Northern Spy(52)

I obeyed every word of it, though. I stayed away from soft cheeses, raw fish, hot baths, smoke, exhaust, drink, even if those weren’t really a danger, even if the danger had already come and gone without my noticing.

At the ultrasound appointment in my third trimester, I watched the small blurt of white light on the screen. His heart.





32


MARIAN SEEMS QUIETER TONIGHT. We’re in the back room at Gallagher’s, at a table crowded with empty glasses. She knows that I’m watching how she acts with the others, trying to work out if she has really defected or not. The idea that maybe she hasn’t, that I might be alone in this room, terrifies me.

“Same again?” asks Damian, and Marian nods. She’s drinking whiskey neat. She hasn’t been meeting my eyes, she might still be stung from our last conversation.

Marian sits across the table from me, in a mint-green jumper, with small gold hoops in her ears. Even now, I feel the usual pleasure in her company. At every party and family holiday, we try to engineer seats beside each other, and always have done, since we were small. That instinct doesn’t go away easily, apparently.

Seamus says, “How was work, Tessa?”

“Fine.”

“Did you have extra security today?”

“No. Why?”

“Lord Maitland was in your building. You didn’t meet him?”

I shake my head, taking a sip of my wine. “He was in for Newsnight.”

“Why?” asks Damian.

“His charity,” says Seamus. Lord Maitland is an aristocrat, with a vast Palladian manor in the Cotswolds. He’s in line for the throne, technically, mounted somewhere in the order of succession.

Seamus says, “He has a holiday home here. He told Newsnight he has a soft spot for Ireland.”

Niall snorts. And the statement does sound disingenuous. Not this Ireland, presumably. Not this bar, this neighborhood, these people. He means the countryside, the glens, the Cliffs of Moher.

“Jesus, how long has he been coming here?” asks Damian. “Why didn’t we know?”

They talk about targeting Maitland, and I listen without any sense of alarm. He seems so far outside their sphere of activity. A seventy-six-year-old man, an earl. They aren’t about to cross paths. Someone with that much money and privilege is unreachable.

I’m much more worried about the police officers in Saintfield. They’re under a credible threat, Maitland isn’t, and they will have to evade it without taking refuge in a gated manor in England, or a team of private bodyguards.

“Where’s his holiday home?” asks Damian.

“I don’t know,” says Seamus.

Damian says, “I’ll find out what he told Colette.”

The rim of my glass cracks against my teeth. Marian’s eyes move to mine, willing me not to speak. “Colette McHugh?” she says quickly, covering for me, drawing the table’s attention. “I thought she wasn’t political.”

“Everyone’s political,” Seamus muses. “Saying you’re not political is political.”

He might not answer the question. Under the table, out of sight, I press both hands against my stomach. Colette is one of my best friends. She has been the makeup artist at the BBC since I started. We’ve seen each other every day for years, we’ve spent hours on tea breaks together, or at lunch, or at the pub around the corner.

“She’s in D company,” says Damian through a mouthful of smoke. “Ballymurphy.”

Looking at me, Seamus says, “We have Broadcasting House sorted.”

“Are there others?” I ask, and Seamus winks, lifting his pint.

Almost every major politician has passed through Colette’s studio. And they talk to her. Their protection officers always wait outside, it’s the one place where they’re left alone. Most of the politicians seize the chance to have a normal chat with Colette. She says that having their faces touched or their hair brushed makes them trust her. And, she says, people are embarrassed. They point to their bad skin or the dark circles under their eyes, and then offer an explanation.

I wonder how many blackmailings and assassinations over the years have been based on information from her.

Colette will have seen to Lord Maitland before his appearance on Newsnight. She will have sponged makeup onto his soft, jowly face, tilting him toward the light. She will have instructed him to close his eyes, and he will have talked to her, blindly, while she worked.

“Can you go talk to Colette now?” asks Seamus. “I want to know how long Maitland is in Ireland.”

Damian drains his pint and leaves. Soon the rest of us have finished our drinks, and Marian says, “I’ll walk you to your car.”

Outside on the wet street, I say, “How could you not tell me about Colette?”

“I didn’t know.”

“But Damian did.”

“Other units borrow him sometimes.”

“Is there anyone else? Nicholas? Tom? Our mam? Can you just tell me all of them now?”

She says, “I’m sorry. I know you were close.” I fold my arms, and she says, “The IRA didn’t send me to pose as an informer, I promise. I swear on Finn’s life.”

“But you would say that, wouldn’t you?” I say, without knowing if I mean it or only want to hurt her.