Northern Spy(43)

We’ve never met on the beach at night before. I wait for Eamonn on the crest of sand, trying not to be scared of the darkness, reminding myself that this beach is just as safe now as in daylight. I don’t know how long Eamonn will take to arrive. He might have been an hour away when he received my signal.

I huddle in my coat, watching the lines of white foam as the waves break. When I hear footsteps, I turn to the figure coming toward me, narrowing my eyes against the darkness. But this man is the wrong height, he’s walking differently. It’s Seamus. Of course he wasn’t going to let me leave. I scrabble backward away from him, then Eamonn says my name. He crouches on the sand in front of me, resting his hands on my knees. The vision of Seamus fades. I can just make out Eamonn’s face in the darkness, his grave expression. “Are you all right? What happened?”

“Seamus wants to recruit me,” I say. “They need a scout.”

He lets out a long sigh, rubbing his jaw. I remember my attraction to him, the feel of his knuckles against my bare back, with a surge of annoyance for both of us, acting as if we had time for that sort of thing. “Did Seamus ask you at the wedding?”

“No, he told Marian. I’m not doing it, Eamonn. I wanted to tell you I’m moving. I’m going to pack tonight and leave with Finn in the morning.”

“That won’t look good,” he says.

“I don’t care. We won’t be here anymore.”

“Not for you,” says Eamonn carefully. “For Marian. If you leave now, he’ll be suspicious of her.”

“Marian didn’t mention that.”

“She was probably trying not to influence your decision.”

I bury my face in my hands. The frustration makes me want to claw at my face. I feel like Finn, in the grip of a tantrum. “This isn’t fair.”

“No,” says Eamonn.

“Did you know this would happen?”

He shakes his head. “You must have made a good impression on him,” he says ruefully. I listen to the waves collapsing in the darkness. “You said he wants a scout?”

“And someone for reconnaissance.”

Eamonn turns quiet, considering it.

“You’re not serious,” I say. “What about Finn?”

“A scout is different from a full member. You’d never be used on armed operations, you wouldn’t even be given a weapon. It’s more like support staff,” he says. “Look, I’m not going to tell you what to do.”

“No, you’re not.”

Halfway home, I realize that, in my anger, I forgot to check under the car for a bomb. Some of their devices are activated by an incline, and the road has been flat so far. I pull over to the side of the road, and crouch on my hands and knees, shining my phone under the car, lighting up its machinery.





27


GALLAGHER’S PUB IS HIDDEN in a warren of residential streets behind the Falls Road, in an area run by the IRA. A few months ago, a fight at the bar ended with a man being shot. When the police tried to interview witnesses, seventy-two people said they’d been in the toilets at the time.

Marian is waiting for me outside the bar, in a wool fisherman’s jumper. She says, “I’m sorry, Tessa.”

Last night, I should have packed a bag, closed up the house, and driven with Finn across the border to Dublin airport. The two of us should be on a plane at the moment, about to land in Australia. We should be halfway across the world from these people, from this nest of damp streets. I should be having a cup of airplane coffee, squinting through the porthole window at the sunshine.

“It’s all right,” I say. “Let’s go.”

She leads me to a back room where Seamus, Damian, and Niall are waiting. The ceiling is even lower here than in the bar, with yellow wallpaper stained by years of smoke. I step forward to join them at the table, which is interesting, since I’m not in my body anymore. I’m not here at all, not really.

“What are you having, Tessa?” asks Damian.

“Oh, a red wine, please.”

“I’ll take another white wine,” says Marian.

I’d told Marian that I was surprised Seamus allowed his unit to drink, and she shrugged. “That’s nothing. Some units are off their tits on ketamine half the time,” she said, which I’d rather not have known.

Once Damian returns with our drinks, Seamus says, “What did you study at Trinity, Tessa?”

“History and politics.”

“Did you enjoy it?” he asks.

“Yes, very much.”

“Which part? The course work? The social life?” His tone hasn’t changed, but my throat tenses.

“Both.”

“And you met Francesca Babb there. Are you still in touch?”

Hearing my friend’s name from him is like being shoved. “Yes.”

He lifts his glass and whiskey slides into his mouth. To the others, he says, “Her father owns Fortnum and Mason.”

“Not entirely,” I say. “He’s an investor.”

“Where does Francesca live?”

“In Dublin.”

“Whereabouts?”

“Merrion Street.”

Seamus might want to kidnap her. The IRA has ransomed wealthy locals often enough that some of them apparently offer payments in advance, so they won’t be taken.