Silence (25 page)

‘What’s going on?’ he asked.

‘Hannon double-crossed me. He was meant to get me out of the country but instead he sent in the hunting hounds. He was my handler and I trusted him.’

Daly glanced at Hegarty and, for a moment, he thought he understood the terror and loneliness of intelligence work. The safest thing to do would have been to put as much distance between himself and this elderly spy.

‘We’ll have to get you to a safe place.’

‘There are no more safe places for me now,’ replied Hegarty and sniggered.

The spy’s behaviour was unsettling, but Daly did not feel too unnerved. Instead, he felt strangely at ease in Hegarty’s company. Under the circumstances, this car journey was probably one of the most dangerous things he had undertaken, but it also felt straightforward and uncomplicated. They had no history together, and neither of them felt it necessary to put up their guard.

Indifferent to his fate was how Daly felt. And he thought he recognized the same air about Hegarty. A dangerous nonchalance hung about both of them, as around two gamblers who realize they have nothing left to lose.

When they returned to the main road, Daly flicked his headlights back on. For the rest of the journey, neither of them said anything. Daly’s eyes flitted between the road ahead and the rear-view mirror. He kept thinking that cars behind were following them. What were Special Branch up to?
Perhaps they want us to know they’re in pursuit and are biding their time to pounce.
He was now as much of an outlaw as Hegarty.
How have I ended up as an IRA informer’s last refuge?
he wondered bitterly. On the final stretch to his cottage, he looked behind and breathed a sigh of relief. The roads were completely empty.

It had been raining and the moon peeked out as Daly pulled up at his cottage. The detective walked around the old house several times looking for any sign of disturbance. Then he stepped into the unlit porch and listened to the sound of the drainpipes channelling the rainwater. He heard crows scrabbling along the rooftop and then the flap of their wings. The lack of any moving lights and the stillness in the terrain leading down to the lough reassured Daly. He felt as though he was the only one staring at this landscape of irregular fields and bogland.

He helped Hegarty into the house, got him some dry clothes and stationed him by the fire. In the kitchen, he sorted through a sink of unwashed glasses. He wiped two of the least grubby ones and took them with a bottle of whiskey over to the fire. The smell of livestock coming from Hegarty was stronger now, accentuated by sweat and the heat of the burning turf.

‘Tell me, why are Special Branch so desperate to find you?’ asked Daly.

‘Have you seen them?’ said Hegarty, his eyes protruding. ‘Are they out there waiting for us to make a move?’

God, the man was a wreck, thought Daly. He could almost taste his panic in the air. He tried to imagine Hegarty as a master-spy, tricking the leaders of the IRA for decades, and his mind boggled. The spy looked more like a feeble-minded farmer who had wandered into a war zone, and hadn’t the wit to get out.

‘No. I think we are safe. At least for now.’

Hegarty kept fidgeting, but with the help of the whiskey and a warm blanket, he eventually settled into his armchair and began telling Daly snippets of the events that had brought him to this wretched state. The spy repeated himself as he grappled with the plots in his head. Sometimes he lost the thread of the story. Memories from his childhood drifted through his account, and his face would crack into a smile, before dark suspicion puckered his mouth again.

Daly listened carefully and piece by piece began to put together the story. It was by no means the whole story, and there were several significant gaps, but it was enough to guide Daly out of the darkness. Hegarty spoke of cold half-drownings in border rivers, his recruitment by Hannon, the fear and uncertainty of sterile interrogation rooms in secret military barracks, and then of IRA operations, sleeping in ditches or outbuildings, always fully clothed, always with a gun nestling beside him, the insects and the cold gnawing at him as he waited further instructions from his commanders.

Daly asked whether any of his IRA colleagues had ever suspected he was a traitor.

‘Those that did had a habit of dying off quickly,’ replied Hegarty.

Daly learned that some years previously the British government had set up a special investigation team of mostly English police officers. Their job was to investigate the allegations of collusion between the security forces and Loyalist terrorists. The team contacted Major Hannon and interviewed him several times. Inevitably, men like Hannon began to feel the heat. The political winds were changing with a ceasefire in place. Newly elected Republican politicians were bandying about collusion claims. Mud was beginning to stick and Hannon began to fear for his reputation.

‘The major photocopied some of the unit’s most sensitive intelligence files,’ explained Hegarty. ‘What he called the secret books. He gave me the copy to deliver to a Dublin-based lawyer.’ He stared at Daly. ‘It was his insurance policy in case the legal hammer should ever fall on him. He had no desire to be a sacrificial lamb. He planned to open a Pandora’s box if he was ever dragged to court.

‘The English investigation team had some of the most honest cops on the force. The problem was they were so bloody slow. By the time they got round to investigating the gang of officers involved in the murder triangle, they were almost impossible to trace. Only a few had managed to stay afloat and avoid alcoholism or mental illness. And those who had, maintained a pact of silence.’

Daly heard a tiredness in Hegarty’s voice. A tiredness made up of forty years of denial and silence.

‘In the meantime, the top brass made sure the secret books were destroyed. Every effort was made to hamper the investigation team, including the firebombing of their offices within a secure facility. The investigation eventually turned into a charade. When the file was finally sent to the government department that had commissioned the inquiry, it was decided the best thing to do was to bin it. It turned out no one was interested in the truth. Military Intelligence weathered the storm and soon got back to business as usual.’

Daly went on drinking whiskey, saying nothing. He listened to Hegarty, and stared at the embers of the turf fire, the sparks rifling up the chimney, chased by flakes of soot. In spite of his proximity to the fire and the heat of the whiskey, he felt a shivery gloom descend. He threw on more turf. The flames turned bluer, licking the dark chunks of peat. He thought of the wind-filled orchard where Agnew had hanged himself. And the other dead members of the gang. They all had their stories to tell, too, but their time had passed. Perhaps they had decided it was best to keep silent forever, that it was better not to add their voices to the history of the Troubles, that taking their secrets to the grave was a favour for future generations. Should he not respect those wishes? He understood another reason why his father hadn’t told him everything about his mother’s murder. He had tried to obliterate the evil in the act, as though years of denial could erase the truth.

Out of the corner of his eye, Daly saw Hegarty search the pockets of his overcoat. What was he looking for? A piece of paper or the butt of a revolver? Whatever it was, Daly did not feel afraid. Where else could a man feel as safe as sitting by his own fire, with a bottle of whiskey at hand?

In the wavering light of the flames, the spy’s figure grew still and deadly, as though he were the weapon that was about to be fired. Daly watched him expectantly, waiting for him to resume speaking. The spy coughed and lit a cigarette from the grubby-looking pack he had unearthed from his coat.

‘When the investigating team went back to England, I held on to a copy of the secret books and contacted Father Walsh. I thought he was the only one trustworthy enough to bring them to the public’s attention.’ Hegarty exhaled some smoke. ‘But in the end I signed his death warrant. Special Branch were following Walsh the night he crashed. They had him frightened almost out of his wits. They were only interested in him because they believed he would lead them to me. They were after the secret books, you see.’

It made sense to Daly now. Walsh worried that he was being followed. The checkpoint looming unexpectedly out of the darkness of border country. The officers in blue overalls; the startling similarity to the modus operandi of the 1970s murder squad. The loneliness of the road ahead. All must have conspired to make the patrol seem more menacing in Walsh’s imagination, all those years of research into the Troubles breeding a swarm of paranoid fears. Thus, he had sped off along the line of misplaced traffic cones, entering the murder triangle’s labyrinth for good.

‘Special Branch won’t rest until I’m dead, too,’ said Hegarty in a hoarse whisper. ‘They have me firmly in their sights.’

‘Surely the state has a duty to protect you? Have you spoken to a solicitor? Taken legal advice?’

‘I haven’t sought legal advice and I don’t intend to.’ He glared at Daly in the half-light. ‘I’ve been an IRA informer for forty years. My situation cannot be improved by any solicitor. I am beyond legal protection.’

‘What about taking your story to a politician or the media? You could explain your predicament. Highlight the terrible dangers you were subjected to.’

‘My predicament? That can be summed up in one word.’

Daly waited for the reply.

‘Guilty.’

‘Of what?’

‘Murder. Betrayal. Of everything that the security forces and the IRA want to pin on me.’

‘But there must be some way out of this nightmare.’

‘What do you mean? Some way of continuing my career as an informer? Some way of keeping my cover?’

‘What about the lives you saved? Surely that must count?’

Hegarty snickered in the flickering light. He finished smoking his cigarette and threw the butt into the fire. He lit another one and stared at Daly.

The detective began telling Hegarty all that he’d learned about his mother’s death, the cover-up by the police, his father’s silence, the letter in the bible and the documents from the family solicitor.

Hegarty pointed his cigarette at Daly.

‘The only thing that counts now is the truth,’ he said. ‘It’s time the public heard your story. Not the story your father gave you. The one you figured out yourself.’

‘But why should I publicize the truth after all these years? How will it make my life more tolerable – or anyone else’s, for that matter?’

‘Because the truth hurts,’ said Hegarty. ‘It will hurt people like Hannon.’

Daly topped up his glass with whiskey and as an afterthought did the same for Hegarty. He was unused to playing the host.

‘My father kept me in the dark all these years,’ said Daly. ‘Not telling the truth can hurt, too.’

‘Sometimes the biggest silences exist between fathers and sons,’ replied Hegarty. ‘Perhaps your old man never broke that silence because he wanted to shield you from the truth, and then as the years passed he didn’t know how to bring up the subject and correct your misunderstanding. Perhaps you never asked him the right questions. You of all people, a detective, did not know how to get the truth from your father. But in the final reckoning, everyone wants to tell their story and reveal the truth. Even the dead.’

Daly felt Hegarty’s stare. Now that he had invited him into his cottage, the spy’s nagging presence was going to be at his side forever, he feared, like a gloating ghost’s, shaping his story, goading him on.

‘What do you mean, even the dead?’

Hegarty leaned into his armchair and muttered something.

‘Come out of the dark,’ whispered the spy. ‘The inspector wants to see you.’

Daly turned sharply. His neck had grown stiff with stillness and the tension of the evening. He had been submerged within the glow of the fire while the rest of the room was plunged in darkness.

Shadows streaked the spy’s face. He appeared to be staring at something in the blackest corner of the room. He said nothing, just nodded his head from time to time, his features sharp and alert.

‘I see you. I see you,’ he said. He turned to Daly. ‘Do you see how many there are?’

‘All I see is the dark,’ said Daly.

Hegarty rubbed his eyes and sighed. ‘I’m talking to my ghosts. They come and go without saying anything. It is enough that I see and recognize them.’

‘If you wish, I can turn on the light,’ said Daly, unwilling to be drawn any further into the spy’s psychological vortex.

‘No. I don’t mind them. They’re comfortable presences. They’ve been with me since the Troubles ended.’

‘The end of a war can be a strange and haunting time.’

‘Yes.’ Hegarty snickered again. ‘It’s been a difficult period of adjustment.’ His eyes darted from right to left as though the room was full of drifting shapes. ‘You see, all through the Troubles I kept turning my back on them.’

‘Who are they?’

‘The men and women whose stories were silenced by torture and murder.’ Hegarty settled back into his seat. ‘The forgotten ones.’ He sighed and lit a cigarette. ‘I read a book a few years ago. A crime thriller by a local writer. About an IRA man who is haunted by the ghosts of the people he murdered.’ He chuckled morbidly. ‘Unable to bear their constant presence, this IRA fucker comes up with the radical solution of starting a killing spree in revenge for their deaths.’ He spat out smoke. ‘It irritated me, leafing through all that murder. As if more violence might alleviate a guilty conscience. I don’t think he knew it, but the writer came so close to getting it right. The dead do haunt you. But their ghosts don’t have scores to settle. The dead just want their story told. They want the truth to live. The submerged truth. That’s the reason they never go away.’

It grew cold in the room, or perhaps Hegarty’s words made Daly feel cold. He got up to put on an extra jumper. Instead of returning to the fire, he stood in the dark kitchen. He stared at the dim outline of the table and chairs, the Welsh dresser and the cupboards. It was a relief to look at these familiar domestic objects. Perhaps Hegarty was correct. The story of his mother’s murder was never going to disappear without a trace. The more it was ignored the more it expressed itself in fear and unverifiable suspicion, the more it resurfaced and reformulated itself, like the fields his father had worked into his old age, full of uncovered lumps and obstacles. The landscape of resignation and silence.