A Secret Worth Killing For. Simon Berthon

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      ‘So,’ she asks once, ‘you’ve never told me about your student days.’

      ‘They were pretty average,’ he says.

      ‘Hey, doesn’t matter what they were. I don’t mind.’

      He’s silent, even gloomy, then speaks. ‘OK, I confess. I did history at Exeter. Now you’re going to really despise me.’

      She laughs out loud, shaking her head at him. ‘You oul fool, I already know you’re a posh boy.’

      Titbits like this are frustratingly meagre. Perhaps she has too idealized a view of what a relationship, even just a proper friendship, should be. Isn’t it about not just answering questions but immersing yourself into each other’s life, family, prejudices, experiences, all the pieces that make you the person you are – knowing there’s nothing you can’t share? It nags her that she’s only scraped his surface.

      ‘You know something,’ she says another time, idly twirling spaghetti on her fork, ‘we spend all this time together and it’s great. But I still feel I dunno anything ’bout you.’

      He laughs. ‘What do you want to know? What is there to know? I’m all yours to see.’ He thinks, seeking to justify himself. ‘I’ve always told you anything you’ve asked.’

      ‘I know you have. I know you try. But it’s like . . . it’s like you’ve no family. No friends. None I know of, anyway. No past – sometimes what you tell me just feels like lines in a CV. We talk ’bout stuff but we never really talk ’bout you.’

      ‘I told you, I’m not very interesting. And I don’t have friends here.’ He pauses. ‘And, hey, I don’t quiz you about you. You said you’d got away. Maybe I’m the same.’

      ‘Fair enough,’ she says, ‘can’t argue with that.’

      That’s it, and they change the subject, chatting as easily as always. But his face momentarily droops and she realizes she’s struck a nerve.

      ‘Remember you said you wanted to climb a hill?’ he says a few days later during the lunch break.

      ‘Yeah?’ She wonders what’s coming.

      ‘Weekend after next my mate Rob’s coming over. We’re driving to Connemara. We’d like you to come.’

      ‘We?’

      ‘Yes, we. He’s my oldest friend. I was thinking of what you said.’ She looks puzzled. ‘About knowing about me.’

      ‘Oh, right.’ She frowns. ‘Didn’t mean you to take it that literally.’

      ‘I didn’t. He was coming anyway. He’s good fun, clever too. A reporter for The Times. I’ll show you his byline. Rob McNeil.’

      ‘OK. Sounds great.’ The frown gives way to a beam and then to bleakness. ‘Look, I’d love to but I can’t.’

      ‘You can’t!’

      ‘I got a commitment: my flatmates are having a gathering.’

      ‘Can’t you get out of it?’ he pleads. ‘Just this once. Just for me.’

      The beseeching in his eyes alarms her – he’s never exposed himself like that before. Has the moment come? Is this his foot pushing the accelerator? If so, she wants more than ever to be on the ride, though her strength of feeling has made it scarier.

      Her arrangement with Mrs Ryan is one weekend a month off – and the dates clash. She needs a plan.

      ‘I was just wondering about something, Mrs Ryan,’ she says as tea that evening is ending.

      ‘Yes, love,’ she says, looking up from her plate. It’s cheese on toast with beans and chips – the kids are gone, having bolted theirs down and rinsed their plates.

      ‘I was gonna ask if it might be possible to swap my weekend off this month.’

      Mrs Ryan’s eyebrows rise disagreeably. ‘That wouldn’t be very convenient, Maire. You never asked it before.’

      ‘I know, it’s just that something’s come up for my studies. Bit short notice but there’s a symposium the weekend after next in Cork – it’s about international law and war crimes.’

      ‘Sorry, love, you’ve got me there, what’s that?

      ‘It’s like . . . a symposium’s like some of the world’s experts on it’ll be gathered there. Lectures and discussion groups. Could help with my degree.’

      ‘It’s to do with your degree?’

      ‘Yes, Mrs Ryan. They’re laying on a bus for the third-years.’

      ‘OK, Maire, I’ll think about it. Maybe Margaret can help out.’

      ‘That’d be great, Mrs Ryan, thanks.’

      She knows that Margaret, Mrs Ryan’s pregnant younger daughter, won’t be doing anything better – but also won’t want the bother. It’s down to how hard Mrs Ryan wants to push it.

      Later that evening, she hears Mrs Ryan on the phone. She edges her room door ajar to make out what she’s saying, but whoever’s on the other end of the line seems to be doing most of the talking, only odd phrases wafting up. ‘Yes, that’s right . . . there’s a bus taking them . . . she says it’s good for her degree.’ She guesses Mrs Ryan’s trying to persuade her daughter – not that Margaret would be impressed by helping anyone get a degree.

      As she’s leaving for the library next morning, Mrs Ryan pops her head out of her bedroom door. Her hairnet’s still in place, along with the cigarette.

      ‘Before you go, Maire – I had a chat with Margaret. You can go on your weekend for whatever that occasion is you mentioned.’

      She’s startled, never believing it would work. ‘Thank you, Mrs Ryan, thanks very much.’

      ‘But no partying, OK?’

      ‘That’s great, it’s only for work.’

      It seems too easy to be true – but what’s to worry about that? She’s off to Connemara with her posh English boy and, no doubt, his posh English friend. She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath – eight days to wait.

      It’s going to happen.

CHAPTER 7

       Post-election, Friday, 5 May, to Sunday, 7 May

      On the Friday afternoon Anne-Marie Gallagher had called into Audax Chambers. A ‘Congratulations’ banner hung and they gathered in reception to applaud as she entered. Her timing was fortuitous; the TV was showing the new prime minister, Lionel Buller, leaving Buckingham Palace after ‘kissing hands’ with the monarch.

      ‘You did it,’ said Kieron Carnegie.

      ‘You СКАЧАТЬ