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

in his pram while I push him around the village, along the coast and over the railway bridge, past the barber shop and butcher’s and wine shop and crèche. I can’t get enough of any of it.

43

Finn stands at the back door with his palms on the glass, looking out, like he used to in Greyabbey. The view here is different—a small patch of overgrown garden, not a sheep field—but he doesn’t seem to mind. I crouch behind him, and we watch birds dart through the winter shrubs. This is, apparently, my garden. I should learn the names of the shrubs. And the birds, for that matter.

Finn toddles away from the door, and sets about pushing the buttons on the dishwasher. “No, no,” I say, and he looks at me, then pushes another button.

He causes as much havoc here as at home. I’m glad that he is the same, that he made the trip here intact. I hadn’t known if it would change him, watching two men in ski masks come to take his mam, but it doesn’t seem to have left any mark. He’s still as good-natured and curious and maddening as ever. Already today he has poured a bottle of dish soap on the floor and dropped blueberries behind the sofa.

He can’t do too much damage, though. The house has been simply outfitted, with a good deal of thought. There is a safety gate for the stairs, a crib, a high chair, a laundry basket, even. Was I worth this much? I have no way of knowing my own significance in the conflict. MI5 had been ready to let me die, after all, so how useful could I have been?

On the phone, I try to explain this to Fenton. “There’s a hair dryer here,” I tell him. “And a cheese grater and a colander. Why?”

“Sorry?”

“Why did the police go to this much trouble for me?”

“You risked your life as an informer,” he says. “I’d say we can give you a hair dryer for that.”

“The mortgage here can’t be very cheap.”

“I hate to remind you,” he says, “but you had a house, and a job here, that you’ve had to leave.”

“You also risk your life, as a detective. This must be more than your pension.”

“It’s not, actually. Added up.”

“Oh. That’s good.”

“You and Marian contributed a great deal toward peace,” he says.

“I don’t want this to be a reward for killing Seamus.”

“It’s not, Tessa.”

“But the police must have wanted him dead.”

“No, actually. He would have been more useful in prison.”

“I’m going to pay you back this money,” I say, and the detective sighs.

—

A police liaison officer based in Belfast is helping me with practical matters. She works with protected witnesses and informers on building new identities, providing them with a passport under a new name, a medical number, a credit history, a degree, a list of former residences.

“I lived in Larne? Really?”

“Mm-hmm,” she says. “What’s wrong with Larne?”

“Nothing. It’s just, Larne.”

We will work together on creating a fake résumé for me, with fake references. “What are you qualified to do?” she asks.

“Produce political radio shows.”

“That might be difficult,” she says. “Anything else?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well. Give it a think.”

We’re being given a small stipend for our living expenses over the next few months, which is lucky, since neither of us had much in savings, and MI5 cleared Marian’s pledge account. They must have assumed that she was about to be killed, and that the funds could be used elsewhere.

I will never hear from Eamonn. He will never explain himself to me. I remember reading the MI5 site, months ago. “Building up our relationship with you is at the center of this process.” Sometimes I think that Eamonn might have argued for our lives, and been overridden by his superiors, but probably not, he probably accepted the rules. We still don’t even know who the other informer was, who they decided to sacrifice us for. The peace talks are proceeding. Most likely, Eamonn is still in Northern Ireland, still running informers.

I think often of the story he told me about meeting a source at a luxury hotel, in a straw bungalow on a jetty. I think about how close we came to something similar. And I hope that whomever she was, she saw through him sooner than I did, and got herself free.

—

One afternoon, I buy a Christmas tree from the stalls behind the church. Marian comes over to help me with the lights, unspooling them from her hands while I circle the tree.

“Do you feel guilty?” I ask her.

“No,” she says simply.

“Seamus was your friend.”

“Yes. And he was going to kill both of us.”

44

Our mam moved to Bray in January. She still complains about the town every day, which was genuine at first, and now seems to be mostly out of guilt. She will never admit to liking it more than Andersonstown.

For the first few weeks, she worked as a cleaner, but then she answered a post from a dog-walking service. She has a picture of each dog taped on her fridge.

I’m glad she’s here for my sake, but even more for Marian’s. This has been harder on her. She can’t tell Damian and Niall that she escaped, that she is alive.

“Do you miss them?” I ask.

“Yes.”

She’s most worried about Niall, though Fenton said he’s preparing to offer him a deal, immunity in exchange for information. She told the detective to mention New York. “He’s always wanted to live there.” If he accepts, Niall will be given some money, a new start. He’s so young. This part of his life will fade, in time.

“I’m going to see them again,” she says firmly. “One day. When we’re old.”

The conflict will end eventually. An argument over pardons for IRA prisoners has slowed the peace talks, but negotiations are still inching along. What is dangerous for us now won’t be forever. Someday, a peace