it. Not so Roisin. On the walk home, holding Maire’s hand, she’s sufficiently emboldened to ask a question that has obviously been nagging her.

‘Why don’t you have a boyfriend, Maire?’

‘How d’you know I don’t?’ she replies with a teasing smile.

‘Well, he never comes to see you.’

‘Well there you are, then, you can’t believe what you don’t see.’ The nonsensical double negative flummoxes Roisin into silence.

Mrs Ryan returns around six. She looks exhausted, her face etched with thin brushstrokes of worry. Or maybe it’s the cigarettes – as soon as she flops at the kitchen table, she lights one, inhales deeply, closes her eyes, and slowly allows smoke to drift out. Maire can smell it infusing her dyed jet black hair.

‘Kids all right, love?’ she asks.

‘Yes, all fine, Mrs Ryan,’ replies Maire, injecting an unfelt breeziness. She sometimes wonders why, in the more than two years she’s now been here, Mrs Ryan has never suggested she call her Bridget. ‘How was Bernadette?’

‘She’s OK.’ Mrs Ryan takes another gasp. ‘I asked her again about putting in for a transfer to Dublin, but she wouldn’t. Says she’s used to it down there.’ Another puff, followed by a single rich cough. ‘She says there’s talk of some kind of negotiations going on. Maybe some’ll get released.’

‘That’d be good,’ says Maire. It’s a discussion she doesn’t want to get drawn into. ‘Better go up and catch up with my work.’

‘Aye, you do that.’ Mrs Ryan looks up at her. ‘Thanks, Maire.’

She goes upstairs, sits at her desk, opens a notebook and the marked page of a book, Anatomy of the Nuremberg Trials. It’s by Telford Taylor, an American lawyer who was one of the Nazis’ prosecutors, and was published a year ago. Despite the good reviews, the library hasn’t got a copy, so she’s splashed out and ordered one for herself. She’s been devouring it hungrily but, at this moment, her appetite has gone missing.

She peers around her box of a room: narrow single bed, bedside table with just enough room for lamp and alarm clock, school desk and chair, scratched brown chest of drawers, hangers on a rail, a wash basin in the corner. Two photographs sit on the chest, her ma and da getting married, and the McCartneys and Kennedys together by the sea in Portrush. She wonders who could have taken it, as they’re all in the picture. On the back row, Joseph stares at her with an idiot grin on his face. She wonders how he’s faring. At least there’s been nothing of him or his friends in the newspapers.

Looking at him only brings that image of the boy’s receding behind. She stands to inspect herself in a small square mirror nailed onto the wall. She peers closely to examine the two spots, one lodged just above her upper right lip, the other low on her chin. She touches them – not ready to pop and nothing she can do before the morning. Her hands move down her body to the growing tyre of flesh around her belly. She knows she’s let herself run to seed. Bad eating, mainly – it’s chips every night at the Ryans’. What’s there been to look good for since she came here? Now she thinks of taking better care of herself. Just in case . . .

In case of what? She tells herself to wise up. David Vallely is a nice-looking English boy from another world she’s met and talked to once and knows nothing about. He’s probably a flirt who sees nothing more in her than a coffee mate with a mutual academic interest. She needs to see him that way too and remind herself that she’s here to get a top degree and keep herself to herself. She probably won’t even see him again anyway. Be better not.

On the Monday morning, he’s there in the library. Same table, same chair.