To Murf, kicking at the cemetery path, Hood said, ‘She was upset. She’ll get over it.’
‘She seemed quite nice,’ said Murf, ‘I wouldn’t want to see her messed up.’
‘She’ll be okay.’
‘Those punks,’ said Murf. ‘They’re a bad lot. Hey, you wouldn’t believe it, but punks like that are always pestering the Provos.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘They got hardware,’ said Murf. ‘They got connections. Like they know Arabs.’
And Hood thought of Weech’s two trunks of guns; it had been a puzzle, but now he saw that he might solve it like a crossword, adding a dozen names to make a word with their key letters.
Murf looked at the cemetery shapes and sucked at the wind and said, ‘They probably come up here already and left, Sweeney and them. It’s all my fault.’
‘Don’t worry about it.’ Sweeney: another name. He knew nothing, but he was almost relieved to think they might not come. He wondered if he really wanted to see them and commit himself further. Once, when he had acted alone, it had all seemed very simple. His present anxiety was like a fear of crowds, the mob that would sweep him from his own motives. The origin of his doubt was the discovery weeks ago that he had made a passport for that wealthy actress he had taken a dislike to. So they were linked. But there was more: the painting stolen by the rich girl from the titled woman. They were all related! And what of Weech’s arsenal? Was it also part of the family now? He resisted assigning it ownership as he had resisted anything final with Lorna, to preserve some distance and avoid the complicating sympathy of kinship. Yet it was as if by degrees he was waking to the true size of his family and seeing it as so huge and branched it included the enemy. To harm any of them was to harm a part of himself. A family quarreclass="underline" if he cut them he bled.
That was how he saw the man slipping through the gate at the far end of Paddington Cemetery, the shadow hurrying along the path. What mad cousin was this who had dragged himself from the past to plead with him?
He said, ‘Heads up, squire.’
Murf moved behind him, whispering, ‘Boom widdy-widdy —’
The man approached and as he stepped close to them he flipped his cigarette away. It glanced against a tombstone and the tip came apart, making a shower of sparks, lighting for seconds a jar of wilted flowers and the dagger of a cross in the ground.
Murf said, ‘Easter —’
‘Stuff your bloody password — what are you doing here, man?’
‘He’s with me,’ said Hood.
‘You’re supposed to be alone. The man turned.’ ‘Hop it, Murf.’
‘Hold the phone, squire.’
‘They won’t like it,’ said the man.
‘That’s tough,’ said Hood. ‘He’s staying.’
‘Then follow me,’ he said. ‘But I ain’t responsible.’
They walked out to Lonsdale Road, where Murf stopped briefly to chalk ARSENAL RULE on the cemetery wall. In the cemetery the man had a threatening voice, a villainous shape. In the street Hood saw him wince; he was uncertain, with thinning hair, a battered jacket. The light removed any suggestion of threat and showed his labourer’s stoop — a careworn limping. He turned to Hood, peering up: small, close-set eyes and a wrinkled nose, a large dented chin and a crooked Irish mouth — then he looked away. He skipped slightly, getting ahead of Hood and Murf and led them down a side street to a pub.
Before they entered he said angrily, ‘I ain’t responsible.’ Then he pushed at the door.
The pub was full of hollering men, most of them red-faced and standing in wreaths of smoke, gesturing with pints of beer. A juke-box played — not music, but a throb that repeated against the floor and shook the windows. Hood was used to strangers’ stares, but here there was an unusual break in the chatter as they crossed the pub; he sensed attention, a sharpening of suspicion — a pause in the darts’ game, heads turning, low mutters — as if they had entered a private club and were intruding on a closely guarded ritual. In a corner of the bar the man said, ‘Wait here,’ then walked away.
Murf said, ‘I think I should split.’
‘Forget it. Let’s hoist a few.’
‘There ain’t time.’
‘They can wait.’
‘It don’t work like that,’ said Murf, trying to make Hood understand. ‘When they say go, you go. It’s like an order. And they don’t want me — I can tell. So I think maybe I’ll just hang out.’
‘I might need you,’ said Hood. ‘What if they pull a fast one on me? You’re my back-up man.’
‘Yeah, but they won’t do that. You’re seeing Sweeney — he’s the chief.’
‘Never trust the top banana, Murf,’ said Hood and he bought two pints of beer.
The limping man returned five minutes later and seeing them with glasses he said, ‘Drink up — we’re going.’ Without waiting he pushed towards the back of the pub. Hood put his half-full glass down. Murf said, ‘You leaving that?’ and gulped it. Arching his back he seemed to pour it straight into his stomach.
Hood thought they were headed for a back room — they were in a passageway stacked with beer crates, then squeezing through a narrow darkened hall. The man kicked a door and they were outside.
‘Hey, sweetheart, you know where you’re going?’
The man muttered. He glared at Murf. He said, ‘I told you, I ain’t responsible.’
Murf said, ‘Boom widdy-widdy.’
The next pub was several streets away, smaller than the first and not so crowded. They entered by the back door and the man, who had grown uneasy in his movements — he had not stopped muttering and his posture had become more cramped — crooked his finger at some stairs. He said, ‘Up there. First on your left.’
On the stairs Hood said, ‘Just like any other cat-house.’
‘I never been here before,’ Murf quacked the words nervously and looked around at the worn staircase.
Hood said, ‘Smile.’
‘Widdy-widdy.’
Hood found the door and knocked. It opened a crack, a man showed his nose and cautious eye, then it swung open and Hood saw the table — another man seated at the far end — the dim bulb and drawn shades. The room was bare and had a musty smell of a decaying carpet. And it was cold. The men — there were only those two — wore winter coats, and the younger one at the door a flat tweed cap. Murf began to cough nervously.
‘Sit down,’ said the man at the door, shutting it and slipping the bolt.
The man at the table smiled. He said, ‘Welcome.’
‘Where are we?’ said Hood.
‘The High Command,’ said the younger man.
Hood looked around: a dart-board, a bottle of whiskey, a broken lamp, a saucer full of cigarette butts. He smiled, then he sat down and said, ‘I hope you don’t have any objection to Murf.’
The man at the table did not reply to that. He sat up, and leaning across the table extended his hand. ‘My name’s Sweeney. I know yours.’