Before my next meeting with Eamonn, I leave work early and bike to the Forty Foot again. Today the waves are gray with a curled white fold, like an oyster. I watch sailboats moving out in the strong wind, keeling so far their sails nearly skim the water. On one boat, I can see a figure sitting on the hull across from the sail, balancing its weight to stop the boat from capsizing.
When I dive in, cold water presses against my forehead and the backs of my eyes. I swallow, tasting the saline drip of salt water down the back of my throat. I swim until my arms are sore, then stop, treading water, breathless. Marian once told me that there is a period of time, between high and low tide, when the water is neither coming in nor going out. For about fifteen minutes, the tide stops. It’s called slack water. I need a break, I need to be in slack water, so I can work out what to do.
At the safe house in Stoneybatter, Eamonn has his head tipped back onto the sofa, the line of his throat and jaw exposed. His shirt looks soft and clean. I look out the window at the clear, washed sky.
I dreamt about Eamonn last night. In the dream, I’d found a loophole for us to be together. I was aware of myself dreaming, and told myself to remember the loophole in the morning, to not forget it. Maybe the Agnes Martin painting is the solution, maybe we’re almost free.
“You need to tell me if you have any loyalist informers,” I say, and Eamonn looks at me.
“Why?”
“Because I need to know the odds of you getting killed, and I can’t without that piece of information.”
Eamonn adjusts his shoulders on the sofa. “Do you worry about me?” he asks matter-of-factly.
“Yes.”
“No one worries about me,” he says.
I frown. “Do your parents not know what you do?”
“Not the specifics, but generally, yes.”
“Then they must worry.”
“They trust that I can look after myself.”
I stare at him. “That’s the craziest thing I’ve ever heard.”
Eamonn blinks, raising his eyebrows. I wonder if I’ve offended him, or overstepped the mark, but he is looking at me with surprise and happiness, like I’ve just said the single best thing he could hear.
We finish discussing the plan for Marian’s next visit with Niall. “I won’t be able to come back to Dublin until after then,” says Eamonn. “The fourth of October.”
“That long?” I say, without thinking.
Eamonn smiles toward the ceiling, letting his eyes close. We’ve never kissed, we’ve never even touched.
“I thought I saw you once, walking down the Malone Road. I was driving and almost smashed the car,” Eamonn says, almost lazily, his eyes still closed. Warmth rises on my skin. I am aware of the rough lace cups of my bra, the soft fabric of my jumper, the stitching inside my jeans.
“Are you married?” I ask, my voice quiet.
A look like disappointment crosses his face. “No, Tessa. I’m not married.”
At the door, I turn around to hug him goodbye. My whole body is roaring, like I’m about to jump from a high dive. I seem to have forgotten the steps. What if I raise my hands and he steps back? I’m trying to work it out when Eamonn steps forward to hug me, pressing his hands against my back. Even through the fabric of my jumper, it’s like his hands have extra nerves, or activate extra nerves of my own. I’m leaning into him, my skin tingling, and then I’m stepping back and opening the door, and rushing away down the road.
After work on Thursday, a group of us walks to Toners. Mam is bringing Finn to her ballroom class tonight, to show him off to her friends, so I’ve time for a drink. At the bar, I unwrap my scarf while ordering a red wine. I’ve on autumn clothes, corduroy trousers and a black rollneck jumper.
I carry my glass of wine to the snug in the back, where the others are arguing with raised voices. The threat level for Northern Ireland has remained critical for the past two and a half weeks, which means an attack is highly likely, though no one knows when, or where. This morning, a dozen trains near Belfast were stopped and searched by police officers, though the government hasn’t confirmed rumors about possible targets.
Andrew is claiming to support the IRA and the armed struggle, even though he went to Eton and Cambridge. He points his bourbon at Emer and me. “What do you think? You’re both from working-class Catholic families.”
“Give my head peace,” mutters Emer.
“What about me?” asks Aisling. “I’m working class.”
“Piss off,” says Lorcan. “You grew up in Dalkey.”
“I tried to defect from the Catholic Church, actually,” I say, taking a sip of my wine.
“Defect?”
“Be taken off the rolls,” I say. “But the church won’t let me without a priest’s approval.”
“So you’ve a heathen soul, then?” Emer asks, and I smile.
“Something like that, yeah.”
Oisín is coming back from the bar with drinks in both hands and a bag of crisps gripped between his teeth. “But you sympathize with the IRA, don’t you?” asks Andrew, as Emer rolls her eyes.
“I’ve a bomb right here in my bag,” says Emer. “Since you’re ready to die for the cause, aren’t you?”
Oisín splits open the bag of salt and vinegar crisps, and I reach over Aisling for one.
“You look rough,” says Emer to Lorcan. “Were you on the lash last night?”
Lorcan nods. “Appalling hangover. I’ve had the fear on me all day.”
“Let me tell you something,” Andrew interrupts in his loud, boarding-school voice. “After the Good Friday Agreement, more people died by suicide in Northern Ireland than died during the whole of the Troubles.”
“That can’t be right,” says Lorcan.
“No, in fairness, he’s not wrong,” says Oisín through a mouthful of crisps. “The suicide rate is triple England’s.”
“And the IRA’s fixing that, is it?” asks Emer.
“What about freedom?” says Andrew. I set my drink down too hard, sending arches of red wine splashing down the glass.
“Have you ever seen footage of a kneecapping?” asks Emer. “Some of those lads can’t walk afterward. None of them will ever run again. I’ve a different understanding of freedom to the IRA.”
After my second drink, I step outside of Toners, untangling the white cords of my earphones, and listen to Joy Division while walking home. I catch myself wanting to ask Eamonn if he knows this song, and think, You need to have a word with yourself.