Now and in the Hour of Our Death (50 page)

As he walked the length of the barn, he congratulated himself on his performance this morning. He'd let her think he wasn't really interested in the day or the target. When she'd told him, he'd wanted to scream, “Hallelujah.” He smiled to himself. Putting on an act like that would have given the Ballymena film actor Liam Neeson a bit of competition.

Sammy wandered over to the barn door and chucked his hammer on the workbench. For a second, his eyes lit on a Black & Decker drill. That was the one the men from Derry had taken to the young drug dealer. Nobody was going to use it on Sammy McCandless. The senior Provos would have no reason to suspect him, because the plans he'd been trying to make last night had fallen into place like the tumblers in a well-oiled lock. The attack could go ahead without any interference from the Security Forces. There'd be no suspicion that someone had given them away if they weren't ambushed. And they weren't going to be, not the way Sammy had things worked out now.

He knew the day. His guess about Strabane had been confirmed, and all he had to do was phone Spud and tell him, but—and this was the brilliant part—he'd tell Spud it was going to be on Saturday week. Any plans the man might be making, because Sammy had told Spud to expect the attack soon, would have to wait. The Security Forces couldn't risk trying to remain concealed for more than a week in Strabane. The Special Branch man would be fully aware that the locals would notice something in a rural town, and the word would get back to the O'Byrnes.

Once Sammy fed his handler the wrong information, there'd be no ambush this Saturday, and Erin and the rest could attack to their hearts' content. And, Sammy relished the thought, with a bit of luck, that big shite of a policeman who'd interrogated him in the Strabane Barracks, softened him up for recruitment by Spud, would be in the barracks. Sammy hoped he'd roast in hell.

Spud would be furious that he'd not been given the correct details, but the E4A man would have all the confirmation he wanted that Sammy had been right about the target.

When the barracks were blown up this Saturday, Sammy would have his alibi that he'd been down in Ballybofey, and that should convince Spud that the O'Byrnes had lied. It wouldn't be Sammy's fault if they'd fed him a story. If Spud was mad enough, there'd be no trip to England, but why would he need to go anyway?

He'd not been making it up when he'd told the peeler that once the O'Byrnes were gone, there'd be no more information from Sunshine. The police would leave him alone. They couldn't even take their revenge by blowing the whistle to the senior Provos and letting them deal with him. If they did, word would get out that the police had fucked one of their own informers. They'd not recruit another tout in Tyrone or Counties Armagh or Londonderry either—not until apples grew on cherry trees.

It was a bugger that he hadn't been able to persuade Erin to let him go back to his cottage to get the detonators. He could have made his phone call on the way, got the whole thing over with, but it could keep until tomorrow after Fiach's funeral.

Now that he was going to put the rest right, Fiach's death was all he would have on his conscience. Tonight, when they sat round the range, he'd tell Erin not to worry. Sammy would make sure for as long as he lived in Ireland there'd be fresh flowers on Fiach's grave. She'd like that. Maybe she'd kiss him again or give him a hug.

He was smiling to himself as he saw Cal and Tessie bringing the cows in for milking. He'd have to take them out tomorrow morning and see to some of the chores while Cal and Erin were at the funeral. And while they were out, he'd use their phone. You're brilliant, Sammy McCandless, he told himself as he gave Cal a hand to herd the cattle into their stalls.

“Thanks, Sammy,” Cal said when they'd finished. “When you take them out tomorrow, keep an eye on that Margaret. She's a vicious hoor of a beast.”

 

CHAPTER 41

VANCOUVER. WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 28, 1983

Fiona allowed herself a slightly vicious thought. Dimitris Papodopolous's name should be changed to
kalo pedi.
Those words had been the mother's sole contribution to the four-way discussion. The boy's father had done most of the talking, and they had brought a cousin as their translator, a gangly, olive-skinned, heavily moustachioed man. Her three visitors sat in front of her desk.

“Eno kalo pedi.”
Mrs. Papodopolous dabbed at her eyes with a lace-fringed handkerchief.

“Mr. Giorgiou, please tell Mrs. Papodopolous that I do know her son is a good boy, but he
is
still having difficulties.”

Fiona had already decided that, since neither she nor the school advisor seemed to be able to succeed with the lad, it was time for Dimitris, who was in class, to be given specialized professional counseling. She knew the suggestion would be taken as a deep insult by his parents. They would regard as shameful the least hint that a family member might need a psychologist's help. How was she going to raise the subject tactfully?

Despite the padding of the swivel chair, her backside felt numb. She listened to rapid-fire Greek as the cousin translated and Mr. Papodopolous, brows furrowed, replied. Words flew back and forth between the two men. She waited for the conversation to end. Now it seemed Mrs. Papodopolous was finally taking her turn. It looked as though the family debate might take some time.

The dying gale tossed bursts of rain against the windows of her office, and, distracted, she looked out and saw dead leaves whirled and tossed through the air and tumbled across the grass. Bare branches of trees thrashed and seemed to rake the low, grey clouds the way McCusker sharpened his claws on her furniture.

She felt as buffeted by the events of the last two days as those branches and told herself to stop thinking about it and concentrate on the job at hand. She'd made her decision and was determined to stick to it. Jimmy's revelations about Davy had helped. Siobhan's abrupt admission about how she still yearned for her dead love had surprised Fiona. She could try to pretend to herself she'd made her decision about Davy because she'd carefully weighed all the available information, added up the pros and cons. The simple truth was that her mind had been made up from the moment she'd learned that Davy might be coming.

Everything else had been attempts to justify her decision to herself and, damnit, there was no need for justification. She was still in love with Davy McCutcheon, and that was all that mattered.

Accepting him, knowing, knowing without the slightest doubt, that she would wait for him, meant she must tell Tim, hurt Tim, and the prospect had kept her awake for hours last night.

She rubbed her eyes and leaned forward to hear what the cousin was saying.

“He say”—the cousin seemed to be searching for the right words—“he say, the family do all things you tell them to do. Dimitris washes dishes, gives dog his meals.”

“Good. It's certainly an excellent start.”

“Kalo pedi.”

Fiona smiled at Mrs. Papodopolous to show she understood. “Unfortunately…” Saying baldly their son was a disruptive little hellion who, in her nonprofessional opinion, needed his backside warmed would hardly do. Back in Belfast, it was precisely what would have happened. She half-consciously rubbed the palm of her hand across her knuckles, remembering the stinging whacks she'd had there from rulers wielded by the nuns of her Catholic school.

Dealing with disruptive kids was much more scientifically based here in Canada. And a good thing, too. That's why she was here today, to try to bring all she'd learned to bear on Dimitris's problem.

“Unfortunately,” she said, “and I'm not being judgmental, it's not having the positive outcome on his negative behaviours I'd hoped for.” She coughed and scolded herself for trotting out the educational jargon. She knew what it meant, but to expect even English-speaking parents to understand would be unreasonable. No wonder there was a puzzled look on the cousin's face.

“I mean, I don't think we've succeeded as well as I'd hoped.”

Mr. Papodopolous turned to his cousin, rattled off an explosive sentence, and turned to Fiona. Was he angry or questioning?

Almost as rapidly, the cousin translated. “He say, in Greece, bad boy is punished. He now punishing Dimitris. He say, perhaps things different in Canada?”

“Yes. Yes they are.” Fiona wondered if those differences might be at the root of the boy's difficulties. At his age, he'd be like a little sponge, soaking up the local way of doing things, yet at home, he'd have to fit in with the mores his parents had brought from their homeland. “Very different.” It had taken her years to shed much of the cultural baggage she'd brought from Belfast and adapt to the Canadian way of doing things. “It can be very difficult for immigrants, I know.”

The words bounced back and forth between the two men like the ball in a tennis match, then Mr. Giorgiou said, “He say, please, perhaps little more time to do all things you say to them last time?”

“Well…” Would a little more time help? Despite her intention to concentrate on the problem at hand, she couldn't help but be reminded of how she was procrastinating before telling Tim about Davy. “Perhaps it might, in fact, I'm sure it will.”

The cousin translated her words.

“
Kalo pedi
,” Mrs. Papodopolous offered.

“But I honestly believe we should be considering other options, too.”

She watched Mr. Papodopolous shrug and stretch his hands forward, fingers spread wide. His lips were set at twenty past eight, his head tucked down on his shoulders. She understood what he was expressing. I give up. You're the expert. Do something.

Fiona picked up a pencil from the blotter on her desk. She'd make a point of discussing her ideas about Dimitris and what recently had been termed “culture shock” with the euphemistically titled “visiting teacher.”

She tapped the eraser end of the pencil on the blotter, glanced from the mother to the father, chose her words with care, and said to the cousin, “I believe we should arrange for Dimitris to see the visiting teacher.” She knew she was deliberately avoiding any reference to the fact that Ethel Nelson held a Ph.D. in behavioural psychology.

How would they respond? She waited until the translation was finished.

Mother twisted the hanky between her reddened fingers and whispered, “
Kalo pedi
,” as if it were an invocation to some unknown god, a prayer to keep the evil eye away from her son.

Mr. Papodopolous puffed out his cheeks and blew out his breath. She caught a whiff of garlic. His words directed to his cousin were slow and measured.

“He ask, what is visiting teacher, please?”

Damn. She'd been hoping to avoid this part of the discussion, just as she knew she was hoping, even though she knew it was a doomed hope, to find some way to avoid hurting Tim. Fiona watched the father's face closely as she said, “A special teacher who's had extra training to help children with their … difficulties.”

Mr. Papodopolous sat rigidly and fired a question.

“Teacher is not, I am sorry, I don't know right word, he is not … a head shrinker?”

Fiona couldn't suppress a laugh. The cousin looked so serious.

“I'm sorry. It's not funny, and no, she's not a psychiatrist. Not a medical doctor.” But it was a half-truth, and the parents were entitled to a full explanation. “Doctor Nelson is a psychologist.”

Mr. Giorgiou translated.

Mr. Papodopolous frowned, talked rapidly to his wife, who rolled her eyes and clutched her hanky, then clearly struggling to express himself, spoke through his cousin. “He say, it is difficult for him and wife to understand. They do not think Dimitris is crazy in head … but you are teacher. In Greece, we have much respect for teachers. He say, we believe you doing best for Dimitris. Not Greek best, Canadian best.”

“Thank you,” she said. “I appreciate that.”

Mr. Papodopolous smiled, relaxed, and said, “OK. We do. Thank you.”

“My cousin is learning English,” the interpreter said with a hint of pride. “I teaching him.”

“I
am
teaching him,” she corrected without thinking. “That's wonderful. Keep up the good work. It's not an easy language.”

She was happy to change the subject and retreat from the potential minefield she could have found herself in having suggested psychological help for the boy. She also felt a tinge of guilt, knowing full well by suggesting counseling she had shifted Dimitris and his difficulties to someone else. She'd not miss having to deal with them.

“Good,” she said, rising. “Then if we are agreed, I'll make the appointment for Dimitris.”

The cousin translated.

“OK,” the father said, and rose, motioning for his wife and cousin to do the same. “We thank you, Miss Kavanagh.”

She opened the door, and as Mrs. Papodopolous left, Fiona dropped a hand on her shoulder and said, “Dimitris
kalo pedi,
” and was gratified to be rewarded with a smile.

Fiona closed the door and looked at her watch. Ten o'clock. She was free for an hour before her next class and should start writing the report for the visiting teacher, but she sat and rested her head on her hands. God, she was tired. She'd taught an extra class to fill in for the absent Becky, had precious little sleep last night, and the pressure of the just-concluded interview had sapped her.

Someone knocked on her door. “Come in.”

Becky poked her head into the office.

“What are you doing here?” Fiona saw the bags under Becky's bloodshot eyes. “How's your dad?”

Becky flopped into the nearest chair. “Not good. I went home for a few hours last night, and I'm on my way to VGH, so I thought I'd just pop in and see you. I need your advice.”