Now and in the Hour of Our Death (18 page)

Becky was a good friend, and it had been comforting to tell her about Davy, to listen to her advice. Fiona
had
tried hard not to think of Davy since Sunday. To take Tim's advice and understand that for her he no longer existed. That was pretty much what Becky had suggested. And yet—

In the background, she could hear Liam Clancy as he breathed life into “My Lagan Love,” the most beautiful of Irish love songs.

“Where Lagan stream sings a lullaby, there grows a lily fair…”

If she hadn't stumbled on the banks of that very river, so long ago now, she would never have met Davy McCutcheon.

“The twilight gleam is in her eye, and the night is on her hair.”

She could hear Davy's baritone as she sat on the floor, head on his knees, his hand stroking her dark hair while he sang those words to her.

Fiona sighed, rose, slowly went to the stereo, and switched it off.

 

CHAPTER 15

THE KESH. FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 23, 1983

Davy switched off the electrical polisher he'd been using to clean the cell block's corridor. For some reason unknown to him, the inmates and screws alike called the machines, bumpers. “All done, Mr. Smiley.”

“Right, Davy. Away on off and put that yoke in the closet.”

“Right, sir.” Davy limped along the corridor, pushing the bumper before him. Old Smiley wasn't a bad head—for a screw. Didn't mind having a bit of a blether with his charges. He'd only taken the job after he'd been laid off as a riveter at Harland and Wolff's shipyards. He'd once said that he reckoned he was a bit like an inmate himself. Serving his time until he could draw his pension. He wasn't like some of the other bastards in this place, who Davy thought were probably members of some Loyalist paramilitary group when they were off duty at the Kesh and who took delight in making the inmates' lives miserable.

Davy put his gear away and headed back to his cell.

Mr. Smiley yawned and looked at his watch. “I'll be out of here in another couple of hours.”

“I'll not,” said Davy.

Mr. Smiley tutted. “You keep up the good behaviour, keep getting remission, and the time'll go by, so it will. You never know. Maybe they'll declare an amnesty one day. Let you lot out. Maybe both sides'll see a bit of sense and pack it up.”

“Aye. Did a leprechaun tell you that? Let us out early? Pack it up? Not at all.”

“You never know, Davy.”

“I suppose, Mr. Smiley, you don't just believe in leprechauns, you think there's fairies at the bottom of your garden, too?” Davy shook his head. He knew he'd not get away with a remark like that to any of the other screws.

“No, but while there's life…”

“There's hope. I know.” Davy scratched his hand. The bloody thing itched like buggery.

“How's that paw of yours?”

“I had the stitches out today. The doctor'd not want to be coming in on Saturday to do the job. Linfield's playing, and he's a Blues supporter.”

“Playing Celtic tomorrow?”

“Aye.”

“I might take a run-race over and see the game myself. I've the morrow off, so I have. Back here on Sunday.” Mr. Smiley looked at his watch. “Anyroad, time I was off.”

“Fair enough. If you go, make sure and cheer for Celtic now.”

Mr. Smiley laughed. “I'm a Blues man myself.”

“Go on, you Prod git. Celtic'll beat the ears off them, so they will.”

“And you think I'm the one that believes in fairies? Celtic couldn't beat the skin off a rice pudding.” Mr. Smiley laughed.

Davy laughed with him, for a moment his imprisonment unimportant. He was a decent man, Mr. Smiley. Even if Celtic was a Catholic team and Linfield, the Blues, Protestant, the pair of them, sectarian differences forgotten, could be sitting over a couple of jars the way Davy and Jimmy used to do, pulling each other's legs. Davy shrugged and watched the guard walk away.

Davy returned to D-16. Soon be time for lunch. Eamon came in. He'd gone off to see some of his mates earlier in the morning.

“Here y'are, Davy.” Eamon skimmed an envelope across the cell. “One for you in the post this morning.”

Davy made an attempt to field the letter, but his wound made him clumsy and the envelope slipped through his fingers.

“Sorry about that.” Eamon bent and picked it up. “Here.”

“Thanks.” The envelope had been opened. All the prisoners' mail was. Security. He glanced at the back. Canadians had a peculiar habit of putting a return address there. Sure enough it was from Jimmy Ferguson. Funny that. Davy'd been thinking about wee Jim just a few minutes ago. “It's from Canada.”

“Canada? I hear it's not such a bad place. I've a cousin in Winnipeg. Says it's bloody cold in the winter and the midgies is something fierce in the summer.”

“Right enough, when Jimmy was in Toronto he said the same … but he's out in Vancouver now. Not a mosquito in the place.” And I wonder, Davy thought, where Fiona is?

“Are you not going to have a wee read of it?”

“Aye.” Davy fished inside and pulled out sheets of folded blue airmail letter paper. As he opened them, something fell out and fluttered to the floor to be retrieved by Eamon.

“Have you a girlfriend out there, Father?” Eamon was looking at a photograph. “She's a right corker, so she is.”

Probably Siobhan. Jimmy had written before to say he was expecting his daughter to come for a visit. “Give it here.” Davy held out his good hand and took the snap.

“Oh, Christ … Jesus Christ…” Davy sat heavily on his cot. “Holy Mother of God.” The letter slipped onto the cot.

“You all right, Davy?”

“Just a wee minute.” Davy's hands shook. He felt his eyes fill. He stared at the picture. It was her. Fiona. He blinked. “It's … Oh, Christ…” He felt Eamon's hand on his shoulder and looked up to see the man's face, concern written in every line. Davy sniffed. “Look … if you don't mind, I'd like to be…”

“Fair enough.”

Davy was hardly aware of the cell door closing as Eamon left.

Davy told himself to take a grip. It was only a fucking photo, for God's sake, but—he looked again. It was
her
.

She hadn't changed her hairstyle. It was still black and shiny, framing her face, the silver streaks that had always made him think of a stoat's tail tip in winter—there were more of them now. She looked surprised. Maybe Jimmy had caught her unawares when he'd taken the picture. Her almond eyes were open wide, her lips slightly apart.

Davy rocked back and forth. He held himself, picture forgotten. All the memories of her. Lord God, he could hear her voice, her laugh—the feel of her and the taste of her and the—the Fiona of her—and—fuck it. Fuck it. He stood, stared at the cell wall. She might as well be on the far side of the moon for all the good it did him.

He rose and started to pace. Three steps one way, three steps the other. His world. And she was in the world. But not in his world. What's the use? he asked himself. Don't look at the bloody picture again. He started to tear it apart, but his hands refused to obey. He tried to look at her again, but the light at that end of the cell made it difficult for him to see. Davy moved to where a thin ray spilled in through the little barred window.

“Lord, girl, but you've not changed one bit.”

The way Jimmy had taken the picture, Davy could see that Fiona was sitting at a table. Knives, forks on a white tablecloth. A half-full glass in front of her had reflected part of the camera's flash and a split-second diamond of light sat frozen for eternity at the glass's rim. Was that water or wine in the glass? She only ever took a drink of sherry back here in Northern Ireland and only on special occasions. Of course she'd have changed. Nine years was a long time, and why shouldn't she have a glass of wine if she fancied one?

She was wearing a white blouse, open at the neck. He could see the shadow between her breasts—Davy closed his eyes—he'd not think of her breasts, of the night they'd made love on the old settee in the parlour of his wee house off the Falls Road. He'd often wondered if she'd known that the sofa anchored the rug over the secret place in the floor where he hid his detonators.

But the softness of her breast, the firmness, and the way she'd shuddered when he'd taken her nipple—stop it, he told himself. Stop it.

He looked at the cot, trying to banish the images, and saw Jimmy's letter. Maybe if he read that it would help. He picked it up and started to read.

Dear Davy,

How's about ye ould hand?

Jimmy always wrote as he would have spoken. His penmanship was in very untidy scrawls.

You'll never guess who I seen last night. You will if you look at the enclosed snap. Ha ha. Me and the Missus and Siobhan, she's out with us on her holidays like I told you, was at this place for our supper and there she was bold as brass not five tables over—your Fiona. I took her snap. Siobhan says I shouldn't send it to you, it might upset you like, but I said not at all, Davy'd like to know.

Were you right, Jimmy? Davy wondered, looking at Fiona's eyes again.

So it's in the letter. I thought she was looking smashing so I did. We had a wee jar in the bar after with her and this Doctor fellah she was with. Calls himself Tim Andersen, some highheejin at one of the hospitals here.

Davy examined the snap. He'd not paid attention before, but there was a man's torso, cut off at the neck across the table in the background. So she had a boyfriend. Maybe a husband. So why was he getting himself all worked up? It was over. He knew it was over, but when he looked at her eyes on the glossy paper he felt as he had the first day he'd seen her when she'd stumbled on the old towpath beside the Lagan.

A stranger to him, she'd tripped on a root, he'd reflexively grabbed for her, been thanked, found out her name, and asked her to have a cup of tea with him. He'd loved her since that day.

Him and her's not married nor nothing, but they've been walking out for about six months or so.

So she hadn't married—yet—but six months?

She was a wee bit quiet when I tried to talk about the old days. Maybe she's like the rest of us out here and wants to forget all that shite, but I took a flier and I brought your name up, Davy, once or twice. She never said much but once I seen her hands and do you know? They were all quivery. I don't think she's forgot you.

So I got hold of her phone number. It's 604-555-7716. I don't know what you'd dial from Belfast to get Canada. Can you use a phone in there? Anyroad, she's living in Vancouver like us. I asked her to come over for her supper so maybe I'll be seeing her again. I'll let you know when I do.

Vancouver? Fiona was in Vancouver? Only eight thousand miles away and a jail sentence still to run. He knew it was stupid, but the thought made Davy smile. And by the tone of Jimmy's letter, she was well and that was good.

Anyway, that's about all my news, and I was never a great fist with a pen so I'll close now. Hope all is right with you there, Davy. We think of you often and I don't mean it in the old way, Tiocfaidh àr la. Your day will come.

Yours until pigs smell like violets, ha, ha.

Jimmy

Davy looked at her picture as a Dominican priest might stare at the Shroud of Turin: as if the shroud was mysterious, distant, but, in the mind of the priest, the face of the thing he loved best in this world and the hereafter.

“Fiona,” was all he said. He forced himself to recognize the reality. She was there and he was here. As he slipped the photo inside the letter to put them back inside the envelope, he noticed the telephone number. Her telephone number. Shite. What the hell use was that? Davy could just see himself. “Excuse me, Mr. Smiley, could I make a telephone call to Canada?” The guard would give himself a rupture laughing, say something like, “Sure you wouldn't like me to book you a plane ticket while we're at it?” It would be different if he were out of here. He slammed his left hand against the side of the cot and instantly regretted it. The wound in his palm screeched in protest. Stupid bloody chisel. Stupid bloody Eamon and his stupid bloody escape. “When the boys get out, would you come with us, Davy?”

Davy unfolded the letter, took out the picture, saw her eyes, and thought, “Come with us, Davy?” If Eamon and his friends would have him, Davy'd go, all right. He'd ask Eamon as soon as he could see him.

 

CHAPTER 16

TYRONE. SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 24, 1983

Moonbeams backlit the granite-block church and softened the outlines of the tombstones in Ballydornan churchyard. A Celtic cross supported by rusty iron braces leaned over the lesser grave markers. Its once deeply cut ogham script had been weathered by the centuries of cold Tyrone rains. Moss grew thickly on the cross's north side and covered the older, smaller headstones.

Jars of cut flowers, some fresh, most wilting forlornly, stood by more recent gravesides. Some of these headstones were half-obscured by plastic-encased, black-framed photographs of the young men interred beneath. Below each picture was printed, “Here lies [the man's name was given] a volunteer of the Tyrone Brigade, Provisional IRA. Murdered by the British forces of occupation.”

The wind rattled in the branches of a blackthorn and whispered in the unkempt grass between the graves.

The moon's shadow of the cross slipped over a weed-grown gravel pathway and darkened a ditch. Sergeant Buchan of D Squadron, 22 Special Air Services Regiment (SAS), crouched beneath the bank of the ditch. At one time, he knew, the SAS had been commanded by an Ulsterman, Colonel Blair (Paddy) Mayne, from Newtownards, but that had been back in the Second World War, when Ulstermen could be relied on to support Britain. Not like the present lot. Half of them would be as likely to cut your throat as smile at you.