Northern Spy by Berry, Flynn (free ebooks for android .TXT) 📕

have made a good impression on him,” he says ruefully. I listen to the waves collapsing in the darkness. “You said he wants a scout?”

“And someone for reconnaissance.”

Eamonn turns quiet, considering it.

“You’re not serious,” I say. “What about Finn?”

“A scout is different from a full member. You’d never be used on armed operations, you wouldn’t even be given a weapon. It’s more like support staff,” he says. “Look, I’m not going to tell you what to do.”

“No, you’re not.”

Halfway home, I realize that, in my anger, I forgot to check under the car for a bomb. Some of their devices are activated by an incline, and the road has been flat so far. I pull over to the side of the road, and crouch on my hands and knees, shining my phone under the car, lighting up its machinery.

27

Gallagher’s pub is hidden in a warren of residential streets behind the Falls Road, in an area run by the IRA. A few months ago, a fight at the bar ended with a man being shot. When the police tried to interview witnesses, seventy-two people said they’d been in the toilets at the time.

Marian is waiting for me outside the bar, in a wool fisherman’s jumper. She says, “I’m sorry, Tessa.”

Last night, I should have packed a bag, closed up the house, and driven with Finn across the border to Dublin airport. The two of us should be on a plane at the moment, about to land in Australia. We should be halfway across the world from these people, from this nest of damp streets. I should be having a cup of airplane coffee, squinting through the porthole window at the sunshine.

“It’s all right,” I say. “Let’s go.”

She leads me to a back room where Seamus, Damian, and Niall are waiting. The ceiling is even lower here than in the bar, with yellow wallpaper stained by years of smoke. I step forward to join them at the table, which is interesting, since I’m not in my body anymore. I’m not here at all, not really.

“What are you having, Tessa?” asks Damian.

“Oh, a red wine, please.”

“I’ll take another white wine,” says Marian.

I’d told Marian that I was surprised Seamus allowed his unit to drink, and she shrugged. “That’s nothing. Some units are off their tits on ketamine half the time,” she said, which I’d rather not have known.

Once Damian returns with our drinks, Seamus says, “What did you study at Trinity, Tessa?”

“History and politics.”

“Did you enjoy it?” he asks.

“Yes, very much.”

“Which part? The course work? The social life?” His tone hasn’t changed, but my throat tenses.

“Both.”

“And you met Francesca Babb there. Are you still in touch?”

Hearing my friend’s name from him is like being shoved. “Yes.”

He lifts his glass and whiskey slides into his mouth. To the others, he says, “Her father owns Fortnum and Mason.”

“Not entirely,” I say. “He’s an investor.”

“Where does Francesca live?”

“In Dublin.”

“Whereabouts?”

“Merrion Street.”

Seamus might want to kidnap her. The IRA has ransomed wealthy locals often enough that some of them apparently offer payments in advance, so they won’t be taken.

“How much do you know about Francesca’s father?” I ask, and Seamus tilts his head. “He’s not a nice man. They’re not close. He’d consider it a personal challenge to get her back without paying anything.”

“Any grandchildren?”

From the corner of my eye, I notice Marian lift a hand to her earring. She’s warning me that Seamus already knows the answer. He’s testing me. “Not yet,” I say, my voice light. “Francesca’s pregnant.”

“Well,” he says. “We’ll keep that in mind.”

Marian is sitting beside me, near enough for me to feel the bristles in her wool jumper, and I think to her, You need to get me out of this if it falls apart.

Seamus clears his throat. “Marian says you’re interested in helping the movement. Why?”

“For peace.”

“What makes you think we’re going to win?” he asks.

“Colonialism never wins. Not in the end.”

“You work for the colonialists, though. You’ve spent these seven years at the BBC.”

“It has half a million listeners a week. Do you not think people like us should have a say in what it broadcasts?”

Sometimes Seamus looks from me to Marian, like he’s comparing us. I know that Marian seems softer than me, gentler, especially in her fisherman’s jumper. I have on my work clothes, a long-sleeved tartan dress, stockings, and ankle boots. But we’re also similar, in our expressions, our mannerisms. What luck for him, to find someone so like Marian. He’d prefer a clone of her, probably. He knows that I’m not Marian, but, then, she’s one in a million.

“Why have you not volunteered before?” he asks.

“I was scared of going to prison. I still am, to be honest. I’m not like Marian. But I had a baby a year ago, and one day he’s going to ask me what I did to stop this.”

“And you want to tell him you were a terrorist?” asks Seamus.

“The state uses political violence every day, they only call it terrorism when the poor use it.”

We keep talking, and something settles in me, like silt falling to the bottom of a river. I feel more calm than I have in weeks. This isn’t so difficult. I’m a woman, after all, so I’ve had a lifetime of practice guessing what a man wants me to say, or be. Seamus wants me to be brisk and capable, and he wants me to be angry, which I am, only not in the direction he thinks.

Seamus asks me questions, and as I answer them, directly and mostly honestly, I think, I’m going to destroy you.

“We need a scout,” says Damian. “Are you likely to be stopped by the police?”

“No.”

“But you were interviewed at Musgrave after Marian’s robbery.”

“If the police were worried about me, I wouldn’t be allowed into work, not with the sort of politicians who come into Broadcasting House.”

“Have you ever been arrested?”

“No.”

“Have you ever been stopped and searched by the Crown forces?”

“I’ve had my car