Jig (35 page)

‘I think so.'

‘And I thought I kept it hidden.'

‘Not very well.'

She passed her glass from one hand to the other. ‘Certain days. Certain moods. I'm not unhappy all the time. You catch me on a bad day, that's all.'

‘Maybe it's Roscommon at winter. I remember how it used to drive me stir-crazy as a kid.'

‘Maybe.' She sipped the whiskey. ‘I try to be cheerful for your father's sake, but it isn't easy. Sometimes I feel I've buried myself here in a large grey tomb and my whole life's come to a dead stop. But this is his home. How can I tell him I can't stand it here at times? How can I say that to him? It's not his fault I get into these moods. He tries very hard to make me happy.' She paused. ‘I didn't use to drink this way.'

Cairney said, ‘When Harry's better, why don't you get him to take you on a trip? Maybe you could talk him into a Caribbean cruise on that boat of his.'

‘I get seasick and I don't like ocean cruises,' she said. She raised the glass to her mouth and then, changing her mind, stuck it down on the table. ‘The last time we went anywhere I kept throwing up all the way from Maine to St. Barthélmy. I don't
want
to be unhappy. It seems so goddam ungrateful somehow.'

‘Harry wouldn't think so. You only have to tell him you'd like a change of scenery, that's all.'

She was quiet for a very long time before she said, ‘I took a trip to Boston last fall. Alone. The whole New England in fall bit. I drove through Maine and Vermont and Connecticut. Harry understood I needed to get away. I missed him, so I came home after a couple of days. But I need more than just getting away, Patrick. I don't think a change of scenery's going to cut it.'

She came very close to him now, looking at him in a searching way. He felt the air around him change. It was suddenly charged with electricity. He thought,
No, it's wrong, it doesn't happen like this
, but he didn't move out of her way.

‘There,' she said. ‘You're doing it again.'

‘Doing what again?'

‘Looking tense.'

She placed one hand against the side of his face. Her flesh was surprisingly cool. There was a fragrance from her skin suggestive of lime. Cairney didn't move. He shut his eyes. He felt the silk of her robe against his arms, the pressure of her small breasts against his chest, her hair upon the side of his face. He expected it, he knew it was coming, and he knew he ought to resist it, but the kiss took him by surprise anyhow, the movement of her lips against his and the way her fingers touched the back of his neck and the contact of her tongue against his. Dear God, it was easy to drift out into a dream, into an unreal world where there were no rules to govern this kind of situation, a place where Celestine was a perfect stranger to him.

Suddenly she stepped back from him. ‘Forgive me,' she said. ‘I didn't mean that to happen. I'm more drunk than I thought.'

He opened his eyes. The yearning he felt was intolerable.

‘I'm sorry,' was all he could think to say, cursing himself for his own weakness. He heard one of Finn's old warnings.
If you lose concentration, you're history
. He remembered the day Finn had said this. They'd been walking together close to the Martello Tower in Sandy-cove, where James Joyce had once lived. He remembered the seriousness in Finn's voice.
Concentration will save your life one day
.

He turned away from her and went quickly out into the hallway. What the hell was he
doing?
What was he playing at? He climbed the stairs and when he reached the landing he stopped, listening to the silences of the big house all around him. He had a driving urge to go back down again. Instead he went inside his bedroom and closed the door.

He checked his wristwatch. It was almost midnight. In a few hours he'd be gone from Roscommon. He'd be out of Celestine Cairney's life.

He took off his clothes and lay down with his hands tucked behind his head and just before he drifted into sleep it all came back to him, the touch of silk, her scent, the feel of her hair and the intimate warmth of her mouth. He realised, with an awareness that was painfully sharp and very depressing, that he desired the woman as much as he'd ever desired anyone.

He wanted his father's wife.

New York City

Joseph X. Tumulty stepped inside his office. He saw Zuboric dozing in an armchair. The FBI man opened his eyes as soon as Tumulty came in and squinted into the light from the desk lamp.

‘What time is it?' Zuboric asked.

‘Twenty past midnight.' Tumulty moved to his desk and sat down. He was glad to notice that his hands didn't tremble, that he'd somehow managed to control his nervousness. The idea that had come to him was inspired less by God than his own desperation. But he was in a position where the question
Why not?
didn't merit an answer. He simply had to do
something
.

‘Is Pagan downstairs?' Zuboric asked.

‘Yes.' Tumulty thought of Frank Pagan, dressed like a hobo and propped against the kitchen wall downstairs. When Tumulty had been shelling eggs to scramble for the morning breakfast, he'd been aware of Pagan watching him intently, his eyes two keen scanning instruments that constantly measured and analysed, studying the other men in the big room as they spread mattresses on the floor and started settling down for the night.

Tumulty leafed through a variety of invoices. He was conscious of the FBI agent observing him.

He said to Zuboric, ‘Paperwork. I used to imagine God's work would have nothing to do with bureaucracy.'

Zuboric grunted. He wasn't very interested.

Tumulty picked up a pen and began to make calculations on a scratch pad. When he'd written a column of figures that were utterly meaningless, he glanced at Zuboric again. The agent was looking at him blankly.

‘I'm hopeless at maths,' Tumulty said, in what he assumed was a lighthearted kind of voice. ‘I need a calculator. But all I could probably afford is an abacus, and I don't know how to work those things.'

The agent looked glum and uncomfortable in the armchair. Tumulty scribbled again. He hoped he looked like a man struggling over figures that would never add up no matter how hard he worked. He tore off the top sheet and began to write on the one underneath, conscious all the time of Zuboric watching him.

‘I don't know how the Chinese manage,' the priest said, smiling. Was this silly banter convincing the agent? It was hard to tell anything from Zuboric's face, except that the man was vigilant.

Tumulty pressed the pen down on the new sheet of paper. He would have to do this quickly. He muttered in the manner of somebody calculating as he wrote, but what he set down on the paper had nothing to do with sums of money. He ripped the sheet from the pad and crumpled it, setting it to one side. Then he tossed his pencil down and stood up, scooping up the crumpled paper and smuggling it into the pocket of his pants. He felt pretty damn good, but was he going to get away with it?

‘Ah, well,' he said. ‘I'm too tired to go on.'

He was sure Zuboric hadn't noticed anything, hadn't seen the writing on the piece of paper, hadn't caught him slipping the sheet into his pocket. The real problem would come later when he tried to pass the paper to Jig. But at least he'd committed himself to a course of action, a move designed to appease his conscience. Perhaps it was possible, after all, to serve both God and the Cause provided you fudged round some delicate ethical questions. And if God disapproved, Joseph Tumulty trusted that he could win forgiveness somehow.

At best, the piece of paper would be helpful to Jig. At worst, like an atheist on his deathbed turning to prayer, Tumulty felt he had covered all his bets.

Albany, New York

Houlihan's allocation of rooms at the Capital City Motel meant that Fitzjohn shared with Waddell, while Rorke and McGrath were together in the next room. Only Houlihan had a place to himself. Fitzjohn wished it had been otherwise. It was going to be difficult to leave because he wasn't sure that Waddell was sound asleep yet. Fitzjohn turned over on his narrow bed and looked across the room at his companion. Waddell's mouth was open and his eyes were closed, but every now and then he'd mumble and change the position of his body.

Earlier, Houlihan had convened a brief meeting in which he talked about an early morning departure. The destination was White Plains, New York. He wanted everybody to be up and ready to leave by six
A.M.
, which caused Rorke to grumble briefly. Houlihan had pointed out that this was no bloody vacation they were on and when he said six
A.M.
sharp he meant
sharp
. After that, Rorke had been very quiet.

‘What's in White Plains?' Fitzjohn had asked.

‘What does it matter to you, Fitz? You get off in Tarrytown, don't you?' Houlihan had pronounced the word Tarrytown as though it were a bad taste in his mouth. ‘You're going to be out of it. You've done your work. And we're all grateful.'

Houlihan hadn't looked remotely grateful, Fitzjohn thought. There was something just a little guarded in the man's eyes. The expression had struck a chord of concern inside Fitzjohn, and now he was glad he'd committed himself to leaving. If he didn't go now, he knew he wouldn't get another chance. The prospect of dying in Tarrytown, or anywhere else for that matter, didn't enthrall him. And he didn't trust Houlihan to let him go with a cheery farewell. Cheery farewells were not exactly Houlihan's style. The best you could find to say about Seamus was that he wasn't big on the social graces.

Fitzjohn sat upright. He stared at Waddell, whose hands were limp on his chest. Waddell's breathing was regular and deep, but he still made occasional sounds suggestive of a man deprived of oxygen on the ocean floor. Fitzjohn moved from the bed. He went to the closet and very quietly took out his holdall. Waddell chose that moment to kick his legs so abruptly that the blanket flew from his bed.

Fitzjohn saw Waddell sit up, grope for the blanket like a blind man, then draw it over his body once more. For a long time Fitzjohn didn't move. He listened to the sound of Waddell's shallow breathing. When he was absolutely certain the man was asleep, Fitzjohn reached for the door handle and turned it gently, then he stepped out onto the balcony. He noticed that the window of Houlihan's room was dark as he moved cautiously towards the stairs.

The motel bar was still open below. He turned up the collar of his coat against the biting chill of the night air, then he started to descend slowly. He looked towards the swimming pool. A cat slunk around the rim, then was gone with a rattle of leaves into the shrubbery. The whole night around him seemed like some large dark satellite dish that caught every noise, every movement, and amplified them.

At the bottom of the stairs he shifted his bag from one hand to the other. Now he had only to cross the pool area and he was gone.

He moved away from the stairs, passed the door of the bar, walked around the edge of the empty pool. He could see the road beyond the pink neon sign. The highway to freedom. New Jersey and home. He'd be safe there. Nobody would bother him again. Nobody would come looking for him.

He slid between a couple of parked cars and reached the spot where earlier he'd parked the Ryder truck. It looked luminously yellow under the pale lamps of the motel. Grinding his teeth nervously, he started to pick up his pace, walking away from the truck and heading for the road.

‘What's your hurry, Fitz?'

Fitzjohn froze. He heard the noise of something inside him slipping and crumbling.

Houlihan climbed down from the cab of the Ryder. Fitzjohn, filled with bottomless dread, watched him. It had never occurred to him that Houlihan would be in the truck. Such a possibility hadn't crossed his mind. But then he hadn't thought
any
of this through. He'd been impetuous instead of careful. Fool.

‘I just came down to fetch a map,' Houlihan said. ‘Wasn't that a stroke of good fortune?'

Fitzjohn's tongue was cold lead in his mouth. He wanted to speak, couldn't think of anything to say. The dread was worse now. It was a sensation into which he sank like a man swallowed by swamp. As he looked at Houlihan he was conscious of the highway at his back. He could run. He could just drop the bloody bag and turn and run because the darkness out there would cover him.

‘I thought you seemed a wee bit uncomfortable with all this.' Houlihan, smiling, made a gesture with his hand. ‘Marriage does that to some people. Makes them forget where they started out from. Puts soft ideas into their heads. You're not the man you used to be, Fitz. I've been thinking that ever since Quebec. You're soft. It's amazing you lasted this long.'

Fitzjohn had never felt this paralysed in his life. Why the hell couldn't he
run?
‘This isn't what you think, Seamus.'

‘No? I see my man leaving in the middle of the night with his bag packed and all – what am I supposed to think?'

Fitzjohn put the bag down. It occurred to him that a swift movement might take Houlihan off guard, a sudden kick, a punch. It might buy him a little extra time. The problem was how to get within striking range of Houlihan without making him suspicious. If it came down to a fair test of strength, Fitzjohn knew it wouldn't take Seamus long to overpower him. The key lay in speed and accuracy and surprise.

‘Are you going to tell me you didn't like this fine motel, Fitz? Are you going to tell me you decided to find yourself something more comfortable?'

Fitzjohn moved nearer to Houlihan. One swing, he thought. One almighty swing. ‘Let me explain,' he heard himself say.

Houlihan laughed. ‘Save your fucking breath.'

Fitzjohn lunged. It was a sad effort. Houlihan sidestepped and tripped him and Fitzjohn went sprawling, colliding with the side of the truck. Dizzy, he slid to the ground and lay there looking up at the other man. Somehow his mouth had filled with blood. He must have split his gum when he hit the truck.