Northern Spy(54)
“Rabbit,” I say aloud. “Rabbit.” After some time, I attempt to turn the page, and he cries and grips the book until the rabbit is reinstated.
There are treasures on the other shelves, but for now they’re not for us. I can’t even guess which ones Finn will like, or whether he will enjoy reading. I can imagine how other children will be, but not him. All of my belief and faith lies with him as he is right now. Each month seems to bring the definitive, true version of his infancy, the zenith, arrived at through a great deal of effort on both our parts.
I can’t move ahead of him, and I don’t need to, either. He practiced how to crawl and to walk on his own. My job, it seems, is to follow him, without any hesitation or regret.
I always become suspicious when other parents tell me to enjoy every second of having a baby, to make the most of these years, since their enthusiasm never seems to extend to whatever age their children are now. Finn won’t disappoint me by being eight years old, or fourteen, or thirty-six. He won’t hurt my feelings by growing up.
“You have no idea how much you will miss this part,” said my mam. But that’s the job, isn’t it? Not to let on.
“Rabbit,” I say again, my voice falling into the silence, while Finn studies the page.
I borrow a stack of board books for us to read and return next week. Glenarm will be over by then. Earlier today, I ordered a rocking horse with a miniature saddle and reins for Finn. It will be his reward, I think, as though he has agreed to let me leave, or to any of this.
On the walk home in the November dusk, Greyabbey looks as simple and inviting as the villages in his picture books. Inside each house, families are preparing dinner, or studying, or playing. I buy two sheaths of pink roses from the florist, and put flowers next to my bed, and on the kitchen table, and in a vase in the baby’s room. They fill the whole house with their scent. Finn looks at home among them, equally new, equally beautiful.
While I cook dinner, Finn yelps to be lifted into my arms, where he can survey the kitchen surfaces, the cheese grater, the pots boiling on the hob. I’ve worked out how to grate parmesan and crack an egg with one hand.
I ring Tom while the pasta cooks. “Are you still okay with taking Finn tomorrow?”
“Sure,” says Tom.
“You’ll need to collect him from day care.”
Tom yawns. “Maybe I’ll work from home.”
“How?”
“He naps, doesn’t he?”
The evening seems to last and last. Eventually Finn falls asleep on my shoulder, his head fitted against me, the dip of his nose pressed to my neck. I don’t want to put him down in his crib. Instead, I make a wall of pillows down the side of the bed, and sleep curled around his body. In the night, he sometimes flings a small, warm hand against my face.
* * *
—
A sound wakes me before dawn. Rain is falling on the roof. I can hear it pattering on the tiles and the downpipes. In the kitchen, I switch on the radio for the weather. It’s Thursday, I’m meant to leave for Glenarm this morning. Seamus plans to assassinate Lord Maitland on Saturday, detonating the bomb as soon as he sails his boat out into the harbor.
The forecast comes on, and I listen with a hand at my heart. “A storm will bring heavy rain and strong wind across Northern Ireland, causing storm surges in coastal areas and flooding on lowlying roads. A travel advisory has been issued through the weekend, with weather conditions expected to worsen.”
The center of the storm is somewhere over the Atlantic, hundreds of miles away. This rain is only its opening salvo, and it will strengthen over the coming days. Seamus calls me to the safe house in west Belfast for an emergency meeting. When I arrive, Damian, Niall, and Marian look miserable. The safe house feels damp, despite the gas heater.
“They’re calling it a hurricane,” says Damian.
“It won’t be a hurricane,” says Marian.
“It might as well be.”
“Cillian would like us to proceed anyway,” says Seamus, and the rest of us turn to him.
“That’s mad. Maitland’s not after going sailing in a hurricane,” says Niall.
“No. We don’t know if he will come north at all, but we do know where he is today and tomorrow, so we’ll go to him.”
“How are we meant to cross the border?” asks Marian.
“You’re not,” says Seamus. He points at me and Damian. “They are.” My head drains, like I’ve stood up too fast. “Neither of you is known to the police. You’ll be a couple having a weekend away.” Seamus has already made a reservation for us at Ballyrane, a country house hotel near Mallow. “We know that Maitland’s group is going to be trout fishing.”
“In the rain?” asks Marian.
“It won’t be raining there. The storm’s coming across the north.”
“And what are we meant to do?” asks Damian.
“A sniper attack,” says Seamus, and I feel myself sink. Seamus turns over his watch. “It’s a long drive, you should leave now. Marian can lend you clothes, can’t she?”
I follow Marian upstairs, where she takes down a bag and begins to fold in jeans and a jumper. Through the open door, the others are talking downstairs. I grab Marian’s wrist. “I can’t do this.”