A Secret Worth Killing For. Simon Berthon

       As I went a walking one morning in May

       I met a young couple so far did we stray

       And one was a young maid so sweet and so fair

       And the other was a soldier and a brave Grenadier

      With his free hand, David beckons the audience to join in the chorus.

       And they kissed so sweet and comforting as they clung to each other

       They went arm-in-arm along the road like sister and brother

       They were arming along the road till they came to a stream

      And they both sat down together, love, to hear the nightingale sing.

      The song ends, the audience clap and cheer. David, now confident and enjoying the moment, bows. Maire has a new sensation – she feels proud of him.

      ‘You could almost pass for an Irishman,’ she says.

      ‘I love the music,’ David replies. ‘Listen to it endlessly.’

      ‘And now you’re in the country itself.’ She turns to his friend. ‘Do you know Ireland, Rob?’

      ‘A bit,’ he says. ‘I did a six-month stint in the North for the paper.’

      ‘Oh,’ she says, her voice rising an octave. ‘When was that?’

      ‘Not so long ago, summer of ’91.’

      ‘So, pretty quiet.’

      ‘Yeah, not much,’ he says casually. ‘Only real nasty was the murder of the Special Branch guy, poor bastard.’

      She’s motionless. ‘I read about it. I’d left by then, thank God.’ The memory kills conversation and their eyes turn back to the band.

      Later, Rob withdraws to the guesthouse and Maire and David find themselves walking along the harbour front. The clouds have cleared and he puts his arm round her. She doesn’t sink into him.

      ‘You’re shivering,’ he says.

      ‘It’s not exactly warm,’ she says with a touch of frost.

      ‘What’s wrong?’

      ‘Nothing’s wrong.’

      ‘I can tell,’ he says. ‘Was it the pub? Or Rob?’

      She pipes up. ‘Well, I did wonder why you looked as if you wanted to punch each other.’

      He laughs. ‘It was nothing. Though I might have preferred him not to act the impresario.’

      ‘I though it might be that.’

      ‘There’s something else, isn’t there?’ he insists.

      ‘No, not really.’ She puts her arm round his waist. ‘Just the fears and hopes of life.’

      He doesn’t pursue it, instead rubbing her warm against the piercing cold. Out to the west, away from the lights of land, the moon casts onto the blackness of the sea a shimmering pathway of brilliance, which seems to stretch to infinity. In the distance, the silhouette of the Twelve Bens mountains draws a curtain against the island and continent that lie behind them. She arches her neck to look up at him. He leans over her and they kiss fully and deeply for the first time.

      ‘Here and now, in this magical place, it’s as if we’re . . .’ He pauses, breaking away, trying to find the word. ‘As if we’re invulnerable. Untouchable. There’s no need for fears.’

      She pulls herself to, breaks away and gives him a gentle slap. ‘That’s unlike you,’ she says, cheeriness restored. ‘I guess I’ll have to get used to the singing poet.’ She flings her arms round his neck and plants a kiss on his mouth. ‘Christ, it’s bloody freezing,’ she exclaims. ‘What the hell are you doing keeping me out so late, Mr Vallely?’

      Arms back round each other’s waist, they walk briskly to the guesthouse. Despite the length of his stride, her thickset legs spring along beside him. They open the door. She puts her hand over his mouth and quietly hushes him. They creep up the stairs, trying not to giggle as floorboards creak. On the landing at the top, he makes to leave her and go to his room. She looks into his eyes, takes him by the hand and leads him to hers, all the time keeping him silent.

      Inside her room, he begins to speak, ‘Maire, are you sure—’ She puts her forefinger over his lips, then inside his mouth and strokes his milky teeth with it. He licks the finger and kisses it. She breaks away, takes off her coat and folds it over a chair. Then her shoes and jeans. She pulls her sweater over her head, causing her long tresses of hair to lift and then fall back in floating descent. She unbuttons her shirt and lays it over the sweater, and unclips her bra and lets it slip to the ground. She puts her hands through her hair and brings strands to her front. She stands facing him and beckons.

      ‘Too much blubber,’ she says shyly.

      ‘No,’ he answers, ‘the more of you, the better.’

      ‘Now you.’

      He undresses and she steps back to lie on the bed and pull him over her.

      They make love three times until it lasts long enough for her to share in the full pleasure of it. ‘I’m sorry,’ he keeps saying, ‘I’ve been wanting it too much. Storing it up.’ She shushes him, saying it doesn’t matter. At the end, after they’ve been lying sleepily in peace for a few minutes, she props herself with a jolt on an elbow and looks over him.

      ‘If you wanted it that much, what took you so long?’

      He opens his resting eyes. ‘I wasn’t sure. You know, you might have disapproved. Not liked me for it. Attitudes are different here. Like the rules in your flat.’

      She chuckles. ‘Christ, I was glad to get rid of that hang-up.’ His eyes widen. She continues more softly. ‘But it’s been a while since.’ She pauses. ‘You can’t have hearts breaking and get a first at the same time.’

      ‘You’re clever enough to have anything you want,’ he says.

      The sleep that seemed ready to overwhelm them has turned elusive.

      ‘I wanna tell you something,’ she says.

      ‘There’s nothing you have to tell me – you are as you come.’

      ‘No, it’s about the flat. I somehow couldn’t tell you straight.’

      ‘What couldn’t you tell me?’

      ‘I lodge with a woman who’s got three grandchildren living with her. Her daughter’s in prison, the father’s no good. Part of my rent is to look after the kids. That’s why I could never invite you.’

      He doesn’t seem offended or even taken aback – instead he puts his arms around her and pulls her close.

      ‘I’m glad you told me,’ he whispers. ‘It’s great not to have secrets from each other.’ He sits up and beams. ‘Hey, perhaps I’m allowed to ask you back to my place now!’

      She sits up too, smartly pushes him back down, lies on top and begins to touch him again. ‘I thought you’d never ask.’

      The only sourness in this unmatchable moment is the mental effort to dismiss the exchange in the pub. Part of her wants to tell him everything, even why she first went to Mrs Ryan. But she knows that can never be.

CHAPTER 9

      On the Monday morning, he’s not in the library. She’d never asked, just assumed he would be. Her concentration keeps wavering as she imagines him walking through the door. He doesn’t. Tuesday morning he’s not there either. She has a premonition of something wrong.