He had agreed to meet her at half-eight for breakfast but when he woke up it was almost nine. Without shaving or showering he threw a handful of clothes into a shopping bag and left the house, taking time to lock the doors.
The morning was tartly cold; the air had a faint taste of peat. A muffling of snow dampened everything down. Three waxwings were pecking berries in the frozen hawthorn by the gate while the Bradleys’ collie, De Valera, pawed sulkily at a marbled puddle. The bird tables, the cars in the driveways, the bins outside the bungalows were covered with crisp crystalline snow, the kind that melted fast in your palm when you tried to roll a snowball. In the distance a white sheet shrouded the Dublin Mountains. He made it into town in forty minutes, put the Mini on the double yellows outside Hannigan’s Hotel.
She was in the lobby, at a table by herself, sipping tea and reading the Irish Independent. A bright smile illuminated her face when she saw him come in. She looked well rested, clear-eyed, contented.
‘So, m’lady,’ he said. ‘Your chariot awaits. Sorry the driver couldn’t wake himself up.’
‘Want a cup of coffee before we go?’
‘We better try and make a start. The roads aren’t the Mae West today.’
‘But I ordered you one. Look.’
She pulled a fluffy tea-cosy off a squat coffee pot and began to butter him a piece of toast.
‘Sit down for five minutes, Martin. You look like the kind of man likes his coffee in the mornings.’
‘I thought you’d be dying to get going.’
‘I’ve waited forty-six years,’ she shrugged. ‘I think I can manage ten minutes more.’
He thought about the forthcoming journey as he chewed his toast. It felt exciting to be going away, escaping the city for the first time in months. How great it would be to leave the place behind. His clothes, his skin felt grubby with exhaust fumes, his heart dirtied by Dublin. He wondered if he would call to see Valerie’s family. It had been so long now, they’d hardly recognise him. What would their attitude be now? What had Valerie told them about him lately?
She pulled a fold-up map from her pocket.
‘So I worked out a route for us last night when I got back. Here.’
He glanced at the map and shook his head. ‘We can’t go that way, it would take too long.’
‘But it’s only a hundred and fifty miles.’
He laughed. ‘A hundred and fifty Irish miles. On a hundred and fifty miles of Irish road. They’ve potholes up that end of the country like the Grand Canyon.’
‘So what will it take? Four hours?’
‘If we take the main road we’ll be there in six. Maybe seven or eight if the weather’s bad. Add in a bit of time for lunch, it’ll be evening anyway by the time we hit Donegal.’
Her face took on a dark, disappointed look. She stared at the map hard, as though by staring she could alter its contours, and after a moment raised her free hand to smooth the hair from her forehead. The movement laid bare the silky, pale flesh of her inner wrist, and somehow gave her a helpless and frightened air, as though she had thought what he’d said unjust. His eyes fell on the shadowy outline of her collarbone. An ache of something that felt uneasily like longing filled him. She was so strong and so deeply wounded; fragility hung about her like a muted perfume, as it often did with people who seemed cheerful and brave when you met them first. He had a faint desire to stand up and embrace her, simply tell her he would do his best.
‘Maybe this is stupid,’ she sighed.
‘Course it isn’t. How do you mean?’
‘It’s just . . .’ She looked away.
‘I like being in your company, Ellen.’
‘I know that,’ she answered, quietly. ‘You show me that.’
‘Well then.’
She turned to him again. ‘You’re certain you want to do this, Martin? I understand completely if you want to change your mind.’
‘Sure I’m sure. Why wouldn’t I be?’
‘It seems a bit crazy somehow. When we only met the other evening.’
‘But I told you last night, I’m going anyway.’
‘You didn’t just say that?’
He laughed at her directness. ‘No way. I’ve had it planned for months.’
She gave him an amused, disbelieving look. She had done something to her hair that made her appear younger. He wondered what exactly that might be.
‘I swear to God,’ he said. ‘I had it planned before Christmas. That’s why I took all this holiday now.’
‘I’d insist on paying for half the gas.’
‘I’d rather you didn’t. But if you want to, that’s fine.’
‘It’s not what I want. It’s an absolute condition.’
‘OK,’ he shrugged.
‘And I’d need to get some clothes first.’
‘Some . . . ?’
‘My clothes never turned up from the airport, you see. So I’m wearing all I possess right now. I don’t want to meet my mother looking like a refugee.’
He wanted to tell her she looked beautiful then. But maybe that wasn’t a good idea.
‘Have you thought about it, Ellen? Exactly how you’ll find her?’
Her eyes had a kind of unearthly clarity.
‘I think her name is Margaret Derrington. Or Doherty.’ She cut a piece of toast in half. ‘And that she lives in Malin town. Or near it.’
‘How d’you know that much?’
‘We were briefly in touch by letter a few years back. Round 1986.’
‘Oh.’ He reached into his pocket. ‘I forgot this, I’m sorry. I took it from your coat when I saw you in the hospital Christmas Day.’
She took the letter from him and looked at it closely, as though seeing it for the first time.
‘I could barely read it, to be honest, Ellen. I just wanted to see if I could find who you were.’
‘It’s OK. I understand.’
‘You have an address for her up there, do you?’
She shook her head. ‘The condition of writing was that I had to do it through the local convent. Not try to find her directly.’
‘Must have been hard to keep to that.’
‘Impossible, actually. A few years ago we hired a private detective here in Dublin to see if he could find out a little more.’
‘We?’
She blushed. ‘I mean I. Sorry.’ She folded her hands carefully. ‘No, I did mean we. It was when my husband was still alive.’
‘I see.’
‘He went through the Donegal newspapers for the time I was born. Did a little cross-referencing in some files I’d found myself. She’d let one or two clues slip in her letters.’ She smiled without looking at him. ‘Maybe she wanted that. So Mr Freud would say. Like the criminal who wants to get caught.’
Aitken laughed. ‘I haven’t met too many of those.’
‘You know what I mean though.’
‘Yes, I do. It must have all been very stressful on you.’
She laughed. ‘It wasn’t so bad as a matter of fact. Turned out I was three months younger than I’d always thought.’
They finished their coffee and went outside.
Black-headed gulls were wheeling over the river. A group of boys went past with fishing rods and radios. He took her by the arm and led her to the Mini.
Inside the car felt cold as a fridge. She gave a small shiver and wrapped her arms around herself.
‘Yowch,’ she said. ‘This Irish weather.’
‘I’m afraid I’m not well up on where to buy women’s clothes, Ellen.’
‘I’m sure you must have gone with your wife.’ Her playful tone made him smile. ‘Or were you the typical Irish male in that regard?’
‘I wasn’t always invited,’ he said.
‘Do you know a charity store downtown? Like a secondhand place? I prefer to go to a place like that, if I can.’
‘I think I know one. If I can remember where it is.’
He drove down the quays, turned over O’Connell Bridge making towards Stephen’s Green. The streets were not as empty as he had imagined. The flower sellers were back in business at their stalls. Groups of tousled backpackers were strolling around taking photographs of each other. Three buskers pounded guitars by the Molly Malone statue. The city had already begun to shake itself out of the sleep of Christmas.
He parked in a multi-storey on Drury Street, led the way to an Oxfam shop on George’s Street, a small, bright, place that smelt of incense and damp newspaper. It managed to be neat and somehow inviting despite the piles of shabby cardboard boxes that were stacked high in the corners. Handbags and rucksacks hung from the ceiling. An ornately scripted sign saying Photocopying available was leaning against a display mirror that was badly cracked. While she idled through the rails and racks, selecting a few blouses, he wandered down the back and began to flick through the cartons of old records.
There were albums here he hadn’t seen in years. Naked John and Yoko peering speculatively over their shoulders. A badly crumpled Velvet Underground, with graffiti eyes scrawled on the cartoon banana. The Beatles staring gloomily from the sleeve of Let It Be, the black print of the cardboard bleached by time to light grey. How sad it was that someone had had to sell their records. Worse, some junkie had probably filched them, sold the lot for a tenner or swapped them for a fix.
Ellen was holding a wine-coloured shirt on a hanger up to the light, as though she were trying to see through it. An older woman, in an impressive churchy hat, was talking to her in an animated way, pointing at the sleeves and caressing the fabric. He drifted down to the bookshelves and started to browse, half thinking he might buy something to read in Inishowen.
There were trashy airport thrillers and battered teach-yourself manuals, a couple of pornographic paperbacks and glitzy-jacketed bodice-rippers, a pamphlet by John O’Mahony SJ on Our Blessed Mother, Light of the Faithful.
A children’s book caught his eye and made him start. The Boys’ Treasury of Irish Ghost Stories. Its cellophane dust cover had been ripped in a horizontal zigzag and poorly repaired with Sellotape. A wrinkle ran down the cracked spine.
His stomach pulsed.
It couldn’t be.
Not after six years, it couldn’t be.
He took it down and half opened it at the flyleaf.
Robert Aitken is my name
Ireland is my nation
Glasthule is my dwelling place
And heaven my destination.
Tears pricked his eyes but he blinked them away.
He allowed the fragile book to fall open in his hands. Dean Swift And The Haunting Of Marsh’s Library. He raised it to his face. The faded paper had a greenish, mouldy smell. His son’s messy handwriting blurred before him again, its childishly flourishing curlicues and ornate capitals, the minuscule smiley faces in the dots over the i’s. Valerie had bought it for him when he had the flu one time and had to miss the summer soccer tournament. The poor kid had been broken-hearted; he’d been training for months. Tumbling around the house all that sweltering June, in the Packie Bonner goal-keeping gloves he’d got the previous Christmas.
‘Martin?’
When he turned, she was holding a dress up to herself. It was in a yellow and gold floral print pattern, old-fashioned and primly neat with a round lacy collar.
‘What do you think?’
He swallowed back his tears again. ‘Yeah. Nice.’
In fact he didn’t like it at all. Not that it mattered, but he thought it was something a grandmother would wear. A grandmother probably had, before it ended up here.
‘You think it’s me?’
‘I wouldn’t know about that.’
She tutted, rolled her eyes to the ceiling, exchanged a meaningful glance with a nearby assistant.
‘Surely you have an opinion you could give me?’
‘I think it’s very nice,’ he said.
She put her hand on her hip and regarded him with mock irritation.
‘I think it’s lovely. Honest to God.’
‘Femme fatale?’
‘Sure.’ He laughed. ‘Oxfam fatale.’
She went through a dark doorway hung with strips of multicoloured plastic and into the changing area at the back. He paid for the book and slipped it into his pocket, feeling an awkward light-headed unease now, as though the assistant might somehow know where it had come from and admonish him for ever having allowed it to be sold.
A middle-aged man sidled into the shop wearing baggy moleskin trousers, battered sneakers, a rumpled duffel coat. It was Jimmy Plunkett, a professional shoplifter and cheat. Back in 1970 he’d been Aitken’s first arrest. Once or twice a year ever since they had celebrated their special relationship by repeating the event.
He watched for a while as Plunkett fingered through the rails. Poor old Jimmy. The state of him now. Such a handsome kid he was back then. But ten or twelve years ago he’d gone on to heroin, spiked himself up one Easter Monday night with what turned out to be rat poison. The seizure had almost burst his heart, had given him a stroke that left his mouth twisted halfway round his cheek. If you glanced at him quickly from the side-on position he had the look of a living Picasso. Not that it was anything much to laugh about. Though Jimmy himself often did.
He thought he’d better speak to him before he stole something.
‘What’s the crack, Jimmy, you bowsie?’
Plunkett whipped around, looking florid with guilt. He replaced a khaki shirt on a hanger and ran his fingers through his greasy yellow hair. His mangled face exploded into a smile.
‘Jayzus Christ,’ he piped, in his wheezy, feeble voice. ‘Would you fuck off, you fat fuckeryeh.’
‘Happy Christmas to you too, James.’
He shuffled over and shook Aitken’s hand. ‘What you doin in a gaff like this? They mustn’t be payin yeh down at the piggery.’
‘They’d want to be deckin me out in diamonds to make it worth dealin with gaugers like you.’
‘Yeah, yeah. Yeh love me really. It’s the likes of me keeps youse shites employed.’
‘Yeah. Thanks a mill, Jimmy, for all you’ve done for me.’
Aitken glanced over his shoulder. Nobody was looking.
‘Anything on you today, Jim?’
‘Well . . . a little bitta percy, just . . . Don’t tell me you’re gonna do me?’
‘Course I’m not . . . Let me have a ten off you?’
Plunkett sniffed, looked around carefully, reached into his pocket; handed over a small twist of tinfoil. Aitken slipped him a ten-pound note. Plunkett nodded and gave a soft cough.
‘Yeah. So listen, Martin . . . I’ve somethin to tell yeh.’
‘What’s that?’
He beamed with pride. ‘I’m off the gear.’
‘No way. Are you?’
‘Straight up, man. Serio. Off it three months next Tuesday. I’m on the phiseptone.’ He gave a sudden shudder. ‘Natalie says there’s methadone in me madness.’
‘Fair balls to you, Jimmy. That’s fantastic news.’
‘The phi makes it a bit easier. Takes the longin off a bit.’
‘That’s not easy and never was. You must be thrilled skinny with yourself.’
‘I’m made up,’ he agreed, ‘if I can only stick it now.’
Plunkett went silent, his eyes flitting around the shop. Aitken found himself wondering what it was he wanted to steal.
‘So what else has you busy this weather, Jimmy?’
He shrugged. ‘Was knockin round the buildings for a while but it didn’t work out. I’m back to bein an artist now.’
‘An artist?’
‘Yeah. Drawin the fuckin dole.’
He laughed loud at himself, his mouth opened wide, a hell’s gate of raw gums and twisted black bicuspids.
‘Better than puttin up in the Joy though, James.’
‘Prolly be back there soon enough. Just a bit of a Christmas cease-fire, you know? Makes yeh feel bad to be robbin at Christmas.’ He snuffled. ‘Like little robbin fuckin redbreast.’
‘You want to stop actin the maggot and stay well clear of that place, Jimmy. Specially now you’re after kickin the old scag.’
Plunkett gave him a look like they both knew all about it. ‘No bleedin choice, man. Be back to work now soon enough. In the New Year like. The baby needs clothes. And another one on the way.’
‘Natalie’s expecting again, is she?’
He gave a rueful sigh. ‘Honest to the livin Christ, Martin, if I do as much as look at that mott she gets herself up the pole.’ His pale sick eyes gave a sudden roll. ‘True’s fuck. She must have ovaries the size of bowlin balls.’
‘Did you never hear tell of precautions in your life?’
‘Sure she swore to Christ she was on the Benny Hill when I met her. But what can yeh do, man? I love the mare.’
‘Tell her I was askin for her. She’s a lovely girl.’
‘She is, yeah. Be lost without her, Martin.’
‘I haven’t a breeze how an awful-lookin ibex like yourself ever got her.’
Jimmy grinned. ‘I dunno either, sheriff. Must be me body she’s after. Course some motts prefer the older man. Yeh know yerself.’
Rain splattered against the window. Ellen had emerged and was rummaging through a plywood tea chest of old shoes now, with three bright blouses draped over her arm.
‘And how’s the crack with yourself, Mr Aitken? Anythin strange or startlin this weather?’
‘Not a thing, Jimmy. Just mopin along.’
‘Yeah. You’re lookin well. They give yeh your auld gun back yet, no?’
‘Don’t you think I woulda shot you by now if they had?’
Plunkett guffawed appreciatively. ‘Very good, very good.’ He licked his lips, which was difficult enough, and glanced over his shoulder. ‘I can get yeh one if you want, Martin. Now there’s a fella up my way . . .’
‘Fuck off, Jimmy.’
‘But . . .’
‘You want me to have to lift you?’
Plunkett’s face took on a sly look. ‘Don’t be getting arsey with me now, hairoil. You might need one soon enough. What I’m after hearin lately.’
‘What’s that?’
‘It’s all over the shop yeh lifted the Mouse Doogan, Friday. He’s not what yeh might call happy about it.’
‘Well, my heart pumps piss for him.’
Plunkett didn’t laugh. ‘Take the shite out of your lugs and listen up, sweat. That cunt Doogan is a shaggin psycho. He’s twisted, man, him and all belongin to him. You wouldn’t want to piss on his chips again, I’m tellin yeh. Cos that one’s a bleedin space cadet.’
‘I know what he is, OK?’
‘Oh, y’do? Y’know there’s talk he’s after puttin out a contract on yeh?’
He could see that Plunkett wasn’t joking. He lit a cigarette and forced a laugh. ‘Course I do, Jimmy. What? You think I don’t hear things these days?’
‘Well, just, I’d be shockin careful, if I was you. Take it handy, keep the head down. Because that’s one Comanche would slit your throat soon as pick his shaggin nose.’
In the corner of his eye, he saw Ellen approach him. He reached into his wallet and took out a fifty-pound note, which he pressed into Plunkett’s fingers.
‘What’s that supposed to be?’
‘It’s a holy picture, Jimmy. What the fuck do you think?’
‘But . . . Christ, Martin. I couldn’t take that off yeh.’
‘Take the bloody thing before I burst you. For the baby.’
He looked at the note. ‘I dunno what to say, man.’
‘Well, just shove it in your britches and say shag all, then. And I catch you robbin I’ll reef the arm off you, Jimmy, and beat you to death with the wet end. I swear.’
‘I better not let yeh catch me in that case.’ He winked.
Plunkett was into his happy villain act now, a routine at which he wasn’t as good as he thought any more. He was too sick, too frightened. Aitken had seen it too many times. It depressed him to see it being dusted off again. He’d always known Jimmy had more going on than that, more brains and resilience than any glib suburbanite; he couldn’t have survived this long if he hadn’t. Born somewhere else he’d have ended up in a boardroom, or ripping it up on the golf course with the boys. It was bad luck and geography that had put him in the way of the law, and to say it was much else was the filthiest lie of the lot. These days all he had left was to play the character, the lovable wise-cracking Dubbalin blackguard. And Aitken liked to play the cop. Neither of them would ever change now.
‘You hear anything else about that mad prick Doogan, you gimme a bell and let me know, all right?’
‘Sound,’ said Plunkett. ‘But keep it quiet, for Jayzus’ sake. And he found out I told yeh, he’d plaster a jacks door with me.’
Ellen was standing behind them now. She hadn’t made a good job of putting her coat back on, so the corner of her collar was tucked inside. She looked at Aitken quizzically. ‘Ellen,’ he said, ‘this is . . .’
‘Morning, Missus Aitken,’ Plunkett grinned, saluting briefly. ‘Lovely to meet at last.’
‘Oh.’
‘I’m a professional associate of the inspector here. The inspector’s always talkin about you.’
‘Oh, he is?’
‘He is, he is, on me word of honour. Never done talkin about you, so he isn’t. I love that woman like there’s no tomorrow, Jimmy, I love her the way I love me own life. Sure he’s famous for talkin about yeh, so he is.’
She turned to Aitken and smiled. ‘That’s so nice of you, honey.’
‘A wife likes to hear these things.’
He reached out to fix her collar. ‘And a husband likes to say them, dear.’
‘Look at the pair of yez,’ Plunkett beamed, raising his hands in benediction. ‘Still love’s old sweet song after all these years. You’re a marvellous example to us all, so yez are. Now I remember the mother once sayin to me . . .’
‘Hey . . . Jimmy?’
‘Yes, Mr Aitken?’
‘Look after yourself, all right? Get somethin to eat.’
‘Oh . . . OK. Keep it country.’
He left the shop, walking backwards, almost as though he intended to bow.