“Twelve years,” he says, and I search his face for signs of guilt. Since I was little, I’ve heard stories of how MI5 officers operate here, their bribes, blackmail, coercion.
“Are you running other informers besides Marian?”
“I can’t answer that,” he says. “I’m sure you understand.”
“Have any of them died?”
He looks down at the sand. “Are you worried about your sister?”
“Yes.”
“IRA operations fail about half the time. St. George’s wasn’t unusual, your sister’s not under undue suspicion. And if Marian ever signals for help, we’ll send in an armed unit to extract her. She has a panic button.”
“What if she’s not at home?” I ask.
“Oh, no, the button’s not in her house. It’s in one of her fillings.”
My eyes widen. Marian had two cavities filled when she was fourteen. Our mother chose a silver amalgam, since it was cheaper than the porcelain veneer. I imagine telling my sister, at fourteen, what that cap would be used to hide one day, and her snorting, saying, Wise up.
“We don’t expect her to need it,” says Eamonn. “Marian has been careful. And you’re helping her now. It would be much more dangerous for her to communicate with me by phone.”
Studying him, I notice small welts like raindrops, one on the back of his hand, one under his eye. They’re burn scars, I realize.
“We’re in the endgame,” he says. “The peace talks are progressing, a cease-fire might be announced any day now.”
“Or it could be months.”
“When it comes, it will mean the end of fighting in our lifetime, and our children’s lifetime.”
“Do you have children?” I ask.
He smiles, acknowledging his mistake. “No, not myself.”
“I can’t leave mine.”
“You won’t be asked to do anything that makes you uncomfortable,” he says.
I raise my eyebrows. He starts to explain my legal rights as an informer, under RIPA and the code of conduct. “We don’t operate how most people imagine,” he says. “We tend toward caution.”
I try to understand how this—meeting here, spying on the IRA—could possibly fall under caution. He doesn’t seem nervous. Is it just that his team is bigger than theirs?
“Marian came to see me on Sunday,” I tell him. “They’d given her a polygraph test.”
“Were there any surprises on the test?”
“I don’t think so, she thought she’d passed or they wouldn’t have let her leave. What do you need me to ask her?”
“Marian will know,” he says. His collie has wandered onto the dunes, and he whistles for her to return. I’d expected to dislike him. I’d expected him to be like some of my classmates at Trinity. Clever, rich boys, who stare past your shoulder while talking to you. Worse, actually. One of those boys, but with the power and assurance of having been recruited by MI5.
Eamonn gives me a Visa gift card for two hundred pounds. “I’ll be checking the balance on this. If you use the card, I’ll know you’re ready to meet, and I’ll be here at seven the following morning. If you need to meet immediately, buy something that costs more than ten pounds.”
He smiles at me, then walks away, clapping for the dog to follow him. I pull my sweatshirt over my head and drop my leggings. My hands feel clumsy and numb, like I’m wearing thick gloves. I wade into the cold water, then dive under a wave, close enough to feel it thunder against the length of my back.
* * *
—
The road back to Greyabbey curves between tall hedgerows. After every bend, I look in the rearview mirror to check if a car has appeared behind mine. In my driveway, I climb out of the car and wait for a moment, listening to the engine click as it cools, then walk up the road to my friend Sophie’s house.
“Thanks for minding Finn.”
“Good swim?” she asks.
I nod. “A little choppy.”
At our feet, Finn and Poppy are banging pot lids against the floor. Poppy reaches over to take Finn’s, while he watches in awe. She’s three months older, everything she does fascinates him.
“Can I drop her at six thirty tomorrow?” asks Sophie. “I could use a run.”
“Of course. Do you hear that, Finn? Poppy will come over to play tomorrow morning.” He scoots closer to her, offering her another pot lid, which she ignores. As we leave, Finn sobs, twisting in my arms toward Poppy. “Oh, love, it’s all right.” I find a plastic shark in my bag, which he accepts with wounded dignity, still hiccupping.