Bog Child (18 page)

‘What is it?’ Fergus whispered. ‘What’s in there?’

Owain put his hand in. Fergus gasped. He pulled on a strip of polythene. As Owain drew it out, dozens of small neat sachets erupted, silver, with perforated edges, spangling the light like square coins. Following them came green oblong sheaths with small dots going around in a ring–
Mon-Tue-Wed-Thur-Fri-Sat-Sun
chased around the edge.

Fergus swayed, gripping the rock. ‘Christ alive.’

‘Bloody Nora.’

‘Condoms.’

‘And the bleeding Pill,’ Owain laughed. ‘Microgynon.’

Fergus bent double, choking. Owain thumped him hard on the back. He spluttered, spat, groaned.

‘You’ve been fucking teasing me,’ Owain hooted. ‘All along. You bloody bog-eyed Irish taig. I’ll give you a bollocking.’

Fergus screeched, half squealing. He slid off the rock, sending the packets at his feet flying. ‘Condoms!’ He clutched his side. ‘
Selling condoms tuppence a pair
. Michael Rafters, I will kill you. You bastard. Condoms.’

Owain gave his shoulder a playful kick. ‘You didn’t know?’

‘No.’

‘You really thought it was Semtex?’

‘Yes.’ Fergus grabbed the stitch of relief in his side, hobbled up to his feet, then collapsed against the rock with sobs of laughter. Tears of relief rolled unchecked. He felt Owain’s arm across his shoulders. The two of them swayed and squealed like two stuck pigs.

‘You’ve been had, Fergus.’

‘I know.’

‘What’s in the other?’

‘Let’s find out.’

Owain quickly opened the second packet. A typed list floated out, then a roll of punts. They fell about, laughing like clowns. A magpie cackled along with them. Sheep baaed as if affronted. Then the rumble of a distant truck brought them to their senses.

‘Quick. It’s the chaps relieving me. Put all this stuff back in the bag and go, Fergus.’

Together they scrabbled on the ground, pouring the contraceptives back into the ripped jiffy. Fergus stuffed them down his front, hoping they wouldn’t spill. Owain slapped him on the back.

‘Bye, Ferg.’

‘Bye.’ They grinned at each other. Fergus turned and ran, gripping his belly as if he’d a stitch. He turned round to see Owain wave his rifle. ‘You bloody bog-eyed Irish taig,’ he called. Then the truck came up. Fergus swerved into the verge, crouched, and after it had passed, jogged on.

Michael Rafters
, he thought.
Am I going to pay you back for this. Am I going to thump you.
He got back to the Forestry Commission and stopped at the tyre. He poured out the condoms and pills and arranged them all around the rim. The bag with the inventory and punts he kept on him.

Then he crept among the pine needles to a dip in the ground. He crouched down, pulling some ferns over him for camouflage, and waited.

He watched the grubs and listened to the thrupping of finches.
You and me. We’re like two rats in two cages looking across at one another
. His brother Joe was dying. Cora was on her way. His own future was restored, not by any virtue of his own, but by a trick. It didn’t matter. He was free again, poised for sweet revenge. He listened out for the sound of Rafters’ Triumph. The smell of pine cones intoxicated him. The shadows of the fir trees were alive with secrets.

Thirty-seven

After an hour by Joe’s watch, there was an unexpected sound: the rusty squeak of bicycle brakes.
Rafters on a bike?
Then the crack of a twig.
Rafters on foot?
And then the man himself, less of a panther today, more of a hound on the scent. Fergus saw the glossy back of Michael Rafters’ leather jacket, bending low, then a hand reaching down into the tyre.

He sprang out of the dip, sending the fern branches flying. Launching himself at Rafters’ back, he sent the man sprawling over the tyre. He pounced on top of him. Rafters jerked and twisted. They rolled over. Fergus felt his forehead slap the tyre’s rubber and an elbow dig into his Adam’s apple. He grunted and swung himself back on top. He rammed his forearm over Rafters’ throat. In the mayhem, the silver pouches of condoms skidded and hopped on the ground. Microgynons rattled in their packs. A grouse squawked out of a thicket.

‘Bastard.’

‘Fergus—’

‘Lying toe-rag.’

Rafters struggled, but the summer of training had made Fergus wiry. He bunched a fist with his hand and brought it right up to Rafters’ nose. Rafters tried to knee him in the groin, but Fergus jerked upwards, then slammed his side down so hard that Rafters was pinned fast.

‘You and your bloody packets,’ he yelled. ‘I’ll throttle you.’

Rafters’ body flattened out with surrender. ‘OK. I get the message. I’m sorry.’

‘Sorry?’

‘Yeah. What else am I supposed to say?’

Fergus shook out his clenched hand. ‘OK. You’re sorry.’ He got to his feet. Rafters made a move to get up and speak again, but Fergus kicked earth and pine needles over his face. ‘Sorry isn’t enough.’

Rafters rolled onto his stomach and spluttered out the dirt. Fergus watched, arms folded. ‘Got a cough, Mr Dung-heap?’ Then he got the other packet out and flicked the edges of the punts between his fingertips. ‘Condoms, Dafters. The Pill. Since when did the IRA make bombs out of contraceptives?’

‘Yeah. Well. You and me, we’ve kept half the female population of Inchquin from being up the pole.’ Rafters sniggered. ‘Better than bombing the Brits out of the place, if you ask me.’

‘
We three kings of buggered-up Eire, selling condoms, tuppence a pair…
I never could remember the next line.’

‘I don’t think there was any more.’ Rafters brushed down his front and perched like a gnome on the rubber rim of the tyre. ‘D’you want a fag?’

‘No. Just tell me why.’

‘Why what?’

‘Why you got me involved.’

‘You want to know?’

‘Yeah. Couldn’t you have driven over the border with your condoms and pills and flogged them over there? Why ask me to do it?’

Rafters chuckled. ‘I did. Until three months ago, back in May, I hit a problem.’

‘What problem?’

‘A bollard.’

‘A bollard?’

‘A bollard in Roscillin, near the roundabout, right outside the police station. I was driving home from the club.’

Fergus stared. ‘Your TR7?’

Rafters looked pained. ‘Smashed.’

‘Jesus. Tragic.’

‘Telling me. Then the police came out and breathalysed me. I got banned from driving for three months. The bastards.’

May, June, July
. Fergus started giggling.

‘Don’t you laugh, Fergus McCann.’

‘How’s the Triumph? Not a write-off?’

‘No. Thanks to this little bit of cross-border cooperation, it’s now fixed. Hallelujah.’

‘Cross-border cooperation?’

‘My Inchquin contact, don’t you know, says I’m the local hero. It’s the Third World down there. The local doctor won’t prescribe the Pill in a month of Sundays. And the shops don’t sell condoms for fear of the local priest.’

‘Who’s your Inchquin contact?’

‘Shush. Can’t say. But he refuses to drive over the border on account of having Form.’

‘Form?’

‘You know. History. With the Provos.’

‘Oh.’ Fergus took the elastic band from around the money and started counting. ‘You’re a mean tyke, Michael Rafters. You could have cut me in. There’s nearly a hundred punts here.’

‘Yeah. Well. Call it my revenge, not cutting you in.’

‘Revenge? What for?’

‘Throwing up over my shoe. Remember?’

‘I didn’t throw up over your shoe.’

‘You did. The time we went carol-singing. You got drunk on the Bulmers.’

‘That was years ago.’

‘Yeah. But the spew was spectacular. Besides, if I’d cut you in, I’d never have got my Triumph fixed. Or had my holiday.’

‘Your holiday?’ Fergus stared at Rafters’ bronze complexion. So much for the notion that he’d been off doing military training.

‘Marbella. Very nice.’

‘Bastard. I’ve been up and down that mountain with those bloody packets, dodging the soldiers. And all along, you were having me on. About killing the soldier up there. Not to mention what you promised about Joe.’

Rafters winced. ‘I’m sorry about that. But just so you know, I really did speak to somebody.’

‘You did? Who?’

‘Somebody I know. In the high command.’

‘What did they say?’

Rafters shook his head. ‘Nothing doing.’

Fergus put the elastic band back around the money and tossed it over to Rafters.

Rafters caught it, grinning. ‘Go on. Take twenty. Thirty.’

Fergus paused. Rafters held out the notes.

‘Go on. Buy something to cheer yourself up.’

Fergus was about to say no, then he thought of the state-of-the-art running shoes he’d be able to buy. ‘OK.’ He pocketed the money.

Rafters started gathering up the strewn packets. ‘You know, Fergus, you surprised me.’

‘Why?’

‘All that conscience stuff. Getting matey with a squaddie. That from a McCann? Wonders never cease.’

Fergus shrugged. ‘We’re not all die-hards like Joe.’

‘So you aren’t. Hey, Fergus?’

‘What?’

‘Can you keep my operation secret?’

Fergus snorted at the word ‘operation’. ‘It’s not illegal, is it?’

Michael seesawed his hand. ‘It’s not exactly legal, either. Besides, I’m planning to expand. Into other areas.’ He lowered his voice, his eyes scouring the pine trees. ‘Sheep.’

‘
Sheep?
’

‘Shush! There’s a packet to be made out of sheep. With the EU subsidies and all. Don’t tell your family, will you? Or anyone else in Drumleash?’

‘OK. But why not?’ Fergus remembered the boxes of fags he’d seen in Uncle Tally’s room. ‘Everyone’s at it, aren’t they?’

‘I don’t want the Provos getting on to me. Otherwise they’ll take half the profits.’

‘God. This place. It’s insane.’

‘Telling me. When I’ve earned enough, I’m emigrating. Permanently.’

‘Where to?’

‘Spain, of course. I fancy the sunshine.’

Fergus bent down and picked up the last few condom packets.

‘Keep them,’ Rafters said. ‘You never know.’

Fergus blushed, thinking of Cora. He shrugged, pocketing them along with the money.

‘Fergus?’

‘What?’

‘I’m sorry. I didn’t think you’d get so wound up. I nearly told you, that time on the bus. But the garage had just called that morning and said they needed another down payment for the spraying.’ He reached over and touched Fergus’s shoulder. ‘I didn’t think the strikes would last this long, Fergus. I thought Joe would be off it by now. I really did. I’m sorry.’

Fergus shrugged. ‘So’m I.’

‘You know what I call this place, when I’m being polite?’

‘No. What?’

‘A perforated Ulster.’

Fergus snorted.

‘And you know what I call it when I’m being impolite?’

‘What?’

‘A pig’s fuck. S’long.’

Rafters waved and strode off. Through the triangular edges of the trees, Fergus watched him retreat, his sleek figure gleaming as sunlight eked through. Fergus waited a minute, feeling the smooth mini-parcels in his pocket.
A man for the main chance is right
. Then he followed. At the Commission’s boundary, he breathed in the morning’s freshness and trotted downhill, composing the rest of the condom song as he went:

We three kings of buggered-up Eire,

Selling condoms tuppence a pair,

Ribbed or funky,

Thin or chunky,

They’ll blow you to sweet Kildare.

Thirty-eight

Then Brennor came. He stood in the doorway, his face in shadow. ‘How’s my little sister?’

‘Growing every day,’ I snapped. ‘How’s my little brother?’

Brennor’s glossy black hair was thicker than ever, his skin rosy. He was the only one in Inchquinoag that had so robust a look. He was only twelve but he had to stoop as he came through the door.

‘Is it true what they say?’ he said.

‘What?’

‘That you bring bad luck?’

I shivered. I looked at my bound hands. ‘I don’t know, Brennor. What do you think?’

‘You’ve never brought bad luck to me. Only good luck.’ He stood there, uncertain. ‘I’d take your place if I could, only I don’t think I’d like being hanged.’

‘Hanged?’

‘That’s what they’re going to do. Hang you.’

I felt cold fingers tightening at my throat. I shut my eyes but fear still stared me in the face. I imagined the fear as a stoat, hairs bristling. It snarled, then turned tail and left me. ‘You mustn’t worry, Brennor. I’m fine.’

‘Mel? If you meet Boss Shaughn on the other side, will you tell him something from me?’

‘What?’

Brennor tilted his head towards the rafters. I tried to see his expression but it was too dark. ‘Nothing. Goodbye, Mel.’

He left me as suddenly as he’d come.

Now everyone I loved had come to visit me. All but Rur. As the night hours slid towards dawn, I waited for him. Down on the sward, the watchers of the settlement clanged the morning bell. But still Rur didn’t come.

From somewhere the muffled peal of a bell woke Fergus up. He’d been waiting for something in his dream, he remembered, and the ringing meant time was up. He sat bolt upright. Daylight seeped through the curtains. The house was quiet. He worked out it was Tuesday.

Joe. Fifty-one days of starvation.

Cora. Today was the day.

Joe’s watch said it was 9:30. He hugged a pillow to himself.
Soon, sooner, soonest
. Whatever had been eluding him in his dream was surely on its way.

‘Fergus!’ Mam called from the hall outside. ‘Are you alive or dead?’

He dragged himself out of bed. ‘Alive,’ he replied. Then he muttered, ‘Just.’ He padded out into the hall, where Mam was at the other end, on her way out. She’d a bright scarf knotted around her chin and one foot out the door. Her face looked pinched, but there was something new stirring there, a sense of purpose. ‘There’s been an urgent call, Fergus.’

The bell in his dream must have been the phone ringing. Something tightened around his throat. ‘Joe?’

‘He’s the same. It was the prison chaplain calling.’

‘Oh. Him again.’

‘He’s got a proposal, Fergus.’

‘What? Another round of prayer?’

‘Shush.’ But Mam’s face fell into a smile. ‘I think this time it’s more than a prayer.’

‘Mam, the Dublin ladies. They’re coming today.’

Mam waved a dismissive hand. ‘You’ll have to see to them. I’m away. The Caseys have taken the girls off to the seaside. They won’t be back till late.’

‘Thank the Lord for small mercies.’

Mam smiled. It was her own phrase when minor domestic crises were averted. She nodded and closed the door after her.

Fergus ate three bowls of cornflakes. Then he aired the twin room, got the sheets from the press, and made up the beds with the hospital corners. He got the Windolene out and rubbed the mirror. He dusted the surfaces down with a damp rag. As he worked he played Stiff Little Fingers at top volume. ‘
You gotta suss suss suss suss suss out, Suss suspect device
,’ he crooned over the drone of the vacuum cleaner. The room done, he got out the Belleek vase again. This time, he snipped two scarlet dahlias in the front garden and arranged them. With the white and green of the fine bone china, they cut a dash. He hunted in the kitchen press for the caster sugar. His hand ranged through the mixed spice and almond essence and other baking things, but the caster sugar was nowhere. He put ordinary granulated sugar in instead.

The phone rang. He remembered how the last time he’d answered to Michael Rafters, hoping it might be Cora. Was it Cora this time? Or news regarding Joe? He whipped the receiver up to his ear.

‘
Yes?
’

‘Fergus? It’s me. Padraig.’

He breathed out, relieved.

‘You still there?’

‘Yep. Yo-ho, Padraig.’

‘Fergus, I’ve a panic coming on. The exams.’

‘What about them?’

‘The results are due out any day.’

‘Christ. I’d forgotten.’

‘How could you’ve forgotten?’

Fergus twisted the receiver wire around his fingers.
How?

‘Fergus?’

‘What?’

‘Forget I asked that. It was stupid.’

‘OK.’ Now Fergus came to think of it, the memory of the physics multiple-choice paper was like a vice clamping down on him. ‘Hell.’

‘Hell is right. I’m in a sweat.’

‘Me too.’

‘I thought up a joke. To keep us both cool.’

‘Oh, no. What?’

‘What d’you call a fella who used to be mad about tractors but isn’t any more?’

Fergus stared at the mouthpiece. The man was certifiable. ‘What old yoke of a joke is
that
?’

‘Go on. Have a guess. Staying cool’s a clue.’

‘Dunno.’

‘You’re gonna love this.’ A hee-haw came down the line. ‘An extractor fan. Get it?’

Fergus felt queasy. ‘Aw. Padraig.’ He folded over, gripping the hall table. ‘That’s p-p-p—’

‘What? Priceless?’

‘Pitiful,’ he screeched.

Padraig brayed like a demented donkey. ‘Stay cool, Fergus.’

‘Yeah. Will do.’

‘Bye.’

‘Bye.’ Fergus put the phone down. With a madcap friend like that, who needed enemies? he thought. He hugged himself. Soon, sooner, soonest, he’d be telling Cora the joke.

Twenty minutes later, the Dublin ladies arrived. They stepped out of the familiar Renault, brown from their travels, smaller than he’d remembered, their clothes a bit crumpled. The summer months had taken them in one direction and his memory in another. They looked more like sisters than ever, with Cora the taller. In his imaginings, Cora always had on a flowing dress and Felicity a safari suit. But today it was the other way round. Felicity wore a light-patterned sun-dress and Cora khaki trousers with a skinny black T-shirt. Her hair, instead of being lightened by the southern sunshine, seemed darker. Her expression was hidden by enormous sunglasses. She appeared to be gazing up at the roof of the bungalow as if it was a relic of a former empire. Felicity was frowning slightly. There was a whiff of a quarrel about them.

‘Hello there,’ he called from the front door.

‘H’lo, Fergus.’ Felicity smiled. ‘Your hair’s grown.’

‘S’pose.’ Fergus felt the ends and grinned. ‘You’ve brought the fine weather with you.’

He gave them a spare key and showed them to the twin room. Cora flopped on the bed, pushing the sunglasses up over her head.

‘So, Fergus,’ Felicity said. ‘We’re here to decide Mel’s fate.’

‘I thought she’d already met her fate,’ Cora said.

‘Her second fate, then. We’ve to decide what comes next.’ Felicity smoothed the coverlet on her bed. ‘How’s your mam keeping? Cora said she was busy visiting relatives?’

Fergus nodded. ‘She said to make yourselves at home.’

‘How’ve you all been?’

‘Fine. Thanks for the card.’ He looked at Cora. Her eyelashes fluttered.

‘It was nothing,’ Felicity said. ‘Come on, Cora. We’ve to dash into Roscillin straight away. Professor Taylor’s organized the meeting there. Can you join us, Fergus?’

Fergus thought of the phone, ready to ring at any time with news of Joe. ‘How long will it be?’

‘A couple of hours. That’s all.’

‘Then yes. I’ll come.’

Cora got in the back seat of the Renault, saying nothing. She sat to the side, propped up in the corner. She might as well have been on planet Pluto. Felicity chatted on as she drove. Fergus’s mind wandered.

‘What’s your opinion, Fergus?’

‘Sorry. What?’

‘D’you think we’d be better off burying her?’

‘Who?’

‘Mel, of course.’

Fergus felt foolish. ‘Maybe.’

‘I think the idea of displaying her is despicable.’ It was Cora’s voice, almost the first thing she’d said since arriving.

Felicity’s hands rose from the steering wheel. ‘Professor Taylor wants her in a museum case, for all to see. I want her kept privately, not for public view. In a few years’ time there’ll be all sorts of new tests we can’t do now. A burial would be a waste. Wouldn’t it?’

A burial would be a waste.
Fergus thought of cells breaking down, transforming themselves into other kinds of life. He thought of the plot under the great Scots pine. ‘I’m not sure,’ he said.

Nothing more was said. Sunlight streamed down as they drove around the lough. The water was clear and inviting.

‘Don’t people ever swim in it?’ Cora asked.

‘The lough?’

‘Yes. The weather’s warm enough.’

Fergus turned, smiling. ‘The water’s icy,’ he said, ‘in all weathers. It’s deep. And full of monsters.’

‘Ha-ha. I think I’ll try it later.’

‘You’d freeze,’ Felicity said. ‘I don’t want you going down with another cold.’

‘I won’t get another cold. Besides—’

‘Joe and I used to swim in it,’ Fergus said to stop the mounting argument. ‘But then we were nutters, the pair of us.’

‘Joe?’ Cora asked.

‘My brother.’

‘I didn’t know you had a brother.’

‘I have.’
But for how much longer?
Fergus stared out of the window, grimacing. Two white bombshells flew down and hit the water surface. The swans were back again.

‘Where is he?’

Fergus nearly said Rome, then thought better of it. ‘London.’ He turned round to face Cora. ‘The water gave us ice-cream headaches,’ he said. ‘You know. The kind where the top of your nose and temples hurt.’

‘Ouch. Maybe I’ll stick to the Mediterranean.’

The atmosphere in the car lightened, as if a fresh front had come in. They drove into Roscillin town.

‘We’re meeting in the main hotel,’ Felicity said. ‘Do you know it?’

‘The Roscillin Arms?’ It was a Protestant hangout if ever there was one. A Catholic wouldn’t normally be seen dead in the place. ‘It’s on the high street. You can’t miss it.’

‘Professor Taylor and I have prepared a slideshow in the conference room. Today and tomorrow afternoon we’re running over all the finds, discussing our theories. We’ve two government men coming up, one from Dublin, the other from Belfast. Plus we’ll be thrashing out where Mel should go now we’ve finished the investigations. North or south.’

‘Or underground,’ added Cora.

They got out in the hotel car park, round the back of the building. It gave onto a pretty garden that Fergus had never seen before. A well-kept lawn was dotted with young crab-apple trees. Around the edge ran a stream, over which two tiny wooden bridges beckoned.

‘Mam?’ Cora said. ‘Can I come in in five minutes? I want to see the garden.’

‘OK. There’s time. What about you, Fergus?’

Fergus grinned foolishly. ‘Maybe I’ll show Cora around.’

Felicity raised an eyebrow. The garden was minute. She smiled. ‘Fine. See you soon.’ She strode away, a black briefcase with golden clip-locks under her arm.

‘Anyone else walking into that hotel with that briefcase…’ Fergus said.

‘What?’

‘They’d be strip-searched.’

Cora stared at him. ‘You’re not serious?’

‘Yes. This hotel–it’s strictly a Unionist affair.’

‘
U
nionist?’ Her eyebrows nudged up against her fringe.

The way Cora had dragged out the ‘U’ of ‘Unionist’ was worse than her rolled ‘r’s. Felicity’s jaunty figure vanished around the corner.

‘Christ, Cora.’

Her arms were folded across her waist, but her eyes goaded him on. He made a grab, she dodged, feinted, then he caught her. Soon his mouth and arms and lungs and ribcage were full of her. A hard knot in his belly exploded. The old Cora was back, laughing and mocking him. He lifted her off the ground. She thumped his back and shook herself free. Next she’d scampered off over one of the little bridges. He chased after her, caught a handful of her T-shirt and pinned her to himself. ‘Cora.’

‘Fergus. Just the one.’

‘One good one?’

‘OK.’

The one good one over, Fergus fanned his face. ‘H’lo there, Kissus Maximus.’

‘H’lo there, Resumus. We’d better go in.’

‘OK.’ When they got round to the entrance, Fergus gripped her elbow. ‘Cora,’ he whispered, wiggling his eyebrows.

‘What?’

‘What d’you call a fellow who used to be mad-crazy for tractors and isn’t any more?’