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I’ll
tell Litchfield what he can do with his job. I’ll discuss it with him
tomorrow.’

Chapter 4
     
    Michael hadn’t slept well. He’d
woken twice, once from a dream of being surrounded by hooded men pointing
machine guns at him. He’d fired at them, but his gun had no bullets and all he
could hear were repeated loud clicks as he desperately pulled the trigger again
and again. Then, the second time, he’d opened his eyes from a dreamless sleep
and not known where he was. It took a few seconds to remember he was in
Siobhan’s spare room. Thoughts of the beach crowded his mind, but eventually
he’d drifted off again.
    He got up around 7.30 and found Siobhan had already gone to
work. She’d left a note though: ‘On early shift, help yourself to everything.’
He rummaged through the fridge and kitchen cupboards, eventually settling for
fried eggs on toast and a large mug of tea.
    The previous evening had been difficult after he’d told
Siobhan that Tom was on the beach with him.
    ‘So he’s dead then. Another wasted life. Or do you not see
it that way, Michael?’ She didn’t look at him, busying herself with the
cooking. She slammed the frying pan onto the hob and filled it with mince.
‘Jesus, we all grew up together.’
    He had no words of comfort to offer her. He muttered something
about everyone knowing the risks.
    She looked up, her face a mixture of grief and anger. ‘It’s
madness. Sure I want the Brits out just as much as anyone, but not like this.
We kill them, they kill us and everything stays the same. Except it doesn’t, does
it? People I care about die.’
    They’d eaten in silence. Siobhan didn’t want the TV or the
radio on. After dinner they sat quietly in the dining room, working their way
through the wine she’d bought. Siobhan alternated between staring out the front
window and trying to read a book. Michael decided not to initiate any
conversation. Siobhan was convinced of the futility of the armed struggle, and
he knew that if he started any kind of dialogue she would simply steer the
conversation back to that issue before long. It wasn’t something he wanted to
discuss that evening. He could have done with a bottle of whiskey to dull his
thoughts.
    About 10ish Siobhan closed the book and got up.
    ‘I can’t concentrate. And I’m up early tomorrow. Good
night.’ She turned to him and planted a kiss on his forehead. ‘Sleep well.’ She
went upstairs.
    Soon after, he did the same.
     
    He finished his tea, and turned on
the television. He caught the morning news. There was a report on the ‘Beach Incident’
as they had dubbed it. The eight casualties were mentioned, but nothing about
the one who’d got away. He switched the set off.
    He needed to report the ‘Beach Incident’ to his battalion
commander in Belfast. Doubtless the word had already reached them up there. But
they wouldn’t know who, if anyone, had survived or eluded capture. And they
wouldn’t be at all pleased to have lost such a large weapons shipment. He
anticipated an awkward conversation. Not wanting to use Siobhan’s phone, he
decided to find a public phone box. Taking the spare key from its hook in the
kitchen, he slipped on his jacket and walked out the door.
    The day was cold but bright, with little wind and a
cloudless sky. Michael paused at the top of the small flight of stairs leading
to the street, looking carefully to right and left. A few men in suits and
overcoats were walking briskly to what he imagined must be their office jobs. A
trio of binmen were emptying bins into a rubbish truck about 20 yards away.
Nothing felt out of place – a normal Dublin morning as far as he could tell.
Being constantly vigilant had become second nature to him though, and his
senses were tuned in to the environment as he descended the steps. He turned
left, and walked swiftly past the rubbish truck and onwards toward the main
road.
    Maybe I’m overdoing it, he thought. No one should know of
his presence in