‘Well, now you know.’ Her patronising tone now had an edge of anger. ‘And for your information, I did have a boyfriend once.’
But he was hardly listening. ‘God, Clodie, is it such a sin for a man to fancy you?’
His words jolted her. Maybe it was because she had allowed no man to get close to her, that she hadn’t heard such words for so long. For a second she felt wrong-footed, embarrassed at the way she’d treated him. ‘I’m sorry. You hit a raw spot, that’s all. I didn’t mean to give you a hard time.’
He smiled uneasily, fished in his pocket for his cigarettes. Women usually fell at his feet; he wasn’t used to this. He tried to regain control of the situation. ‘Want to tell me about it?’
‘Not really.’
He laid his neck on the block. ‘I’d like to know.’ And waited for her to cut it off.
To his surprise she didn’t. Instead she sat on the edge of the bed, nursing the hot cup in her hands. It was the first time he’d seen her look remotely vulnerable. She didn’t look at him but at her own reflection in the mirror when she spoke, her voice low and distant. ‘There was a serious love in my life once, around ten
— nearly eleven years ago. I was studying at the Poly and I didn’t have much time for boys. My father had been away in the Kesh since I was ten and all I thought of was working with him when he came out. Together we’d be the deadliest bombing team ever
— to pay the Brit bastards for what they’d done to Ireland. What they’d done to Da, taken him away from me. We’d always been so close until the soldiers came and the troubles began again. It had started as a silly dream, but by the time Da was due out after nine years, that dream had become reality. I had exercise books full of ideas and designs for TPUs and booby traps hidden in my locker — you wouldn’t believe it. And all my girlfriends could do at the time was drool over film stars and pop singers.’
But seeing her, listening to her talk, McGirl could believe it. Could visualise the life of the strange introverted daughter of a bomber, desperate to avenge the years of happiness they’d stolen from her and her father. He didn’t interrupt, just sipped at his tea in silence.
‘I’d told Da about it, but of course he never realised how serious I was. Parents don’t, I suppose. Then, maybe a year before he was due out, I met this guy in the canteen at the Poly. Chris Walsh, he said his name was. He seemed a lot older than me at the time. Twenty-five, he said, but I’m sure it was more. A mature student, wanted to be an architect. His parents had emigrated to England from Armagh when he was young and he’d been brought up in London. He had hardly a trace of an Ulster accent. He’d been well-educated and got A-Levels, but hadn’t been interested in university then, or so he said. He’d joined the British Army as an officer cadet, but then became disillusioned and left and spent years bumming around the world, working his passage or staying with families of rich friends. He moved in those sorts of circles. Then he began to realise he wasn’t getting anywhere or going anywhere. He decided then to go back to university and get a degree; it was easier for a mature student to get a place in Belfast.
‘He was very charming, very worldly-wise. Quite persistent in getting to know me, wouldn’t take no for an answer. I guess I was pretty flattered by his attentions really. He was far older than most boys I knew; we could talk about anything. We ended up living together in his digs for three months. For the first time ever I felt I could trust someone enough to tell him about my secret plans I’d only ever told Da. Chris laughed at me, told me I was crazy we ended up talking about Irish history and arguing endlessly about the rights and wrongs of what the English had done. At one point he almost had me convinced I was wrong. For the first time thoughts of wedding bells and prams came to the fore. Then Da was released from the Kesh; he and Chris actually met once, seemed to get on all right. Then Da did his runner across the border.
‘He managed to keep in touch with me, but I never told anyone, not even Chris. But then we found out later that Jimmy Coyle knew what Da was planning to do and blabbed to the RUC when they took him in for routine questioning.’
There was no emotion in her voice as she mentioned the man she had killed as he attempted to make love to her. Fitzpatrick had related the story to McGirl. It had all the makings of Provo folklore, had earned her the nickname of’Praying Mantis’ behind her back. But more in awe than with any lack of respect for her action.
‘At the time I didn’t see the connection, but soon after Chris started asking questions about my father. Where was he, what was he doing? I remember, I was actually touched by his interest, his concern.’ She shook her head at the memory. ‘So bloody stupid! But then I suppose I was still very young. Just nineteen.’
It was intensely quiet in the bedroom, the lapse in Clodagh’s story forming an awkward silence. McGirl’s voice was hoarse. ‘So you told him?’
She inhaled slowly, deeply, and shut her eyes. ‘I told him. I thought not much at the time, but obviously it was enough. My father was caught at the border a few days later. And after a week or so, Chris just upped and disappeared. I came back to his digs one night to find him and all his things gone. Only later, much later, I realised he must have been a British spy. Trying to infiltrate any up-and-coming Pro vies on the campus. He appeared to have fingered two other male students, too, but they were already connected with the movement.’
‘What happened to you?’ McGirl asked.
One corner of her lips curled in a sardonic half-smile. ‘Nothing. For a while RUC and army patrols made a nuisance at our home with their census checks and once I was taken in for interrogation. But they had nothing on me; I hadn’t done anything. They had Da back behind bars and that was enough. They probably didn’t put too much credence in Chris Walsh’s reports.’
‘And Walsh, what happened to him?’
‘I’ve no idea.’
‘And he’s the reason you hate the Brits so much?’
‘How many reasons do I need?’
Was this the moment, he wondered? He reached into his jacket pocket and withdrew the folded newspaper. ‘Here’s another one.’
‘What?’
‘Read it. Today’s Evening Standard.’
Slowly she spread the tabloid across her lap, taking in the headlines, her head bowed slightly to read the text. She said nothing as she scanned down the column, her mouth moving in a silent curse. A small vein throbbed at her temple.
McGirl said: ‘They set us up, Clodie. It’s all there.’
She looked across at him and he could see the shock and anger in her eyes.
‘They as good as executed your da. But it could just as easily have been you.’
Her voice was barely more than a whisper. ‘And I fell for it.’
‘We all fell for it. The English up to their old tricks again. They’re the most devious bastards on God’s earth, so they are.’ He played his ace. ‘But this time we know the individual responsible.’
‘Who?’
‘You can read it between the lines. It’s the current SATO in the Six Counties. The man they brought over to London when they started running scared. Major Tom Harrison.’
‘I remember the name, he was the one who gave the interview.’
He nodded. ‘The man who set us up. And there’s another reason for you to remember that name. Something you probably don’t know. It was discovered by the security section when they reopened your father’s file when you approached us through Killy Tierney. The man whose evidence actually got the conviction was the ATO who defused a boobytrapped device your da set. The man wasn’t identified at the trial, but we placed the name. At the time he was just Captain Tom Harrison.’