The Pilot's Wife (27 page)

She ran the water hot and emptied a bottle of shower gel into the tub that made a froth of suds. She was startled, when she undressed, to see just how filthy her clothes were, to see that a part of the hem of her skirt had come undone. She stood naked in the center of the room. She made dirty footprints on the white tiles. On a glass shelf were towels and a pretty basket with toiletries.

She put a foot into the water and winced, then stepped in. Slowly, she sank into the tub.

She washed her hair and face using the soapy water, too tired to get the shampoo. She pulled a towel off a rack, rolled it, and laid it on the lip of the tub. She leaned back, resting her neck on the towel.

A leather toilet kit was perched precariously on the small porcelain sink. The blazer with the gold buttons hung on the hook at the back of the door. Beyond the door, she could hear a knocking, a door opening, a brief conversation, a pause, and then a door shutting again. Room service, she thought. She wished she’d ordered a cup of tea. A cup of tea would have been perfect.

The casement window had been opened a crack, and she could hear street sounds below, traffic noise, a distant shout. Even at one o’clock in the morning.

She felt drowsy and closed her eyes. Despite the buoyancy of the water, it would be an effort to move her body, to climb out of the tub. She willed herself to empty her mind, to think of hot water and soap and nothing else.

When the door opened, she did not move, made no effort to cover herself, though the bubbles had thinned some and the tops of her breasts might have been exposed.

Her knees rose from the suds like volcanic islands. Her toes toyed with the chain of the plug.

He’d ordered tea. A glass of brandy.

He laid the cup and the glass on the edge of the tub. He stood back and leaned against the sink, put his hands into the pockets of his trousers. He crossed his legs at the ankles. She knew that he was looking at her body.

“I’d mix them together if I were you,” he said.

She sat up to do as he had suggested.

“I’ll leave you alone,” he said.

“Don’t go.”

Behind him, the mirror over the sink was opaque with steam. Near the window, the outside air mixing with the heat created wisps of cloud. She poured the brandy into the tea, stirred the two together, and took a long swallow. Immediately, she felt the heat at the center of her body. The medicinal properties of brandy were amazing, she thought.

She held the teacup with soapy fingers.

His jaw moved. He might have sighed. He took a hand out of a pocket and rubbed the beads of moisture on the lip of the sink with his thumb.

“I’ll need a robe,” she said.

In the end, she told him everything. In the dark, lying on his bed, she told him every word she could remember of the meeting in the white town house. He listened without saying much, murmuring here and there, once or twice asking a question. She wore the terrycloth hotel robe, and he stayed dressed. He trailed his fingers up and down her arm as she spoke. When they grew chilly, he pulled a comforter over them. She burrowed her head into the space between his chest and his arm. In the dark, she felt the unfamiliar warmth of his body, heard his breathing next to her. She thought there might be something else that she wanted to say, but before she could form the words, she drifted off to a dreamless sleep.

The next morning, she sat on the edge of the bed in the white robe, hemming her skirt with a sewing kit she’d found in the basket of toiletries. Robert had been on the telephone, talking with the airline, changing plane tickets, but now he was polishing her shoes. An oblong of sunlight lit the room from behind the white net curtain. She thought she had probably not moved at all while she had slept. When she’d woken, Robert had already showered and dressed.

“These are almost unsalvageable,” Robert said.

“I only have to make it home.”

“We’ll go down to breakfast,” he said. “Have a real breakfast.”

“That would be nice.”

“There’s no hurry.”

She sewed patiently and evenly, as Julia had once, long ago, taught her to do, hoping the tiny card of thread would last. She was aware that Robert was watching her intently. Something had changed since the night before, she reflected; her gestures seemed to be taking on a special precision, being so closely observed.

“You look almost happy,” she said, glancing up at him.

The insanity of yesterday lurked in the shadows, Kathryn knew, and it would always be there, a dark place in a lighted room. It would nag at her, drag her down when she let it. She thought then that she ought to be able to say she’d had the worst, got it over with. It would be a boon of sorts to know that a nadir had been reached. She could almost feel the freedom of that, to live one’s life and not be afraid.

But she knew already that such freedom was an illusion and that there might be more to come. All she had to do was imagine Mattie on the plane that had gone down. It might be Mattie on a future plane. Life could dish out worse than Kathryn had had, and worse than that. In fact, she thought, her life might be all the more harrowing for knowing what was out there.

She put down her sewing and watched Robert buff her shoes. The gestures reminded her of Jack, his foot perched on the pulled-out bread drawer. How long ago was that, exactly?

She rose from her chair and kissed Robert at the side of his mouth, her hands full with the stitching, his with her shoes. She could feel his surprise. She put her wrists on his shoulders and looked at him.

“Thank you for coming with me to London,” she said. “I don’t know how I’d have gotten through last night without you.”

He looked at her, and she could see that he wanted to say something.

“Let’s eat,” she said quickly. “I’m starved.”

The dining room had wood-paneled wainscoting with a subdued blue wallpaper above it. There was a red oriental on the floor. They were shown to a table in a bow window framed with heavy drapes. Robert gestured for her to take the seat in front of the window. The table was laid with heavy white linen, nearly stiff from its pressing, and set with silver and a china she didn’t recognize. She sat and put her napkin in her lap. On the walls were architectural prints, and overhead was a crystal chandelier. She saw now that most of the diners were businessmen.

She glanced out the window at her side. The sun glistened on the washed streets. The room reminded her of drawing rooms in old British films, and she thought it might once have been that, a formal space that also conveyed warmth. An effort had been made not to sanitize the room, as would have been done in an American hotel, so that you could never believe anyone ever had, or ever would, live there. A fire burned in a grate. They had ordered eggs and sausages, toast in a silver rack. The coffee was hot, and she blew over the edge of the cup.

She looked up and saw the woman standing at the entrance. Coffee spilled onto the white tablecloth. Robert had his napkin out to blot the mess, but Kathryn stayed his hand. He turned to see what she had seen.

The woman walked quickly toward their table. She wore a long coat over a short wool skirt and sweater. Kathryn had an impression of muted greens and disarray. The woman had drawn her hair up into a ponytail, and she looked frightened.

As she approached the table, Robert stood up, startled.

“I was unforgivably cruel to you yesterday,” the woman said straightaway to Kathryn.

“This is Robert Hart,” Kathryn said.

He held out his hand.

“Muire Boland,” the woman murmured by way of introduction, which he hadn’t needed. “I need to speak with you,” she said to Kathryn and then hesitated. Kathryn understood the hesitation to refer to Robert.

“It’s all right,” Kathryn said.

Robert gestured for the woman to sit down.

“I’ve been angry,” Muire Boland began. She spoke hurriedly, as though she had little time. Sitting closer to the woman than she had yesterday, Kathryn could see that Muire had the same enlarged pupils as her daughter, which accounted for the dark eyes. “Angry since the accident,” Muire continued. “Actually, I’ve been angry for years. I had so little of him.”

Kathryn was astonished. Was she meant to forgive the woman? Here in this room? Now?

“It wasn’t suicide,” Muire said.

Kathryn felt her mouth go dry. Robert asked, still operating in a world the women had abandoned, if Muire would like a cup of coffee. She shook her head tensely.

“I have to hurry,” Muire said. “I’ve left my house. You won’t be able to get in touch with me.”

The woman’s face was pinched. Remorse did not produce such features, Kathryn knew. But fear could.

“I have a brother whose name is Dermot,” Muire said. “I had two other brothers. One of them was shot by paramilitaries in front of his wife and three children as they ate dinner. The other one was killed in an explosion.”

Kathryn tried to process the information. She thought she understood. She felt buffeted, as though someone had knocked into her.

“I’d been a courier since I’d started with the airline,” Muire continued. “It’s why I went with Vision, for the Boston-Heathrow route. I carried cash from America to the U.K. Someone else would then see that it made its way to Belfast.”

Later, it would seem to Kathryn that it was here that time stopped altogether, looped around itself and then slowly began to unwind. The world around her — the diners, the waiters, the vehicles on the street, even the shouts from passersby — existed in a kind of watery pool. Only her immediate surroundings — herself, Muire Boland, Robert, the white linen with its coffee stain — seemed sharply defined.

A waiter came to the table to blot the coffee, replace the napkin. He asked Muire if she wanted to order breakfast, but she shook her head. The three sat in awkward silence until the waiter had left.

“I’d be met at each airport, Boston and Heathrow, coming and going. I had an overnight bag. I was to put the bag down in the crew lounge and walk away. A few seconds later, I’d pick it up again. Actually, it was quite easy.” The dark-haired woman reached across for Robert’s water glass, took a sip. “Then I met Jack,” she said, “and I got pregnant.”

Kathryn felt her feet go cold.

“When I left the airline, Dermot came to the house,” Muire said. “He asked Jack if he would carry on. He appealed to Jack’s Irish Catholic heritage.” She paused, rubbed her forehead. “My brother is a very passionate man, very persuasive. At first Jack was upset with me because I hadn’t told him. I hadn’t wanted to involve him. But then, gradually, he became intrigued. He was drawn to the risk, certainly, but it was more than that. He began to take on the cause for himself, to become part of it. As time went on, he became almost as passionate as my brother.”

“A convert,” Robert said.

Kathryn closed her eyes and swayed.

“I’m not trying to hurt you by telling you this,” Muire said to Kathryn. “I’m trying to explain.”

Kathryn opened her eyes. “I doubt you could hurt me any more than you have done,” she said.

Unlike yesterday, the woman sitting across from her seemed unkempt, as though she’d slept in her clothes. The waiter came with a coffee pot, and Robert quickly waved the man away.

“I knew that Jack was in over his head,” Muire said, “but he seemed a man who was not afraid to get in over his head.” She paused. “Which is why I loved him.”

The sentence stung. And then Kathryn thought, surprising herself with the thought: It was why he loved you. Because you offered him this.

“There were others involved,” Muire said. “People at Heath-row, at Logan, in Belfast.”

Muire picked up a fork and began to scratch the tablecloth with the tines.

“The night before Jack’s trip,” she continued, “a woman called and told him he was to carry something the other way. Heath-row to Boston. The same procedures would be in place. It wasn’t absolutely unprecedented. It had happened once or twice before. But I didn’t like it. It was riskier. Security is tighter departing Heathrow than arriving. Much tighter altogether than at Logan. But, in essence, the task itself wasn’t that much different.”

Muire put down the fork. She looked at her watch and spoke more quickly.

“When I heard about the crash, I tried to reach my brother. I was frantic. How could they have done that to Jack? Had they lost their minds? And politically, it was insane. To blow up an American plane? For what purpose? It was guaranteed to turn the entire world against them.”

She put her fingers to her forehead and sighed.

“Which was, of course, the point.”

She fell silent.

Kathryn had the anxious sense of receiving important messages in code, a code that needed immediate deciphering.

“Because it wasn’t them,” Robert said, slowly understanding. “It wasn’t the
IRA
who planted the bomb.”

“No, of course not,” Muire said.

“It was intended to discredit the
IRA
,” Robert said, nodding slowly.

“When I couldn’t reach my brother,” Muire added, “I thought they’d killed him, too. And then I couldn’t reach anyone.”

Kathryn wondered where Muire’s children were right this very minute. With A?

“My brother finally called last night. He’s been in hiding. He thought my phone …” She gestured with her hands.

Around her, Kathryn was vaguely aware that other diners were eating toast and drinking coffee, perhaps conducting business.

“Jack didn’t know what he was carrying,” Robert said almost to himself, putting it together for the first time.

Muire shook her head. “Jack never carried explosive material. He was very clear about that. It was understood.”

In her mind, Kathryn saw the scuffle on the plane.

“That’s why Jack doesn’t say anything on the tape,” Robert added suddenly. “He’s just as shocked as the engineer.”

And Kathryn thought then: Jack, too, was betrayed.

“It’s all coming apart,” Muire said and stood up. “You should go home as soon as you can.”

She put a hand on the table, leaned down close toward Kathryn, who caught a brief scent of stale breath, unwashed clothing.

“I came here,” Muire said, “because your daughter and my children are related. They have the same blood.”