A Secret Worth Killing For

She reached the other side of the river, crossed and flitted down the steps onto the Thames pathway. To the right the Houses of Parliament, a mile or so ahead the boorish shape of MI6’s grandiose contribution to the London skyline and James Bond films. The monstrous palace of games.

The South Bank unshackled her. She took off her heels and, despite the constrictions of her skirt, broke into a jog. As the last neo-Gothic vestiges of the Houses of Parliament slipped from her eyeline, the building rhythm of her movement slowed her heartbeat. A sense of mission seeped down and reinforced her.

CHAPTER 8 (#ulink_a3329f21-5f51-5d78-ad4c-2a7db982f377)

November 1993

She’s told Mrs Ryan the bus to Cork leaves from BusAras at 8 a.m. To avoid seeing her or the kids, Maire creeps out of the house with her rucksack an hour earlier. Night is clearing to a biting crispness as the sun breaks through the late November fog.

The bus station’s less than a mile away but she takes a detour via Talbot Street, instinctively glancing back for prowling eyes. She tells herself not to be an idiot and heads for the junction with O’Connell Street. They’re picking her up outside the General Post Office – whatever the historical connections, at least they can’t miss it. Because of the early departure she’s half an hour to kill and finds a side street café to warm her hands over a cup of tea.

At 8 a.m. a sporty-looking car draws up and toots its horn. David leaps out and helps her into the cramped back. ‘Sorry,’ he says, ‘you’re the only one who’ll fit there.’

As they pull away, he does the introductions. ‘Maire, this is my friend, Rob.’ The driver takes one hand off the steering wheel, turns and offers it.

‘Hi, Maire.’ He doesn’t sound quite as posh as David but the nicely cut and brushed straw-coloured hair and green jacket suggest wealth.

She shakes the hand. ‘Hello, Rob.’

They head west, Rob driving too fast and David urging him to go faster. David swivels. ‘His choice of car, not mine.’ Rob grimaces.

The space in the back is so tight that even she, with her short legs, is forced to put them across the seat. She can’t help her face being close to the hair falling on his collar and has an urge to blow on the soft skin of his nape. In the rear-view mirror, she sees Rob now smiling. He turns to David, ‘Well, you said she was a looker.’

She glows. She realizes she’s never felt so well – her skin feels fresh, even the spots have gone. She feels the tyre of flesh around her waist – still there but tauter. Is that what love can do? She bats away the question. This can never be about that.

They drive past Maynooth, through Kinnegad and into Athlone, where David suggests stopping to inspect the dull, grey stone fortress by the river.

‘His culture only extends to wars and battles,’ Rob says as they stare up at it.

‘He doesn’t talk ’bout that with me,’ says Maire.

‘That’s because you’re broadening my horizons,’ says David.

‘About bloody time someone did,’ says Rob, winking at Maire. ‘Has he bored you with his rugby stories yet?’

‘Didn’t even know he played.’

‘Ah, the many talents . . .’ He stops himself, breaks into a chuckle and stretches out his left hand to slap David on the shoulder. ‘The many talents of the amazing Mr David Vallely.’

Then it’s on to Galway city for a bacon sandwich and, in deference to their notions of Irishness, pints of Guinness around a rickety wooden pub table.

‘So,’ Maire says, turning to Rob, ‘tell us more about the secret life of David Vallely.’

‘Now you’re asking.’

‘I wanna know. He never talks ’bout himself.’

‘What can I say?’ Rob reflects, looking fondly at his friend. ‘I’ve known this comedian for, let me see, twelve years off and on. It’s not been easy for him . . .’ He leaves the thought unspoken.

‘Did you know his ma and da?’ she interrupts, getting it.

‘Not his father, he died a while ago. His mother was lovely.’ He allows a silence to hang.

‘I’m sorry,’ says Maire, turning to David, who’s looking away, out of the pub window.

‘Anyway,’ resumes Rob, ‘in all that time, we’ve hardly had a cross word. There’ve been periods when he’s been travelling – he’s a bit of a hobo – but we just take up where we left off. Nothing changes.’

‘That’s great,’ says Maire. ‘Great to have a friend like that.’ Her voice tails off and she too stares out of the window, feeling her own aloneness.

‘Anyway’ – Rob’s eyes are trained on David – ‘after all that wandering, he looks settled now, doesn’t he?’

‘I am, mate,’ agrees David, ‘I really think I am.’

‘And about bloody time too!’ exclaims Rob, puncturing the moment of gravity.

They pass another castle, the gaunt ruins of Menlo, which David doesn’t inflict on them, and finally, in the early afternoon, the mountains of Connemara loom beneath a lowering late autumn sky.

‘I need to climb a hill,’ exclaims David. ‘You on, Maire? You said you’d like to.’

‘Yeah, I’m on.’ She glances at him, throwing a challenge, the car pulls up and he helps her climb out over the front seat.

‘Race you to the top,’ she says. ‘Loser pays all.’

‘OK, you’re on.’ He pinches her and grins.

Before the two men can move, she’s running through a springy field, splattering mud over her jeans. She finds a path along a stone wall and begins to climb, sheep watching her haste with incredulity. She hears them chasing her. ‘We’re coming to get you,’ yells David.

She forges on, flicking looks behind as they close. She reaches a gate, hops neatly over it and feels drops of rain on her hair. She looks up and the skies are blackening. She stops, closes her eyes, opens her arms, and feels a gush of water burst over her face. At the same moment, he’s behind her, throwing his arms around the fold of her waist, his body tight and hard against hers, breathing heavily.

‘OK,’ he says, ‘you win. Now let’s get the hell back to the car before we drown.’ He’s never held her like that before.

They reach the modest, pebble-dashed guesthouse in Clifden as dusk falls. A swirling wind beats rain against windows and the sea against rocks. The landlady recoils at the drenched, shivering arrivals.

‘Hot showers for you, then.’ She peers down at her reservations book. ‘A single and a double?’ There’s a question mark in her voice.

‘The single’s for me,’ says Maire.

A couple of hours later the rain subsides and they find a pub serving up easygoing food, a crackling wood fire, and a live band. It’s an out-of-season Saturday evening but the place is crowded with locals of all shapes and ages: wizened old peat cutters wearing black jackets matching the darkness of their stout mingling with ruddy-faced country girls displaying brightly coloured skirts and muscled calves.

With speakers turned up to deafen, the band strike up a jig. Maire motions David to the dance floor. She tries to set steps for him to follow but it’s a lost cause as he narrowly avoids her toes and grasps her instead in close embrace. The music ends and he leads her back to their table.

‘He sings better than he dances,’ Rob tells Maire with a curiously dull edge. He sees her notice and perks himself up. ‘Go on, get him on stage.’

‘It’s gotta be an improvement,’ she says. ‘His dancing’s shite.’

David glares at Rob but is too late to stop her skipping over to the band leader. She points to David and heads back towards the two friends. She sees them break off their conversation, still glaring at each other. The edge between them is odd – she assumes David’s embarrassed by his friend.

‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ announces the lead singer, ‘we’re joined on vocals by David from Dublin.’ David walks over and whispers in his ear. ‘And he’ll be singing for us that beautiful folk song which originated the other side of the Irish sea but we’ve adopted as our own. You all know it – “The Nightingale”.’