Now and in the Hour of Our Death (40 page)

Her regrets about leaving her parents, the North, her friends there had faded. Only the lingering sadness about losing Davy remained. The choice she'd made nine years ago had seemed like a good one then. It had been. She'd been right to emigrate, to put behind her the mayhem that was Northern Ireland, the mayhem that Davy had been a part of.

God knows, she'd tried to understand him then, to forgive him, and would have if he'd not been arrested. She was certain of that, as certain as she was that she could forgive him now, provided he had foresworn his allegiance to the Cause. He must have. She'd watched his disenchantment grow, accepted his promise that after one last mission he would turn his back on the Provos—forever.

She knew full well that a committed man wouldn't be coming to Canada. He'd be going underground in Ireland and fighting on. Jimmy seemed certain Davy was heading here, and surely that alone was proof of his intentions? It had to be.

In his rejection of the violence, a rejection begun back in 1974, Davy had already started to change. She wondered how he would feel when he began to understand how different she had become.

He'd been a simple, ill-educated man; it hadn't bothered her back then, but it might now. Her own life had moved on, but she doubted if Davy's could in the confines of a maximum-security prison. Would he feel she was too good for him? Worse, would she? Her temples throbbed as she looked at her watch. Where was Becky?

She was starting to feel imprisoned herself, constrained by an utterly unreasonable yearning for Davy, yet knowing that Tim loved her and, by his love, had a hold over her. Once she told him about Davy, about how she felt, she'd lose Tim, just as she'd had Davy taken from her. And it had cost her sorely.

Perhaps part of her old attraction to Davy had been in the way she could live vicariously through him. In her young years, she had embraced the civil rights movement as her way of striving for a better Ireland. It hadn't worked. Davy, in his way, had continued the struggle, and for all her deeply embraced pacifism, she must have harboured a hope that the Provos would win, the Ireland she wanted so much would materialize. Was that why she'd been able to turn a blind eye to what Davy did?

If he made it to Vancouver, there'd be risks ahead. He would be in the country illegally. They would never be free from a nagging worry that one day an immigration officer could show up and she'd lose him again. Planning to wait for him made no sense, no sense whatsoever, but when the heart ruled, sense flew out the window.

The logical thing to do, the sensible thing, was to put Davy away and stay with Tim. There'd be no risks to be taken if she chose that path. It could be a horrible mistake to let Tim go, but unless she stopped feeling the way she did now, it would be unconscionable to keep him hanging on like some kind of romantic insurance policy.

She rubbed her temple. For all the good the Tylenol was doing, she might as well have rubbed her head with vegetable-marrow jam. That was one of Davy's old cracks. Where in God's name had it come from?

She saw Becky's car coming, and as soon as it pulled up, Fiona slipped into the passenger seat. “Morning Becky. I have to…”

“Sorry I'm late,” Becky said tersely and drove off.

Fiona didn't bother to fasten her seat belt. She blurted out, “I had a phone call from Jimmy Ferguson. Remember I told you about Jimmy…?”

“I'm late because I was on the phone with Mum. She's pretty upset. Dad's being admitted to hospital. He was full of beans when I was out in Abbotsford on Saturday, but she couldn't waken him this morning.”

Not this morning of all mornings. Not when Fiona wanted to—she was being selfish. Her own troubles could wait. “What's wrong with him?” She wished she'd sounded more sympathetic.

Becky didn't seem to notice. “The local doctors think he's had a stroke. A big one.”

“I am sorry. I really am.” Fiona turned to look at Becky and saw the moisture in her eyes, how her hands gripped the wheel. “When will you know for sure if it is a stroke?”

“They're sending him to Vancouver General. To the neurology unit.”

“You must be worried sick.”

Becky tried to smile but failed. “I'm worried about Dad, but he's eighty-two. He's had a fair innings. I'm much more concerned about Mum. If he goes…”

“He won't. I'm sure he won't.”

“It's kind of you to say so, but we have to be realistic. If he does, Mum's going to be utterly lost without him. They've been married for fifty-six years.”

“That's a very long time.” The four years she'd been with Davy, even the nine they'd been apart, were nothing. Her few months with Tim seemed like a one-night stand compared with this lifetime's commitment.

Davy, Davy, why did you have to go on that mission? If you hadn't, the pair of us would be here, growing old together like Becky's folks. I'd never have met Tim, wouldn't have any decisions to make.

Becky drove ahead. “I'm not sure she'll be able to manage without him.”

Fiona knew what being alone was like, having someone you loved taken away, and remembered how lonely she'd been in her first years in Vancouver. Poor Mrs. Johnston would be devastated.

“What are you going to do?” Fiona asked.

Becky changed gear to slow down behind a dump truck. “What am I going to do?” She blew out a long breath. “To tell you the truth, I'm not entirely sure. There's probably not much I
can
do until we know what's really wrong with Dad.” She stopped the car and waited for the truck to turn into an alley. “I'll have to have more to go on, so I'd like to get to the hospital as soon as I can.” She moved ahead.

“Unless you can speak to one of his doctors, the staff'll probably just tell you he's ‘comfortable' or ‘critical,' or some other meaningless line.”

“I know.” Becky sighed. “But I still have to try.”

“Would you like me to give Tim a call? See if he can use his connections to find out exactly what's happening to your dad?”

“Would you?” Becky pulled into the school parking lot. “Would you really?”

“Of course,” Fiona said, although she already regretted having made the suggestion. She didn't want to talk to Tim. Not yet. Not until she'd had time to think. “If I call straightaway, perhaps I can catch him before he goes into his meeting.”

“I'd appreciate that,” Becky said as they left the car for the short walk to the school.

Fiona strode along the corridor straight to her office. As Becky flopped onto a chair, Fiona dialed Tim's number and was surprised to hear his voice. It was usually his receptionist who answered the phone.

“Tim, sorry to bother you, but I've got an emergency. No. No. I'm fine. It's Becky's father.” She explained the situation to him, and he promised to call right back. “Tim's going to phone the chief of neurology at VGH. They're sailing friends. He says he knows how bloody awful it can be hanging about waiting for the phone to ring, so he'll call us right back either with the information or at least with some idea of what time he will have some news.”

Becky nodded and hunched forward, staring at the telephone.

Fiona sat behind her desk, fidgeting with a pencil, searching for words to comfort her friend, but there didn't seem to be any. Poor Becky. It must be terrible having a parent so ill.

It was something Fiona hadn't had to face—yet. Earlier this morning, she'd been thinking of her parents. She hadn't spoken to them in all these years, but her sister Bridget occasionally wrote. One day she'd phone to say one of the folks was ill, or had died, and family was family, so she'd have to go back to Belfast. Perhaps she should try to heal the old wounds before it was too late. Perhaps she should go back there soon and see if she couldn't persuade them that what was done was done and over?

The phone rang.

Becky stiffened and stared up at Fiona.

Fiona picked up the receiver. “Hello? Tim?”

“Yes, it's me, love.”

“Right,” she said. Just like the man. Punctual to the second. “And…?” She heard him sigh. “And…?”

“I'm afraid it doesn't look too good.”

“I see.” Fiona deliberately kept her voice flat. “Would you like to speak to Becky? She's here.”

“Christ, I hate this, but, yes, put her on.”

Fiona passed the receiver over and watched her friend's expression change from hope when she said, “You did get hold of your colleague,” to sadness as she muttered, “I see. I see. It is a stroke. Thank you.” Becky sniffed and swallowed before saying, “I appreciate your honesty, Doctor Andersen … Yes, I'll put her on.” She held the receiver to Fiona. “He wants a word.”

“Hello, Tim?”

His voice was very businesslike. “I have to run. I'm late for the meeting. Becky can explain about her dad. I have to tell you, my on-call's been buggered up; one of my colleagues is sick, so I can't get free until Saturday. I'll call you tonight, and I'll see you then.” He whispered, “Love you,” then hung up.

So she'd not have to face Tim until Saturday, but she needed to set that aside, think about it later. “What does Tim say about your dad? Has he had…?”

“Not good, I'm afraid. Yes. It's a massive stroke. He's on life support.” She turned, stared at the drawn curtains, and said very quietly, “They're not sure if he'll live.”

Fiona rose and hugged her friend. “I'm so sorry, Becky. Is there anything I can do to help?”

“I don't know.” Becky looked bemused, drifting, lost, shrunken. “Mum's with him.” She clasped one hand with the other, then said, “I must get up to the hospital and see how Mum is.”

Fiona took Becky's hand. “Of course you must. I'll rejuggle the others' assignments, see if I can get a substitute teacher, so you can have the rest of the week off.” She smiled grimly and let Becky's hand go. “It's one advantage of being vice principal. I can do that.”

“I'd appreciate that. Mum's going to need me.”

So do I, Fiona thought, but once she'd worked out a new timetable, she knew she'd be lucky to see Becky for at least a week, and it wouldn't be right anyway to ask for her help when Becky had a crisis of her own.

“I'm sorry to be putting you to so much trouble, Fiona. I really am.”

“You get along to VGH right now and don't worry your head about me,” Fiona said. “I'm quite capable of sorting things out.” And how she wished it were true.

 

CHAPTER 34

TYRONE. MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 26, 1983

Davy shuddered but was glad they'd soon be getting on. He'd grown even colder since the light had faded. When it still was bright enough for him to see his fingertips, they'd been slate grey. They were probably purple now. He blew into his cupped hands. For all the good it did, he might as well have dunked them in ice water.

Eamon had managed to drift off shortly after the Puma helicopter burst out from over the trees, but now he was going to have to be wakened. It was time to get moving.

Davy glanced to where McGuinness lay. If the bastard had frozen to death, tough titty. The arrogant little prick and his, “I've done more for the Provos in a week than you've done in twenty years.” Och, for Christ's sake, if it suited him to believe that, then fuck him. Davy knew
exactly
what he'd done, and what he was going to do, and that was of no concern to the Provos or to McGuinness. But if Davy was going to get out of Ireland, the first step had to be leaving this wood and finding shelter. Soon.

Davy shook Eamon's shoulder. “Wake up, Eamon. Come on. Up.”

Eamon stirred, yawned, rubbed his eyes, and sat up. “Jesus Christ, I'm foundered,” he muttered. “Have the screws turned the heating off?”

Davy managed to chuckle in spite of the cold. “We're not in the Kesh anymore.”

“Unh?” Eamon stared around. “Right enough. For a minute there…”

“Are you wide awake now?”

“Aye.” Eamon stood. “It's blacker than the hobs of hell out there.” Davy heard the excitement in his friend's voice. “Time we were on the move, Father, before the moon rises.”

Thank God, Davy thought. He wanted to be somewhere, anywhere, dry and warm. At least the rain had stopped and the clouds had drifted off. He heard Eamon say in a low voice, “Are you ready, Brendan?” and McGuinness's grunted, “Aye.”

“Right,” Eamon said, “give us a hand to get this tarp hidden. I'd not want anyone to find it and wonder what it's doing here.”

Eamon could always be trusted to consider the details. Davy helped fold the canvas. “Should we not take it with us?” Davy asked.

“Nah,” Eamon said. “It would just get in the way.”

Davy gathered armfuls of bracken and spread them over the tarpaulin. The effort brought a tiny bit of warmth to his chilled body. He sniffed. Jesus, but that rank, pungent smell was ferocious. God, but it was strong. “What's that stink, Eamon?”

“That? It's just a fox. A vixen used to have her den near here. She probably still does. The O'Byrnes never let the gentry hunt on their lands.”

“Oh.” No wonder Davy hadn't been able to recognize the odour. There had been no foxes on the Falls Road.

He could make out Eamon as he stood, flapping his arms across his chest. Davy heard squelching of boots hitting damp vegetation and reckoned McGuinness must be stamping his feet.

Somewhere to Davy's left a shriek tore at the fabric of the night. He felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise. “What the hell was that?”

“Barn owl,” Eamon said. “Out looking for mice or rabbits.”

And who, Davy wondered, is out there looking for us, wandering round in this bloody awful darkness like—like the three blind mice?

Davy sensed rather than saw Eamon stride forward. “Follow me. We'll be there in no time,” he said.