‘I think you’re lying,’ said Hood. ‘You talk about the offensive, Mayo talks about the offensive. But what’s the offensive? It’s a couple of teenagers hustling bombs into luggage lockers. Oh, and I almost forgot about Mayo’s painting. That was a brilliant caper — it really had the art world up in arms, right? What an offensive.’
‘Have you been to Belfast?’
‘No,’ said Hood, and he muttered, ‘Booby-traps, Bibles, monkeys —’
‘You should go,’ said Sweeney. ‘You’d learn something. Ever see a father gunned down in front of his wife and kiddies?’
‘Yes, I have,’ said Hood solemnly.
‘And what did you do about it?’
‘I came here.’
‘Maybe you can see why we’re militant.’
‘I don’t call stealing paintings very militant.’
‘It’s a tactic. It’s better than cutting people’s throats.’ Sweeney looked closely at Hood, then said, ‘If you have other ideas I’d like to hear them.’
‘I’ll write you a letter,’ said Hood.
‘If you’re worried about Araba you can forget it. We expelled her.’
‘For burning you.’
‘It’s no concern of yours. The fact is she was expelled. She’s on her own now.’
‘Competition,’ said Hood.
Sweeney grinned. ‘Actors.’
‘There are a hundred more like her — aristocrats, suckers and middle-class girls with problems. Like Mayo, who takes her bra off and thinks she’s bringing down civilization. She’s just a can of worms. Once, she saw a pretty picture. Then she became a revolutionary and decided to steal it. She’s like the rest of them, a barbarian with taste.’
‘Hold it,’ said Sweeney. ‘Mayo’s my wife.’
Hood said, ‘Then you should keep an eye on her.’
‘I’ve been told that before,’ said Sweeney softly.
They faced each other and Hood saw an acknowledgement in Sweeney’s grey eyes, a recognition bordering on the saddest affinity: they had slept with the same woman. Hood did not feel guilty; he felt ensnared by a sense of shame, and angry that he had been brought so close to this stranger. What did that make him? Another member of the family. And he could see now how it had all gone wrong, why Mayo had kept him away — or perhaps Sweeney himself, out of pride, had avoided bringing him any further into the plot. He could hardly be expected to welcome his wife’s lover.
‘Her name isn’t Mayo. It’s Sandra.’
Hood said, ‘I don’t have much to do with her these days.’
‘I know, but it wouldn’t bother me if you did. A man sleeps with your wife. It hurts at first — that’s pride. But then you realize what he’s putting up with and you almost pity the poor bastard.’ Sweeney laughed and reached for his glass.
‘I’m going,’ said Hood.
Sweeney faced him. He said, ‘You’re going to help us. You’ve got ideas — the offensive is yours, if you want it.’
‘You’re really in a jam, aren’t you?’
‘It’s up to you. I think we can depend on you.’ Sweeney took a sip of his whiskey. ‘I’m getting used to you.’
‘That’s your problem,’ said Hood.
‘Sweeney’s a great bloke,’ said Murf, in the train back to Deptford. ‘He was like a father to me, he was. He taught me everything I know.’
‘Listen, Murf, most fathers don’t teach their kids to make bombs.’
‘Then they’re useless, ain’t they? ’Cause that’s what it’s all about, ain’t it?’ Murf slumped in his seat. ‘They done my old man. Didn’t give him a chance. He’s Irish, so they nobble him.’
Hood looked over and just before Murf turned away he saw the boy’s face crease with grief: he had started to cry. Hood thought: But what have I taught him? He was going to comfort him — they were alone in the compartment — he was moved by the boy’s size, his small crushed face, the ridiculous ear-ring, and that black raincoat he wore in imitation of his own. Then he saw the handle of Murf’s knife and he held back. Suddenly, as if remembering, Murf sprang from his seat, whipped out the felt-tipped pen and wrote on the compartment mirror, ARSENAL RULE.
At Deptford Station Hood said, ‘I’ll see you later.’
‘The pubs are shut,’ said Murf.
‘I’m not going to a pub.’
He left Murf and walked up a side street to Lorna’s where, in front of the house, he watched a crumpled sheet of newspaper dragged by the wind from the gutter to the sidewalk. It rasped against the garden wall, altering its shape, then tumbled into a tree and flapped fiercely. Hood waited a moment, studying the caught thing animated by the wind, and he was about to go when he glanced up and saw the kitchen light burning. He rang the bell and the light went off. There was no sound from the house. He knocked, then poked open the letter-slot and called Lorna’s name. She didn’t answer. He drew out Weech’s key and unlocked the door.
‘Lorna?’
He switched on the light and saw her cowering half-way down the hall, preparing to run upstairs. He almost recoiled at the sight of her, and she seemed not to recognize him — she registered slow fear, the negligent despair of someone wounded or doomed. And she was wounded. Her face was bruised, her blouse torn, and there were scratches on her neck. She watched him with swollen eyes as he rushed forward and took her in his arms. He could feel her frailty, her heart pumping against his chest.
‘What happened?’
‘They was here — oh, God, I thought they got you too.’ She sobbed and then said, ‘I didn’t tell them anything!’
‘Love, love,’ said Hood, and heard the child cry out in an upper room.
20
The face was a success: even the dog barked at her, and McGravy was taken in for a few bewildered seconds. She had spent the morning at the mirror working on her eyes — it was too easy to wear sunglasses, and down there sunglasses in this dreary weather would attract as much attention as a full frontal. The headscarf and plastic boots were her greatest concession, since her first thought was to go as a man. She knew she could bring it off, but how to explain it? A woman, then, but anonymous. The skin had to have a pale crêpy texture and around the eyes a wrinkled suggestion of neglect and premature aging, with dull green mascara on the lids. It took her an hour to get the right crude stripe. She laboured with care for the effect and finally achieved it in exasperation, realizing afterwards that what she wanted most in her make-up that day was a look of hurry. A woman went out in the morning to shop, but no matter how rushed she was she did her eyes. She aimed at the haste and pretty fatigue of the housewife with a few lurid strokes of eye-liner. Instead of lipstick she practised her bite, clamping her jaw a fraction off-centre to convey, in a slightly crooked grin, that her teeth didn’t quite fit. Then she put on her boots and scarf and an old coat, seeing her Poldy had japped in his cowardly dance of aggression, diving at her and swivelling his hind end sideways until he sniffed her and whimpered into silence.
McGravy said, ‘Don’t tell me. Let me guess —’
‘I’m in a rush,’ she said, rummaging in the trunk for the right handbag and selecting one in imitation leather with a broken buckle.
‘Of course, you’re taking the bus — Mother Courage doesn’t take taxis.’
‘I’m not Mother Courage,’ she said. ‘I’m invisible.’
‘Poldy doesn’t think so.’ But the dog had stopped barking. He was circling her cautiously, sniffing at her boots.