Robbie had not seen the sun shine in Lurgan since the day Martin O’Keegan was shot. It had been a cold, bright day in late September 2005. The trees were starting to turn and some of the greengrocers had pumpkins carved for Halloween hanging from their tarpaulins. Martin had asked him to drive down from Belfast for the weekend. Robbie had protested at first – there were people he had arranged to meet that weekend – but Martin insisted that what he had to tell him was better than any leads Robbie might be following.
The park had been full when he arrived, crowded with families throwing stale bread to the swans and solitary men with their unleashed but obedient dogs. Robbie waited for his colleague on a bench set back from the lake. The weeks leading up to that weekend had been particularly busy after compromising photographs of a well-known Orangeman had turned up on his desk. Robbie had been working late into the night to craft something that would make the headlines that weekend, and he would not have agreed to meet anyone had Martin not insisted.
As lead political journalists, Martin and Robbie often worked together on big stories, although most of the time Martin covered County Armagh and the lower half of County Down, while Robbie was based in Belfast and expected to travel to Antrim several times a month. Martin had been with the paper for years and reluctantly took Robbie on as a trainee.
Martin’s uneasiness that afternoon was contagious and the usual care he took when rolling his cigarettes was abandoned as he squinted into his tobacco pouch and produced ungainly roll-ups. He complained about the sun, so they moved indoors. Robbie tried to lighten the mood by reminding his colleague of their first visit to a pub. It had been a bar Robbie had never heard of before and when he remarked on this, Martin told him it was mixed and then stared at him for a long time.
‘I’ll explain one thing from the word go,’ Martin had said, leaning in towards Robbie. ‘My wife’s a Protestant and I’m a Catholic. All this sectarianism in our society is what drives me as a reporter. If you want to get anywhere in this job, son, you’d better not pick a side – that’s all I’m saying.’
Robbie’s sombre expression at this, teamed with an upper lip wet from his Guinness, made Martin laugh.
‘You’ve a lot to learn,’ Martin said. ‘You’ll come and meet the wife this weekend and we’ll talk some more.’ With that, he had thrown some money on the table, lit his cigarette and left the pub.
Martin laughed at the memory of their younger selves but his joviality was unconvincing and made Robbie nervous.
Five years on, Lurgan had a cosmopolitan feel to it, with several European restaurants on the High Street and a bridal boutique in the centre, where tiara-clad mannequins competed for space in a window display. Whether it was the sun, or the effect of time passing, the Shankill Parish Church seemed less menacing in its position at the top of the town and Robbie found a parking space alongside it. The solicitor’s office was a short walk and Robbie had little time to plan what he would say before he was ushered into the office.
‘Robbie Hanright, well I never!’
‘How are you doing, Colin?’
The men shook hands enthusiastically before sitting down.
‘It’s been an awful long time. Eight years – maybe more?’
‘I’ve lost count myself. How’s the family?’
‘Grand, everyone’s well. I’m sure yours is happy to see you.’
‘Yes, it’s good to catch up with everyone.’
‘Pity about the circumstances, I’m awful sorry.’
‘Thanks, Colin. That’s actually why I’m here.’
‘I thought as much. What can I do for you?’
‘I’m sure you know about the farmhouse being sold?’
Colin nodded.
‘Well, we were all a bit shocked to tell you the truth and no one really knows what’s going on; how much did it sell for? where’s all the money gone? you know, that sort of thing. Our father is hopeless at communication, as you are well aware, and I suppose, well, I thought that maybe—’
‘I could tell you?’
‘Well, yes actually.’
Colin sighed, picked up a biro from his desk and started clicking the end of it.
‘As a solicitor, I am bound to protect the privacy of my clients, you know that, Robbie. I understand how difficult that is when I’m also a family friend and know more than I probably should but there’s nothing I can tell you, I’m afraid.’
‘What are we supposed to do?’
‘Well, there are two options. You can either persevere with your father and try to discuss the matter with him, or you can wait until his passing, God rest his soul, and accept his wishes.’
When Robbie met Colin’s eye, he recognised the pity that had been so familiar to him when he was a child. It was not the first time he had considered the fact that his father was going to die but it was the first time he had reacted to it. Not with sorrow, tears or fear, but with frustration and a sense of embarrassment. He felt sixteen again and wanted nothing more than to laugh in Colin’s face and run out of the room. Instead, he smiled politely and assured the solicitor that he understood and was grateful for his time. He tried not to tarry in the handshake that Colin used to convey his sympathy and took a convenient fit of coughing in order to leave the reception in haste.
When Robbie got back to the house, Adam’s van was in the driveway. He followed the sound of music to the bottom of the back garden where Adam had established a small business fixing cars. Robbie found him elbow deep in the engine of his mother’s old car, with Van Morrison blasting out of a battery-powered radio attached to the wing mirror. Adam’s head bobbed enthusiastically and he lifted his spanner to beat the time in mid-air.
‘That’s a classic 1989 Mini Flame,’ Robbie shouted over the music.
Adam jumped and fiddled with the switches to lower the volume.
‘Sorry, Robbie. I didn’t know you were there.’
He blushed and wiped his hands on his overalls.
‘Great song,’ Robbie said.
‘Yes.’
The men avoided eye contact.
‘I’m not far off finishing this one,’ Adam said, turning towards the open belly of the Mini.
‘Am I right that this is a Mini Flame?’
‘Yes, that’s right,’ Adam said.
‘It’s ancient.’
‘So Maggie keeps telling me. I haven’t been beaten by a car yet and I’ll get it on the road if it kills me.’ He winked.
‘It hasn’t been driven for over ten years, Adam.’
‘Pity that.’ Adam was staring into the engine. Robbie didn’t know much about cars, but as he walked around the outside of the Mini, he saw that the rain had rusted some of the paintwork around the door hinges and the back left tyre was missing, with three bricks in its place.
Adam closed the bonnet, moved to the driver’s door and lowered himself into the car.
‘Get inside,’ he said to Robbie.
Robbie folded his body into the small seat and Adam leant across him to open the cubbyhole on the dusty, walnut dash. He produced a silver hip flask, unscrewed the top, wiped the mouthpiece with his sleeve and passed it to Robbie.
‘What is it?’ Robbie asked.
‘Sloe Gin. I made it myself last year and it’s just about ready for drinking.’
The windows in the car were rolled down so they could lean their elbows on them. The sound of bees in the tree above their head was audible over the music.
‘I understand you being suspicious of me,’ Adam said.
Robbie looked out over the garden. A magnolia tree offered white flowers like open hands to the sky and pigeons were perching on the fence.
‘It must be very strange to come back and find everything so different.’
‘It’s not so bad.’
Adam lit a cigarette and exhaled out the car window.
‘My job makes me a bit suspicious,’ Robbie said, trying to explain.
‘You work for a newspaper. Isn’t that right?’
Robbie nodded. ‘It’s hard to turn my brain off sometimes.’
‘Well I hope you find a way to turn it off. For your mother’s sake,’ he said, pointing the cigarette at him for emphasis.
Robbie waved the smoke away, muttered in agreement and left the car.