Mary Ann muttered by her side, “Got any more fags?”
Paddy nodded at her bag.
“Finished,” said Mary Ann.
“We’ll stop in a minute and get some.”
Merki was back on form, no doubt about it. In perfect house style he reported that the police had found the gun used to shoot Terence Hewitt in the head, execution-style. Contrary to previous reports it wasn’t an IRA gun and they were now certain that the murder wasn’t anything to do with the Troubles in Northern Ireland. The gun had been found near the scene of the crime, and police ballistics had confirmed a match with the bullet used to kill Terence. They were now looking for a lone gunman and robbery was the suspected motive. The report was headlined as an exclusive.
“What’s this?” Mary Ann was trying to read it over her shoulder.
“In a leap and a bound he was free,” said Paddy. “The guy who wrote this hasn’t had his name on an article for ten months. He’s ambitious though. An unscrupulous source could get him to write that the Queen was a man if he thought it would get his career out of the toilet.”
She folded the paper in half and threw it onto the backseat.
III
Mary Ann cried in the car as they sat outside the convent, smoking in the dark. She tried to talk to Paddy but her feelings came out as a jumble of unconnected half sentences, absent verbs and missing nouns making a nonsense of a painful but familiar story of thwarted love. Paddy didn’t want to question her or make her clarify what she was saying; she did want to know the details but flinched from prying. At the same time, she suddenly felt she had her sister back, a woman who was the same age as her, instead of a child Bride of Christ who believed in miracles and fairy stories.
Paddy watched as she walked off to the convent gate, pressing the illuminated doorbell and giving her a last longing look as she waited for the answer. Mary Ann looked so pretty suddenly, with the ivy on the convent walls curling up around the door to frame her, her short blond hair lit from behind by the light on the buzzer; even the plain dress with its dowdy shirt collar and nasty buttons looked nice.
The door opened and the convent swallowed her once again.
Paddy drove away down the hill towards the West End. Stopped at a light, she imagined Mary Ann coming to stay with her, leaving the crushing gray conformity of the Church, and a flare of burning exultation exploded in her chest.
She threw her head back and screamed her sister’s name.
IV
She left the radio off, the television off and the door to her study open so that she could hear any noise at all outside the front door. Michael Collins wouldn’t come back, she knew he wouldn’t, not tonight anyway, although her instinct to scan the horizon for tigers had been strong since Pete was born. Every sharp corner, every fast car was a potential assailant. It made her police him and nag and put anything dangerous up high, and now write an inflammatory column about the Troubles with one ear to the door.
They’d left all of Terry’s things in the hall, keeping them separate in case the lawyer asked for them back. She’d moved the silver trunk behind the front door so that anyone breaking in would need to push it along the floor before they could get in. Even so, she’d sleep with her door open tonight.
Having finished her column, she got it down to within five words of the word count so the editors didn’t have the scope to chew it up too much, and lifted the phone to call it in. The male copy taker took her column down for her, clarifying a couple of lines, correcting her punctuation once with a polite question. When she was finished she thanked him, pretended she did remember him from Father Richards’s leaving do years ago, and hung up.
She should clean up the kitchen and get Pete’s gym kit ready so she didn’t have too much to do when she woke up in six hours’ time. She stopped for breath in the dark hallway, listening for the rhythm of Pete’s breathing but getting Dub’s narrow whistle instead. Terry’s portfolio was leaning against the wall with the yew box at its foot. She picked them up and took them into the kitchen.
Putting them both on the table, she went to Dub’s food cupboard and took out the giant jar of peanut butter, scooping a spoonful out and sticking it in her mouth before she could think about it, rolling her tongue around the spoon, savoring the salty sweetness, promising herself that she wouldn’t have another. Except one. She rolled the spoon around the inside of the jar, getting a gravity-defying spoonful and eating the top off it so it didn’t spill while she was fitting the lid back on.
She sat down. Terry’s box was lovely, well crafted and made from thick, flawless wood. She opened the lid. It was lined with lilac velvet, faded over time to a crisp brown. Most of the photos were of Terry, as a baby, as a toddler in a garden, Terry at Pete’s age standing proud and stiff in a brand-new school uniform, Terry as a chubby teen with his hair over his eyes, drinking Coke and laughing. The photos stopped abruptly when he got to seventeen, when his parents died. There were photos of his parents and some older ones, black-and-white, of an old lady grinning by a large oak mantelpiece, of his parents’ wedding. His mother had a bob and a shy smile. At the bottom of the box were small nameless mementos: a newspaper cutting about a school play with Terry’s name underlined, a cat collar with a flattened tin bell on it, a tiny piece of green ribbon holding two matching wedding bands together, his and hers.
His parents had died in a car crash. She kissed the dusty strip of ribbon and felt sad, whether for them or for him she didn’t know. If she’d been honest she might have admitted it was for him.
These were his most important family memories, she realized, which meant that the worn brown folder Fitzpatrick had in his office had something altogether different in it.
She dropped the pictures back in the box, shut it, and wiped the lid with her hand, setting it gently on the chair next to her, and turned to the portfolio.
It was black, graying because of the dust from the high-up cupboard in the flat, an exact copy of Kevin’s portfolio. Maybe they had bought them together. Terry always liked stationery. He used Moleskine notepads when he traveled-they’d found a box of the battered notebooks in the trunk.
She unfurled the elastic strap and opened the portfolio, slipping the sheets of photographic paper out of the cupped side and setting them flat on the table. A small Moleskine pad was tucked in at the back. Flicking through it, she read Terry’s jittery shorthand and realized that these were notes of the interviews of all the photo subjects, numbered up to forty, dated variously over a month last year. She looked back at the pictures. Senga- New Jersey. Billy- Long Island. The others were without the accompanying text, just bare photos, but they each had Kevin’s touch. Brilliant crisp light, sharp colors and a person in the foreground, smiling or not, beautiful or not, all relaxed, all honest and open faced.
There was one black face, a woman with an aristocratic African profile, standing on the sunny side of a long, narrow street of red-brick tenements in New York with fire escapes snaking up them. Quartz specks in the tarmac glittered in the sun. Her smile was crooked, as if she was trying to hide her teeth, and her hair was pulled up into waspish yellow and black braids that swirled around her head.
Whoever the woman was, Paddy assumed she’d made a happy transition to the States. There were so few black people in Scotland that the two black Glaswegians she knew of were minor celebrities. One was an academic from the West Indies who taught at Glasgow University and had married a fellow linguist. Another, younger man worked as a sound engineer for Scottish Opera and drank in the Chip. Kevin’s woman looked African and Paddy assumed she had been adopted by a well-meaning Scottish couple and escaped as soon as possible. She looked very young to be an expatriate.
Paddy was looking at the photo when her eye caught a detail in the background. If the picture had been smaller or the image less sharply defined by the slanted light in the street she wouldn’t have noticed it.
Michael Collins had been thinner then. He was two hundred yards behind the woman, leaning over the roof of
