‘Oh no!’ I remember I sat forward with my elbows on my thighs, my hands clasped tight together.
‘Yes. We got a signal an hour ago. A bomb went off in a shopping centre in Belfast this morning. It seems to have been an own-goal; the bomber was blown to pieces, but he took out five civilians as well.’
My ears heard the words the adjutant was saying, but my brain hardly seemed to take them in. My mind and body had gone numb. I could not move or speak. I sat and stared at the front of the desk, just ahead of me, as if I had turned to stone.
‘The rest of the course is being informed,’ he went on. ‘We want you to take a couple of days off, to make up your mind what you’d like to do.’
My voice came back in a kind of croak. ‘What happened?’
‘She’d gone shopping. That’s all the information we have so far. She was outside, on the pavement, when the explosion occurred. She was killed instantly. Can’t have known anything.’
‘What time was it?’
‘Just after 9.30.’
‘What about the kid?’
‘He was at playschool.’
‘Thank God for that.’ I put my face in my hands.
‘You’ll need time to chill out,’ the adjutant was saying. ‘There’s no pressure on you to complete the NI course. After this, you may not want to go over there at all. If that’s what you decide, everyone will understand. You don’t have to go on the operational tour. If you’d prefer it, you can go back to the squadron, and we can look for a posting elsewhere. See how you feel in a couple of days.’
‘She was coming back!’ I said bitterly. And then again, before I could stop myself, I almost shouted, ‘She was coming back!’
‘I know, Geordie. Everyone knows that. Everyone’s with you.’ He cleared his throat and went on, ‘As I say, take a couple of days off. If there’s anything you need — help with organizing the funeral — come and tell us. Get it sorted out with the boss and SSM. Now — John can give you a lift home.’
I took a deep breath to get hold of myself, then stood up and nodded to the adjutant. John put a hand on my shoulder and steered me towards the door. Outside, he said, ‘Will I take you back?’ I nodded again, and walked blindly to his car. As he drove I noticed how tanned he was and asked where he’d been. ‘Africa,’ was the answer. ‘Just come back from an exercise in Botswana.’
‘What was it like?’
He began to answer, but I could hardly listen. I realized I’d only asked the question in an attempt to keep my mind off my private horror. I seemed to be short of breath, and had to inhale deeply to steady myself.
At the cottage John came into the kitchen with me and said loudly, ‘Let’s have a brew. Where’s the kettle?’
‘There.’ I pointed. ‘There’s milk in the fridge.’ Then I sat down at the table, staring out of the window, straight into the vegetable garden, mind in a whirl of guilt and remorse. The kettle began to sing, and presently I heard John say something.
‘What was that?’
‘I see you’ve got a bottle of Scotch. Would a quick one help?’
‘No, no. Tea’ll be fine.’
I shivered with cold. When John handed me a mug, I piled three spoonfuls of sugar into it, and as I drank it, I felt a hot flush rising through me.
‘Jesus Christ!’ I said. ‘Why her? Why did it have to be her?’
John shook his head and looked down into his tea. Then, noticing the strange kit in one corner, he said, ‘Whose is that?’
‘It belongs to Tony Lopez, the SEAL guy who’s trying to join the squadron. He’s been staying here.’
‘Oh — that’s the guy who was in the nick with you?’
‘That’s him.’
‘How’s he doing?’
‘Terrific. One of the best.’
‘Will he pass selection?’
‘He’ll walk it. He’s fitter than the rest put together, and he’s got most of the necessary skills already. Been in the jungle, for instance.’
‘He must be crazy to leave the SEALs. Train in the sun… all the assets you want… Does he realize what hard work he’s letting himself in for?’
‘I don’t know. It’s only for a couple of years.’
‘Rather him than me. I dread the thought of walking over those hills with a fifty-five-pound bergen.’ John looked at me and said, ‘You’d better phone Kath’s parents.’
‘In a minute.’
My mind flew to the spacious house in Helen’s Bay — a safe and smart residental resort a few miles north-east of Belfast, on the shore of Belfast Lough — with its big gardens and handsome trees and stunning views of the sea. Kath’s mother always kept the family home immaculate: never a speck of dust, never a cushion out of place. I’d always supposed that this obsession with cleanliness had something to do with the fact that Kath’s father, Den, had been a doctor. Often in the past few weeks I’d wondered what Tim had made of it, dropping bits of food and scattering his toys about the fitted Wilton carpets.
I nerved myself to make the call. Then I said, ‘Better do it,’ and went to the telephone.
A strange voice answered: a man, with a strong Belfast accent.
‘Who’s that?’
‘Sergeant Harris, RUC.’
‘Can I speak to Mrs O’Brien?’
‘I’m sorry. She’s not very well just now.’
‘Doctor O’Brien, then.’
‘Who’s calling?’
‘His son-in-law.’
There was a pause before Den came on, sounding very shaken. ‘We can’t believe it,’ he said. ‘We just can’t take it in.’
‘Me neither. How’s Mum?’
‘She’s in shock. We’ve given her some sedation.’
‘Look, I’ll come over as soon as I can. Tomorrow, probably.’
‘Thanks, Geordie.’
‘Den — where is she?’
‘Who?’
‘Kath.’
‘Browns are collecting her from the hospital.’
‘Browns?’
‘The funeral directors.’
‘Have you seen her?’
‘No. She was… she was… The damage was pretty bad. They identified her from her credit cards and driving licence.’
‘Oh God! What about Tim?’
‘He doesn’t know yet. Geordie, are you all right?’
‘More or less. I’ve a friend with me here at the cottage. I’ll be there tomorrow. Give my love to Mum.’
‘So I will.’
I rang off.
Little by little I felt anger starting to burn inside me. Once again I heard old Morrison, the RUC chief, saying, ‘I hate those bastards. I truly do,’ and suddenly I too felt hatred for the IRA, furious personal hatred for the man who had sent the bomber on his murderous errand.
‘Fuck them!’ I said, so loudly that it made John start.
‘Who?’
‘The IRA. Whoever killed her. I’ll get that bastard somehow, if it’s the last thing I do.’
The next two days were a nightmare, and I stumbled through them as though I was half awake. The only mercy was that delayed shock seemed to be numbing my sensibilities and keeping grief at bay.
Early on the Tuesday morning I drove up the M5 to Birmingham Airport, exactly as I had on the day I sent Kath off. The head-shed had fixed me up with an open return to Belfast, but I had yet to collect the ticket. Moving on autopilot, I put the car in the long-term park, walked to the terminal building, found the ticket desk and checked in, all in a mechanical, unfeeling way. It was only when I reached the security check and some dickhead challenged me about where I was going that I really came round. There must have been something about my face that made him pick me out. Suddenly he was demanding to know my name and address in Belfast. When he asked the purpose of my visit, I gave it to him straight, in the most hostile voice I could manage: ‘I’m… going… to… bury… my… wife.’ That stopped him in his tracks — but he was such a turd that he didn’t have the grace to apologize. He just said, ‘All right,’ and motioned me on.