In the Shadow of the Trees (22 page)

‘What, the IRA you mean?’

‘Members of Sinn Fein, we called ourselves, the political party. But yes, it was the IRA. There’s not much hope for the poor in Northern Ireland, except for false promises pledged by those two mighty institutions that rule their lives, the Church and the Sinn Fein. Between them they’ve managed to put a strangehold on the whole nation.

‘So, it was Mass every morning with my mother, then the secret knock on the back door at night and my father and uncles would be away. They never said where they went but there were always headlines in the papers the next morning. It was no time before my brothers started going with them. Sean, he was the eldest, he went out one night and never came back. Men in black balaclavas fired guns over his grave—a salute to a dead hero, they said. His death only served to fuel the hatred, and the Church, as usual, stood back and looked the other way.’

‘And you joined them? You were part of it?’

‘No, I wasn’t. Of course I was swept along with the ideology, the fanaticism. I knew nothing else. But when they discovered I had a brain, the only one in the family it seems, they had other plans for me and I was exempt. I was put to schoolwork, then entry for university. So while my brothers built road blocks and hijacked cars, I studied maths and history.’

‘And you went to Dublin?’

‘No, it was Cambridge, England. A special scholarship they persuaded me to go in for. Some daft notion about Cambridge’s connections with the British government. I was to be a hero, too, an infiltrator. Only it didn’t work out like that.’

‘Why, what happened?’

‘When you live all your life in a cesspit you grow up thinking the whole world smells of shit. I’m not saying the dreaming spires don’t generate their own academic crap, but at least the odour was sweeter. And I was reading history, Irish history in particular, and the Famine. What I learned was not what I’d been taught. Yes, the British had a lot to answer for, but there was plenty to lay at our own doorstep. It was really about the rich bleeding the poor. There was many a wealthy Irish landowner filling ships with corn and beef to line his pockets with English gold, while his neighbours died in a ditch. And many an English child kept body and soul together by slaving in a factory built with money extorted by Irish landowners for their English overlords. I also learned that hatred breeds hatred and religious brainwashing isn’t limited to minor cults.’

‘So what about your family?’

‘Each time I went home I felt more alienated from them. In the end I stopped going and they wrote me off. All except my brother, Devlin. Two years younger than me so we were close as kids. He came to visit me once in Cambridge and then, when I moved to Dublin, we saw a lot of each other. He’d doss down at my place for weekends and we’d do the pubs.’

‘So you did go back to Ireland?’

‘Southern Ireland, yes. After I’d graduated I got a teaching post at the University College of Dublin, specialist in Ireland and Britain in the Middle Ages, twelfth-century religious and intellectual life, and the mythology of the Celts.’

‘So, you really are an expert in this stuff?’

‘Yes, but it sounds more impressive than it is. Anyway, I lived in Dublin, I was even married for a while but it didn’t work out. Then, three years ago my mother died and I went home for the funeral. Devlin was there, of course, with his wife and three kids. Next day he took me for a drink and introduced me to some of his mates. Oh, I was aware he was still involved with the Cause,
but I hadn’t realised how deep it went.’

‘I thought it was all over by then. Wasn’t there a ceasefire?’

‘It’s never over. It’s in the bone and the blood. There were those who wanted the treaty destroyed because violence was the only way they knew how to live. When Devlin was eight years old he was patrolling the Falls Road with a brick in his hand looking for an English car window to lob it through. Our father, who taught him that little trick, said there was no way soldiers were going to open fire on the kids. It’s handed down, generations upon generation. You can’t stamp out that sort of indoctrination with the wipe of a pen.

‘Anyway his mates got talking and through the drink things were said that I wasn’t supposed to hear. In Gordon Street there’s a bar called the Retreat—late-night licence, disco, ecstasy supplied by the bouncers, you know the sort of place. Saturday night and it’d be full of kids out for a good time, no different from the kids I’d be tutoring on Monday morning. A car bomb, that’s what they’d planned. Not very original but security levels had relaxed by then and, in all probability, they’d have got away with it. The carnage would have broken the ceasefire beyond redemption and the whole merry-go-round would have started up again. I had to make the phone call.

‘Come Saturday night Gordon Street was crawling with army and police and the bomb was defused. Then they went after those responsible. Shots were fired and some were taken prisoner. Devlin was the only casualty. Dead on arrival.’

Liam fell silent. Moonlight caught the wet streaks running into his beard. Those were private tears and I didn’t intrude, but my hand slid across to his and he grasped it as if it were the only thing holding him together. I waited and an owl swooped from a nearby tree, preying on some small creature. Its life was taken swiftly and without a sound.

Eventually Liam spoke again.

‘Oh, they knew it was me all right. Do you know what they
do to traitors? No, and you wouldn’t want to. I had a friend in Dublin, a good friend, he’s another historian. He helped me to get away, got things from my flat, passport and stuff. I had to take money from him as my credit cards would be too easy to trace.’

‘Was he the friend you emailed? The one who sent you that stuff on Ireland?’

‘Yes. I’ve never phoned him, they could tap into it. But we keep in touch through emails because they’re easier to disguise. So it was the ferry to Liverpool then the Channel tunnel to France. Germany, and from there a plane to Australia. Then here. Casual jobs, labouring, busking for the fair.’

‘And you happened to stumble on this place.’

‘No, not quite. I’d picked up rumours about the Sullivans and their family history. Couldn’t resist a bit of hands-on research—old habits die hard. I hadn’t reckoned on you being here.’ He wiped his face with his hand. ‘That’s all of it, I think.’

‘And the gun? What about the gun?’

‘Bought it from one of the travellers. No I don’t have a licence, and yes I do know how to use it.’

‘All that stuff about stone circles on the website, did you write that?’

‘God no, that was one of my students, part of his research. But I remembered reading it.’

‘And the PIN, the one to access the university records? Is that traceable?’

‘If anyone from the organisation is monitoring the university computer, and they may be for several reasons, it would alert them to the fact that I’d been there. I doubt they could trace the exact origin of the contact, though they might be able to identify the country and know where to start looking.’

‘But you took that risk? For me?’

‘I doubt they’d even bother now. Especially not this far away. More to do with me being paranoid.’

We both fell silent, each caught in our own thoughts.

Then there was a sound from the house. Sullivan came down the deck steps. He hesitated a moment and looked around, as if trying to get his bearings, but I don’t think he noticed my truck. He lurched off towards his Jeep. A moment later we heard the engine fire and the vehicle drove off along the lake path.

‘I wonder where he’s off to,’ I murmured.

‘Oh, he’ll be heading for Maggie’s place. You’ve been keeping the man from his drinking—usually he’d be there by now. We won’t see him again for a couple of hours.’

‘I was just thinking about you and old Michael Sullivan. How you both came from Ireland, both running away from something secret and violent, something evil, passed down through family generations.’

‘“The sins of the father…” That sort of thing?’

‘It’s true for the Sullivans. It followed them here and it’s still happening. And you’re still looking over your shoulder, aren’t you? Does it ever end?’

He sighed. ‘Here, you’d better have your keys back. What do you want to do now? Shall I stay in the truck or go?’

Another silence. Every pulse of my body wanted to reach out to him, and yet…

I was trapped between the two of them, Liam and Sullivan. No, there were three; there was also the Watcher, the thing that walked among the pines, that crawled inside my head and made me dream. I didn’t doubt it was real, but it wasn’t
physical.
It needed someone physical to work through. It took someone human to shoot Badger, someone human to put those mangled carcasses on the stone.

Sullivan was the hunter. But Liam was the one with the gun.

‘For Christ’s sake, Regan, say something, if it’s only to tell me to bugger off.’

‘You said you had something to show me?’

‘Oh, yes. It may mean nothing but…Well, come and see for yourself.’

W
ell, what am I supposed to be looking at?’

Liam nodded towards a clump of bushes. I didn’t get it. So I moved closer, walking round to see what I’d missed.

‘No, sorry. Just some branches.’

But then, as I took another step, moonlight caught something behind the leaves. It was shiny, metallic. I pulled a branch back and it came away in my hand. It wasn’t a bush but a pile of cut limbs laid over something. Liam pulled more leaves away and exposed what they must have been put there to conceal.

‘It’s the young lad’s bike, isn’t it?’ he asked.

‘Yes, Jason’s. I rode on it a few times—I’m certain it’s the same one. But what’s it doing here?’

‘Didn’t he take it back to Auckland with him at Christmas?’

‘Well, I thought he did. He certainly arrived on it.’

‘And before that, when it was stored here, he left it in one of the barns where the tractors are kept. You haven’t seen him at all?’

‘No, not since Christmas,’ I said. ‘He could have arrived without me knowing, of course, though I’m surprised he didn’t come to the cottage.’

‘If he’d been driving about the place we would have heard the engine. So, why hide his bike like this? And where the hell is he now?’

A dark thought gathered over me like a storm cloud.

‘Liam, you know I was in there with Sullivan a while ago?’

‘Did he say anything about this?’

‘No, but what he did say…Well, I told him I’d been to see Sarah and what she had said about him trying to murder her. And he didn’t actually deny it. What he said was…now let me get this right. He said, “No, I couldn’t hurt Sarah. That’s the irony of it, you see, I tried
not
to kill her.” ’

‘As if something else was trying to make him do it?’

‘It could have been. Oh, God, you don’t think the…the whatever it is…might hurt Jason, do you?’

‘There’s no telling what it might do. Sullivan may have managed to fight it with Sarah, but that was before he took to the drinking. What was he like when you left him?’

‘Upset, angry. He’d been talking about his father, how he was obsessed with the land. “You must give it your best beloved then it will serve you well”—that’s what his father drummed into him. And that’s what Sarah said he called her, his best beloved. Then he said he didn’t want me to be harmed. Do you think he could have turned on Jason?’

‘What, sacrifice his son? Like Abraham and Isaac, you mean? It’s possible, I suppose.’

‘It could be that Jason’s in the house. We ought to take a look round while Sullivan’s out of the way.’

‘Jason could be anywhere. I’m not sure I give a damn about either of them, to be honest.’

‘We’ve got to do something, Liam, we just can’t leave him.’

‘Yeah, I suppose you’re right. Come on, just a quick look, then we’re out of here.’

The house was thick with darkness. Floorboards cracked with every footstep and the doors squeaked on their hinges.

‘Where’s the damned light switch?’ I’d no idea why I was whispering.

‘No, don’t turn on the lights. If Sullivan comes back he’ll spot it a mile away. I think he keeps a torch in the cupboard under the sink. Wait here.’

Liam fumbled his way down the hall, returning after a few moments with a circle of light that he kept trained close to the floor. The place looked no less intimidating but at least we didn’t bump into the furniture. We searched the ground floor: two large living rooms and the big kitchen as well as Sullivan’s dining-room-cum-office. All were equally dusty and neglected. Huge sofas and dressers crouched in the darkness like sleeping dragons. But no sign of life. And no sign of Jason.

‘The place is empty,’ Liam said, ‘we’re wasting time.’

‘He must be upstairs,’ I hissed.

‘You realise we’re trespassing?’

‘Oh, big deal. Here, give me the torch.’

‘Wait, all right, let me go first.’

Every stair groaned in warning of our arrival. At the top there was a long hallway with five doors leading off it, two each side and one at the far end. The first turned out to be Sullivan’s bedroom. Apart from the smell of stale booze there was nothing remarkable about it. The room next to it was a spare bedroom, the mattress stripped down and the furniture bare. Opposite Sullivan’s room we found a bathroom with a dripping tap and rusted tub, and a washbasin encrusted with generations of old soap. I could understand why Jason didn’t come home very often. Liam opened the door beside the bathroom, scanned the room with the torch beam, then stepped in and switched on the light. That was no problem: the windows were blacked out.

‘Jason’s darkroom. Sullivan told me about this. Fixed it up for his son when he was younger.’

‘Well, it’s obviously still in use. Look here, these trays are full
of chemicals. Someone’s been working in here recently.’

There were scraps of paper lying about, trimmings from a guillotine, but no prints hanging up to dry. The cupboards held the usual photographic supplies and equipment but told us nothing. I ran my hand round the edge of the sink. It came away wet. The room had been used within the last couple of hours.

There was one door left to try. I turned the handle but nothing moved.

‘I bet this is Sarah’s room. Sullivan told me he keeps it locked because Jason used to go in there. That’s where the mirror was kept. Apparently Sarah spent hours sitting in front of it, just staring. After she left, Jason took to hiding in there, probably trying to get close to his mother. I’ll bet that’s where he is.’

‘Try calling him.’

I laid my ear to the door and tapped gently.

‘Jason? Are you in there?’ No answer. I tried again only much louder. ‘Jason, it’s me, Regan. Please open up.’

Still no sound from inside.

‘It’s no good. You’ll have to break it down.’

‘What do you mean, I’ll have to break it down? How am I supposed to do that?’

‘Just throw yourself at it, for God’s sake. Look, he could be hurt in there or worse.’

‘Or he could be down the pub with Sullivan.’

‘Then why hide his bike? No, there’s something wrong, I can feel it. We’ve got to do something. Try the door, please Liam.’

He looked at me with that ‘there you go again’ expression, then rolled his eyes in defeat and said, ‘OK, stand back. I’ll take a run at it.’

From the other end of the hall he hurled himself full pelt at the door, bounced like a rubber ball off a brick wall, then stood doubled over, clutching his shoulder and cursing.

‘Oh, God, I’m sorry. It always works on TV.’

‘This is not a frigging film set.’

‘Could you try once more?’

‘No, I bloody couldn’t. Wait a minute, let’s think about this. We’re assuming Sullivan locked it from the outside. Which means Jason must be at least alive and probably conscious. So why isn’t he answering? But if Jason uses the room he would have a key of his own. That means he either has it with him, in which case he could let himself out, unless…Wait a moment.’

Liam dived back into the darkroom. I heard him slamming cupboard doors. He came back brandishing a key.

‘Logical place. Old Man Sullivan’s unlikely to go looking for it in a developing tank. Here, you hold the torch beam on the lock.’

‘But you reckon he’s not in there?’

‘I very much doubt it. However,’ he said inserting the key, ‘I never could resist the mystery of a locked room.’ He gave me a sly wink and twisted his hand. ‘There.’

Levers clicked and Liam pushed the door open. I stepped through, sweeping the beam around the walls. Jason wasn’t there. But I was.

I was everywhere.

Photographs.

On the walls, doors, over the bed, anywhere there was an inch of space. And they were all of me. Every photograph Jason had ever taken. Me working, lazing on a deck, drinking wine, me dancing, leaning on the rail of a boat. Small candles, night-lights, flickered around the room, making the pictures dance as if they were alive.

We both stood in silence, turning slowly, the images revolving around us. It was like being in a hall of mirrors in some crazy fairground, seeing myself reflected a thousand times, grinning and waving. There I was at the Christmas lunch table, spooning ice cream. But how come there was a picture of me working in the early morning? And there I was walking through the bush with Bramble.

‘Jesus, what the hell’s all this?’ That was Liam. ‘My God, it looks like some sort of shrine.’ He snatched down a picture of the two of us sitting under the huge tree. ‘I thought Jason went home on Christmas Day?’

I nodded.

‘But this was taken on Boxing Day. You remember we went for that walk? Look, there’s Badger’s wheelbarrow. And this one’s been taken at night. Did you know he was here then?’

‘No,’ I whispered.

I felt as if I were sinking through cold water and I began to tremble. I felt violated and degraded in a way that was beyond any physical assault. I could understand why some tribesmen are afraid of cameras, think they can steal your soul away. It was as if my essence were being sucked out of me.

‘And what’s this?’

Liam picked up a large print that was propped up on the dresser. Me, of course, at night, in the clearing by the stone. I was naked and smearing my body with something dark.

‘Oh, no. That was last night.’ I could barely form the words. ‘You were asleep. At first I thought I was dreaming. Then I woke up at the cottage again, in front of the mirror.’

‘You didn’t tell me. Why didn’t you wake me?’

‘It was awful. I felt ashamed. Unclean.’

Liam rubbed his hand over my shoulder.

In most of the pictures I was laughing or smiling. I didn’t know I smiled so much. Another time I might have been glad of that insight but right then it seemed as if I were mocking myself, as if it were all some, weird, schizophrenic joke.

‘Liam, this isn’t right.’

‘No, it’s warped, sick. What the fuck’s going on in his head?’

‘No, I mean
this
isn’t right. Look. The exhibition where Jason and I met. But we met at the opening. This was taken while it was being set up, at least three days before. And look at this.’

I pointed to a street scene, a pavement café where Sally and I were drinking coffee. Although the sun was shining we both wore coats.

‘I remember this. It was still winter. At least a month before Jason and I met. And this one. My hair is long but I had it cut ages ago. What does it mean?’

‘It means, my girl, that you’ve been set up. Young lover boy has stitched you up good and proper.’ He held me very tightly and pressed his face into my hair. ‘I think it’s time to go.’

This time there was no debate. We were down the stairs and into the truck, Liam throwing me into the driver’s seat. I fired the engine and released the brake while he was still climbing into the passenger side.

The wheel spun as I took us onto the lake path.

‘We’ll need to get our stuff. Lucky it’s all at the woolshed.’

‘No, I need my tools.’

‘We’re not going inside the cottage.’

‘No. They’re on the deck. What’s left inside can stay. But I can’t go without my tools.’

‘OK, but we stick together.’

I thanked God I was disciplined and kept my gear stored properly in its bag. Liam snatched it up while I grabbed one or two other things. Then I hesitated, looking at the two carvings under their cloths. Liam looked straight at me, his eyes like stone.

‘Leave it. Just leave it.’

‘The workbench.’

‘Is it replaceable?’

I nodded.

‘Then replace it.’

I didn’t argue. We were back in the truck and I circled it round the trees to the woolshed. Again we both jumped out and ran inside, leaving the engine running. I hadn’t unpacked my clothes and Liam threw his into the holdall and a backpack. With my computer and CD player and Liam’s fiddle it took a couple of
runs to get everything stowed. On the second trip Bramble came bounding up, hoping for a ride. I froze.

‘Liam, the dogs. We can’t leave the dogs.’

‘But they’re not ours.’

‘You saw what happened to the rabbits. God knows what he’ll do to them.’

A moment’s thought, and then, ‘You’re right. You keep Bramble in the truck. I’ll carry Badger, it’ll be quicker.’

I got back behind the wheel ready to go, with Bramble behind me, stuffing her wet nose down the back of my shirt. I turned round in my seat and leaned against the driver’s door so I could watch Liam through the passenger window. He crossed to the building, a dark silhouette against the light from the headlamps, and disappeared inside. A few moments and he would reappear, staggering with the weight of Badger in his arms.

A few seconds more.

If I counted to ten he’d be back.

One, two…I got as far as four.

The driver’s door was wrenched open and I tumbled out backward, gasping. A strong arm clamped my shoulders. Before I could scream something wet was slapped over my nose and mouth. The smell! Hospitals. Dentists. I tried to claw it away but my hands had lost all their strength.

There was a glimpse of moonlight then everything went black and the world fell away…