Northern Spy(24)

13


THE TIDE HAS GONE out in the lough. I walk toward the water across the wide stretch of sand, my jeans and towel rolled up on the rocks behind me. The heat has faded with evening, though the air still feels warm on my bare skin. Shafts of sunlight drop between the clouds onto the surface of the lough. A few boats are out, and around them the water shimmers.

The threat level hasn’t been lowered yet. A bomb was found this afternoon on a train in Lisburn. Something had gone wrong with the timer, so it hadn’t detonated. The police are out searching trains and buses for other devices, though they might not find any. That might be it.

I breathe in the mineral air, noticing that the last of my headache has vanished. This stretch of the lough is protected. A Neolithic logboat is buried in the sand, and at low tide you can see the remains of early Christian fish traps from thousands of years ago. I remember when the chessmen were found nearby. The pieces had been carved by Vikings, and then one day they surfaced from the mud.

I wade into the water. A hoop of seaweed floats by my ankles. I duck my head under the surface, and shivers crest over my scalp. My body tightens in the cold water, like a loose screw. I’ve hardly been aware of it all day, but now can feel every inch. My lips and the backs of my eyes tingle from the cold. The dust and sweat, the sun cream and insect repellent are all gone into the water, just like that. I feel clean.

I stroke toward the center of the lough, ribbons of cold water slipping over my body. This is the first time since seeing the helicopters that I’ve been away from my phone or the radio. I won’t know if anything happens, the bad news can’t find me here. I dive back under, swimming a meter below the surface until my air runs out, then settle into a slow crawl. I travel far into the lough before finally turning back.

When I come out, my teeth are chattering. Blood branches over my foot, following the raised lines of my veins. I must have scraped myself on a rock in the water. I bend down, rinsing the scratch.

I don’t know what makes me look up. My legs suddenly lighten, like I’ve stepped to the edge of a cliff.

My sister is standing a few meters away. Her hair has been bleached blonde and cut to her shoulders. She looks exhausted, the tendons standing from her neck. Her skin is stretched tight over her forehead and cheekbones.

“What have you done?”





PART TWO


14


A PART OF ME HAD expected to forgive her. I’d expected her presence, her familiarity, to shake something loose in me, but it’s the opposite, seeing her is like touching a live wire, and I’ve never felt so angry.

Marian points at my foot. “Are you okay?”

I look down at the blood, though my skin is still too numb from the cold to feel the scratch. “Are you in the IRA?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

Marian closes her eyes. I can see their shapes behind the lids, like two marbles.

“I thought you were a paramedic.”

“I am.”

“Is that supposed to balance things out?”

“They asked me to become one,” she says. “They wanted one of us to have medical training.”

The dizziness makes it hard to stand upright. She became a paramedic six years ago. “How long have you been in the IRA?”

“Seven years.”

I stare at my sister. Her face is pale and dry, her lips chapped. “Did you leave a bomb at St. George’s?”

“Yes.”

“You were holding my son.”

Marian bites her top lip between her teeth. “Yes.”

“You’re never going to see Finn again,” I say sharply. “You’re not coming anywhere near him.”

“He wasn’t in danger. It—”

“Shut the fuck up.” I cover my eyes with my hand, then shake my head. “All right, let’s go. We’re going to the police.”

“I can’t, Tessa.”

“Too bad.”

“Let me explain,” she says, and I consider my sister’s tired eyes, trying to decide if I actually want to know anything more. It will only harm me, in the end. From here, I can see the roofs of Greyabbey, sunlight pooling on the slate tiles.

“Where have you been?” I ask.

“South Belfast,” she says, and I let out a sound like a laugh. I was in south Belfast yesterday, desperate to find her, and she was a few minutes away. “In a rental house on Windsor Road.”

“Have you used it before?”

“Sometimes.”

“For what?”

“Meetings,” she says vaguely, and I wonder what might fall under that term.

“Do those people know you’re here?”

“Yes. I told them the truth. I said that I needed to come see you, so you’d know I was all right,” she says, and I look at her in disbelief, wet in my swimsuit, thinking, Is that why you came? Is that what is occurring here?

“Can we sit down?” she asks.

I pick my way over the sand to a small, wooded island exposed by the tide. The lough has dozens of these islands, some small enough to support only a single tree.

Marian follows me. My arms and legs are mottled from the cold, and mascara is smeared under my eyes. The neoprene straps of my swimsuit run over my shoulders and into a low dip at the back. I hate to be wearing only a swimsuit right now, like that makes my fury less serious.