Chapter Thirteen
FRIDAY

Helen looked up as Owen came into the room. ‘Guess who’s coming in to see us this afternoon?’ He stared at her blankly. ‘Maguire’s mammy,’ she said, and Owen put his head in his hands.
 ‘Ah Christ, no, not again,’ he said. ‘There’s nothing we can do for her, nothing we can say that I haven’t said a dozen times already. Do I ever need this on a Friday afternoon?’
 ‘I’ll see her if you like. I can actually take this sort of thing better on a Friday than on a Monday morning.’
 ‘No, I’ll do it, you can’t handle something like this.’ He immediately realised he’d made a mistake, and tried to mollify Helen, whose face had darkened.
 ‘I don’t want you to give her a bollocking: though God knows I feel like doing it myself at times, and I don’t know how some-one like you would be able to resist it.’
 ‘It’s her son who’s on trial, she isn’t,’ Helen said, not meeting his eyes. She picked up a file, glanced at it and put it to one side. Owen ran his hands through his hair.
 ‘Why doesn’t that flicker own up to his ma and put us all out of our misery? He must think she wouldn’t be able to handle it yet. I suppose she’ll come round to it in time.’
 ‘She’s going to have to,’ Helen said. She still didn’t look at him. There was a long silence.
 ‘Helen,’ Owen said eventually, ‘I’d really appreciate it if you
 could see Mrs Maguire when she comes in this afternoon.’ Helen raised her head. ‘Fine,’ she said. ‘I’ll do that.’
 And then she said, ‘Thanks,’ and then, ‘Sorry’ Owen shook
 his head and smiled.
 ‘Christ, you’re a funny woman.’
 ‘Are you only noticing that now?’
 She was glad of the banter. She felt sorry for having picked Owen up so sharply a few moments earlier, for what he’d said was uncharacteristic. She liked working with him, and always [164] considered she’d been lucky to be taken on in a firm where there was a certain amount of work on terrorist cases. Although there were enormous quantities of legal work in Northern Ireland at the time she graduated from university, there was also tremendous competition. She’d dreaded ending up doing nothing but family law, as was the fate of quite a few of the women with whom she’d studied. She told Owen from the start what interested her most, and although his firm didn’t get an enormous quantity of that kind of case, over the years what they did get he gave to her; and he did it without making a big deal about it, or suggesting that he was doing her some kind of favour. But what Helen also noticed and appreciated was that he discreetly began to withhold such work from her after her father was killed. It was never said that he was doing it to spare her feelings, and there was always a plausible reason as to why he should deal primarily with any particular case, rather than Helen. She was grateful for his sensitivity in this matter, and there’d been an unspoken agreement, too, that she would some-day begin to take on such cases again. But when the Oliver Maguire job had come in, it had been at a time when Owen was very busy and Helen had suddenly little on hand.
 ‘Listen, we’ll do this the two of us, all right?’ Owen had said. ‘It’s a bit heavy duty’
 Helen had nodded, and silently vowed that it would be a point of honour for her to see this one through.
 But when she turned her attention again to her work this morning, she noticed that Owen did not do likewise, which was most unusual. He flicked through papers, sighed, rattled boxes of paper-clips, and by all this she knew he wanted to talk, so she met his eye, and looked at him quizzically.
 ‘This is just a job,’ he said immediately, apropos of nothing that Helen could see. ‘Never forget that it’s only work. It’s how you earn your keep; how you put a roof over your head and a bit of food on the table.’ Helen struggled to suppress a smile, for the phrases he used, with their suggestion of survival and necessity, didn’t square with the high style in which he actually lived. She thought of his elegant house, in a quiet street off the Malone Road, and the extravagant dinners he occasionally gave there for his friends. Unlike some people she knew working in law in [165] Northern Ireland and in spite of what he had just said, Owen wasn’t just interested in the money he made, although what he did earn he enjoyed. He saw her smiling, and he smiled too.
 ‘Do you ever regret getting into this line of business?’
 ‘Sometimes,’ she said, and she wondered if he would ever know how much it took for her to admit even that, even to him.
 ‘I think we all probably do. What I regret most is not being able to handle things better, deal with them in the way I ought to.’ She could see now how tremendously ill at ease he was: he was circling towards the heart of the matter, and she would have tried to help him to it, if she had had any idea what it was.
 ‘I’m not sure I understand.’ Frowning, he picked up a stapler from the desk, and started to click it open and shut. She wondered if he’d made some serious error of judgement in a recent case, or if he was maybe more worried about Oliver Maguire than she had realised.
 Not looking at her now, he said, ‘I feel bad about ... about the shit I put up with sometimes. I shouldn’t do it. I feel ashamed of it now.’
 Helen didn’t say anything, but waited until he was ready to continue.
 ‘You know that Law Society do I was at a couple of weeks ago? Something happened at that, and it’s been eating away at me ever since. Towards the end of the night, I was in a group with a few people, none of whom I know well. We’d all had a good bit to drink over the evening, and then of course - well, I was going to say, the masks started to slip, but it wasn’t that. That makes it sound like they couldn’t help what they were doing, but they could. What they did was deliberate. I could see them looking at me from time to time, they would say things that were getting close to the bone, and then look to see how I was taking it. And then suddenly, I felt afraid, really afraid; and they could see it. And then they knew they had me where they wanted me. “Boys, boys!” one of them says at once. “Wait till I tell you this one,” and he starts to tell a story about when he was at some college or other in the nineteen fifties, and about a teacher he had, that was in the B Specials. An announcement was made that they were going to admit Catholics to the college for the first time. So the man who was telling the story says [166] about how he went up to your man’s office late that evening and he’s standing there in his full uniform, boots, holster, gun, the works. He’s near foaming at the mouth with rage, and he says, “Do you know what this means? I’ll tell you what it means. It means I’ll have to teach them by day and shoot them by night!” And of course at that they all start to laugh fit to piss themselves. But I didn’t laugh. I said nothing; a minute or two later I walked away and not one says to me, “You’re going.”
 Again there was silence for a few moments; then Owen said, ‘It frightened me, Helen. I mean, this is 1994; and that they could still do that to me, and that I could still let them away with it ... I couldn’t sleep when I went home, it scared me that much. And I was angry too, of course; more angry with myself than anything. I didn’t even tell Mary, I was ashamed of what she would think of me.’
 ‘I hope you don’t think you’re the only person this has happened to. I bet this sort of thing goes on all the time amongst people we know, and everybody’s too embarrassed to talk about it. But things like this are a matter of bad manners as much as bigotry. When someone sets out for no good reason to try to humiliate you or make you feel ill at ease in a social setting, you’re often so taken aback that you don’t know how to respond; and it’s hard to be able to put them down without sinking to their level. You probably did as much as any of us would have done. If I were you, I’d put it out of my mind.’
 ‘It’s been eating into me for days. This has been a hell of a hard week.’
 ‘Tell me about it,’ said Helen.
 She said much the same thing later that day to David, who phoned her shortly after lunch. ‘Thank God it’s Friday, and all that.’ Owen was out of the office at that stage, so she told David about Cate, and how her family had reacted to the news. ‘Tomorrow’s her last full day at home, so I’ll go down this evening. I’m looking forward to spending some time with them all. How about you?’
 ‘Well, Steve isn’t coming back. Or rather, he is back, but just to work his notice and then to prepare to move back to London. I’m surprised you haven’t heard us shouting at each other; you don’t live that far away. He told me he hadn’t realised how hard [167] it would be to settle into such a small, closed society, and that I hadn’t done anything like enough to help him. I told him that this was neither fair nor true, and he knew it. And then your name was mentioned and, I’m afraid, it all turned a bit nasty and went past the point of no return.’
 Helen was at a loss to know how she should respond to this. ‘You don’t sound too miserable about it, anyway,’ was all she could think to say.
 ‘It’s been on the cards for such a long time now, that it’s something of a relief to all concerned that it’s finally happened.’
 After she’d promised to see him some time the following week and hung up, Helen mulled over what David had said to her. He was probably right that the split had been a foregone conclusion, but that wouldn’t necessarily make it any easier, now that it had happened. She admitted to herself a sneaking relief that Steve wouldn’t be around in the future, as she’d never felt completely at ease with him. It hadn’t struck her until now that he might have found her friendship with David intrusive, and if that was the point he was now making, she still didn’t believe that it was a valid one.
 She remembered a conversation which had taken place between them not long after Steve had moved to Belfast. David hadn’t even been in the room at the time, he’d been off in the kitchen preparing a meal for them; and Steve had inexorably brought up the subject of her job.
 ‘So you work with terrorists?’ he’d said.
 ‘Some of the time.’
 ‘What are IRA men like?’
 ‘Probably not as unlike the Loyalist terrorists as they’d like to think,’ but Helen had known, even as she said this, that it wouldn’t get her off the hook.
 ‘But no, tell me.’
 She shrugged. ‘They’re sort of ordinary, most of them,’ she said, hoping to dampen his interest with the force of sheer boredom.
 Steve didn’t reply immediately, but stared hard at her for a few moments and then said, ‘I don’t know how you bring yourself to sit in the same room as people like that, much less defend them.’
 ‘No, you don’t know, and I’ll tell you more than that: you [168] won’t ever know,’ she’d snapped back, surprised at her own asperity.
 ‘Sort of chilly in here, isn’t it?’ David had said, when he came into the room a few moments later, carrying a salad bowl, to find his lover and his best friend glowering at each other. ‘Should I maybe switch on the central heating, or are the pair of you going to be sensible?’
 Remembering this, Helen reflected that she’d really told Steve the truth about the paramilitaries: for the most part they did strike her as ordinary. There were only a few who really stood out in her mind. There’d been a man called Devine, the only person she’d come across who struck her as an out-and-out psychopath, someone who loved killing for its own sake. Even if things had been peaceful in Northern Ireland, she suspected that he would have been in jail for murder anyway. As Owen had put it, ‘Instead of shooting policemen and soldiers it would have been women, kids, dogs, mice, Christ knows what, so long as he was killing. The Troubles is only an excuse.’
 It had been an excuse, too, for Malachy Mulholland and people like him; hoods who would have been involved in robbery and thieving to line their own pockets no matter what was happening in the country. Mulholland had been mixed up with the IRA, but in the long run they had no time for people like him, and considered them more trouble than they were worth. A few years after Helen had met him, the IRA killed him, for, they said, ‘drug dealing and other anti-social activities’.
 The paramilitaries didn’t much like people like Tom Kelly either, and avoided them if at all possible. Kelly had killed an RUC man, pushing past the man’s wife, who had opened the door of their house; and shooting the policeman as he sat on the sofa watching television. But the policeman’s five-year-old daughter had been in the room and saw everything. When Kelly was arrested and charged, he broke down and wept and made a full confession. He said he couldn’t live with himself because of the child; that he wouldn’t have done it if he’d known she’d be there; that he could never, no matter how long he lived, forget the sound of her screams as he ran out of the house.
 But for the most part, the men she came across struck her as neither particularly tender-hearted nor particularly vicious. They [169] had squared their own consciences about what they were doing. Often they had strong political motivation, particularly once they had done a stint in prison, where they had ample time to discuss and argue about such things amongst themselves. Often they came out more committed to what they were doing than they had been when they went in. It was important to them to do their time in jail with as good a grace as possible, seeing it as a part of the sacrifices they had to make for what they referred to as ‘The Cause’. In themselves they were, as Helen had said to Steve, mostly ordinary, and it was an important distinction to her whether they were from the country or the city. Being from the country herself she tended to find it easier to get on with the men whose background was similar to her own. Often she found the Belfast men too streetwise, too boisterous; and it was a distinction the men also observed in themselves, tending to make friends amongst their peers, and not feeling wholly at ease with those from a different background.
 So they, for the most part, had thought through what they were doing, and knew what they felt about it. But what about Helen? Often her attitudes were inconsistent, perhaps even hypocritical, she had to admit to herself. Take her old school friend, Willy Larkin. She would often see him when she was down home at the weekend. He’d wave as he drove past in a tractor, or she might meet him in the shop at Timinstown. He’d be there with his two kids, with their open, genial faces, so like his own, he’d have his papers and his fags and a bag of sweets stuffed in his jacket pocket; and for a few moments he and Helen would chat to each other, they’d ask after each other’s mothers, and she always felt the better for having seen him. But while she was talking to him, it was never in her mind that he’d done time for being in the IRA and possessing explosives; and if she did think of it afterwards, she tried not to think too deeply about where those explosives might have ended up had Willy not been caught. And if she was prepared to turn a blind eye and hold her mind back from certain things like a dog gripped by the collar, was that not, particularly in the light of what had happened to her father, the deepest hypocrisy?
 So there was Devine and there was Mulholland and there was [170] Tom Kelly and there was Willy Larkin. And there was also, of course, Oliver Maguire.
 She’d been to see Oliver earlier in the week, the day Cate had come to Belfast to stay with her.
 ‘How’s Helen?’ had been his greeting, as always.
 ‘Fine,’ she answered curtly, as she opened her briefcase and took from it the documents she’d come to discuss. She didn’t know why she disliked him so much. Owen couldn’t bear him either, which was unusual; and frequently referred to him as ‘that creep Maguire’. He was in his twenties but looked younger, and could easily have passed as a teenager. He had thick, dark-brown hair and eyes so brown they looked black. When he was with Helen, his gaze would be locked on to hers in a way she hated. He could have been a journalist, she’d once remarked to David, for he had that confrontational stare that she regarded as a hallmark of the trade, and the same capacity for single, blank questions which were difficult to answer. She wasn’t above staring people down herself, as a tactic to unsettle them, but she didn’t like anyone else doing it to her, especially as a matter of course.
 As she explained to Oliver the papers she’d brought along, he continued to stare hard into her face, as though he were trying to memorise every word she uttered, and when at last she said, ‘Here, have a look at them yourself,’ it took longer than she would have thought necessary for him to unlock his gaze from her, and fasten it upon the documents which she pushed across the table to him. She looked at the crown of his head as he read, and wondered again what it was about him that bothered her so much. Maybe it was because, through David, she’d had a glimpse of the full effect of what Oliver had done. He was also a person of enormous self-possession, and that was a quality that never appealed to Helen. She noted now with some relish that his nails were bitten to the quick. She strongly suspected that he didn’t like her either, that he would have preferred Owen to deal exclusively with his case. Maybe he thought that because she didn’t come across as particularly sympathetic to him she wasn’t going to make much of an effort on his behalf; or, even worse, he might even think that she wasn’t up to the job simply because she was a woman. As he looked up again, she realised [171] that she felt afraid to be with him, but she didn’t know if it was fear on her own behalf, or on his.
 ‘That looks all right,’ he said, handing the papers back to her. ‘But what about this?’ and he went on to query in detail two points which had come up in their last meeting. This sort of. thing happened frequently, and she always found it intensely annoying. The prisoners who were on remand spent much of their time discussing their cases with one another, pooling their not inconsiderable legal knowledge so that they knew their rights to the letter. Often they would challenge what their lawyers said to them, or make suggestions which were useful or to the point. Helen heard Oliver out, frowning at the surface of the table and not meeting his gaze. She told him that she and Owen were already aware of the angle to which he referred, but that as yet, nothing could be done.
 ‘We’ll keep you informed.’
 He nodded briefly. There was a short silence. ‘Oliver, I know Owen has told you, and I’m telling you again now, the forensic evidence on this is as tight as can be, you know that?’
 ‘Yeah.’
 His tone annoyed her. She took a certain pleasure in following on by saying, ‘You know you’re bound to get time?’
 ‘Yeah. I know that.’
 ‘You’re going to get life.’
 ‘You mean you know you’re going to lose this case,’ he said. He glanced away. ‘I’ll do a few years.’
 ‘You’ll do more than that,’ Helen said.
 He shrugged. ‘Have you seen my ma lately?’ he said after a moment.
 He was chewing at his nails now, Helen noticed. ‘No,’ she said. ‘Have you?’ He shook his head.
 Suddenly, she could see him as on the night of the killing, as vividly as if she’d been there with him when he went into the call box and booked a cab from a firm based in Sandy Row. He waited then outside a chip shop for the car to arrive, the collar of his leather jacket turned up against the cold of the night. Every so often the door of the shop would open, and a heavy smell of vinegar and hot fat would surge out; she could hear the voices of the women who worked there. He stood in the shadows [172] so as not to be seen, only moving out to the edge of the pavement when a blue car pulled up, and she recognised the jowly face of the driver from blurred photographs of him which had been published in the newspapers after his death. He rolled down the car window and called out the false name in which the cab had been booked. Oliver nodded and got in. There was a faint smell - of stale pine from the tree-shaped air freshener which dangled from the driver’s mirror. Helen watched the lit streets of the city, black and slick with rain, slip past beyond the steadily moving arc of the windscreen wipers. Oliver would not be drawn into conversation; in the mirror she could see anxiety gradually flicker in the taxi driver’s eyes, until the moment when Oliver took a gun out of his jacket pocket and pressing it against the driver’s neck said, ‘I’ve changed my mind. You and me are going somewhere different.’
 Sitting across the table from him, Helen involuntarily raised her hand to the left side of her neck, which was as cold as though it had been brushed by a sliver of ice.
 ‘You did do it,’ she said. ‘You really did do it.’
 Oliver took his hands away from his mouth, and gave a little smile.
 ‘That’s what people like you keep telling me, anyway.’
 
 ‘Mr Kane isn’t here?’ was the first thing Oliver’s mother asked when Helen showed her into the office that afternoon. Helen and Owen were on first-name terms with Oliver, but Mrs Maguire was persistently formal: it seemed to make her feel better.
 ‘He asked me to see you, as he had to leave early today,’ Helen replied, aware of how hesitant and anxious the woman was. Suddenly, Mrs Maguire became aware that Helen might possibly offer a new opinion.
 ‘Mr Kane says it’s certain that Oliver’ll be convicted.’ ‘I’m afraid so.’
 ‘And you think the same thing?’
 Helen nodded.
 ‘But he didn’t do it!’ the woman wailed. This time Helen neither spoke nor nodded. She looked briefly at her watch, then glanced up at the woman. [173]
 ‘This is terrible,’ Mrs Maguire said, ‘people getting convicted for things they didn’t do. Look at the Birmingham Six, how long they were in jail. Are you telling me that that’s what’s going to happen to Oliver, and there’s nothing to be done to stop it?’
 ‘That was a very different case,’ Helen said quickly.
 ‘Why?’
 Helen paused, tempted to say the obvious: that the Birmingham Six were innocent, and then leave Mrs Maguire to draw the logical conclusion about Oliver. Instead, she said nothing, hoping this would give greater import to her words when she did at last reply.
 ‘Mrs Maguire, I think it’s best for you to try to prepare yourself for the worst. Oliver’s going to get a long sentence. He knows this himself. The sooner you come to terms with this, the better.’
 Most of the other solicitors they knew wouldn’t have put up with this sort of thing, and she sometimes wondered why Owen bothered. There was nothing to be gained from it: a complete waste of time for all concerned, but then it was unusual for a mother to be as persistent as this. Owen was always much tougher on the clients than with their relatives. In many cases Helen admired the fortitude of the women concerned, and some-times she thought it was more than some of the prisoners deserved. Women would be left for years to bring up children on their own, with little or no money. Helen used to see them waiting in the rain for the bus out to the jail, or taking part in demonstrations on the Falls Road on behalf of prisoners. But there was no denying it was easier for families where there was a strong Republican tradition, where a father, brothers, cousins, maybe sisters, had done time for the IRA. When the whole family believed in The Cause, there was no stigma attached to being in prison.
 It was a different story for families with no such tradition. Helen had seen that at close quarters: gentle, middle-aged couples mortified at their son or daughter being on the wrong side of the law for anything, let alone this. She used to see such people sitting in the public gallery of the court. They cried. Sometimes they broke down completely, either on hearing an exact account of the crime of which their child was being accused, or when sentence was passed. When they left the court, they hid [174] their faces in shame. It would be like that with Mrs Maguire, Helen thought, listening to her as she talked about her son’s life. Oliver was the youngest of a family of four. He’d been a late arrival, seven years after the child above him. His father died when he was ten. She’d wanted him to be like the others: they’d got jobs, trades. ‘None of them ever was in anything,’ she said. Christ, how Helen hated that phrase! The soldiers had picked on Oliver when he was a teenager. They’d arrested him before now, and once they’d beaten him.
 ‘If you’d seen the hiding he got, Miss Quinn, and he was hardly more than a child. Wouldn’t you wonder how they do the things to another human being?’
 ‘What things?’ Helen said sharply.
 The woman, who’d had her eyes fixed pleading upon Helen’s face, suddenly broke her gaze, looked away. ‘The things,’ she said, as Helen stayed intimidatingly silent. ‘You know the things that happen here.’
 ‘Yes,’ said Helen. ‘I do.’
 ‘Oliver couldn’t have done what they’re accusing him of. I know, because I’m his mother, and nobody knows him better than I do. I know his faults as well as his good points and he hasn’t it in him to ... to do a thing like that.’ But her voice faltered, and suddenly Helen looked straight into the eyes of the woman sitting opposite her.
 ‘She knows,’ Helen thought. ‘She knows the truth as well as I do, but she can’t bear to believe it. She comes here to try to get us to hold off the day when she has to believe it.’ Helen thought of her own circumstances. Two years down the line and it was still the last thing she thought about before she went to sleep at night, and the first thing that came into her mind when she woke every morning. What they’d done to her father still haunted her dreams, the thought of it could ambush her at any moment of the day. Something as trivial as the nicotine stains on the fingers of the man selling her newspapers could bring him back to her, but only for a fraction of a second, only to take him away again, and leave instead the terrible image of his going.
 And yet …
 Oh there was no danger of her losing her temper with Mrs Maguire, as Owen had feared. She wouldn’t shout that her son [175] was as guilty as hell and she knew it, so why did she come in here to waste everyone’s time? No, the danger was that she would say something much worse. Oliver’s mother knew full well what had happened to Helen’s father. The danger was that Helen might say, ‘I would rather be me than you: I wouldn’t be you for anything.’ That was the one thing Mrs Maguire wouldn’t have been able to handle, and suddenly Helen realised that if she were to speak at all now, that was the only thing she would be able to say. Mrs Maguire knew it, too. The two women sat there looking at each other. At last, Oliver’s mother spoke.
 ‘It’s all like a dream, so it is,’ she said very softly. ‘All like a terrible dream.’
 Helen bowed her head and put her hands over her eyes: she loathed anyone seeing her cry. She heard the scraping sound of a chair being pushed back.
 ‘I’m sorry to have taken up so much of your time, Miss Quinn; the woman said. ‘Thank you for talking to me.’ [176]