Now and in the Hour of Our Death (34 page)

Davy laughed softly. A wee laugh was like the safety valve on a steam engine when the pressure built up. “I'm going to get there … somehow.”

He heard Eamon shift position before he said, “You'd need papers. A passport, driving licence, National Insurance Number or whatever they call it in Canada, money.”

“Aye. I might as well ask for a magic carpet while I'm at it.”

“Don't be so sure about that. We've some bloody good forgers. I'll…”

“Would you?”

Eamon laughed. “I told you I owe you one. When we get out of this, back to Tyrone…” He let the promise hang.

But the promise half-spoken was enough to make Davy forget that he was thirsty, dirty, tired out—no, he was exhausted—and crammed in a dark hole under the floor of the house of a couple of Republican sympathizers. He hugged the promise to him.

His stomach rumbled. Dear God, but he was hungry. As he drifted off to sleep, Davy wondered how long it had been since he'd been in the back of a lorry with enough meals in it to feed 180 men.

 

CHAPTER 29

VANCOUVER. SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 25, 1983

The meal was all but ready. On the kitchen table, two glass goblets held cold, freshly peeled, boiled prawns supported by beds of iceberg lettuce. On the counter, a pair of recently husked corncobs kept company with a panful of mushrooms and the makings of a green salad. Two Idaho potatoes were tinfoil-wrapped, ready to be popped into the oven. A bottle of a California Merlot stood uncorked, “breathing,” Tim called that, and a Chardonnay was chilling in the fridge.

All Fiona had to do was mix the olive oil and vinegar for the salad dressing. If Tim's plane from San Francisco was on time, and when she'd called Air Canada they'd told her it would be, he'd be in a taxi on his way to Whyte Avenue.

When he phoned on Friday night, horribly apologetic that he had been unable to call sooner, Fiona had been surprised at how relieved she was to hear from him. They'd chatted about inconsequential things, the weather in Vancouver, the great Irish pub, Harry Harrington's, Tim had found on Jones Street. He'd told her—told her three times—that he loved her and suggested that she meet him at Bridges on Sunday night. She had said, emphatically, that she'd cook dinner.

Neither one had mentioned her “ghosts,” as they now called her old painful memories, and she was grateful to Tim for that. Only one person could exorcize them, and that was her, and, she smiled, she was certainly starting to do that.

She was pleased with her decision of a week ago, strengthened this morning at the Aquarium, to let Davy back into her life so she could face him head-on, pleased to have recognized that by avoiding folks from Northern Ireland, she'd been trying to deny her heritage, and it was a heritage that she knew mattered to her.

Was she now ready to follow through on her new plan to phone Jimmy Ferguson and perhaps have a chat with Siobhan? Damnit, she asked herself, if she wasn't ready now, would she ever be?

Fiona walked through to the living room, took a deep breath, hunted in the back of her address book, took out the card Jimmy had given her, and dialed his home number.

Even after eight years in Canada, Fiona still found the single ringing tone odd. She waited to see if anyone would answer.

“Hello? Vancouver 555-2996.”

She'd know Jimmy's voice anywhere. “Jimmy? It's Fiona.”

“Fiona? Fiona Kavanagh? That's great, so it is. How're you doin'?”

“I'm fine thanks, Jimmy.” And so far she was, if she ignored the way her fingers were drumming on the top of the telephone table.

“Dead on. So are you and your doctor going to take a run-race over?”

She hesitated. Was she ready?

“Hang on.” She heard Jimmy shout, “Jessie, have we enough for five the night?”

Jessie was Jimmy's wife. Fiona had learned that the night in Bridges. Jessie's reply was indistinct.

“I've just had a word with the missus.” Jimmy sounded excited. “Can you and Doctor Tim be round about eight?”

She laughed and could guess Jessie Ferguson, like most wives from Northern Ireland, had probably snapped at her husband but, having had hospitality bred into her, had ground her teeth and said she'd whip up something.

“Whoa, Jimmy. We can't make it tonight.” And be honest, she told herself, she was glad about that, and not just because tonight was for her and Tim alone.

“Och! That's a shame, so it is.” She heard him shout. “They're not coming, dear.”

She could hear the disappointment in the man's voice and could imagine Jessie's relief.

“I'm sorry, Jimmy, but I did want to call and say it was great to see you last week. I'd not realized how much I've missed hearing people from Belfast.”

“'At's all right. Maybe some other time, like?”

She hesitated. Hearing Jimmy's Belfast accent, knowing what he had meant to Davy, she had thought that even talking to him would have made her uncomfortable, but it hadn't. Well, not very. “I'd like that.” She knew that she was nearly ready to face Jimmy and the part he'd played in her own past, but perhaps not quite yet. To forestall Jimmy suggesting a date, she said, “I'm really busy this week. Could I give you a call next weekend?”

“Could you not make it a wee bit sooner? Siobhan's away off back to Montreal on Friday, and I know she'd like for to see you, so she would.”

Damn. If she wanted to meet Siobhan, Fiona could see that she'd have to stifle her fears of the past. She'd done pretty well plucking up the courage to phone Jimmy, hadn't she? Go the next step, she told herself. Meet the Fergusons. “Could I call you back in a day or two?”

“Aye, certainly.”

“Thanks, Jimmy.”

“It'll be great to talk about home with someone, so it will … hang on a wee minute…”

Fiona waited and tried to make out what Jimmy was saying to someone.

“Siobhan's here. She'd like to have a wee word with you.”

“Hello, Fiona?” Fiona heard the same soft contralto she'd heard in Bridges. “Dad says I may not get a chance to see you before I leave.”

“I'd like to see you, Siobhan.”

“Look, Dad and Mum have to work during the day, but can you get free in the afternoons? Maybe just you and me could have a cup of coffee.”

It was important for her to talk to Siobhan, ask her about her Marcus, the British soldier who'd been sent in to infiltrate the Provos. Perhaps Siobhan wanted to talk about Davy and Fiona. “I've a free afternoon on Tuesday.”

It wasn't true. She'd no classes that afternoon but was meant to be meeting with Dimitris Papodopolous's family at two. She could reschedule. The principal and the bearded mathematics teacher had called a meeting for three. She felt guilty about missing these terminally boring affairs, but, damnit, Carnarvon Elementary could function for one day without her.

“Terrific. I still don't know Vancouver very well. Could you come here?”

“What time? I have the address on your dad's card.”

“Two?”

“That would be lovely … and, Siobhan … I hope you don't mind but…” Her voice tailed off.

“You want to ask me about … Davy.”

She looked at her watch. “Siobhan, someone's coming for dinner, so I have to run. But I will come to your folks' place on Tuesday … and we'll talk.”

“I'd like that.”

“Two on Tuesday.” Fiona didn't wait for an answer as she hung up, congratulated herself on how she'd handled the conversation, and, humming gently, walked into the bathroom to make sure that she was ready for Tim.

She wanted him to get the full benefit of her just-bought-this-afternoon Diane von Furstenberg dress. She admired herself in the mirror. Makeup? Very little—a tiny touch of eyeliner and mascara and a pale pink lipstick. She patted her freshly shampooed hair back into place. Her black patent leather pumps, the high-heeled sneakers that Tim liked, pinched a bit, but he was worth a little discomfort. The new dress, cream with a superimposed, subdued paisley pattern in reds and browns, was simply cut. Knee-length and wraparound, it was held closed by a single tie at the waist. She fiddled with the V-neck, pulling the edges just a little more to the side so that the upper curves of her breasts were visible. She cupped them and offered a silent prayer of thanks that she was still firm enough to go braless. All that she wore under the dress was a pair of black silk bikini panties. She put the tiniest dab of a musky perfume at the hollow of her throat.

Fiona went back to the living room. It was a bit nippy, so she lit the propane fire. McCusker marched to the front of it, sat, threw his head back, and stared fixedly at the cornice between the wall and ceiling. The cat always did that when she lit the fire. McCusker, Fiona was convinced, had adopted the flames as a feline deity, and his stance and upwardly fixed gaze were a prayerful attitude, as if the animal were attempting to attain a state of grace.

She selected a record, Kiri Te Kanawa's Mozart arias, turned the volume low, and as the first notes of
Voi che sapete
whispered from the speakers, the intercom buzzer rang.

“G'dye.”

“Come on in, Tim.” She opened her door and watched him stride along the hall carrying his briefcase in one hand and pulling a small wheeled suitcase behind him. She hadn't realized fully until that moment just how much she'd missed him.

He stopped in front of her, let go of his suitcase, and, still hanging on to his briefcase, hugged her. She felt his lips warm on hers and the briefcase bumping her backside. She was breathless when they broke apart.

“Welcome back. Here, let me take that.”

Tim handed her the briefcase, tugged his suitcase into the living room, and flopped into a chair. “Strewth,” he said, pulling off his suit jacket and tie and chucking them over his chair back, “it's nice to be home.”

“Nice to have you back,” she said, putting the briefcase beside the telephone table. “I've missed you.”

“Give us another kiss.”

She bent before him, knowing that he couldn't help but be peering down her cleavage—that was why she'd bought this dress, wasn't it?

He tasted salty.

“Now,” she said, still bent at the waist, “let me get you a drink. I've opened a good Merlot.”

“Later,” he said. “Right now I need a cold beer. I'm as dry as…”

“… A dead dingo's thing-a-ma-bob.” She laughed. “I even know what you're thinking.”

She could see him staring down the front of her dress.

“Do you, by God?” he said. “In that case, I should be blushing.” He reached for her, but she moved away.

“Yes, you should, but don't bother. I'm thinking the same thing myself”—she took another step back—“but later.”

“Aaaw.”

“Later.” She left for the kitchen. “I'll get you that beer.”

She returned in a moment, a glass of Chardonnay for herself in one hand and a cold glass of beer in the other. No one back in Ireland would think of drinking beer straight from the tin the way Canadians did.

“There you are,” she said, handing him the glass, “Foster's Lager.”

“Best grog in Oz.” Tim demolished half of the beer in one swallow. “Now that's what I call taking care of a bloke.”

She sat in the other armchair, crossed her legs, not minding that as she did so, the hem of her dress rode up, exposing half of one still-tanned thigh. “Cheers,” she said, sipping her wine. “And again, welcome home, Tim.”

He reclined and stretched his long legs, feet crossed at the ankles. “Sometimes I wonder why I bother going to these conventions. Dull lectures, rubber chicken dinners, and a lot of blokes polishing each other's egos, and,” he said, arching his back, “I'm the wrong size to fly in the back of the bus. I swear to God Air Canada has the seats on a ratchet system and move them closer to each other every hour on the hour.”

“You poor thing.” She smiled at him.

“Nah,” he said, and she heard the serious note in his voice, “it's worth it, just to come home and see you, love.”

“Thank you, sir,” she said, inclining her head and smiling.

“And it's worth it to see that smile on your face.” Tim stood and moved in front of her. Only a shadow of his smile remained. “How've you been?”

“Me? Fine.” But she knew what he was really asking. “Fine. Honestly.”

“No more nightmares?” He laid one hand on her shoulder.

She shook her head. “I did have a chat with Becky about…” She didn't want to say the word.

“Good,” Tim said. “And what does Becky think?”

“About me and Northern Ireland and…?” She couldn't look at him.

“The Davy fellow,” Tim finished her sentence.

She looked up at him and nodded.

“Well?”

Fiona sighed. “She said pretty much what you did, that I have to face up to it all, stop pretending none of it ever happened, get over it, and get on with life.” She looked him directly in the eye. “You're both right. And, Tim, I'm trying. I really am. I…” She hesitated. “I thought about … Davy … a lot today.” She glanced at Tim to see how he was taking that.

He cocked his head to one side, “And?”

“And you were right. I do have to face it.”

“Good lass,” he said, bending and kissing her gently. “It's all I can ask. That you try.”

“I am,” she said. “Really.” And inside she thanked him for his understanding and his patience. “I even phoned Davy's old pal Jimmy just before you came. I'm having coffee with Siobhan next Tuesday.”

“Jimmy's daughter? And you're not worried it could bring back too many memories?” She heard concern in his voice.

“To be honest? Yes, I am worried, but if I'm ever going to get over it, I
have
to see her, and—don't get cross—one day soon you and I will have to have a meal with Jimmy and his wife.”