A Secret Worth Killing For. Simon Berthon

and Martin breezes in, bestowing smiles and kisses all round. Maire suddenly wonders what her parents think of him; whether they even know his prominence in the movement. Politics in general are sometimes discussed at home, but the rights and wrongs of violence are no-go. It’s only, and infrequently, mentioned when she’s alone with her brother. They must suspect – they’d be blind not to – but have decided it’s best to keep out.

      ‘Hey, little sister, you’re looking gorgeous as ever,’ Martin declares, not a care in the world.

      Maire attempts a show of response but recoils. Surely he must know about Joseph’s conversation with her today and her acquiescence. She wonders at his bravado, and the masking of his double life as happy-go-lucky son and IRA commander.

      He notices her listlessness. ‘What’s up, kid?’ How can he even contemplate such a question? She searches for a hint.

      ‘It’s nothing,’ she says, ‘just a chat I was having with Joseph.’

      ‘So how’s the world’s greatest revolutionary doing?’ There’s an edge of condescension in her brother’s tone. Again she flinches at his duplicitousness.

      ‘Full of schemes, as always,’ she replies.

      ‘Aye, that he is,’ says Martin. ‘That he certainly is.’

      He’s giving her nothing. Literally nothing. No comfort, no support, not a hint of empathy. Perhaps that’s the way it has to be.

      They decide to try it the next Saturday night. More people milling, more cover, guards more likely to be down.

      She prepares. She’s cut her hair, taking three inches off the long auburn tresses, and used straighteners to remove the waves and curls. Instead of the hint of side parting, she brushes the hairs straight back, revealing the fullness of her face and half-moon of her forehead. She examines the slight kink in her small, roman-shaped nose. As always, she dislikes it. She applies mauve mascara and brighter, thicker lipstick to her cupid lips. She wears a black leather skirt, above the knee but not blatantly short, and a bright-pink, buttoned blouse that doesn’t quite meet it in the middle. The gap exposes a minuscule fold of belly. She pinches the flesh angrily. Through the blouse, a skimpy black lace-patterned bra, exposing the top of her firm small breasts, is visible. The overall effect is not a disguise, just a redesign. While it doesn’t make her look cheap or a tart, she’s unmistakably a girl out for a good time.

      She’s steeled herself, told herself it’s just a job. Clock on, clock off three hours later. Thoughts of how to pull out have besieged her every minute since she said yes – even though she instantly knew she couldn’t. But once she’s done it, that’ll be it. Never again.

      She’s kidding herself. Once you’re in, they’ve a hold over you – you’re complicit. She thinks of her brother – did he recruit Joseph? How did they get their hold over him? She remembers that tightness in his face. Did they ever need to?

      She arrives just after 8.30 p.m.

      As agreed, she finds a bar table with two chairs, sits down and appears to be waiting for her date to arrive. A waiter comes – she orders a vodka and Coke.

      He’s already there, sitting at the bar. The description, both of him and his clothing, is accurate. Late thirties, sandy hair retreating at the sides, a ten pence sized bald spot on top covered by straggles of hair that offer an easy mark of recognition from the rear. On the way in, she’s been able to catch more; the beginnings of a potbelly edging over fawn-belted, light-brown trousers. Brown loafers and light coloured socks, dark-brown leather jacket. Perhaps the brown is an off-duty discard of the policeman’s blue. On his upper lip, a pale, neatly trimmed moustache. Brown-rimmed, narrow spectacles sitting on the bridge of a hook nose. Somewhat incongruously, pale blue eyes. From those first glimpses, he seems a nicer-looking man than she expected. A relief, given one part of the task that lies ahead. But ugliness becomes a victim more easily.

      They say he usually drinks one or two before chatting up the bar girls and waitresses. Around 9.15, when she’s been waiting three-quarters of an hour for her elusive date to arrive, she walks towards the bar. She places herself beside him.

      ‘Another vodka and Coke,’ she demands, louder than necessary.

      He turns to her with a raise of the eyebrows.

      ‘Bastard hasn’t shown,’ she says, glaring at him as if to say, ‘Whaddya want?’

      ‘He’s a fool.’ He eyes her with frank admiration. The accent is English, south not north. A confirmation.

      ‘I’m the eejit,’ she says. Her drink arrives and she makes to return to her seat.

      ‘You might as well stay and chat till he comes. I’ll pull that stool over.’

      She hesitates. It seems too easy. What’s this man really like? From nowhere she imagines him hitting her. Where did that come from? Nerves, just nerves. Her heartbeat is racing. She gathers herself. ‘I left my coat at the table.’

      ‘It’s OK, I’ll keep an eye on it.’ He chuckles. ‘I’m good at that.’ His remark startles her. She hopes she’s not shown it. ‘So who’s the missing boyfriend?’ he continues.

      ‘Ex-boyfriend. Bastard,’ she repeats. Is she overdoing it? She senses how miscast she is for this performance. She’s a quiet student who should be buried in her books. Some even say she’s gawky. Suddenly she sees that’s maybe why Joseph’s picked her. The copper will never suspect.

      He shrugs and sips from his glass. Scotch and ice, must have been at least a double. ‘Men,’ he says. ‘Can’t trust them. Just like criminals and politicians. No wonder they’re usually men, too.’

      ‘Thatcher?’ she says.

      ‘Thought you girls said she was a man, too. Anyway, they got rid of her. Assassins all men.’

      She makes herself laugh. He raises his glass; she raises hers and clinks.

      ‘Cheers,’ they chime together, grinning at each other.

      ‘Bet they were glad round here when she was dumped,’ he says.

      ‘Aye, they banged the dustbin lids.’

      He pauses for another sip. ‘Sorry, should have introduced myself. Name’s Peter.’ The final confirmation.

      ‘Annie.’ Unless he’s lying, like her.

      ‘So whose side are you on, Annie?’

      ‘My side. Fuck ’em all.’ He frowns. ‘Sorry, I should mind my tongue.’ She sticks it out at him like a rude child. What came over her to do that? The job’s become an act, two more hours on stage before the curtain falls.

      His grin widens. ‘I like your tongue. Agree with it, too.’

      He’s flirting hard now. Another pause. She doesn’t want to seem like she’s making the running. Eventually, he resumes. ‘OK, I’ll try another tack. What do you do, Annie?’

      ‘Studying. Queen’s. Just finished first year. I’d like to travel but I don’t have money.’

      ‘Can’t you get a job?’

      ‘A job here! In Belfast! You find me one.’ A further silence. This time she feels safe to have her turn. ‘And youse?’

      The hesitation is just perceptible. ‘My company’s sent me over for four months. We’re investigating setting up an office. The grants are good.’

      ‘Whaddya do?’

      He’s thinking. ‘Financial advice. Investment. All that stuff.’

      ‘So you’re rich!’

      ‘That’ll be the day.’ He peers down at his glass.

      She feels sweat on her neck and between her breasts. She moves her right hand to her left wrist to check her pulse.

      He notices. ‘Are