Читать книгу A Secret Worth Killing For - Simon Berthon, Simon Berthon - Страница 15

On the Monday morning, he’s not in the library. She’d never asked, just assumed he would be. Her concentration keeps wavering as she imagines him walking through the door. He doesn’t. Tuesday morning he’s not there either. She has a premonition of something wrong.

Just before the lunch break, he arrives with a grin.

‘I thought you’d be here yesterday,’ she says on the way out. She didn’t mean to – it just comes out.

‘Hey,’ he says, putting his arm round her. She doesn’t pursue it and they head to the sandwich bar. It’s turned cold, grey winter and they eat inside.

‘I’m really glad you told me about the kids,’ he says. ‘I know not to ask too much of you.’ She wonders if this is some kind of explanation for the day before.

‘I’d like to spend more time—’ she begins.

‘Me too,’ he interrupts. They munch silently for a few seconds.

He looks up, a glint in the eye. ‘We could sometimes work from my flat in the afternoon.’

‘Work?’

‘Sure,’ he says, ‘why not?’ She knows he’s deceiving himself as much as she is.

‘OK, maybe day after tomorrow?’ she suggests. He’s skipped a day, so she can too.

‘Done.’ He stretches out his hand – she shakes both it and her head.

He doesn’t arrive at the library till mid-morning, takes down a bound volume, buries himself in it for an hour and a half, closes it, and walks behind her, brushing her neck with the back of a hand, to replace it. She follows him out.

‘I bought a car,’ he announces.

‘A car!’

He grins inanely. ‘Let’s pick up a sandwich and go.’

‘OK.’

He says he’s parked the other side of St Stephen’s Green so, lunch in bags, they cut through the bared winter trees, his arm around her shoulder reinforcing the warmth of her coat.

Suddenly she feels him flinch. He jerks to a stop, whisks her under some branches, pulls his hood over his head and buries himself in a hug with her. She’s too surprised to resist, then tries to pull away.

‘What the—’ she begins, but he puts his forefinger over her mouth to silence her. He has a quick glance behind, repeats the signal with a finger over his own lips and hides himself within her again. A minute passes, he breaks away and they resume the walk.

‘What the fuck was that all about?’

‘I thought I saw a ghost,’ he says. ‘Well sort of.’ She can see he’s thinking it out. ‘Actually, it looked like a girl I once knew. Had no idea she could be here. It would have been awkward.’

‘Awkward?’

‘Yeah, it sort of ended messily.’ His eyes drop to the ground. ‘Probably my fault.’ He says it to mean anything but. ‘It was a while ago. Hey, I’m sorry.’

‘What’s her name?’ she asks.

A beat. ‘Her name?’

‘Yeah, her name.’

‘If you really want to know, she’s called Susan. It just could have been really difficult,’ he repeats. ‘She was upset.’ Another beat. ‘So was I.’

‘Exactly how long ago?’ she asks.

‘Couple of years,’ he replies briskly. He’s more confident now.

‘Oh, well, guess it happens,’ she says. ‘Weird, though, she turns up here.’

‘Yeah, I know. I mean I didn’t know. It’s nothing, just coincidence.’

She doesn’t push but it’s a knife to her heart. She berates herself for letting it get to her – of course he’s had other girls. How could a boy like him not have?

They reach a bright-red hatchback car.

‘What do you think?’ he asks.

‘It’s flashy,’ she says without enthusiasm. She tries not to go on thinking about what happened.

‘It’s an RS turbo, not just some crap Fiesta,’ he explains. ‘After last weekend, I thought we could hit the road some more.’

‘That’d be good,’ she says, ‘if I can ever get away again.’

She detects his deflation. He wants the car to be for the two of them but the incident in the park has soured the surprise.

They draw up in a broad avenue of well-kept Victorian villas. He opens the door of his first-floor flat and ushers her in ahead of him and through to the sitting room.

‘Wow, it’s big,’ she says.

‘I’m lucky,’ he replied. ‘I inherited a bit of money. Though I guess that wasn’t lucky really.’ A cloud passes over his face. She suddenly feels for him, gives him a hug and a kiss, and pulls back to look around.

One wall is a tableau of portrait posters. Martin Luther King, Lawrence of Arabia, Muhammad Ali, Karl Marx, Bobby Sands set alongside Jesus Christ, Ayrton Senna holding the 1991 World Championship trophy.

‘Friends of yours?’ she asks him.

‘Ha-ha, funny girl,’ he replies, restoring the big grin and giving her a deep kiss.

‘All right,’ she says when they ease apart, ‘why them?’

‘All men who changed the world.’ His eyes range over them before settling on Senna. ‘And he’s just brilliant. He’ll be number one again next year for sure.’

‘Can’t say it’s my scene.’

‘You’ll love it when I get you close up to the noise.’

She ranges towards a small round table with a handful of framed photographs. He hovers over her as she picks them up one by one. Colour snapshots of a good-looking young couple by the sea and among hippy-dressed crowds at a festival.

‘Mum and Dad,’ he says, ‘Isle of Wight 1969. When Dylan came over.’

‘They look too straight for that.’

‘Some people went for the music. The Who, Moody Blues, quite a line-up.’

She replaces it and picks up David himself on graduation day wearing black gown and cap.

‘You haven’t changed much,’ she says.

‘Christ, it wasn’t that long ago,’ he protests.

‘What about your year?’ she asks.

‘By the time they got round to the group photos I was going stir crazy,’ he answers. ‘Mainly a bunch of twats, anyway.’

She works something out. ‘Is that why you’re living out here, then? Among the posh?’

‘If you mean did I have enough of squawking undergraduates, the answer’s yes. I don’t like the crowd. Never did, really. I suppose I’m a bit of a loner.’ He checks her expression. ‘Sorry, is that sad?’

‘Not at all,’ she replies. ‘I’m the same.’ She puts the photo down. ‘So, better get to work.’

‘I’ve got a better idea,’ he says, wrapping his arms around her front. She leans her head back into his neck and sighs. Their lovemaking is sublime in a way she’d never imagined possible.

An hour later, as they’re spread peacefully in his bed, he stretches out a hand to the drawer of a bedside table and pulls out a photograph lying flat inside it. He places it face down on his chest and turns to her.

‘Since we first met, I always wanted to tell you something,’ he says, ‘but I was scared to.’

She has her back to him and rolls alertly round. ‘Whaddya mean?’ She can’t hide her alarm.

‘It’s OK,’ he says, ‘it’s just that when you told me about you having to look after the kids, I knew we couldn’t have secrets between us. We want to know everything about each other, don’t we?’

‘Of course.’

He raises the photograph and holds it out in front of them. A smiling young man in uniform stands beside a bride in a white dress holding a bouquet of roses. Behind them stretch two rows of four men, also in uniform, holding up their swords angled at forty-five degrees to a summer sky. A church porch is just visible, traces of unlit faces in the shadows waiting to emerge. The newly married couple are the same couple, though less windswept, as at the Isle of Wight festival.

She peers at it without speaking, trying to understand.

‘1967,’ he says.

‘Your mum and dad,’ she says. ‘I don’t get it.’

‘It’s their wedding guard of honour. My dad was a soldier.’ A hushed pause, then the low growl of a passing motorbike reverberates through the front bay window to the bedroom at the back. ‘A British soldier.’

‘Jesus.’

‘I’m sorry. It’s not what you’d have wanted.’ Silence. ‘It’s not what I’d have ever wanted, either.’

‘Whaddya mean?’

‘I feel pride in him but not in the institution. The one thing I never inherited from him is a love of the British Army.’

‘Did you tell him that?’

‘No, I realized it too late. It’s probably for the best.’

‘What happened to him?’

‘He died in the Falklands. Tumbledown. 1982. When I was thirteen.’ A tear forms in a glistening brown eye and rolls slowly down. She moves close and licks it off his cheek.

‘I’m sorry.’

He breaks away and sits up. ‘It was a shit war over a piece of fucking rock. Dying for the greater glory of Margaret Thatcher.’

‘You could say the same for Bobby Sands,’ she says. Her remark electrifies him – she has never before even hinted at the troubled history of her island and instantly wishes she hadn’t.

‘You mean they’ve something in common,’ he suggests eagerly.

‘I dunno what I mean,’ she says. ‘It’s kinda confusing.’

‘That’s why I was scared to tell you. But we’re here together now. So I had to.’ He waits while she processes the information.

‘It’s good you told me,’ she finally says. ‘But never tell it to anyone where I come from.’ She throws off the sheet. ‘Gotta do some work now.’ She needs more time.

An hour later, sitting at his desk in the front room while he reads in an armchair, she turns and casts him a frown. ‘What ’bout your mum?’

‘My mum?’

‘Yeah, you never told me ’bout her.’

‘I think she never got over it.’

‘That doesn’t kill you.’

‘No. But ovarian cancer does.’ He states it brutally.

‘Shit, I’m sorry,’ she says. She gets up, gently places herself on top of him in the armchair and embraces him. They stay locked together till finally his lips pluck her ear lobe.

Intertwined by shared shocks and confidences, they find a rhythm in the weeks leading up to Christmas. Two or three afternoons each week in his flat, maybe a weekend day when she is free. She never stays overnight and, when he drops her off, she never lets his car enter the immediate neighbourhood, let alone her street.

‘Whaddya doing for Christmas?’ she asks one afternoon as he’s driving her back.

‘I spend it with Rob and his family,’ he replies. ‘It’s like they’ve adopted me.’

‘Bet it’s a big country house.’

‘How did you ever guess?’ She inspects his profile, the crease of a grin stretching his left cheek.

‘And you?’ he asks, keeping his eyes on the road.

‘I’ll go up and see Ma and Da. Couple of nights, three maybe, no more. The city gives me the creeps these days but I can’t leave them on their own.’

‘What about your brother?’ he asks.

‘He’ll look in as it suits him.’ She sounds as frosty as the December day. He draws up short of Sheriff Street. ‘I’ll be away to Mrs Ryan’s mansion, then,’ she says, hopping on to the pavement and striding off as fast as her legs will carry her.

She gets the return bus to Dublin the day after Boxing Day. He’s not said when he’ll be back but she knows by now he doesn’t like to be tied down by dates. She assumes it will be at least another day or two, maybe not till after New Year.

Two p.m. she arrives at Central Bus Station. He’s there, waiting.

‘What the fuck are you doing here?’ She doesn’t know whether to smile or frown – it’s too unexpected.

‘I came back early. Wanted to see you.’

She examines him, touching his unshaven face. ‘Look at you. Did you join the down-and-outs?’

‘I’ll explain.’

‘I dunno what you’re expecting. I gotta get back to Mrs Ryan.’

‘Spend the afternoon with me,’ he pleads. ‘It’s Christmas. She’ll have loads of people to help. You could phone her.’

‘Where from?’

‘There’ll be phone boxes here. I’ve got change. Tell her the bus has broken down.’

‘Christ, you have all the answers, don’t you?’ He grins sheepishly and she rolls her eyes. ‘You look like a tramp and smell like one, too, but you’re still a handsome bastard.’ He broadens the smile. ‘OK, let’s find a phone box,’ she says with a sigh.

Snug in bed in the lazy late afternoon, he suddenly sits up and looks down on her. ‘I understood something this Christmas,’ he begins.

‘Oh?’ She is sleepily relaxed.

‘When you’ve had no family for too long, you forget what you’re missing.’ He strokes her upper lip with his forefinger. ‘So what I understood is that I want to be part of you, Maire. Part of where you belong. Part of who you are.’

‘Whadda you mean?’ she asks, shifting uneasily beneath him and propping on an elbow.

‘You’ve become my touchstone. I lie here with you and define myself against you. This, here, now, is my world.’

‘What about your friends? And Rob’s family. You said they’d adopted you.’

‘Yes. But that’s just an illusion. Escapist wishful thinking.’ He lies silently, as if wrestling with some great dilemma that is crushing him. ‘I want you to take me to meet your family.’

She jerks up to sit ramrod straight beside him.

‘David, they’re a world apart.’

‘I know that. But if they are, so must we be. And we’re not, are we?’

She wants to turn away from the imploring in his eyes and the timbre of his voice but she’s frozen in the enormity of the moment. He allows her time. ‘No, we’re not,’ she at last agrees.

‘In that case, there can’t be borders between us.’

‘It’s not that easy.’

‘Nothing in life that’s good ever is.’ She has no response. ‘I love you, Maire,’ he whispers.

She stays silent, burning with an overwhelming tenderness for him. She wants to say the word back but can’t bring herself to let it out.