Lies of Silence Page 3

  “Probably. Go to sleep.”

  “Shut your door, then. There’s a light shining in my eyes.”

  He did not shut the door. Instead, he reached up and switched off the desk lamp, leaving the study lit only by the reflected light from the street outside.

  What will happen to her? She’ll run Peg Wilton’s shop for a while, but that won’t last. With her, nothing lasts, jobs, friends, lovers, marriage, nothing. She wants to be loved. If only I’d been able to love her, to love her, not just her looks. But who really loves her? Her father, perhaps, but he thinks she’s ungrateful. And her mother is afraid of her. Who does she love, Moira? No one, I suppose, least of all herself. She says she loves the crack here, the way people talk. “Sure, there’s no place like the North. I couldn’t live anywhere else.” Yet, even here, she has no real friends.

  In the street below, a car door slammed. He heard footsteps, loud in the night silence. He stood up and again looked out of the window. The white Ford was still parked opposite, but its occupants, the man and the girl, were strolling along, arm in arm, on his side of the street. When they drew level with his house, they stopped and embraced. As they did, he saw the girl move her head to the side, not kissing the man but instead looking up in his direction. Again he drew back, not wanting to be seen. He heard them walk on, then saw them cross the street and get into their car. The car engine started up. The white Ford drove slowly down the avenue and out onto the Antrim Road.

  “Michael, what are you doing, sitting in there in the dark?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Come to bed, then.”

  “Coming.”

  When he went into the bedroom Moira switched on the bed light and looked at him. “What’s the matter with you?”

  “Nothing. I was thinking.”

  As he began to undress she turned to face the wall. When he lifted the sheet to get into bed beside her, she swiveled around and looked at him. “What were you thinking? You’ve something you want to tell me, haven’t you?”

  He stared at her, tense. Her face, stripped of its makeup, looked naked, her untouched eyes seemed smaller than usual. How did she find out, how could she know, when I only decided tonight?

  “Tell you what?” he said.

  “Who do you think you are, Michael? What makes you believe I have to ask your permission about anything? Just go to hell!”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I don’t know why Peg bothered to speak to you, I didn’t ask her to, it’s none of your bloody business what I do, all this rubbish about me not working in a shop. I’ll work wherever it suits me, do you hear me? I’m not stuffed full of middle-class snobberies, the way you are.”

  “You mean Peg’s shop?” he said. (Oh, God, is that all it is?) “Listen,” he said. “I wasn’t against it, she must have told you that. Do what you want, if it makes you happy.”

  “Do what I want? Thanks very much. What makes you think I need your permission to do anything?” She was sitting up in bed now, her long legs crossed in a yoga position, ready for one of those meaningless fights that could go on for hours. “I don’t know what I’m doing here,” she said. “Honest to God, I don’t. I’m no use to you, you don’t even like me anymore—”

  “That’s not true.”

  “It is true and you know it. I don’t know why you married me, it certainly wasn’t because you loved me. I know, I know, you liked the look of me, but you don’t anymore, do you?”

  “Now, stop that,” he said.

  “Stop what? What are you talking about? Nothing I do suits you—you hate me, you hate this house, you hate being here, you hate your own country. I know you’d be far happier off in France or somewhere, anywhere but here—”

  “I don’t hate you,” he said.

  “Listen, I don’t blame you—look at me, what’s happened to me?” She covered her face in her hands. She began to weep.

  “Please,” he said. “I’ve told you over and over, you’re one of the most beautiful girls I’ve ever seen. It’s not your looks, that’s stupid!”

  “Stupid. Oh, yes. All right, I know you think I’m stupid. I don’t know who you thought you were marrying, maybe Maud Gonne MacBride, or Simone de Beauvoir—how would that suit you? You could talk about poetry to your heart’s content.”

  “Stop it.”

  “Stop what? It’s the truth, isn’t it? You’re bored with me, you married me because you fancied me and now I’ve lost my looks you couldn’t care less about me. The perfect proof is you used to make a fuss about my working in a shop but now, suddenly, you don’t give a damn.”

  “Maybe I was wrong about it,” he said. “You know I have a prejudice about working in shops; remember I told you about me having to work in the gift shop in Kinsallagh when I was a kid—”

  “Oh, yes, the young poet, too stuck up to sell a few Aran sweaters and souvenirs, yes, I remember, thanks very much, but I’m not you, I’m not stuck-up like you—”

  “Please?” he said. “Moira, please, let’s stop this.”

  She rocked back on her heels and stared up at the ceiling, tears puddling her eyes. “Why don’t you leave me?” she said. “You want to, don’t you?”

  He could not say it, not now, not with her weeping like this. “Let’s go to sleep,” he said. “We’ll talk about it in the morning.”

  She caught her breath in a half-gasp. “Talk about what in the morning?”

  “Nothing. Come on. Put the light out.”

  “Talk about what in the morning? About leaving me? That’s what you said, isn’t it?”

  “I didn’t say any such thing. I have a big day tomorrow. I want to go to sleep.”

  Slowly, almost absent-mindedly, she wiped away her tears. She stared at him for a long moment, her face immobile as a mask, then lay down and turned to the wall.

  “Do you want the sheet over you?”

  She shook her head. He got into bed, careful not to touch her. He reached up and switched the bed light off. Here at the back of the house there were no street lamps outside. Darkness made strange shapes of the dressing table and the bedside chair. Does she know? How could she? She doesn’t even know that Andrea exists? No, it’s nothing new, she’s talked about me leaving her before. He stared at the night sky. Out there in the garden the cat lay dead. Perhaps it was better this way. She would not have fed him. He would have become a stray.

  “Michael?”

  “Mmm?”

  “I won’t go and work for Peg if you don’t want me to.”

  “I’ve told you,” he said. “I was wrong. It’s probably a good idea. Peg thinks you’ll enjoy it.”

  “No, listen,” she said. “If I’m not wanted anymore, I don’t want to stay. I’ll pack up and walk out of here tomorrow. There’s lots of things I can do. I can go back to teaching. I mean, I’m not going to stay where I’m not wanted.”

  Now was the time to say it. But if he did they would be up all night.

  “Michael?”

  “Mmm?”

  “Don’t leave me. Please?”

  He felt his eyes burn as though he would weep. And then, what he dreaded happened. She moved across the bed and spooned into his back. “Do you love me at all? Just a little bit?” He turned and held her in an embrace. He kissed her, a traitor’s kiss. “Now, stop it,” he said. “Let’s go to sleep.”

  TWO

  But, of course, he did not sleep. He lay for hours beside her, listening to her breathing, feeling her body twitch slightly as her restless mind fled through the corridors of her dreams. When at last he dozed in a light, confused state, he was wakened suddenly by the noise of a car outside. He sat up, looked at her lying on her back, then got out of bed, intending to go to the bathroom. The dial on his bedside clock said four-fifteen.

  As he passed the bedroom window, he looked out at the garden. A car had come into the driveway and was now parked in front of his own car. It was a white Ford. As he stood looking at it, the front door opened on the passen
ger side and the girl got out. She walked up to the back gate of his garden, unlatched it, and came inside. She stood, a shadowy figure, looking up at the house. He drew back from the window. He saw her turn to go out again. He heard the faint sound of the garden gate being closed. She got back into the car. The car door shut. The car headlights then blinked on and off. Were they signaling someone? It was the same car and the same couple who had parked at the front of the house, hours ago. Had they been watching

  the house all this time? A house in the Somerton Road was burgled last week.

  He turned and looked at Moira’s sleeping figure in the bed. She had not wakened. Now, coming up the driveway toward the white Ford were the shadowy figures of two men. They went past the Ford and one of them quietly opened the garden gate. When he saw them come in, he turned and went quickly out onto the landing and down the stairs. He reached the ground floor, and stopped to listen. He heard a murmur of voices at the back door. He knew the back door was locked. At once, he turned and ran to the front hallstand where the phone was. As he did, there was a tinkle of broken glass behind him. He reached the hallstand but, in the darkness, fumbled among gloves and scarves, trying to locate the telephone receiver. As he picked it up, footsteps sounded behind him.

  “Put that down,” a voice said. “Stay where you are.”

  A blinding light shone in his face. “Where’s the switch?” a second voice said. They were young voices, flat, male, Ulster accents. The blinding light came closer.

  The hall light came on.

  Facing him, a flashlight in one hand and a revolver in the other, was a hooded figure, its head masked in a woolen balaclava helmet, the eyeholes cut wide showing the cheekbones. The intruder wore woolen gloves, a cheap blue Western-style shirt with metal-clip buttons, faded jeans and running shoes. Behind him, standing by the light switch, was another, similarly dressed figure, also pointing a revolver.

  He had seen them on the evening television news and in newspaper photographs, theatrical figures, firing revolver volleys over paramilitary graves, marching in parades with banners and flags. But like most people he kept well away from the events themselves so that now, for the first time in his life, he was looking at them, here in his house, real revolvers, faceless, staring eyes, scruffy boys in woolen masks. Who are they? Are they Protestants or Catholics—UDA or IRA? Is this one of those mistakes where they come in and shoot the wrong person?

  “What do you want?” He heard the fear in his voice.

  “IRA. Where’s your wife?”

  “She’s upstairs, asleep.”

  As he spoke, there was a sound of footsteps in the kitchen. Two more masked intruders came through the kitchen into the hall. One of them was very tall and carried a walkie-talkie. Both were armed. They went into the darkened sitting room, then came out again. The tall one shut off his walkie-talkie, which had been making a crackling sound.

  “Go up and bring her down,” the one with the flashlight told Dillon, then turned and pointed to the smallest member of the group. “Volunteer, you go with him.”

  The small one kept his revolver pointed at Dillon’s back as they went upstairs. When they reached the landing, Dillon said to him, “Wait here, would you? I don’t want to frighten her.”

  Blue eyes white-circled by the holes of the balaclava studied him for a moment. “Is there a phone in there?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then I have to come in with you.”

  Dillon switched on the landing light which permitted him to see into the bedroom. She was still asleep. He went into the bedroom and, as he did, she sat up.

  “Oh!” she called in a half shriek as though wakened from a frightening dream.

  At once he ran to the bed and caught hold of her. “It’s all right, Moira, it’s all right. It’s me.”

  “Oh, Christ,” she said. “What are you doing up at this hour?”

  Suddenly, the bedroom light came on. Standing by the switch was the small masked intruder, pointing his revolver at them. “Ohh!” Moira gasped, but Dillon held her, pressing her tightly to him.

  “Shsh! It’s all right.”

  She stared over his shoulder at the masked man, and then, surprisingly, eased herself out of Dillon’s embrace. “Who’s he? What’s he doing here?” she said in an aggrieved voice.

  “Get up,” said the masked man.

  “What do you want from us?” she said. She did not sound afraid.

  “IRA. Put something on. We’re goin’ downstairs.” He turned to Dillon. “You too. The pair of you, get dressed.”

  Dillon hesitated, then went to the phone. At once, the small intruder ran toward him, pointing the gun. “Wait,” Dillon said. “The phone’s on a jack.” He bent down, unplugged it, and offered it to the intruder who hesitated, then took it. “Will you wait outside a moment?” Dillon asked. The intruder nodded and went out onto the landing.

  Moira went to the chair where she had left her clothes and in a swift fluid movement pulled her nightgown up over her head and stood, naked, her slender body ivory-white under the ceiling fixture. At once Dillon turned to see if the masked youth was watching. But the gunman had his back to the door. Moira now put on underpants and the red shirtwaist dress she had worn last night. “Where are my shoes?” she asked.

  He found them at the foot of the bed. He saw her sit down at the dressing table and take up her lipstick. “Hurry,” he said.

  She turned to him. “What’s the hurry? You’re not dressed yourself.”

  Hastily, he found jeans and a rollneck sweater in the wardrobe, put them on, and slid his feet into loafers. As he did, she sat doing her eyes with an eyebrow pencil. In all the time he had known her she had never wanted to show herself to anyone without first putting on her makeup, and now she began to draw a line along the edge of her eyelid as though the gunman were a delivery boy who could be kept waiting. But, watching her, he saw that her hand was shaking. He went to her and, bending over her, said quietly, “Look, it’s some mistake. We’ll be all right.”

  As he spoke he heard voices outside. The first gunman, the one with the flashlight, came into the room. “What’s keepin’ you?” the gunman asked in his high angry voice. “Come on. Get downstairs.”

  The smaller gunman then came in and, nudging them with his revolver, herded them out onto the landing. The hall light had been switched off again and the other gunman used his flashlight to guide them as they went down. “Stay by the front door,” the one with the flashlight told the small one. Then, as if he were familiar with the layout of the house, he went into the dark sitting room and pulled down the window blind. He turned on a small reading lamp and beckoned them to come in. “Sit over there,” he said, pointing to the sofa which faced the television set. He shut the door, drew up a chair, and sat down facing them.

  “We’re going to be here till the morning. There’ll be somebody in here with you all the time. Don’t try any tricks and you won’t be hurt.”

  There was something about this gunman, an electric tension which made him seem dangerous. As he sat in the chair his left leg jiggled in a nervous spasm. He blinked constantly, as though the light hurt his eyes which were red-rimmed, the eyelashes charred as though in a fire or an explosion. Behind the disguise of his paramilitary pullover and hooded, menacing headmask, the high-pitched voice and slight adolescent body proclaimed that this was a child with a gun, excited as a child is when suddenly the game becomes dangerous.

  Dillon looked at Moira. She sat upright on the sofa as though it were a hard-backed chair, her hands folded in her lap, her knees pressed together in a prim posture, as though she, not the gunman, were in charge. She stared at the hooded faceless face with a fixity of expression which seemed to aggravate the gunman’s blinking eyes and jiggling left leg.

  Now the only sound in the room was the tiny tremulous beat of the intruder’s rubber-soled shoe on the worn carpet. As though unable to bear her continuing stare, the gunman shifted his position and said in his high, flat Belfast voice,
“What are you lookin’ at?”

  Moira let the question drift for a moment. Then, spitting the words out, she said, “Not much.”

  Instinctively, Dillon moved across the sofa to prevent the gunman from hitting her. But the gunman sat totally still. His leg no longer jiggled. Then, behind the wool mask, he laughed. “Cheeky, aren’t ye?” he said. “You stuck-up wee bourgeois bitch.”

  “You don’t know what bourgeois means. You’re too thick,” Moira said. Her accent had changed: she now spoke in the flat Belfast tones of the gunman himself. “And, for your information,” she said, “I was born and brought up in the Falls Road. So don’t come that with me.”

  “You’re a long way from the Falls now, aren’t ye?” the gunman said.

  Moira shook her head, smiling an angry smile. “No, I’m not,” she said. “Nor never will be.”

  The gunman’s foot began to jiggle again. “Whereabouts in the Falls?”

  “Divis Street.”

  “I suppose your da’s a policeman,” the gunman said, his voice unhinged by anger.

  “He’s a butcher,” Moira said. “Not that it’s any of your business.”

  The jiggling foot stopped. The gunman leaned forward in his chair, holding the revolver between his thighs, pointing it at Moira like some reptilian penis. Blinking his small eyes, he stared her up and down, from her sandaled feet to her long bare legs, her slender body, her pale face, her long, dark, tumbled hair. It was a stare so overtly sexual that Dillon, watching, stiffened and sat tense. The gunman, ignoring him, edged his chair a little closer to her. “You’re not helpin’ yourself, you know,” he said to her. “Are you lookin’ for me to hit you?”