Now and in the Hour of Our Death (46 page)

“Fuckin' aye,” McGuinness said.

“But you'll need to hear the exact details, so the three of us'll”—Eamon tried to look at Davy again, but Davy saw the glance and turned away—“go up to the farm after dark. I want everyone … including you, Davy … to hear the plan. The plan for Saturday.”

 

CHAPTER 38

VANCOUVER. TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 27, 1983

Saturday was four days away, Fiona thought, as she hurried along Beach Avenue toward Jimmy Ferguson's apartment. She hunched her shoulders against the wind, which churned the sea to foam and hammered whitecaps against the seawall. The gale growled and hissed and spat spume across the road.

A gust screeched in from English Bay and tore past her to batter the Sylvia Hotel and blocks of low-rises. The apartments seemed to be cowering. She could taste the brine in it, and—she put a hand to her head—her hair must be a mess. Her umbrella had been blown to tatters. Its pale ribs looked like the bones of a long-dead fish.

Beach Avenue was deserted; it had none of the usual cyclists and joggers, no walkers, no dogs, only cars, windscreen wipers thrashing, tires spraying sheets of water. She had not felt so isolated since her first year in Vancouver, before she'd made any friends, when she couldn't stop thinking about Davy. As if she could stop thinking about him now.

He filled her thoughts, and she needed a friend to talk to, but Becky wasn't there to help. She'd called this morning to say that it looked as if a decision might have to be made soon, and it was going to be a difficult one. The doctors were already wondering aloud about whether the family wanted to keep her dad on the ventilator. It wasn't going to be easy for her friend.

Fiona leaned against the wind and kept plodding along the deserted street, wondering if she'd been right to arrange to meet with Jimmy's daughter, Siobhan.

Screwing her eyes against the wind, she peered at a wooden sign on the sea-wrack-strewn lawn of a cold, concrete, and glass low-rise. Nineteen fifty Beach.

She pushed the button beside an address plate reading 407.
MR. AND MRS. JAMES FERGUSON.

A man's voice came from a speaker. “Fiona?”

“Is … is that you, Jimmy?” She'd been expecting to hear Siobhan.

“Aye. Siobhan's here, too. Come you on up out of that bloody awful weather.”

A buzzer whirred.

Fiona pushed through the door. When she'd gone to the Kesh to tell Davy she was leaving him, all the gates had been electrically controlled. Last Sunday, Davy and the other escapees must have opened them somehow.

She crossed a tiled hall into an elevator and pushed the 4 button. She'd hoped to avoid seeing Jimmy. She'd hardly known the man in Belfast, even though he'd been Davy's best friend. When Davy'd been captured, she'd debated going to see Jimmy to ask him about what had happened, but soon the story had been all over the media.

“An attempt on the life of the British prime minister has been foiled, although the bridge at Ravernet near Hillsborough has been destroyed and several soldiers killed.”

She'd been sitting alone at her sister's house eating supper and watching the six o'clock news on April 18, 1973. Her forkful of beef stew had stopped halfway to her mouth.

“An IRA terrorist has been arrested. David McCutcheon…”

No.

“… of Conway Street, Belfast, was injured while attempting to escape. He has been taken to hospital and remains under observation and under police guard.”

She'd tried to visit him in the Royal Victoria Hospital, but an army major had refused to let her see him. By then, she'd steeled herself to read the news accounts.

It seemed Davy had been waiting in a farmhouse to detonate a bomb under Harold Wilson's car as it crossed a bridge en route to Government House in Hillsborough. She'd learned how Wilson's convoy had been turned back before it reached the ambush and how Davy, trying to halt the pursuing soldiers, had set off the explosives, but to no effect. He'd been captured, and from the Provo point of view the operation had been a disaster.

Davy would have succeeded, according to the story, but for the heroic sacrifice of a Lieutenant Marcus Richardson, Royal Army Ordnance Corps, who had uncovered the plot and alerted the Security Forces but been killed during the operation to protect the prime minister.

She'd bumped into Jimmy several days later. He'd explained that the young army officer had been working undercover in the Falls Road district. Posing as an expatriate Ulsterman, he'd claimed to be an explosives expert from the oil fields of Alberta who had returned to Belfast to help in the struggle.

Jimmy'd been angry that day. He blamed himself for introducing Richardson, who had assumed the alias of Mike Roberts, to Davy and, worse, as far as Jimmy was concerned, to Siobhan. Davy had recruited the young man to help in what was to have been Davy's last attack. Siobhan had fallen deeply in love with him.

Meeting Richardson had led to disaster for Fiona and Siobhan.

The lift doors opened. The fourth-floor hall was carpeted in nondescript brown, the walls papered in a lighter shade. It smelled of apartment, veiled cooking odours, and the nose-irritating fumes of carpet cleaner. Fiona saw Jimmy waiting in the doorway of 407.

“How's about ye, Fiona.” His lower jaw twitched as he stood aside to let her in and closed the door. “Here, gimme your coat and that oul' umbrella.”

Fiona shrugged out of the sodden garment and gave it and the battered brolly to Jimmy, who hung the coat in a hall closet. He looked at the umbrella. “I think this should probably go out.”

“So do I.”

“Leave it in the hall. I'll see to it later. Come on in and take the weight off your feet.”

“Thank you.” Fiona followed Jimmy along a hallway into the living room, where Siobhan stood waiting. “Hello, Fiona,” she said. “Have a seat.”

Fiona sat in a comfortable armchair, one of a sectional suite, and glanced round. One whole wall of the apartment was a rain-streaked picture window overlooking Burrard Inlet. On another wall, the Ferguson's had hung a couple of Irish scenes, a watercolour of a mallard at Lough Sheelin and a pretty pastel of the Mourne Mountains, small reminders of home.

“It's a ferocious day, so it is,” Jimmy said, parking himself in a second chair. “Even the ducks is flying backwards.” He laughed, a high-pitched hee-heeing noise. “You must be foundered, so you must.”

“I've certainly been warmer.” She shivered and rubbed both hands together.

Jimmy clucked sympathetically. “Would you like a wee cup of tea in your hand? A hot Irish?” Jimmy asked.

“Tea would be grand.” Fiona smiled. She'd almost added, “so it would.” She could feel herself wanting to slip back into the Belfast dialect. The harshness of Jimmy's speech reminded her of Davy's deeper brogue, and it was comforting.

“Coming up.” Siobhan left.

Fiona saw the grace of the younger woman. As she walked along the hall, she seemed to glide in a gentler version of a model on a catwalk. Her blonde hair fell to her waist. It was quite gorgeous.

She heard clattering from the kitchen. “Please don't go to a lot of trouble on my behalf.”

“It's no bother. I'll just be a wee minute.” There was a hint of a laugh in Siobhan's contralto. “Do you want one, too, Dad?”

“No thanks, love. I'll need to be running away on soon.”

They sound so easy with each other, Fiona thought, the way it used to be with her own parents before they'd turned their backs on her. She looked at Jimmy, who shot his jaw sideways. Hearing his laugh, seeing the little man's nervous tic, brought her back to the Falls Road, where for a while she'd tried to rebuild a little family with Davy.

“Look, I know you come to have a yarn with Siobhan, and I don't want to get in the way, like, but I just, I just thought I should have a wee word with you. Maybe I should've never phoned and upset you?”

“It's all right, Jimmy. I'm not upset.” Liar, she scolded herself. “It's far better to know now than to have Davy suddenly appear.”

“Aye. It would've given you a hell of a shock. I near took the rickets myself when I heard.” Jimmy smiled. “I hope he gets here soon. I reckon he's still out, you know.”

She felt as she had yesterday morning after she'd turned on the machine: caught hopelessly off-balance, confused, upset that the life she'd thought was finally settling down had been thrown so far off course—and wanting so much for him to be out, to be coming to her.

“Why do you think that, Jimmy?” she said quietly.

“I seen the news on the telly this morning. The reporter said some lad called Bobby Storey, he's one of the Provo highheejins, and four of his mates was picked up. They was hiding in the Lagan, underwater, trying to breathe through hollow reeds, but the telly never said nothing about Davy.”

“Why would they mention him? Davy wasn't an important Provo.”

Jimmy rolled his eyes. “I tell you, a man what tried to off the British prime minister would've his name in the headlines if they'd got him. They'd be crowing it from the rooftops. I'll bet you he's still out, and the longer he stays out, the better the odds he'll get here. You mark my word.”

Jimmy was watching her, gauging her reaction. He must wonder if she still cared for Davy. It was none of his business, but she'd find it difficult not to tell him how she felt if he was blunt enough to ask. She mightn't know the man well, but he
had
been Davy's best friend, and somehow talking to Jimmy was like talking to Davy by proxy.

“I'd be quare pleased to see him again, so I would. Him and me was mates, and you don't make that many good mates in a whole lifetime.” Jimmy hee-heed. “I'd love to take oul' Davy out for a jar. The pair of us hasn't had a pint together for donkeys' years.”

“It has been a very long time, Jimmy.” She tried to keep her voice level.

She saw how Jimmy was looking at her, his head cocked to one side. “You'd not be too sorry to see him yourself, would you, dear?”

“Dear.” If a Canadian had called her “dear,” she'd have bristled, but coming from Jimmy it was only Irish affection. “You're right, Jimmy.” She smiled at him. “Not one bit.”

“Great, I thought I might have dropped a right clanger.”

“To tell you the truth, it was a bit more than a clanger.”

“I'm sorry.” Jimmy flicked his lower jaw to one side. “The missus always says I never know when to keep my trap shut, so I don't.”

She smiled. “I was going to say it was more like a bombshell, but it is all right. Honestly. I
was
rattled when I heard your message first.” He opened his mouth to speak, but she carried on. “But I'd've found out anyhow, and you've given me time to think about things. Thank you.”

Jimmy rubbed his hands along the tops of his thighs. “Aye, well. Now look, what's between you and Davy's your own business, so it is, but … but I just wanted you to know that me and the missus is always here. Sometimes the likes of us immigrants need some of our own kind to have a bit of a blether with.”

She felt a lump in her throat as she recognized the truth. “I hear you, Jimmy, and I promise I will take you up on the offer.”

“Anytime. Anytime at all.” Jimmy turned and shouted, “Are you picking them tea leaves in China, Siobhan?”

“Coming, Dad.” Siobhan appeared carrying a tea tray. She set it on a low coffee table. “I've just a few scones to butter and I'll be back.”

Jimmy rose. “I'll need to be running away on.”

“Thank you for being here, Jimmy,” Fiona said.

“Not at all. My pleasure.” He started to walk down the hall, then turned. “Do you know,” he said, “there's another wee thing I was thinking about.”

“Oh?'

“Aye. I'll bet you're all worried about what Davy'd do for work in Vancouver.”

“Well, I did wonder…”

“He's been learning to be a carpenter in the Kesh. He told me in his letters, so he did.”

“A carpenter? Davy's taking woodworking lessons?”

“Aye. And with Expo coming to Vancouver in '86, there's more work for chippies than you could shake a stick at. And me a painter. Don't I know half the job foremen? I'd get him fixed up in no time flat.”

“That would be kind of you, Jimmy. I'm sure he'd appreciate it.” She pictured Davy's big, square hands touching her. She could feel the roughness of them, hardened by manual labour. Davy'd been no stranger to unskilled work, shoveling, pushing wheelbarrows, carrying hod loads of bricks—when he hadn't been making bombs for the Provos. She could see him now, proud of his new skill, using it to build instead of to destroy. He would like that.

“Kind me arse … I'm sorry, Fiona, that just slipped out. If I'm for having a pint with my oul' mate, he's going to have to pay his whack, so he is.” Jimmy hee-heed again. “There's only one wee snag about him and me going down the pub, though.”

Fiona frowned. Was Jimmy going to tell her not to get her hopes too high, that Davy might never get here at all?

“Aye. I just hope I'll be able to understand him now he's a very learned man.”

“He's what?” Her left eyebrow rose. Davy? Learned?

“You'd not know, of course. My God, if you could see some of the big words he puts in his letters, and it's all your fault. You started him on the reading away back…”

The kitchen in Conway Street, her standing over Davy as he asked what a certain word might mean.

“… I doubt if there's a book our Davy's not read in”—Jimmy hesitated—“in the Kesh place.”

She liked that, “our Davy.” “Yes,” said Fiona, “our Davy.” And she laughed for the first time since she'd learned the news, and Jimmy laughed with her.

“There you go,” he said. “You'd a face on you like a Lurgan spade when you come in here, and now you're having a wee chuckle. I told you, us folks needs to stick together.” He bent and picked up his cap from the top of a coffee table. “Anyroad, I've to be off. The missus is at her work so you and Siobhan can blether away in peace.” He headed down the hall. “Now mind, don't you be a stranger. Do you hear me?”