Northern Spy(30)

Now, I wonder, would a good mother take Finn away from this place, or keep him close to his father? Would a good mother work for peace, or stay away from the conflict? Would a good mother be preoccupied with terrorism during every minute she has spent with her son this week?

I don’t want my son to have to forgive me for anything, but I can’t even tell what that might be, so how can I avoid it?

Before Tom left, I said, “Do you ever worry you’re a bad father?”

“No,” he said.

“No as in you’ve considered it and decided you’re not, or no as in you’ve never thought about it?”

“Um,” he said. “The second.”

“Christ. What must that be like?”

“Why, do you worry about being a bad father?” he asked.

It’s impossible. I want someone to tell me what to do. If we can stay or if we need to leave tonight, right away, the sooner the better.



* * *



—

At home, I open a jar of vegetable purée while Finn grizzles and bounces in the high chair. “No need for alarm, it’s coming, here we are.”

His mouth clamps down on the spoon. I hope he always loves food this much. The first time he tried pears, his eyes widened and he patted my arm to ask for more. Once he’s done, I finish the jar, scraping out the last swirls of squash with a spoon.

I always feel vaguely self-conscious buying jars of his food at the supermarket, like someone is about to tell me I’m too young to have a baby. Which I’m not, of course. Not even close. A stranger did once look in my shopping basket and tell me to make homemade purées instead. “So much better for the baby.” There’s always someone, for a mother, ready to tell you to pull your socks up.

I wipe the squash from Finn’s hands and face while he squirms in protest, remove his stained clothes and gently wrestle him into clean ones, change my own dirty shirt, wipe down the high chair, and kneel to mop the floor below it. I’m rinsing the baby food jar for the recycling bin when the exhaustion crashes over me.

After his bath, I hold him on the bed, with a pillow folded under my arm. While nursing, Finn reaches to grip the strap of my top. He often does this, finds a hold to cling to, out of some instinct not to be separated from me.

He’s falling asleep. I should move him to his crib, but instead I hold him in my arms, the two of us a still point. I want to stop time.

And then, from nowhere, I see myself standing in front of a collapsed building. I see someone handing me a bullhorn, and myself slowly raising it to my mouth. I hear what I would say to him, if my son were trapped in rubble, scared, alone.

Tears cover my face, my throat. We can’t leave here without his father’s consent. The only way for Finn to be safe is for this to stop.

It’s not really a decision, is it? I’m going to become an informer. I’m going to do this knowing that the IRA’s punishment for informing is death, possibly a beating first, possibly torture. Because that’s no longer the worst that could happen to me, not even close, now that I have him.





18


IFOLLOW THE NARROW FOOTPATH between the dunes to the beach. A faded sign warns of riptides, with a diagram of how to swim out of one. Someone has strung pink ship’s buoys over the sign, their surfaces pitted from the water, and the familiar sight comforts me.

At the end of the dunes, I step onto the beach. In the fog, the damp sand is like the floor of a tunnel. A lifeguard chair stands at the far end of the cove, its white frame almost invisible in the mist. The chair will be empty anyway, this early in the morning. I stretch my arms behind my back, like I’m warming up for a swim. I have a hooded sweatshirt and leggings on over my swimsuit, and the ends of my hair are curling in the damp air.

There’s no reason for me to be scared, but I’m having trouble breathing. This degree of fear seems like proof that something is wrong, the way, when you’re a child, your fear is proof of a ghost in the room.

I force myself to breathe. Everyone who does this is scared, I think. Everyone who has ever done this has been scared. I try to remember my certainty last night, while holding Finn. I’m a go-between, that’s all. It had sounded reasonable last night, but now I wonder how much of this is actually superstition, like if I agree to help, then Finn will be safe. As though it’s that simple, as though any of this has ever been fair.

I stretch my back, watching white scraps of mist blow overhead. When I straighten again, I notice a dog at the far end of the beach, down by the water, and then its owner, a vague shape in the fog. It’s hard to tell if they’re moving toward me or away.

I reach for my toes, and pressure builds behind my eyes. I stretch my arm across my chest as their shapes grow clearer. A black-and-white dog with wet fur, and a man in a navy tracksuit. The dog trots over to me, and I hold out my hand for her to sniff. She places a soft paw on my knee.

The man stops a few feet from me with his hands in his pockets. He’s about my age, maybe a little older, tall, with brown hair. His nose narrows at its ridge, like a knife blade. I don’t know if he’s her handler or a passerby, Marian didn’t tell me what to look for.

“What type of dog is she?” I ask.

“A border collie.”

“She’s lovely.” I rub behind the dog’s ears, trying to force myself to speak. This is it. I could still call it off, by smiling and walking past him to the water. “I’m Tessa,” I say finally.