Now and in the Hour of Our Death by Patrick Taylor Page B

sorry,” said Jimmy, “but her and me and poor ould Davy go back a powerful long ways.”
    â€œHow’s Siobhan?” Fiona did not want any more mention of Davy. Not in front of Tim.
    Jimmy’s smile faded. He shot his lower jaw. “She’s grand … now. It took her a brave while to get over that bastard, pardon my French, Richardson that called himself Roberts.” He glanced over to his table, then lowered his voice. “Sometimes I think she’s still carrying a torch.”
    Fiona felt the lump start in her throat.
    â€œIf it hadn’t been for him shopping Davy, you and…”
    â€œLet the hare sit, Jimmy.”
    â€œAye. Least said soonest mended. Anyroad, she got married to a Canadian lad. He does something in TV. They’ve two youngsters. He’s working in Montreal. He couldn’t get away, so she come out here by herself for a wee visit like. The youngsters are at home with a babysitter and…”
    â€œExcuse me, sir.” The waiter stood, balancing their starters on a silver tray.
    â€œJust a wee minute.” Jimmy produced a camera.
    The flash dazzled Fiona.
    â€œI’ll run away on. Tell you what, could we get together after supper for a half-un in the bar?”
    â€œCertainly,” said Tim.
    No. Fiona shouted inside herself.
    â€œRight.” Jimmy started to leave but turned to Fiona. “When I get this developed, I’ll send one to Davy. He keeps on asking me if I ever run into you.”
    â€œThank you, sir.” The waiter served.
    Fiona smiled at Tim with her mouth. Her eyes were lifeless. “Folks from back in Ireland. They never know when to shut up. You didn’t have to agree to have drinks with them, you know.” She toyed with her oysters, appetite gone.
    â€œHe seemed like a decent enough chap.”
    â€œI’m sure he did, but … Tim, I’d rather not talk about it just now.” It wasn’t fair. Her nightmare had brought memories of Davy McCutcheon surging back to her two nights ago. Since then, she’d thought more deeply about Belfast than she had for months. She didn’t need another reminder from, of all people, Jimmy Ferguson.
    â€œCome on,” Tim said, a smile now on his face, “sounds like a bit of a mystery to me. ‘That bastard Richardson that called himself Roberts’? ‘Him shopping Davy’?” The smile faded. “I’ve never seen you look so rattled. Perhaps you should tell me about it.”
    She could hear his concern for her. Dear Tim. She would tell him. Sometime.
    She laid her fork on her plate. “I will, Tim, but … not just now.”
    â€œPity.” His voice was level. “I was going to ask you about this Davy fellow.”

 
    CHAPTER 9
    THE KESH. LISBURN. SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 18, 1983
    â€œ In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti, amen. ”
    Davy and the men around him echoed the priest’s final amen, the smell of the altar boys’ incense heavy in the air. Another mass was over. He went not because of any deep faith but because there was a comfort in the service, the old well-remembered phrases learned as a skinny youngster at Saint Mary’s Chapel just around the corner from his home on Conway Street.
    â€œâ€¦ Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and in the hour of our death.”
    Going to chapel was something to do on a Sunday, a break from the everyday with its monotonous regularity.
    Get up when you’re told. Eat breakfast when you’re told. Swab out the corridors and earn a little remission time. Eat lunch when you’re told—and the food was always the same—grey meat that was so overdone you couldn’t tell if it was pork, beef, or lamb. Soggy vegetables, hard, half-boiled spuds. Stale bread. Stewed tea. Back in your cell by two o’clock for the daily head count. The screws had become more insistent on that since 1981, when