Northern Spy(32)

“Thanks for minding Finn.”

“Good swim?” she asks.

I nod. “A little choppy.”

At our feet, Finn and Poppy are banging pot lids against the floor. Poppy reaches over to take Finn’s, while he watches in awe. She’s three months older, everything she does fascinates him.

“Can I drop her at six thirty tomorrow?” asks Sophie. “I could use a run.”

“Of course. Do you hear that, Finn? Poppy will come over to play tomorrow morning.” He scoots closer to her, offering her another pot lid, which she ignores. As we leave, Finn sobs, twisting in my arms toward Poppy. “Oh, love, it’s all right.” I find a plastic shark in my bag, which he accepts with wounded dignity, still hiccupping.

At home, I make toast and tea, in disbelief that the day is only starting. It feels like evening already, like we should be settling in for the night.

On the bus into Belfast, I’m aware of every other passenger. You have to constantly reassure yourself, living here. No, that man isn’t acting strangely, no, those people aren’t signaling to each other, no, there’s nothing unusual about that suitcase. And now I need a new set of reassurances. No, that man isn’t staring at you, no, he doesn’t know what you’ve done.

To a certain community, I’m now the lowest form of life. I should be shot and my body should be left in the road as a warning. My family should be ashamed of me. They should be ignored at church and in the shops, left standing alone at funerals and weddings, they should know that they’ll never belong here again.

I think of our neighbors in Andersonstown on New Year’s Eve, holding hands in a circle for “Auld Lang Syne.” If this ever comes out, I wonder how many of them will say, “Tessa deserves whatever she gets. She has it coming.”



* * *



—



At my desk, I switch between writing our running order for tomorrow and reading MI5’s website. This is not a good way to work. I need our program to go well this week, to prove that my mind isn’t elsewhere, that my work hasn’t been compromised, but so far I have no introduction, no payoff, only a handful of middling interview questions.

Beside my document is MI5’s glossy, polished website. It has a day in the life of an intelligence officer, which includes dropping her children at school, briefings, foreign-language training, a lunchtime game of squash, and being home in time for dinner. She says the job is suited to family life, since by design you have to leave your work at the office, which stretches belief.

There’s no day in the life of an informer, of course. The tone in the section on informing is less glamorous, more guarded.

“All of our agent handlers have a significant amount of training before starting in this role,” it reads. “A major part of this training involves identifying and managing potential risks. Building up our relationship with you is at the center of this process. Both sides need to be open about what can and cannot be done.”

What can and cannot be done. Marian breaking the bomb for St. George’s, Marian lying during a polygraph, myself stepping onto the beach this morning. That line will keep being adjusted, won’t it? They will keep pushing it further and further back.



* * *



—

I’ve made little progress on our running order when Jim at the front desk calls up. “Tessa, we’ve a DI Fenton in reception for you.”

I race down the stairs, pausing at the bottom to straighten my dress and lanyard. For the benefit of the others in the lobby, I greet the detective like a political guest, shaking his hand, smiling. Once we’re outside, I wheel around to face him. “You can’t come here. Please don’t come here.”

“I thought you might have time for a break,” he says mildly. I stalk around the corner onto Linenhall Street, and we stop in a doorway beside the betting shop. Fenton says, “Has your sister contacted you?”

“No.”

He has no idea that Marian is an informer. The security service won’t tell the police unless necessary, to avoid leaks. I imagine how furious Fenton would be, after all the hours spent on her case, if he knew.

“Has Marian ever asked to store anything at your house?” he asks.

“No.”

“Have you ever handled or transported explosives?”

“No.”

Down the road, people leave the fried-chicken shop holding grease-stained paper bags. “Is it any good?” asks the detective, and I shrug. He says, “I shouldn’t anyway, with the sodium.” He shakes his keys in his suit pocket, then fixes his gaze on me. “Tessa, what does nitrobenzene smell like?”

I blink at him. “I have no idea.”

Fenton considers me for a few long moments, then turns to go. He knows I’ve just lied. Nitrobenzene smells like marzipan. But I learned that from a news report on explosives, not firsthand experience. I don’t even know if it’s true.





19


I’M ALONE ON THE top deck of the bus. Outside, rain drips from shop awnings and the broad leaves of plane trees. The people without umbrellas are all hurrying, squinting against the rain, except for a group of schoolgirls with wet hair ambling slowly down the road. As we pass, one of them takes a lollipop from her mouth and lobs it at the side of the bus. From the lower deck, the driver curses, but he doesn’t pull over. We’d never get anywhere if he stopped every time a kid in Belfast kicked up.