This Irish House (4 page)

Rinsing her cup and teapot, she wiped them dry and walked back into the living room, curling up on the couch. Anger pushed against her frantic fear, igniting the faint pressure in Kate's temples into a throbbing pain. Pressing her fingers against the sides of her head, she leaned back into the cushions and closed her eyes.

The piercing double ring of the telephone woke her. Automatically she looked at the clock. Five o'clock. No one called at five in the morning. Her mind was slow and thick with sleep. She picked up the phone. “Hello.”

“Mrs. Nolan?”

“Yes.”

“This is Neil Anderson from the Ormeau Road Station in Belfast. We have your son, Kevin, in custody.”

Adrenaline shot through her veins. “On what charge?”

Deirdre appeared at the top of the stairs.

“In the interests of professional courtesy, Mrs. Nolan, I would rather discuss the matter with you here. Will you come?”

“Of course. I'll leave immediately.” She remembered her appointment. “Please tell Constable Finnigan that I'll have to reschedule our appointment.”

“I'll do that.”

Kate stood up quickly and nearly fell over. Wincing, she bent to rub the feeling back into her right leg. Every movement seemed agonizingly slow. Belfast. What was Kevin doing in Belfast? She needed to see him, to touch him, to assure herself that he was safe.

Deirdre's voice broke through her thoughts. “What happened?”

Kate hesitated, then decided on the truth. Deirdre wasn't a child. “Your brother is being held by the police in Belfast. Have you any idea why?”

The girl was silent for too long.

“Deirdre, if you know anything, please tell me.”

“I don't know anything except that Kevin is—” she stopped to search for an appropriate word “—troubled.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means you should probably call a lawyer.”

Speechless, Kate watched her daughter disappear down the hall into her bedroom. A lawyer. How ironic. Resentment, illogical and pointless, gathered in her chest. When had the Nolans last needed a lawyer? Never in Kate's memory. And now that they did, he was six feet under the ground.

T
he country roads of Donegal were all single-laned, narrow and rutted, typical of rural Ireland. In the bone-chilling dark, at five-thirty in the morning, traffic consisted of hay wagons and tractors, slow moving and difficult for Kate to overtake because of poor visibility on her right side.

Her headache, her fear for Kevin, the snail's pace at which she was forced to travel and the terrifying sensation of sinking deeper and deeper into a bog from which there was no escape kept her grip on the wheel clawlike, white-knuckled, desperate.

The roads were better in the Six Counties but Kate kept to the Republic for as long as she could, crossing the winding roads of the Blue Stack Mountains hazy with mist and fairy light, marking off the miles through small towns, Ballybofey, Killygordon, Castlefin, until she reached Strabane, the border and checkpoint that, under the terms of the Peace Accord, was scheduled for demolition at the end of the month.

Kate had never known a united Ireland but the sight of British uniforms and guard towers surrounded by barbed wire never failed to raise the bile in her throat. It wasn't her battle, she reminded herself. The boy in uniform was Deirdre's age, another mother's son a long way from home.

Wordlessly she handed him her papers and waited for the inevitable wave through. Was it taking longer this time or was her imagination playing tricks with her mind? She was about to ask if there was a problem when he motioned her past. Out of sight of the checkpoint, she pulled over to the side of the road and fumbled in her purse for her inhaler. Steadying her shaking hands she covered the mouthpiece, sealing her lips around the plastic and breathed in, once, twice. Leaning back against the headrest, she waited for the tightness in her chest to ease. Two hours had passed since she'd left Ardara. Another two would take her into Belfast. What was Kevin doing now?

Minutes later her lungs had cleared. Kate followed the signs to the B47. She would enter Belfast from the north, through Antrim, catching the M2 toward the City Centre, merging onto the West link to the Falls and the Ormeau Road.

At nine o'clock she maneuvered her Volvo into the left lane and rounded the corner. The lights of the RUC station loomed before her. Kevin was in there. Her son. Her sixteen-year-old son.

Kate pulled into the car park, turned off the engine and swallowed hard. She'd walked into the RUC barracks of Belfast countless times, alone and with Patrick. She'd seen other women's sons handcuffed, brutalized, locked away in cells behind bars. She'd offered solutions, sympathy, Patrick's legal services, and occasionally, as a last resort, tea and biscuits. But never once, until tonight, had she truly understood.

The red-cheeked boy at the front desk couldn't have been much older than Kevin. He straightened when he saw her. “Good morning, Mrs. Nolan.”

“Good morning,” she managed politely. She felt vulnerable, exposed, as if she had intruded into enemy territory, an ordinary Catholic without the trappings of her job or Patrick's position walking into an RUC station. “I've come for Kevin Nolan, my son.”

“I'll tell the constable you've arrived.”

Kate slid down onto the wooden bench and stared at the clock. The hands and numbers blurred. How long since she'd last slept? Twenty-three hours? Twenty-four? What could Kevin have done? Should she have listened to Deirdre and called a lawyer? Surely not. Kevin was only sixteen years old.

Neil Anderson, chief criminologist for British Special Services recently down from London, prided himself on the accuracy of his first impressions. He looked through the glass window of his office intending to briefly glance at Kate Nolan and found that he couldn't look away. She wasn't what he expected.

Black hair, fair skin, clear light eyes, small delicate bones. Very Irish. A cross between classic and elegant. Lovely was the first thought that leaped to his mind. Young was the second. Too young for the responsibility Northern Ireland's new government had thrust upon her, too young to be Kevin's mother, much too young to be Patrick Nolan's widow.

What he knew about her, he'd gleaned from the files: Catholic, social worker by profession, university graduate, middle class background, no affiliation with the Nationalist cause before her marriage, personal invitation from the prime minister to serve on the civilian police council.

He felt a twinge of sympathy. A woman like this, a woman who'd driven across Ireland at a moment's notice because her son needed her, didn't deserve the news he was about to give her.

After a few brief words with the officer at the desk, Neil removed his jacket and tie and rolled up the sleeves of his shirt. Informal seemed better, less threatening. Kate Nolan would prefer informal. He crossed the room to the receiving area and addressed her. “Mrs. Nolan?”

She looked up. Her eyes were blue flecked with green, ocean-colored.

“Yes.”

He held out his hand. “I'm Neil Anderson.”

Unsmiling, she took it. “I'd like to see my son.”

Direct, uncompromising, a woman with priorities. He liked that. Once again, he regretted his role. “In a minute. First I'd like to discuss a few things with you.”

“What things?”

He motioned toward the glass-lined wall. “In my office, please.”

“I'll follow you.” She stood, poised, in control. Perhaps he'd underestimated her.

Neil led the way into a neat, well-organized office and motioned her into a seat across from his desk. His orders were completely clear but they didn't set well with him. “Would you care for some tea, Mrs. Nolan?”

She brushed away his suggestion with an impatient hand. “Please, come to the point, Mr. Anderson.”

“Very well.” He looked at her and knew that he would tell this woman nothing short of the truth. Neil spoke deliberately. “Your son has been charged with the selling of an illegal substance.”

“What kind of illegal substance?”

She wasn't as innocent as she looked.

“Cocaine.”

Kate paled and gripped the edge of his desk. Images, raw and painful, flashed through her brain. Kevin bathing in the sink, chubby and naked, chewing on a washcloth, Kevin blowing out candles on his birthday cake, Kevin accepting a citizenship award at school, riding his bike, playing with the hose, digging in mud. Kevin couldn't go to jail. “That's impossible,” she said flatly. “Children don't sell cocaine. Drug dealers do that.”

“Your son was caught with an amount too large for personal consumption.”

“He's sixteen years old,” she whispered.

“The prosecutor will be Richard Dunne,” Neil continued. “He will ask that no bail be set and that Kevin remain in prison until his trial date. Should your son be convicted of such a charge, it will cost him several years in prison. Kevin is sixteen. At his age, it's customary for such a crime to be tried in an adult court.”

She wet her lips. “Do you know who he is?”

Neil's brow wrinkled. “I beg your pardon?”

“Kevin is Patrick Nolan's son. He can't go to jail. He won't survive.”

This was the part of the job he hated, playing the game, pretending ignorance in order to manipulate her into agreeing to what he had in mind all along. “You're exaggerating.”

She shook her head. “No.”

“I don't understand.”

“Surely you know of my husband's reputation.”

Neil knew more than he'd ever wanted to know about Patrick Nolan. “That was a long time ago.”

“Not long enough for Kevin. Patrick put quite a few people behind bars, Mr. Anderson, mostly Protestant paramilitaries from illegal organizations. They would like nothing better than to get their hands on his son.”

He frowned. “Kevin has committed a crime, Mrs. Nolan, a serious crime. Are you suggesting that I look the other way simply because of his father?”

“There must be some other way besides prison.”

Neil drummed his fingers on the table. Tension was thick in the small room. Suddenly he stood. “I'm going to bring Kevin in. I think we should hear what he has to say.”

Kate was confused. Something didn't make sense. “I was under the impression that you'd already spoken to him.”

“I have. I'd like you to hear him as well.”

“Where is he?”

“In a holding room.”

She nodded and watched Neil Anderson leave the room, walk down the hallway and disappear around a corner. The wait was no more than five minutes but it seemed much longer.

Suddenly Kevin was there, in the room, and she was standing with her arms tight around him. “Oh, Lord, Kevin,” she murmured, “what have you done?”

He pulled away, a wounded look on his face. “Nothing. I've done nothing. I've no idea how it got into my jacket. It was just there and they arrested me and brought me here. Everyone else left.” He was babbling, the words coming too quickly for coherence.

Keeping a tight grip on his arms, Kate held him away from her and looked, really looked at her son. Kevin wasn't lying. He couldn't be. She knew, just as she knew the color of his eyes and the wave in his hair. Keeping her eyes on her boy, she spoke quietly. “You've made a mistake, Mr. Anderson.”

Neil sighed. If he had a pound for all the mothers in denial, he would be a rich man. “Kevin's drug test was Positive, Mrs. Nolan.” He hesitated. “I'm sorry.”

Kevin's face was flushed. Kate lifted his chin, forcing him to look into her eyes. “Have you anything to say, love?”

“I wasn't
selling
it, Mum,” he mumbled.

“Were you using it?”

He nodded briefly and hung his head.

Kate kept one arm around her son and turned to face Neil. “Possession for personal use isn't the same as selling.”

“Our informant claims that Kevin was there for the purpose of distributing.”

“He's lying,” Kevin shot back. “How does he know what I was there for?”

“Our informant is a she.”

Kevin flushed and turned away. “What does she know?”

The man's steady gaze never left Kevin's face.

Defeated, the boy collapsed into a chair beside his mother. “It doesn't matter anyway. I've already agreed.”

Kate frowned. “Agreed to what?”

Kevin pointed to Neil. “He'll tell you.”

“In exchange for dropping the charges, Kevin has agreed to help us,” Neil explained.

Her face closed. “How?”

“We need an informant, a trusted one.”

Kate's eyes narrowed and it seemed, to Neil, as if all the blue in her irises had concentrated into a thin, brilliant line.

“Don't be absurd,” she said. “Kevin is still a child. I don't want him to have anything to do with this. Besides, why should you trust him? You don't even know him.”

“The situation is very serious, Mrs. Nolan. I wouldn't suggest this if there were an alternative.”

“What are you saying?”

His jaw hardened. He leaned forward. His eyes were gunmetal gray, hard, piercing. English eyes. His voice was grim, determined. “This country's peace accord is hanging by the slimmest of threads. There are those who would see it completely destroyed. Black market trade has come out of nowhere, along with an infiltration of illegal drugs into the working class communities of the Shankill, Ardoyne, Andersonstown and the Falls. I believe the same people who brought bombs and terrorism into Northern Ireland are responsible for the drug trade. They have the support of their communities.”

“If you're referring to the IRA, they've complied with all articles of the agreement.”

“The Irish National Liberation Army has not.”

“They're a terrorist group,” Kate protested. “They have no political representation and they have nothing to do with the majority of the Catholic community.” “

I believe they operate with their full approval.”

“That isn't true,” she whispered.

“I've been through Andersonstown and the Falls, Mrs. Nolan. How many Catholics there agree with disarmament?”

The argument was an old one, stinging her into a defense she did not entirely approve of. “They're waiting, Mr. Anderson, to see if this brave new government has a place for them, equal to the place it has for its Protestant citizens. They're waiting for the RUC to conform to the terms of the Patten Report.”

His fingers formed a pyramid on the desk. “We are at an impasse because neither side will agree to go first.”

“Why must it always be those of us who are Catholic, the ones with the greatest amount to lose?”

“Because your stake in the outcome is higher.”

Unconsciously she rubbed her fingers across Kevin's hand. “What do you want from Kevin?”

“Locations, names of dissenters, drug dealers, details of conversations.” He ticked them off on his fingers. “Even a report on the general mood of the organization would be helpful.”

Her hands shook and her cheeks were very white. “You're asking my sixteen-year-old son to risk his life. Have you any idea how dangerous it would be?”

“Not as dangerous as it would be for anyone else.”

Her heart dropped. It would be too much to hope that this Englishman hadn't done his research.

“Kevin has two uncles who have connections,” he continued. “I doubt if they would allow him to come to any harm.”

“Blood won't mean a thing if they find out what he's doing,” she argued. “Informants aren't tolerated.”

“It isn't pleasant for prisoners in Long Kesh.”

She stood. “I'm sorry, Mr. Anderson. I won't allow this.”

Kevin looked up in alarm. “I could do it, Mum. I don't want to go to prison.”

“You won't go to prison,” she promised. “This is your first offense. No one goes to jail for a first drug offense. I'll find a lawyer. You'll be home by morning. Don't worry.” She smiled bracingly. “If I might speak with you alone, Mr. Anderson?”