A Secret Worth Killing For. Simon Berthon

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СКАЧАТЬ head back into his neck and sighs. Their lovemaking is sublime in a way she’d never imagined possible.

      An hour later, as they’re spread peacefully in his bed, he stretches out a hand to the drawer of a bedside table and pulls out a photograph lying flat inside it. He places it face down on his chest and turns to her.

      ‘Since we first met, I always wanted to tell you something,’ he says, ‘but I was scared to.’

      She has her back to him and rolls alertly round. ‘Whaddya mean?’ She can’t hide her alarm.

      ‘It’s OK,’ he says, ‘it’s just that when you told me about you having to look after the kids, I knew we couldn’t have secrets between us. We want to know everything about each other, don’t we?’

      ‘Of course.’

      He raises the photograph and holds it out in front of them. A smiling young man in uniform stands beside a bride in a white dress holding a bouquet of roses. Behind them stretch two rows of four men, also in uniform, holding up their swords angled at forty-five degrees to a summer sky. A church porch is just visible, traces of unlit faces in the shadows waiting to emerge. The newly married couple are the same couple, though less windswept, as at the Isle of Wight festival.

      She peers at it without speaking, trying to understand.

      ‘1967,’ he says.

      ‘Your mum and dad,’ she says. ‘I don’t get it.’

      ‘It’s their wedding guard of honour. My dad was a soldier.’ A hushed pause, then the low growl of a passing motorbike reverberates through the front bay window to the bedroom at the back. ‘A British soldier.’

      ‘Jesus.’

      ‘I’m sorry. It’s not what you’d have wanted.’ Silence. ‘It’s not what I’d have ever wanted, either.’

      ‘Whaddya mean?’

      ‘I feel pride in him but not in the institution. The one thing I never inherited from him is a love of the British Army.’

      ‘Did you tell him that?’

      ‘No, I realized it too late. It’s probably for the best.’

      ‘What happened to him?’

      ‘He died in the Falklands. Tumbledown. 1982. When I was thirteen.’ A tear forms in a glistening brown eye and rolls slowly down. She moves close and licks it off his cheek.

      ‘I’m sorry.’

      He breaks away and sits up. ‘It was a shit war over a piece of fucking rock. Dying for the greater glory of Margaret Thatcher.’

      ‘You could say the same for Bobby Sands,’ she says. Her remark electrifies him – she has never before even hinted at the troubled history of her island and instantly wishes she hadn’t.

      ‘You mean they’ve something in common,’ he suggests eagerly.

      ‘I dunno what I mean,’ she says. ‘It’s kinda confusing.’

      ‘That’s why I was scared to tell you. But we’re here together now. So I had to.’ He waits while she processes the information.

      ‘It’s good you told me,’ she finally says. ‘But never tell it to anyone where I come from.’ She throws off the sheet. ‘Gotta do some work now.’ She needs more time.

      An hour later, sitting at his desk in the front room while he reads in an armchair, she turns and casts him a frown. ‘What ’bout your mum?’

      ‘My mum?’

      ‘Yeah, you never told me ’bout her.’

      ‘I think she never got over it.’

      ‘That doesn’t kill you.’

      ‘No. But ovarian cancer does.’ He states it brutally.

      ‘Shit, I’m sorry,’ she says. She gets up, gently places herself on top of him in the armchair and embraces him. They stay locked together till finally his lips pluck her ear lobe.

      Intertwined by shared shocks and confidences, they find a rhythm in the weeks leading up to Christmas. Two or three afternoons each week in his flat, maybe a weekend day when she is free. She never stays overnight and, when he drops her off, she never lets his car enter the immediate neighbourhood, let alone her street.

      ‘Whaddya doing for Christmas?’ she asks one afternoon as he’s driving her back.

      ‘I spend it with Rob and his family,’ he replies. ‘It’s like they’ve adopted me.’

      ‘Bet it’s a big country house.’

      ‘How did you ever guess?’ She inspects his profile, the crease of a grin stretching his left cheek.

      ‘And you?’ he asks, keeping his eyes on the road.

      ‘I’ll go up and see Ma and Da. Couple of nights, three maybe, no more. The city gives me the creeps these days but I can’t leave them on their own.’

      ‘What about your brother?’ he asks.

      ‘He’ll look in as it suits him.’ She sounds as frosty as the December day. He draws up short of Sheriff Street. ‘I’ll be away to Mrs Ryan’s mansion, then,’ she says, hopping on to the pavement and striding off as fast as her legs will carry her.

      She gets the return bus to Dublin the day after Boxing Day. He’s not said when he’ll be back but she knows by now he doesn’t like to be tied down by dates. She assumes it will be at least another day or two, maybe not till after New Year.

      Two p.m. she arrives at Central Bus Station. He’s there, waiting.

      ‘What the fuck are you doing here?’ She doesn’t know whether to smile or frown – it’s too unexpected.

      ‘I came back early. Wanted to see you.’

      She examines him, touching his unshaven face. ‘Look at you. Did you join the down-and-outs?’

      ‘I’ll explain.’

      ‘I dunno what you’re expecting. I gotta get back to Mrs Ryan.’

      ‘Spend the afternoon with me,’ he pleads. ‘It’s Christmas. She’ll have loads of people to help. You could phone her.’

      ‘Where from?’

      ‘There’ll be phone boxes here. I’ve got change. Tell her the bus has broken down.’

      ‘Christ, you have all the answers, don’t you?’ He grins sheepishly and she rolls her eyes. ‘You look like a tramp and smell like one, too, but you’re still a handsome bastard.’ He broadens the smile. ‘OK, let’s find a phone box,’ she says with a sigh.

      Snug in bed in the lazy late afternoon, he suddenly sits up and looks down on her. ‘I СКАЧАТЬ