as an ideal opportunity to purge his major irritant from his system.’
‘And I’m dragged under in the wash of the sinking ship.’
I embraced her, pulling her close, so that our flesh bonded, thecoupling sympathetic rather than sexual. Her eyes were melancholy , but not gateways to her soul; their softness was an optical illusion, fortress walls rather than windows. One moment she could be so open, the next moment so closed, but it was this enigmatic chemistry to her personality that made her so piquant. She would never
belong
to anyone again, something that pleased me. Relationships should never be about ownership. No person should ever be someone else’s possession. Every partnership should be renewed each day. You should wake and consciously make a decision that the person at your side was the one you wished to continue to call your partner. Conversely, you should be free to make the reverse decision; to walk away unfettered, no one’s vassal. Relationships, especially in marriage, could so easily become claustrophobic and suffocating; a union should be a consensus, a unanimous democratic vote. Sarah and I gave each other breathing space. Spending the rest of my life with her hadn’t crossed my mind. The next forty-eight hours were far enough ahead for commitment; Sarah’s philosophy, too.
Sleep came to us virtually simultaneously, without any further demands from either of us, perhaps underscoring our quirky compatibility.
Next morning, I gave veteran spook Sean Cassidy a call on his mobile. After the mandatory preamble when two people haven’t been in touch for a few years, I said, ‘I wasn’t sure if you were still a paid servant of HM government.’
‘Not long to go now,’ he said, without enthusiasm and exaggerating his Belfast accent. Sean had been recruited into British Intelligence during the worst of the terrorism in Northern Ireland. He came from the Roman Catholic community of Belfast, but he’d never had any sympathy for the IRA, although his father had been a staunch Republican. Ironically, his father had been killed by a bomb blast and his mother had lost both legs in the same act of terrorism, for which the IRA had boastfully claimedresponsibility. For ten years after the explosion that blew away his father and left his mother in a wheelchair for the rest of her life, Sean had worked as a double agent, trusted by the hierarchy of the IRA because of his father’s Irish patriotism and anti-British fervour. When the peace deals were being negotiated, Sean was brought in from the cold and had been desk-bound ever since as a handler, naturally specializing in Northern Ireland antiterrorism . Promotion had been his reward for putting his own life on the line, night and day, for so many years, willingly betraying his parents’ culture and political religion because of their obtuse bigotry.
‘I want some help,’ I said.
‘You won’t get anything that might jeopardize my pension,’ he said, immediately on his guard.
‘What I’m after is really low-grade stuff.’
‘Says you,’ he said, sceptically. ‘Don’t forget, I
know
you of old.’
‘I’ll explain and then you can decide.’
‘Oh, I
will
, rest assured. OK, let’s hear it.’
‘Are you recording this conversation, Sean?’
‘What do you think?’
‘You’ve answered my question,’ I said. ‘So I’ll be circumspect.’
‘You mean you’ll lie.’
We could have circled the issue endlessly, so I stopped the roundabout.
‘I want to talk Cold War days.’
Although he stayed silent, I sensed that the tension was seeping from him in the manner of a slow puncture.
‘London, some thirty years ago,’ I said. ‘There was an attaché at the Soviet Embassy who wanted to defect.’
‘Didn’t they all! Name?’
‘That I don’t know; that’s where I hope you come in.’
‘Before my time, dear boy.’ Sean was no Irish Mick. His education had been polished at Trinity College, Belfast.
‘Of course I know
‘And I’m dragged under in the wash of the sinking ship.’
I embraced her, pulling her close, so that our flesh bonded, thecoupling sympathetic rather than sexual. Her eyes were melancholy , but not gateways to her soul; their softness was an optical illusion, fortress walls rather than windows. One moment she could be so open, the next moment so closed, but it was this enigmatic chemistry to her personality that made her so piquant. She would never
belong
to anyone again, something that pleased me. Relationships should never be about ownership. No person should ever be someone else’s possession. Every partnership should be renewed each day. You should wake and consciously make a decision that the person at your side was the one you wished to continue to call your partner. Conversely, you should be free to make the reverse decision; to walk away unfettered, no one’s vassal. Relationships, especially in marriage, could so easily become claustrophobic and suffocating; a union should be a consensus, a unanimous democratic vote. Sarah and I gave each other breathing space. Spending the rest of my life with her hadn’t crossed my mind. The next forty-eight hours were far enough ahead for commitment; Sarah’s philosophy, too.
Sleep came to us virtually simultaneously, without any further demands from either of us, perhaps underscoring our quirky compatibility.
Next morning, I gave veteran spook Sean Cassidy a call on his mobile. After the mandatory preamble when two people haven’t been in touch for a few years, I said, ‘I wasn’t sure if you were still a paid servant of HM government.’
‘Not long to go now,’ he said, without enthusiasm and exaggerating his Belfast accent. Sean had been recruited into British Intelligence during the worst of the terrorism in Northern Ireland. He came from the Roman Catholic community of Belfast, but he’d never had any sympathy for the IRA, although his father had been a staunch Republican. Ironically, his father had been killed by a bomb blast and his mother had lost both legs in the same act of terrorism, for which the IRA had boastfully claimedresponsibility. For ten years after the explosion that blew away his father and left his mother in a wheelchair for the rest of her life, Sean had worked as a double agent, trusted by the hierarchy of the IRA because of his father’s Irish patriotism and anti-British fervour. When the peace deals were being negotiated, Sean was brought in from the cold and had been desk-bound ever since as a handler, naturally specializing in Northern Ireland antiterrorism . Promotion had been his reward for putting his own life on the line, night and day, for so many years, willingly betraying his parents’ culture and political religion because of their obtuse bigotry.
‘I want some help,’ I said.
‘You won’t get anything that might jeopardize my pension,’ he said, immediately on his guard.
‘What I’m after is really low-grade stuff.’
‘Says you,’ he said, sceptically. ‘Don’t forget, I
know
you of old.’
‘I’ll explain and then you can decide.’
‘Oh, I
will
, rest assured. OK, let’s hear it.’
‘Are you recording this conversation, Sean?’
‘What do you think?’
‘You’ve answered my question,’ I said. ‘So I’ll be circumspect.’
‘You mean you’ll lie.’
We could have circled the issue endlessly, so I stopped the roundabout.
‘I want to talk Cold War days.’
Although he stayed silent, I sensed that the tension was seeping from him in the manner of a slow puncture.
‘London, some thirty years ago,’ I said. ‘There was an attaché at the Soviet Embassy who wanted to defect.’
‘Didn’t they all! Name?’
‘That I don’t know; that’s where I hope you come in.’
‘Before my time, dear boy.’ Sean was no Irish Mick. His education had been polished at Trinity College, Belfast.
‘Of course I know
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