Northern Spy(34)

The collie bumps her head against my chest, and I lean forward, breathing in the comforting smell of her wet fur. Eamonn has on a blue marled sweatshirt with two white laces hanging from its hood.

“Is she really your dog?” I ask.

“Yes,” he says, which is good. I want something in this to be real.

I tell him about the plan to blackmail Charles Cavil. “What are you going to do?”

If Cavil disappears from the province, the IRA will know there’s a mole.

“Whatever we do, it won’t lead back to Marian, I promise.”

I want to talk to his other informers. I want to know where they are now, if they’re still alive, if they’d do it again.

“Can I ask you something? Why didn’t MI5 help convict Cillian Burke?” Cillian’s trial collapsed earlier this week, as predicted. He’s a free man.

“We had reason,” says Eamonn.

“What?”

“The greater good.”

“Do you even care what happens here? Is this a training ground for you?”

“No, Tessa,” he says. “I’m not training.” He looks over his shoulder at the gray sea. “Is it cold?”

“Yes.” I start to untie the knot on my leggings and to pull off my jumper, undressing to my swimsuit. Eamonn hasn’t moved. “Is there anything else?”

He shakes his head, and I step around him to walk down to the water. I gulp in air, then duck under the surface.



* * *



—

Every night after work, I stop at an ATM and withdraw four hundred pounds. At home, I roll up the bills and hide them in an empty tube of sun cream. I’ll need the cash if things go wrong, if we have to leave suddenly.

I find my passport in the bottom of a filing cabinet and place it in my jewelry box, along with Finn’s birth certificate, and a scan of his NHS card and vaccination records. I move my canvas holdall to the front of the closet and run through what to bring—nappies, wipes, blankets, bottles, warm clothes—but don’t pack them. If the IRA ever searches my house, they can’t find a go bag.

On Saturday, Sophie drops Poppy off for a playdate. I set both babies in their high chairs and return with two jars of fruit purée. They watch me with wide eyes, bibs around their necks.

“Right, who’s hungry?” I ask, surprised at how easy it is to act like a normal person, like someone who doesn’t have two thousand pounds in cash hidden in her bathroom cabinet.





20


WHEN I OPEN THE SNAPS on Finn’s sleepsuit, his chest is covered in bright red spots. My hands freeze. “Oh, god.” The spots look like measles. He had an MMR vaccine recently, but the virus might have already been in his system. Finn frowns at me from the changing mat, then starts to cry. I duck forward to kiss him, angry with myself for scaring him, for not having better instincts, and gently loosen his arms from his sleeves. The spots have spread to his back, too.

I lift Finn to my shoulder and step into the living room, turning my head like I’m about to find another adult, and say, Can you take a look at this?

At the clinic, the doctor says, “Let’s have you undress him and pop him up here.” Finn wails, outraged at being on his back in only a nappy. As he twists, the hospital paper crinkles under him. The spots look worse under the strip lighting, and I stroke his head while the doctor examines him.

“You had a vaccine recently,” she says to him. “And this means you’ve responded perfectly. Clever boy.”

“But his vaccine was two weeks ago.”

The doctor looks at her chart. “Ten days. The rash often takes that long. Or it doesn’t show up at all.”

I let out a long breath. “He doesn’t have measles?”

“This is only an immune response to the vaccine. He’s not ill.” She strips her gloves and drops them in the bin.

“Is the rash contagious?”

“No,” she says, and the day ahead of me shifts, like blocks dropping into view. After this appointment, I’ll drop him at day care, rush into work, finish the running order, produce our live broadcast, and return home to the babysitter around eight, none of which sounds feasible. I want to sit holding my baby for the next six to twelve hours.

“Can I feed him in here?”

“Of course.”

Finn nurses with his eyes wide open, like he doesn’t trust either of us at the moment. The doctor says, “How’re things otherwise?”

“Fine. Grand.”

“Any problems with feeding?”

“No.”

“Do you have much support? Any family in the area?”

“My mother.” Though I haven’t seen her since last week. She and Marian have been spending time together, meeting outside the city, and I feel left out by these visits.

The doctor waits, aware something is wrong. I look down, adjusting the nursing muslin draped over my shoulder. I could tell her. I could say, I’m informing on the IRA. Once she leaves, I’ll have lost my chance. I want to ask her opinion about informing, the way I’d ask for her opinion on, say, mastitis. I want to be prescribed a treatment, like ice packs and lanolin ointment, rest.

“You can ring me up anytime,” she says, and I nod furiously, wanting to thank her for her kindness. “And I’ll see you at his ten-month checkup.”