Now it was Sir Terence’s word against Bowman’s. A knight of the realm versus a confirmed terrorist and Chinese spy, one highly motivated to smear the decorated military officer in charge of the project he’d just infiltrated, and whom SIS had since linked to four prior Chinese espionage attacks in the past decade.
“Cavendish is going to get away with a slap on the wrist, isn’t he?” said Bridge. More of a statement than a question.
“Not even that. Exphoria looks set for success, and a little birdy told me he’ll retire as Lord Cavendish in the new year. No public interest in making a fuss.”
She turned back to the river. “So they boot him upstairs with a peerage, to get him out of the way. Lovely.”
“And what about you? Are you all packed and ready? Got everything you need?”
“It’s only Ireland, Giles. I’m not going camping in the Andes.”
He stood. “All the same. I hope you, um, well, not exactly have a good time, but you know what I mean, I think?”
She did.
87
GROUP: uk.london.gothic-netizens
FROM: [email protected]
SUBJECT: the death of shadows [Tenebrae_Z RIP]
sad news. our friend and fellow goffik netizen Tenebrae_Z recently passed away. tonight we raise a snakebite and black to the stubborn old bastard, and find ourselves wishing for just one more tale of automotive tomfoolery.
goodbye, my friend. you☺ll never know what you did for me, and so many others.
[in accordance with his family☺s wishes, no more details will be forthcoming]
--
ponty
// a wind of promise in an empty house //
Less than twenty-four hours later the thread was 143 posts strong, but Bridge had muted it immediately after posting. She had no idea what his family’s wishes actually were, but the Government’s were explicit. It would be impossible to go into any details of Declan O’Riordan’s death without revealing confidential information about Exphoria. O’Riordan’s family had been told he suffered a massive heart attack while walking by the Thames one evening, and simply fell into the river. The coroner’s report was ‘adjusted’ accordingly, and his body sealed from family viewing under the pretence of extreme damage and disfigurement from the water. All they received were his personal effects.
Bridge had never been to Ireland before. Driving across the country from Dublin, she marvelled at how beautiful the landscape was. Completely different to France, especially the Lyon of her childhood, but every bit as lovely, and extraordinarily green. Ten had never spoken about his childhood. Until his death, she hadn’t even known he was Irish.
The cemetery was atop a hill outside the town where Ten’s widowed mother now lived, after returning here from Dublin following her husband’s death. That’s what the records said, anyway. Bridge wasn’t insensitive enough to call on the family and introduce herself.
The old graves stood in front of the church, nearest the car park, weathered and beaten by the centuries. Names and dates faded to impressions so faint, only the ghosts could read them now. Crumbling angels clung to broken crosses, praying with their half-eroded hands. One reached for the sky as if struggling to return to heaven, to escape the climbing, winding plants that bound it to the earth.
Ten’s grave was behind the church, in the modern section where headstones were thick, sharp-cornered, and whole. A fierce wind swirled around the hill, and Bridge was glad of her long woollen overcoat. This coat had seen many a graveyard over the years, mostly at two in the morning with a bottle in her hand, and she imagined Ten would approve of the way its hem pooled on the ground when she crouched to place a deep crimson rose in his vase.
Standing, she had an urge to say something, anything; to apologise. He may have known Bridge worked for SIS, but when he arranged a meeting by the Thames with Marko Novak, he had no idea what he was getting into. What Bridge had unwittingly got him into.
But even here, in a cemetery atop a wind-blown hill in the green divinity of western Ireland, she couldn’t bring herself to speak to a spirit she knew didn’t exist. Seeing Adrian in Syria was an effect of her subconscious coping with trauma, nothing more. His body was out there somewhere in the desert, while Ten’s was here in the ground, and both were nothing more than that.
Bridge saw movement at the edge of her vision, and looked over her shoulder. Two women turned the corner of the church, heading this way. She had to get back to Dublin for the ferry, anyway. She took a breath, said a silent, sad farewell to the headstone, and walked back.
The cemetery pathways were narrow, so she cut sideways between two headstones to make way for the women, whom she took to be a middle-aged daughter helping her elderly mother along the narrow strip of grass. Bridge saw a hint of disapproval in the middle-aged woman’s expression, and supposed it was because taking the shortcut risked stepping on a grave. Then she recognised the woman’s necklace, and quickly turned away.
Halfway back to Dublin she pulled over to the side of the road, lit a cigarette, and cried.
88
“You wanted to see me?”
“I should coco. Come in, have a seat.”
“Which one?”
“Oh, take your pick. I’ll get you a coffee.”
Giles Finlay’s new office was twice the size of his old one, and occupied a coveted corner spot in the labyrinthine Vauxhall corridors. In addition to the usual chairs opposite his desk it also had a small leather sofa and a kitchen stool at the back of the
