Northern Spy(68)

“Oh. For work?”

“No. Do you want to sit down?”

When I finished explaining, there was a long silence. Then, in a cold voice, he said, “You shouldn’t have gotten involved. What were you thinking? How will I see my son?”

“It’s a short train from Belfast.”

“Fuck you, Tessa.”

Tom is going to be angry with me for a long, long time. Eventually, maybe, the trips here will start to seem normal. He will have Finn for longer stretches. Or, maybe, maybe, he and Briony will move to Dublin.

Our mam is planning to move nearby, maybe Bray. “Have you seen the house prices?” she said. “Absolutely shocking.”

She said that whenever she’s out in Andersonstown, and has to remember to look sad over supposedly losing her daughters, she thinks of the housing market in the republic.

In Dalkey, I walk with Marian and Finn down the main street and out to the promontory. From here, you can see the DART trains that run along the bay all the way to Howth.

“What are you going to do now?” I ask Marian.

“No idea.”

“Do you want to be a paramedic again?”

“No,” she says, “no, definitely not. What about you?”

“No idea.”



* * *



—

On the phone, Fenton asks me about the town, and I answer, feeling oddly nervous, like I want him to be impressed by how well we’re settling in.

“Are you scared, Tessa?” he asks.

“No.”

“It’s normal if you are.”

“I’m not.”

“You might be a bit numb at the moment,” he says.

But it’s the opposite. I feel keenly, achingly alive. When this conversation ends, I am going to walk with Finn around Dalkey, to look at the wreaths and the glowing trees inside the houses.

Fenton says, “Some people find coming back even more difficult than being in captivity. It can be more painful, in a way.”

I nod, thinking that he means people who were abducted for long periods of time. I’d only been held for about twenty-four hours. My recovery time will be shorter, I think. It might have already finished.

Fenton says, “I’m here to help, Tessa.”

But why would I need help? I have my son. I have my body, I have food, weather, a stack of books to read. I have my sister and my mother.

After our call, Finn naps in his pram while I push him around the village, along the coast and over the railway bridge, past the barber shop and butcher’s and wine shop and crèche. I can’t get enough of any of it.





43


FINN STANDS AT THE back door with his palms on the glass, looking out, like he used to in Greyabbey. The view here is different—a small patch of overgrown garden, not a sheep field—but he doesn’t seem to mind. I crouch behind him, and we watch birds dart through the winter shrubs. This is, apparently, my garden. I should learn the names of the shrubs. And the birds, for that matter.

Finn toddles away from the door, and sets about pushing the buttons on the dishwasher. “No, no,” I say, and he looks at me, then pushes another button.

He causes as much havoc here as at home. I’m glad that he is the same, that he made the trip here intact. I hadn’t known if it would change him, watching two men in ski masks come to take his mam, but it doesn’t seem to have left any mark. He’s still as good-natured and curious and maddening as ever. Already today he has poured a bottle of dish soap on the floor and dropped blueberries behind the sofa.

He can’t do too much damage, though. The house has been simply outfitted, with a good deal of thought. There is a safety gate for the stairs, a crib, a high chair, a laundry basket, even. Was I worth this much? I have no way of knowing my own significance in the conflict. MI5 had been ready to let me die, after all, so how useful could I have been?

On the phone, I try to explain this to Fenton. “There’s a hair dryer here,” I tell him. “And a cheese grater and a colander. Why?”

“Sorry?”

“Why did the police go to this much trouble for me?”

“You risked your life as an informer,” he says. “I’d say we can give you a hair dryer for that.”

“The mortgage here can’t be very cheap.”

“I hate to remind you,” he says, “but you had a house, and a job here, that you’ve had to leave.”

“You also risk your life, as a detective. This must be more than your pension.”

“It’s not, actually. Added up.”

“Oh. That’s good.”

“You and Marian contributed a great deal toward peace,” he says.

“I don’t want this to be a reward for killing Seamus.”

“It’s not, Tessa.”

“But the police must have wanted him dead.”

“No, actually. He would have been more useful in prison.”

“I’m going to pay you back this money,” I say, and the detective sighs.



* * *



—

A police liaison officer based in Belfast is helping me with practical matters. She works with protected witnesses and informers on building new identities, providing them with a passport under a new name, a medical number, a credit history, a degree, a list of former residences.