He’s falling asleep. I should move him to his crib, but instead I hold him in my arms, the two of us a still point. I want to stop time.
And then, from nowhere, I see myself standing in front of a collapsed building. I see someone handing me a bullhorn, and myself slowly raising it to my mouth. I hear what I would say to him, if my son were trapped in rubble, scared, alone.
Tears cover my face, my throat. We can’t leave here without his father’s consent. The only way for Finn to be safe is for this to stop.
It’s not really a decision, is it? I’m going to become an informer. I’m going to do this knowing that the IRA’s punishment for informing is death, possibly a beating first, possibly torture. Because that’s no longer the worst that could happen to me, not even close, now that I have him.
18
IFOLLOW THE NARROW FOOTPATH between the dunes to the beach. A faded sign warns of riptides, with a diagram of how to swim out of one. Someone has strung pink ship’s buoys over the sign, their surfaces pitted from the water, and the familiar sight comforts me.
At the end of the dunes, I step onto the beach. In the fog, the damp sand is like the floor of a tunnel. A lifeguard chair stands at the far end of the cove, its white frame almost invisible in the mist. The chair will be empty anyway, this early in the morning. I stretch my arms behind my back, like I’m warming up for a swim. I have a hooded sweatshirt and leggings on over my swimsuit, and the ends of my hair are curling in the damp air.
There’s no reason for me to be scared, but I’m having trouble breathing. This degree of fear seems like proof that something is wrong, the way, when you’re a child, your fear is proof of a ghost in the room.
I force myself to breathe. Everyone who does this is scared, I think. Everyone who has ever done this has been scared. I try to remember my certainty last night, while holding Finn. I’m a go-between, that’s all. It had sounded reasonable last night, but now I wonder how much of this is actually superstition, like if I agree to help, then Finn will be safe. As though it’s that simple, as though any of this has ever been fair.
I stretch my back, watching white scraps of mist blow overhead. When I straighten again, I notice a dog at the far end of the beach, down by the water, and then its owner, a vague shape in the fog. It’s hard to tell if they’re moving toward me or away.
I reach for my toes, and pressure builds behind my eyes. I stretch my arm across my chest as their shapes grow clearer. A black-and-white dog with wet fur, and a man in a navy tracksuit. The dog trots over to me, and I hold out my hand for her to sniff. She places a soft paw on my knee.
The man stops a few feet from me with his hands in his pockets. He’s about my age, maybe a little older, tall, with brown hair. His nose narrows at its ridge, like a knife blade. I don’t know if he’s her handler or a passerby, Marian didn’t tell me what to look for.
“What type of dog is she?” I ask.
“A border collie.”
“She’s lovely.” I rub behind the dog’s ears, trying to force myself to speak. This is it. I could still call it off, by smiling and walking past him to the water. “I’m Tessa,” I say finally.
“It’s very nice to meet you, Tessa,” he says. “I’m Eamonn.”
The sand shifts under my feet. Five minutes ago, I wasn’t an informer, now I am. We’ve only said hello, but that’s enough, the IRA would kill me for it.
“Are we safe here?” I ask.
“Yes,” he says, but I want to turn around, like at this moment someone in a ski mask might be coming over the dunes.
“Would anyone from the IRA recognize you?” I ask. “Do they know who you are?”
“No.”
Behind him, a wave breaks, foam spilling down its face like an avalanche. “How can you be sure?”
“We’re sure.”
Eamonn has a local accent, and he doesn’t look out of place on this beach. He carries his body easily, like someone who swims or surfs. “Are you from here?” I ask.
“Strabane,” he says, “but my family moved to London when I was twelve.”
While he speaks, I listen for holes in his accent. He might not actually be Irish, his regular speaking voice might be Queen’s English.
Eamonn tells me that he has been in Northern Ireland for two years under deep cover, posing as a restaurant investor. He is living on the coast now while supposedly scouting locations for an outpost of an expensive fish restaurant.
“How long have you been doing this?”