Bren walked into the city centre, through the security gates and down Royal Avenue, and into a florist's and chose four dozen amber and gold chrysanthemums.

He drove out to her flat. The radio said Pius Blaney was sixty- four years old, a man who had publicly and all his life rejected violence, who was respected by Catholic and Protestant customers alike. He caught himself thinking, well, they would say that, wouldn't they, and resolved to ask Colonel Johnny next time he saw him what was the truth about Pius Blaney. And would someone In- saying the same thing one day about Jon Jo Donnelly, farmer, respected by all his neighbours, devoted family man, violence an anathema to him… Mr Mossie Nugent, painter/decorator, a pillar of the community, no known association…

‘’Responsibility for the murder of Mr Blaney has been claimed by…’’

Bren snapped off the radio. Shut out the madness that was the real world. Wasn’t ready for this real a world. Hadn't learned the code yet.

Mr Gary Brennard had no known association Mr Gary Brennard, Bren to his intimates, needed a known association. Needed it one or two hundred light years from Belfast, for starters.

He took the stairs three at a time, carrying the flowers and wondering if she'd accept them.

Bren rang the bell He waited. He rang the bell again. A man in a pinstripe and with an attache case came out of a flat on the same landing and stared at Bren, seemed to quiz him. He might have been a Five man or a 14th Intelligence man or a Special Military Intelligence Unit man. On the other hand, he might have been an accountant, a sales rep, a bank deputy manager, and he might have rejected violence all his life… There had to be another life, another world. Did accountants, sales reps, bank deputy managers believe there was hope for this world? The man smiled at him, and went down the stairs. He kept his finger on the bell.

Just reflex, he tried the handle. The door opened for him.

He called her name. On the floor were her anorak and her shoes and her jeans and her sweater, a not very straight path to her bedroom.

He crossed the room.

Bren pushed the bedroom door.

The curtain was not drawn, the curtain had been left open. The light flooded the room.

She lay on the bed.

She held her pillow against her. Her eyes were open. She stared at the pillow and the wall ahead of her. The bedclothes were rucked half over her body.

Bren knelt beside the bed. He put her open hand on the flowers and closed her fingers on the stems. The flowers shared the pillow with her.

He took her other hand from the pillow and he held it between his own.

He saw the blood red of her eyes and the rose pink of her face. He thought that if she had slept then she had cried herself to sleep. Beside her hand, beside the flowers, beside the pillow, was the low table on which was the light and a handwritten letter and her pistol. A firm feminine hand, he thought it would be a letter from her mother, he thought it would be everything safe like his own mother's letters would be, everything that a mother scared half out of her wits would write to her child who was covert in Northern Ireland. He moved the pistol to the floor, so she could see the flowers, not the pistol.

'You're a bastard…' she said, 'for coming here, finding me.'

There was no strength in her hand. He saw the bloodshot eyes and the bruising. He saw the scars on her temple. Bren put his arm gently under her neck and he lifted her head and shoulders and he held her against him. He tried to kiss, softly, the bruising and the scraped scars.

Her head was against his chest.

A small voice. 'I hadn't been so frightened, not since I was a child.

The cat brought a rabbit into the kitchen. The rabbit was alive. The cat held the rabbit by the throat. What frightened me was the fear in the rabbit's face, it was a big animal, nearly as big as our cat, but it was so frightened that it just let itself be killed by the cat

…'

His fingers were in the short cut of her hair. He kissed her mouth, where the hand had punched the blood from her lip.

'… It was only when I thought I was going to die that I fought them. I'd given up, and I don't know where it came from. It was the last chance I had. It's all about fear… I shouldn't have been alone, it was my fault. It wasn't your fault… Cathy Parker, not a nerve in her body, she'll no anywhere, not a nerve in her bloody body. I'm the living, walking, talking bloody legend. It's what I live with, that they'll get to find that Cathy Parker is just scared stiff. I went there for myself. It was only bullshit, it was to show myself that I could take it, cope with being so bloody scared that I could shit myself. Fear of failure, that's what drives you on. You have to keep proving it, testing it, that you're not scared. You said I'd make a mistake. I did, bloody fool, I showed them my voice. I was just so tired… and the bloody legend'll go on.. .'

He held her close against him. He kissed her cheek where the fist that had worn a signet ring had belted her.

Do you understand?'

' There has to be hope.'

' They shouldn't know.'

Bren said, 'There has to be light for us.'

'I couldn't survive it, not if they knew the legend was a bloody s ham.'

'I want a future for us.'

'You wouldn't tell them, Hobbes and Colonel Johnny and the boys?'

He' thought of them. Hobbes, who supplied the tourniquet of pressure, and who talked of Five's show, and who had only shaken her hand and kissed her cheek without emotion. Colonel Johnny, sad and caring and loving her as an uncle would a favourite niece. The boys, gruffly worshipping her and driving up the mountain in controlled silence and not knowing whether they were heading straight for a free-fire ambush situation, the cardboard city man and Jocko and Herbie.

'Not theirs, it's our business.'

There was at her broken mouth something that he had not seen before. It was the trace of shyness. Her eyes, red, pouched, squeezed between bright bruising, dropped. She kissed him back.

Bren said, 'If there is no hope and no light and no future then there is no point, no bloody point at all, in us being here…'

She kissed the words away from him. Then she pushed him gently back. She threaded the coat from his shoulders, and pulled the sweater over his head. She unbuttoned his shirt, pushed it off his arms. She loosed his belt, she reached to prise away his shoes and his socks. She reached up to the curtains and pulled them closed, and stiffly drew off her T-shirt. She took the flowers in her arms and lay down with them.

He took off his trousers and his shorts. She reached up a hand to him.

She pulled him down onto her. There was the wet cold of the stems on the sheet. Her shoulder crushed the chrysanthemum blooms, amber and gold. The petals merged in her hair, gold and red. The nakedness of her against him.

'I love you, Cathy Parker…'

Her legs close around his, pinioning him. Her mouth brushing his, welcoming him.

Later, she made him tea. Later, she went to the living room, and as he lay on his back he heard his message to her, that Song Bird wanted a meeting. Later, she took the battered flowers and put them in a water jug and carried them back to beside her mattress. Later, when she was dressed, he heard the sounds, metal on metal, sis she loaded the magazine into her pistol. Later, he had called to her that an emergency operations room was in place at Curzon Street, and that it was thought Jon Jo Donnelly was travelling back to the mountain.

He had told her that he loved her and she had not replied. But she had kissed him after she had made the calls and loaded her pistol, and heard him out,

She stood in the doorway of the bedroom. The calm was once more in her face.

'I love you, Cathy. I will never let you be alone again. I believe in the hope and the light and a future beyond this bloody place.'

'Come on, my pretty boy, let's go to work.'

'He comes back, we nail him, you go home.'

Вы читаете The Journeyman Tailor
Добавить отзыв
ВСЕ ОТЗЫВЫ О КНИГЕ В ИЗБРАННОЕ

0

Вы можете отметить интересные вам фрагменты текста, которые будут доступны по уникальной ссылке в адресной строке браузера.

Отметить Добавить цитату