The Living (20 page)

‘Aye, he told me, so he did. Now, I'm tied up until four o'clock. Could you meet me at about … say, four-fifteen, four-twenty?'

‘That sounds fine,' I said. I should have time to get back to the hotel for the rehearsal.

‘How well do you know Belfast?'

I hesitated. Was this a test of some kind? ‘Not at all, I'm afraid – it's my first time here,' I admitted.

‘Well. Where are you now?'

I looked around. ‘Em …' Couldn't see a street name. ‘I'm just beside the Public … Prosecution Service …' (gosh, this is going well) ‘ah … I can see a pub called Magennis's … there's a H&M up the street …' I swallowed.

‘Right. If you leave the Prosecution Service to your right, walk away from Magennis's, past H&M, take your one-two-three, third
left, on to Victoria Square, you'll see a Starbucks. Do you think you'll be able to find your way there this afternoon?'

I was mesmerized by his accent: the slack, open vowels, the snuffed consonants.
Twayenty
.
Squrr
. ‘That should be no problem,' I managed.

‘Right. What are you wearing?'

‘Excuse me?'

‘What are you wearing?' he repeated, more slowly. When I didn't answer, he said, ‘How will I recognize you?'

‘Oh! A red coat. It's corduroy. It has … a big fluffy collar.'

‘Good enough. I'll see you later, OK?'

‘Goodbye,' I said, but he had already hung up. I tingled with embarrassment. After that first impression, it would be a wonder if he thought it worth his while to come and meet me.

I got back to the hotel just as the museum party – consisting of Joan, Tom, Linda and Donal – was assembling in the foyer. I joined them, thinking to distract myself from Matthew's absence. Joan raised a quiet eyebrow when I said he needed headspace, but asked me no further questions.

By mid-afternoon I was irritated. We had traipsed around a selection of museums and minor sights before stopping for a late, expensive, inadequate and mediocre lunch. I had no heart for the banter the others kept up so effortlessly. I wished I'd joined the shopping trip instead.

The police presence on the streets was really quite noticeable, in comparison with Dublin, and although we were fairly sure it
was larger than usual on account of the summit, it made us uncomfortable. All the more so as every police officer we saw was armed. Donal was especially jumpy: he seemed to fear that each new turn would bring us slap bang into the heart of Catholic-hunting country.

I phoned Matthew a few times, but it went to voicemail. I refused to leave a message. I tried to maintain my poise, my spirit of tolerance and calm, but I got crosser and crosser as the day wore on. It was so selfish to put himself out of reach like this.

The others ran out of touristic zeal at last, and we returned to the hotel. There was still no sign of Matthew. I went upstairs to our bedroom, which was dark and deserted – and preternaturally tidy, in the manner peculiar to hotel rooms. I noted with a sinking heart that his suit bag was still hanging in the wardrobe. I rang him again and this time left a message, which I hoped wouldn't make matters worse.

It was time to meet Nicky Fay. I found Starbucks easily enough, bought a tall skinny latte and installed myself and my red coat in easy view of the main door. I was sipping away when a small man entered and caught my eye. He looked perhaps sixty, with a mane of reddish hair and the most unlikely moustache – like a section of fox-pelt glued to his upper lip. He wore a navy suit, with shirt and tie, under a scuffed brown leather jacket. He advanced towards me with a swinging gait, which I eventually read as a limp.

‘Cate, is it?' The voice was unmistakable, though he spoke much more softly than he had on the phone.

‘That's right,' I said, half standing up before being waved back into my seat.

‘Nicky Fay,' he announced, and we shook hands across the table as he eased himself into the chair opposite. He looked sharply at me through rimless spectacles. ‘Cate Sullivan?'

‘No, Houlihan.'

‘Houlihan, of course.'

‘But my mother is Sullivan, actually.'

‘Is that so?' He nodded, gathering his lips into a knowing pout, then slapped his hand on the table. ‘Listen, I'll not stay. I just came to give you this.' He reached inside his jacket and withdrew a tiny package, which he slid across the table to me.

I looked at it. It was a little pellet of some kind, swathed in paper and shiny brown tape. Nothing was written on it. I hesitated.

Nicky Fay gave a throaty chuckle. ‘I know – it looks a wee bit dodgy, so it does. It's one of them thumb drives. It'll not bite you.'

‘Thanks,' I said.

‘You'll give that straight into George's hand, won't you?'

‘I will, of course. First thing on Monday.'

‘And listen, next time you see Fintan Sullivan, tell him not to be worrying – this'll not cause him any more trouble.' He stood up. ‘I'll be on my way. Don't lose that, all right?' He pointed a large, hairy finger at me, and his look flashed sincerity. I felt warned.

‘I won't.'

‘Bye, now,' he said. ‘Pleasure meeting you, Cate Houlihan.'

I put the packet in my pocket and finished my coffee.

Back at the hotel room I took the thing out and looked at it. A document, George had said, connected to the MacDevitt book.

I was suddenly very thankful that Matthew had not been with me at the meeting.

Nicky Fay's face remained in my mind – the pointed look he shot me as he enjoined me not to lose this packet. I would need to keep it on me until I got back to Dublin. My concert clothes had no pockets. I'd keep it in my coat, then, or maybe my handbag. The thought of it falling out, or being taken, made me feel a little ill. It was amazing how much force Nicky Fay had packed into that one look.

It was just a memory stick, wasn't it? That's what he'd said, but I decided to make sure. Using the scissors from the hotel sewing kit I found in a drawer, I snipped at the tape that bound the packet until I was able to extract the contents. One small grey and blue memory stick, as advertised. I stuffed it deep into my handbag and headed downstairs to our rehearsal.

W
HEN
I
REALIZED
that Matthew was not downstairs, I was flooded with alarm and shame. Not engaging in organized fun was one thing; missing rehearsal was quite another. But how could I admit to Diane – to anyone – that my own boyfriend had left me in the dark like this? I avoided everyone's eye.

A small mercy for which to be thankful: we sang much better than last night. There was, perhaps, hope for us. After we finished
we ate a buffet dinner. I sat with Donal, Linda and Mircea and made minimal contributions. As soon as I could I bolted upstairs. Surely he'd be there, with rueful explanations of whatever madcap adventures had kept him from communicating all day. Surely he wasn't going to leave us in the lurch altogether.

He was not there.

We were to walk to the Waterfront, to arrive by half past seven. I changed into my concert clothes and face, picked up my music and headed back downstairs. My heart was beating hard. Matthew knew the schedule. He should have been back long before now. I couldn't help dwelling on the fact that this was Belfast. He might have wandered into the wrong area, been set upon for speaking with the wrong accent.

I found Joan, Val, Tom and Anja in the lobby. ‘We're the last,' Joan said. ‘Shall we go on, or should we wait for Matthew?'

‘No point in waiting,' I said. ‘He'll follow us over.' I saw them noting my grim tone.

Joan fell into step with me as we got outside. ‘Is everything all right? Where is Matthew, anyway?'

I took a deep breath. ‘I don't know,' I said. ‘I haven't been able to raise him.'

‘He'll probably meet us there,' Joan said.

‘Yes,' I said, ‘except his music and his suit are still at the hotel.'

‘Oops.'

We walked in silence for a few minutes. ‘He's in a very strange mood,' I said eventually. ‘I don't know what's got into him.'

‘You two are getting on OK, though?'

‘Yes, very well.' I thought about our recent talks. ‘Mostly,' I qualified.

‘He'd better show up,' Joan said.

‘He will.' I hoped I was right.

We arrived just after the London choir, and had to queue for ages at the security check. It was, if anything, tighter than last night – almost like an airport.

All three choirs waited in a large fluorescent-lit room backstage, where we wandered aimlessly or chatted in little knots. My eyes kept flicking to the door, where I was sure that at any minute Matthew would be shown in by one of the venue staff.

He was lying in a lane somewhere, bleeding and concussed, while motorists drove by, too afraid to stop and help.

He was tied to a chair in a dark basement, eyes so swollen he could barely see his captors, waiting for them to decide how to dispose of him.

Nonsense. The truth was, I was disgusted at him, his irresponsibility. Elusive he might be, but he had never been
unreliable
in this way since I'd known him, and it was depressing to discover that he had it in him.

Tension coursed up and down my body like columns of ants.

Joan caught my eye. ‘No sign?'

I shook my head. ‘Maybe I'd better talk to Diane.'

‘Might be no harm.'

‘It feels a bit strange, acting like his spokesperson.'

‘Goes with the territory.'

Diane was sitting at the edge of the room, fussing over music. I took the chair next to her.

‘Diane, I'm a bit worried that Matthew hasn't shown up. He's not answering his phone.'

‘I'm sure he'll be along any second. Don't worry about it, OK?' She gripped my arm. ‘Sure, if he doesn't turn up, we'll just do the show without him.' She was shaking her head like a teacher, eyebrows raised, voice bright.

She turned back to her music; I was dismissed.

I went over to my coat and fished my phone out of the pocket. The signal here was very weak. I stepped out into the corridor and walked along it a little way, watching the screen of the phone to see if there was any improvement. I was heading away from the stage. The corridor opened into a high windowed space, yellow lights bouncing off sheet glass. I couldn't see out at all.

The signal here was better. I dialled Matthew's number, for perhaps the fifth time since he'd left this morning, and for the first time I got a ringing tone.

After three rings, however, the sound was choked off, and the voicemail greeting cut in.
Matthew had rejected my call
. Shocked, I tried again. Again, he rejected it.

I was alone, as far as I could see, so it was safe to let out a muffled shriek of rage and to stamp my foot, hard. Neither measure helped – indeed, my foot let me know that these were not shoes in which to pound the floor.

My phone buzzed. A text message: ‘Can't talk now. Sorry for everything. See you later. Love.'

Love?

A fine time to bring
that
up.

I texted back, ‘Hello? CONCERT???', and after pacing up and down a few times to regain control of myself, dry my eyes, calm my breathing, I headed back to where the others were.

Whatever Matthew had been so uptight about since we got here, it wasn't ‘Danny Boy'.

B
ACK IN THE
rehearsal room, Joan looked at her watch. ‘We're on in a few minutes.' She waved to catch the attention of Diane, who was pacing near the door, her clasped hands rising and falling in time with her steps. ‘Should we be lining up?'

Diane came over. ‘No, we've to wait until they send someone. What time is it?'

‘Five to eight now,' said Joan. ‘And' – she turned to me – ‘there's still no sign of Matthew?'

I shrugged. ‘He's incommunicado. I haven't seen him since this morning.'

Diane looked at the floor, took a breath, pursed her lips. ‘He told me earlier that he wouldn't be at the rehearsal. He said he had to go and meet someone, that it was really important. Oh, god.' She blinked a few times, and exhaled angrily. ‘I don't know what to think now.'

‘But he can't just—' Joan spluttered. ‘That's outrageous!'

‘I know. But, sure, what could I say? I thought it'd be OK. Listen, I'm going to have a word with …' Diane hurried away towards the London and Belfast conductors who were chatting by the door.

I hardly noticed her go. There was a roaring in my ears and shock waves running through me. Somehow, despite everything, I had not expected to catch Matthew in an outright falsehood. I felt sick.

‘Are you all right?' Joan's head was tilted, her eyes sympathetically gathering at the corners.

‘No,' I said, teeth clenched.

‘He never said anything to you about having to meet someone, did he?'

‘He did not.
Bastard
.' Bastards, the whole bloody lot of them.

Flashes of thought were arcing through the mess in my brain. A Matthew retrospective.

Here is a man who styles himself a historian but who can deftly probe the inner workings of a computer.

Here is a man who styles himself a full-time student but who can afford to pay for two on evenings out.

Here is a man who styles himself my boyfriend but who tells me as little as he can about his personal life, who doesn't invite me into his flat until it's an emergency.

Here is a man, I am beginning to think, with something ugly to hide.

Diane came towards us again, clapping her hands and waving for attention. ‘Carmina Urbana, I want to do some warm-ups.'

We shuffled into a rough formation and followed her lead. The stuffy, carpeted room soaked up all we had to offer. ‘Whatever we do on stage,' Diane pointed out, ‘we'll sound better than this.' She took a deep breath. ‘Now, I want to run through “Danny Boy”. Anja, will you sing the melody for us?'