A grandfather clock chimes in the hall. I remind myself that Finn is in his crib now at his father’s house. It’s easier to be away from him during the hours when he is asleep.
Some of the other guests are English or American. English and American tourists don’t come to the north anymore, but apparently they’ve been coming here, all this time. When the woman next to me learns where I’m from, she expresses astonishment that the postage is the same to mail a letter from her house in Oxford to London as to Belfast. “Well, we’re part of the same country,” I say, and she smiles politely.
Her husband turns to Damian. “How is the situation in the north?”
Damian pauses, finishing his mouthful of food. The whole table waits. “We’ve been lucky,” he says, placing his hand on mine. “The conflict really hasn’t affected either of us.”
The Englishman looks pleased, like Damian has supplied the right answer. He says, “Ordinary people stay out of that mess.”
“That’s right,” says Damian. “Very few people are actively involved.”
“Every place has some bad apples,” says the Englishman, and Damian smiles. “What’s your line of work?”
“Private investment,” says Damian.
“Oh, what sort?”
“Futures trading.”
* * *
—
Once the bedroom door closes behind us, Damian calls Seamus. “Did you talk to the ghillie?” he asks. There is a pause, then he says, “Grand,” and cradles the phone against his shoulder while writing down a note. Seamus says something on the other end, and Damian laughs. “Well, say a prayer.”
“What’s a ghillie?” I ask.
“A fishing guide,” says Damian. “Maitland’s group has been using one all week, and we know where he’s taking them tomorrow. Seamus paid him a grand. He said he wanted to pap Maitland.”
“Pap?”
“Photograph. Royal paparazzi pay for tips all the time.” Damian sounds disdainful, like photographing Maitland would be more degrading than killing him.
The ghillie will bring the group to a certain point on the Blackwater, where the river broadens and underwater boulders form a natural pool, to catch brown trout. Lord Maitland will be exposed. And the sound of the river, the light on its surface, will distract him. He will be standing up to his thighs in water, and from the opposite bank Damian will shoot him with a sniper rifle.
Lord Maitland’s death will drive a knife through the heart of the establishment. His funeral will be a state event, with the royal family walking behind the coffin. The army will be humiliated, demoralized. A united Ireland, a democratic socialist republic, will have drawn closer.
That is one plan. MI5 will have a different one, but I don’t know theirs, so I can’t believe in it.
34
BREAKFAST HAS BEEN SET at the long table. I’m the first guest awake, and the banquet seems enchanted, like it has appeared on its own. A fire is lit in the hearth, and a silver rack holds the day’s newspapers. Twelve white plates have been laid down the table, and I choose one at the center. I pour coffee into a china cup. There are small speckled eggs, soft boiled, with buttered toast to dip into them, rashers and black pudding, kedgeree, porridge, blackberries and cut plums in honey, soda bread, and scones. I eat slowly, first a savory plate, then a sweet one, then one piled with fruit.
I can’t get full. Nothing is connecting. It’s like trying to plug an appliance into a foreign socket, like this food carries the wrong voltage. My stomach feels as hollow as when I started.
I fill another plate with kedgeree and soda bread. Normally my breakfasts involve a fair amount of labor, of retrieving Finn’s spoon from the floor, fetching another serving for him, encouraging him not to rub his eyes when his hands are coated in yogurt. This sort of experience should be a welcome break, and maybe it would be, if I’d paid for it myself, but none of this is free. The IRA is paying for it.
Anyway, I’ve grown used to the pace of eating with Finn, the constant catching and righting, offering, chatting, and anything else can feel flat, lifeless. This sort of meal is nice, but so is having my son lower his fist and blink at me through lashes sticky with yogurt, trusting me to fix it.
Damian appears in the doorway and pours himself a coffee. “Are you having any?” I ask, nodding at the banquet.
“No, I’m not eating,” he says firmly, like he’s fasting. I wonder if it’s a mark of respect for his victim, or if his nerves are sharper on an empty stomach.