It’s Friday evening. I’m so pleased not to be making this trip tomorrow, to have two whole days in Greyabbey with Finn. On the ride home, I make extensive, luxuriant plans for the weekend—to cook, with Finn in his carrier, maybe almond croissants, to read him board books, to let him nap on top of me on the sofa. I want to fill the weekend with his favorite things, to make it up to him, what I’ve become involved in with Marian. He won’t have noticed a difference, but I feel like I’ve been on a long-haul flight this week, and now am coming home to him.
When we reach the lough, tall clouds are sweeping over the black water toward the Mournes in the distance. The rain will be cold in the mountains, drifting over the slopes and filling the reservoir.
The bus stops across from the Mount Stewart estate. Someone must have waved it down, a tourist, maybe. I look out, startling when Marian appears, standing at the side of the road in a raincoat, waiting for the doors to open. I’d wondered how she would find me again. I’d expected it to happen in Belfast, in one of the alleys off Linenhall Street, say.
Marian climbs the steps to the top deck and slides onto the seat beside me. I fight the instinct to take her hand.
“Are you all right?” she asks.
“Fine. Have they interviewed you again?”
She nods. “They asked me about France. They wanted to know where we stayed in Carcassonne, if we met anyone.”
“Why would they care about France?”
“The government might have tried to turn me then. They sometimes make an approach when people are away on holiday.”
“Did you convince them?”
“Yes. I said we barely left our pool. I’m still on active service.”
“But they’re watching you?”
“Probably.”
“Eamonn told me about the panic button. What would happen if you used it right now?”
“A special forces team would stop the bus and extract me,” she says. “It wouldn’t take long, they have helicopters.”
Catch yourself on, I think. No one’s sending any helicopters for you, you’re not that special. Except, of course, she is. She’s an asset for the British Crown. “Are they paying you?” I ask, and she nods. “How?”
“They’re depositing money in a Swiss bank account.”
“Do you not find that problematic?”
Marian twists her mouth to the side. IRA members aren’t meant to be interested in money, as a point of pride. They tell stories about being offered a suitcase full of cash by the government to turn informer and laugh.
“It’s practical,” she says. “I might have trouble finding work after this.”
I open my mouth to argue, then stop myself. I’ve no call to criticize Marian for not upholding the IRA’s code of ethics.
“The detective who’s looking for you came to my office. He asked if I’ve ever transported explosives.”
“Oh, christ,” says Marian. “I’m sorry.”
For the past two days, I’ve been waiting for the detective to interrupt our news meeting, or appear in the canteen during my tea break, this time with uniformed constables, to bring me in for questioning, to make my humiliation complete.
“What’s he like?” she asks.
“He’s nice. You two should have coffee sometime.”
The odd thing is, I do think they would like each other. They’d respect each other. He doesn’t appear to respect me, but, then, he thinks I’m a liar.
The bus curves along the lough, past sodden meadows. Marian says, “Did you meet with Eamonn?”
“Yes.” She starts to speak, but I cut her off. “You could at least look surprised.”
Marian smiles. “I knew you would.”
“I’m not doing this to impress you,” I snap. “I haven’t forgiven you. Whatever you’re doing now doesn’t make up for it.”
Marian stiffens, then says, “I need you to tell Eamonn the name Charles Cavil. My unit’s doing surveillance on him this week.”
“Who is he?”
“A financier. He’s friends with the prime minister, their families go on holiday together. The IRA wants to bring him in. We’re looking for material to blackmail him.”
“Have you done that before?” I ask, which she doesn’t answer. We’re almost at Greyabbey, and I reach past her to signal for the stop.
“Can I see Finn?” she asks.
“No.”
“Please, Tessa. I miss him.”