A Secret Worth Killing For. Simon Berthon

aren’t you,’ he says. It’s a statement – a confirmation – not a question.

      ‘Course,’ she replies. ‘Politically, anyway. Freedom, equality.’

      ‘Politics won’t get us there. It’s the struggle that matters.’

      ‘I’d never stand in your way, Joseph, you know that. It’s just not the way for me.’ She leans down and gives him a peck on the forehead.

      The brightness of the day illuminates him, the chiselled chin, full lips, straight nose, the sparkle in his azure eyes. She expects him to put his arms round her, pull her on to him and roll in the grass till they laugh themselves to a halt. Last night they made love three times; she can still feel him inside her.

      He turns away, avoiding her. She detects a tightening in his eyes, a clenching of the cheeks she’s never quite seen before.

      ‘You know I love you, don’t you, Maire?’

      ‘Course I do. And I love you too, Joseph. Don’t I always say it?’

      ‘You do. But just this once I need you too,’ he says, turning back to her. ‘I mean the movement needs you.’

      A quiver of alarm. ‘I dunno what you mean.’ He shifts away again. ‘You better tell me,’ she urges.

      His eyes swivel and engage hers with a ferocious intensity. ‘There’s a Brit peeler over here – name of Halliburton – Special Branch. On some kind of loan. We’ve been tracking him. He gets lonely at night, drinks in the Europa, eyes up the bar girls. But doesn’t follow through. Around eleven, he’s in his car, heading back to Castlereagh. They’re either housing him in the station or somewhere near; we’re not sure. We wanna speak with him.’

      ‘Speak with him, Joseph? Whaddya mean, speak with him?’

      ‘Interrogate him. Find out what he’s doing. Get some intelligence.’

      ‘And then what? When you’ve interrogated him.’

      ‘Just scare him. Let him know we’re onto him. Suggest it’s time he leaves.’

      ‘What’d be the point of that?’

      ‘Propaganda. How we ran a Brit SB man out of our island. It’ll read well.’

      ‘And that’s all?’

      ‘Aye, that’s all.’

      She rolls over and sits up straight – he raises himself alongside her.

      ‘Does Martin know ’bout this?’ she asks. ‘Course he knows.’

      ‘And ’bout you speaking to me.’

      ‘He would, wouldn’t he? But it couldn’t come from him, could it? Not brother to sister. Wouldn’t be right.’

      ‘But he knows.’

      ‘Well, he would.’

      She stands up, the warmth of the sun heating her back through her light-red jumper. It’s not enough in itself to create the sweat that’s prickling her. He springs up and ranges alongside.

      ‘We just need you to attract him. Your quick wits, quick tongue, it’ll be easy. Just a chat-up in the bar, you’re a student wanting a free drink. You take him to a flat. We got one ready in the university area.’

      He outlines the plan. All she’s doing is picking up a bloke over a drink. Happens every night, hundreds of times over. She’s listening hard – he cranks it up. ‘Look, Maire, there are moments when you can’t just stand by and look on. Be a passive observer. At some point, everyone has to do their bit. Look at the leadership now, the politicians. Do you think all they ever did was talk?’

      ‘I’ve just finished A-levels, Joseph.’ Her first instinct is to repel him but right now, at this moment, she doesn’t want to show weakness that could invite his disapproval.

      ‘Aye, you’ve done well. But you’re eighteen now, grown up. An adult. You’ve responsibilities.’

      ‘What about responsibilities to myself?’

      ‘That’s just selfishness. It’s not just the struggle, it’s your friends, your family, your community.’

      She halts abruptly. Divis mountain ahead, so often a dour, brooding darkness, seems almost radiant, a mass of green light.

      ‘I’ve never got involved in that way.’

      ‘Aye, but this isn’t like that.’

      ‘You promise me it’s just to interrogate him?’

      ‘Aye.’

      ‘No violence. No beating. Just propaganda. Just to show you can do it.’

      ‘Aye.’

      ‘I need to hear you promise me, Joseph.’

      ‘That’s fine. I promise.’

      ‘You give me your word.’

      ‘Aye.’

      ‘And Martin approves?’

      ‘Aye, he would, that’s for sure. No doubt ’bout that.’

      She thinks in silence. She remembers the hunger strikers dying when she’s still a girl and the hatred for the British oppressor. Three years later, she shares her big brother’s pleasure when the IRA blows up Mrs Thatcher’s hotel in Brighton. She knows the cause is just but, for her, school, good results, getting to university become the priority. The British state is still hateful, but her belief in the ‘armed struggle’ deflates like a slow puncture.

      Yet Joseph has touched a nerve, a lightning rod brushed by lingering guilt. Maybe he’s right and she’s been selfish. She copped out when others didn’t. If what they’re planning is for propaganda, not violence, perhaps it’s just another act of cowardice to keep on avoiding it.

      She flicks a glance at him. What if he’s lying? Just talking shite? When did they last let a peeler walk free? She looks away. He’s never lied to her before. Not that she knows, anyway.

      Momentarily, a cloud obscures the sun, turning the mountainside an unyielding brown. He’s saying nothing, the quiet oppresses her. Time seems to freeze – the flapping of a bird’s wing high above reduced to the slowest of motions.

      His expression has retreated to that beautiful poet’s dolefulness when she’s about to disappoint him. Like those early months after the first full kiss when she wouldn’t go the whole way. Until she did. If she says no to this plea – a plea he’s made with such passion – will he ever forgive her? Might she even lose him? She thinks of asking – but doesn’t want to hear his answer.

      She turns. It’s visceral – she just can’t displease him. ‘OK, I’ll do it. Just this once. For you.’ It’s as if the words have tumbled out of her mouth before she even made a decision. A sudden consolation – maybe she’ll still be able to get out of it. She chides herself for even thinking it. Her rational self re-engages. ‘And there’ll be no violence?’

      ‘Yes, there’ll be no violence.’

      She’s told her mother she’ll be in for tea that evening. Rosa has cooked cottage pie and peas, one of Maire’s favourite dishes. She plays with her food, even forgetting to splash it with ketchup, and speaks little.

      ‘What’s up with you, Maire?’ asks Rosa.

      ‘Aye, girl, you need to eat,’ chips in her father. Rosa casts him a warning glare to keep out of it.

      ‘Sorry, Mum,’ she says. ‘Just not feeling hungry. Dunno why.’

      Rosa, who’s come to realize that Maire must be sleeping regularly with Joseph, betrays a sudden alarm. ‘Not feeling sick, are you, love?’

      Maire looks up with a wan smile. ‘It’s OK, Mum, I’m not feeling sick.’

      ‘Well