Now and in the Hour of Our Death (24 page)

“A jar? Maybe.” Smiley held himself more erectly. “You're right. I'm just being an ould worrywart.” He wondered if he was reassuring Adams or himself, but said with a forced grin, “I would go for a pint or two, right enough.” But whatever was bothering him would not go away. He muttered under his breath, “If the bad lads behave themselves.” He was relieved to see that John Adams hadn't heard that remark.

He'd been too busy studying the clock above the control console. “A pint it is, George, but it's time you were on the go.” He leaned forward and pushed a button. The steel door of the Communications Centre hissed open. “And quit your worrying. It's Sunday. The customers'll be quiet as mice. Just you think about us having a few and them buggers in here with their tongues hanging out for one.”

George Smiley said nothing and walked to the door. A prisoner stood outside, broom and dustpan in his hands. Smiley recognized Gerard Kelly, whose job it was to clean the control room; Gerard Kelly, who in 1973 had been one of the team that had bombed the Old Bailey courthouse in London, killing one man and injuring 244. “Kelly,” he said.

“Mr. Smiley.” Kelly bobbed his head to Smiley and spoke to Officer Adams. “Permission to come inside and dust, sir?”

“Come on in, Gerard.”

Smiley shrugged. Why should the guards be expected to work like a bunch of skivvies when there was plenty of free labour in the place? He let Kelly sidle past, walked away, then turned to look back along the corridor of the central bar of the H that housed admin offices and the Communications Centre The Circle, as it was known, was the most secure part of the most escape-proof jail in all of Her Majesty's prisons.

He heard Gerard Kelly say to John Adams, “Boys-a-boys, Mr. Adams, but you've a brave power of electricals in here. What do they all do?” and Adams replying, “That's for me to know and you to wonder, Kelly. Just you clean the place like you always do. Now come by. I've to shut the door after Mr. Smiley.”

As the door to the Communications Centre door began to hiss shut, George watched Kelly dust the console's countertop. The man's hands were huge. Powerful. Smiley frowned, but if John Adams was happy enough to be shut inside with a hard bastard like Kelly, that was Adams's concern, not his, but somehow it wasn't right. Not in the Circle. Shutting yourself in alone with a man like Kelly was about as sensible as locking yourself in a cage with a rabid pit bull. The burning in George's stomach nagged more fiercely, but he shrugged and headed for his area of responsibility—D wing.

 

CHAPTER 20

VANCOUVER. SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 25, 1983

The hummingbird's wings flickered so rapidly that they appeared to be transparent. Fiona stood looking through her kitchen window at the tiny creature hovering beside her nectar feeder. She believed that fairies would have wings that looked like that but didn't think fairies in flight would make the same high-pitched, frenetic buzzing.

She belted her dressing gown more tightly. The kitchen was cool with no sun yet to drive away September's morning chill. She ignored McCusker's head butting against her bare shins and watched the bird in profile, its green back shining gently in the presunrise light. When it was full day, it would sparkle like a tiny, living emerald.

McCusker bit her shin. It was only a love bite, but she stooped to push the cat away. Her movement alarmed the bird. It gave a high-pitched “chip,” spun to face her, and flared its tail feathers into a fan. She saw the orange of its chin and breast, a white collar between. That was very interesting. Only the male birds had such intensely orange chins and only a small percentage of them had green rather than orange backs. A flying metaphor for Northern Ireland, she thought. Orange and green together in one place.

The bird gave one more scolding “chip” and rocketed vertically. She watched the little dot soar over a tall pine that looked in the early light as if its ragged silhouette had been cut from dark cartridge paper by a child with blunt scissors.

She wished the creature Godspeed. The hummers that took up residence locally in the summer and came to her feeder and her hanging basket of fuchsia had all left three weeks ago, so he must be one of the last migratory birds from farther north stopping to feed before his long flight down to Mexico. She admired the stamina of the tiny bird and envied his ability to travel where he wished, when he wished. Not like someone she was trying to leave behind.

She'd not see the hummingbirds again until next spring, when the males returned to claim their territories, woo little females by sky dancing in great swooping parabolas, mate, and raise their families. She'd miss them in the dark winter months ahead.

She remembered Tim's remark about male rufous hummingbirds. “I reckon if there's any truth to this reincarnation business, I want to come back as one of those.”

“Whatever for?”

Thinking of what he had said made her smile.

“Because all they do is drink nectar, make love, and spend the winters in Mexico.”

She'd laughed and readily agreed when he'd asked, “How about you and me nipping down to Puerto Vallarta for a couple of weeks next year?”

“Only if you promise not to drink too much nectar.”

“Well,” he'd kissed her, “two out of three won't be bad.”

McCusker's butting was more insistent. “All right,” she said, “all right, cat, I'll get your breakfast.” She filled his bowl, plugged in the coffeemaker, and poured cereal for herself.

She sat at the table. Tim would be back tonight. She hadn't realized how much she'd miss him until he had gone off to San Francisco last week. A trip with him to Mexico in the winter would be wonderful if it could be fitted in with the school holidays. Knowing Tim, he'd probably offer to pay. She'd certainly let him take care of the hotel room, but she mentally checked her last bank statement and was pleased that she should have enough to buy her own airline tickets.

She munched her flakes and listened to McCusker crunching his tuna-flavoured soy pellets. The light was stronger now, filtering in through the window, glinting off the chrome tap over the sink.

Outside, the pine's branches were more distinct, each one fletched with green needles. The leaves of the maple next door had looked grey, but now she could make out the yellows and ochres and the details of their dark veins, each leaf like a sheet of old parchment that someone had scrawled over with ancient ink. Beneath the tree, heaps of dead leaves lay on the lawn. Someone would have to rake them soon, and that someone was her, dammit.

She remembered neatly raked piles under the chestnut trees in Barnett's Park in Belfast. When she was a child, she and her brother Connor would take the bus from the treeless Falls Road to the Upper Malone Road and walk to the park. They'd go to collect shiny horse chestnuts and take them back home, drill holes in them, soak them in vinegar, and when the chestnuts were properly seasoned, they would tie each to a string so that after school they could play conkers.

She could feel the prickles on her palm of a chestnut's green outer shell, which had to be broken to release the nut inside; could smell the scent of the turf beneath as they ran laughing and squealing through crispy, crackling piles; could hear children's laughter as they rolled among the heaps, leaves in her dress, leaves in his hair.

The picture pleased her. She felt no sadness remembering her childhood. It was not the same as the way she often ached about her grown-up years, but she was ready to accept that Tim and Becky were both right; she should grieve and heal and put the misery of Belfast behind her. They were right, and she had resolved to take their advice, but she had no intention of letting the happy memories go.

She glanced at the leaves in the garden and thought about having to rake them. She could feel an ache in the small of her back at the prospect of the job. She understood now why the park keeper would run after them yelling, “Get away to hell out of that.” They hadn't spent hours raking.

She and Connor would run down the hill to where the Lagan chuckled over the stones of the shallows below Shaw's Bridge. The river was clean up there, not the sluggish, scummy, debris-laden thing it became in the city under the gaunt gantries of the shipyards. Higher upstream it was hemmed in by the grey granite slabs of the Lagan embankment. The embankment where, thirteen years ago, she'd met Davy.

She heard the “ting” of the coffeemaker, rose, poured herself a cup, and went back to sit at the table. Davy. Davy. What had she just promised herself? No more unhappy memories? Well, now was as good a time as any to start working on that.

She remembered reading
Shōgun
, by James Clavell. He'd written part of the book in West Vancouver and, according to him, the Japanese could make compartments in their minds, put things they didn't want to think about in mental boxes and shut the lids. Perhaps that had been her mistake, trying to lock Davy in a box from which, try as she might to keep him in, he kept breaking out. Well, now he could stay out. Already she could understand that in the rest of her life she dealt with problems by facing them squarely, so she'd face Davy now.

McCusker mewed and distracted her. She looked over to where the cat had finished eating and was licking his paw. He yawned, mouth as wide as if he had dislocated his lower jaw, whiskers pointing stiffly forward.

“McCusker?”

The cat looked back at her, wandered over, tail erect, and jumped into her lap. She fondled the animal's head and felt the warmth of him, the comfort of his deep purring rumbling through to her thighs.

She smiled. Tim wanted to come back as a hummingbird? She'd prefer to be a cat. “I would, you know, McCusker,” she said. “All you lot want is a peaceful home, regular meals, and someone to love you.”

McCusker thrust his head against her hand.

A peaceful home, meals, love? She had them already.

Her apartment and Lord Carnarvon Elementary were her homes in Vancouver, and Canada was a damn sight more secure than Northern Ireland. She'd been right to get out of that country, even if she still did miss much about the place, always would miss it, and it didn't hurt to admit that to herself. She
didn't
regret leaving the violence behind.

She'd found the peace she craved in Vancouver except, she smiled wryly, for a small personal war that she must wage at Carnarvon Elementary. That little bugger Dimitris Papodopolous's resolve to behave himself had lasted for one short week, and he was playing his pins again. She'd have to meet with the parents next week, but even if she was going to let Davy out of his box, Dimitris was definitely going into one until then. He was going in right now.

McCusker jumped to the floor, and she smoothed her dressing gown over her belly, feeling the bulge. She wanted a home and regular meals? If that bit of extra tummy was any indication, she'd been eating too regularly and too much.

And as for having someone to love her, Tim would be back tonight.

As she savoured the thought of him, the room became brighter. She looked outside to where the shadow of the house had shortened. That meant the sun had cleared the North Shore Mountains and the morning was moving on.

She finished her coffee. Becky would be here soon. They'd planned to visit the aquarium in the morning and to have lunch in the Teahouse in Stanley Park. After lunch, they'd go shopping in Granville Market for the makings of the special dinner she wanted to prepare for Tim. And let the crunchy granola lot harp on as much as they liked about the evils of red meat. The steak she was planning to buy and cook for him wouldn't hurt Tim's blood pressure one bit.

After the Market, she'd ask Becky to drive to a little boutique on Granville Street. If the dress she'd seen in the window fitted her, she'd buy it and wear it tonight.

Never mind the steak, that dress would send Tim's blood pressure through the ceiling—she grinned wickedly—and she was looking forward to that—very much.

McCusker tried to jump back into her lap, but she pushed him away and rose. “Right,” she said to the cat and to herself, “time to start getting ready.”

 

CHAPTER 21

THE KESH. SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 25, 1983

“Are you ready, Davy?” Eamon asked, pacing across cell 16, H-block 7.

“As I'll ever be.” Davy fidgeted as he sat on his cot. The door was open, and through it he could see Mr. Smiley ambling past each cell, counting heads and marking his clipboard. Ordinarily, Davy would barely have paid attention, but today the routine seemed to be taking forever. Smiley was a bit of an old fussbudget, but did he have to lick his bloody pencil before every tick on the list? Get on with it for God's sake. Davy stood and limped past Eamon to the door of the cell.

Davy heard the click-clack on the concrete floor of Mr. Smiley's boots receding as he trudged to the gate, the man's voice calling the numbers to the gate guard. Davy tugged at his coat, and through the material pushed Erin's little revolver more deeply into his pants' pocket.

He heard Mr. Smiley shout, “Who's on cleaning today?”

Eamon whispered, “Remember, ‘Bumper.'”

Davy went into the corridor. “Me, sir.”

“Come on then, Davy. Get your stuff. The sooner it's started, the sooner it's over.”

“Chucky air la,” Eamon said, and nodded in obvious agreement with the guard's last remark.

It was all right for Eamon to grin. Davy felt as wound up as an overstretched elastic band. He wished to hell that it
was
over. “Right, Mr. Smiley.” Davy took one last look into the cell. Nine years in here. Nine years, three months, two weeks, and four days to be precise. This would be the last time he ever saw the place, and he was surprised that somewhere in him was a tinge of homesickness.

Mr. Smiley yelled, “Are we doing this today, Davy, or do you have other plans?”