Dead And Buried. John Brennan

bus on Chichester Street, to watch the crowned cranes dancing in the morning mists like he’d watch the pigeons cooing and crapping in Donegal Square.

      It hadn’t happened.

      But still – he didn’t much enjoy being treated like Kipenzi Kamande’s chauffeur.

      They didn’t talk much on the drive out. Conor had tried to make conversation at first – where’re you from, how long’ve you been an ecologist, got kids, got a husband – but she wasn’t having any of it. Gave him nothing but a regal sneer and a vague wave of one slim hand. Suit yourself, madam, Conor had thought angrily, grinding the gears of the jeep. They’d driven the rest of the way in silence.

      Later, she’d told him that she’d felt awkward and shy – and that she’d have liked to talk, only she couldn’t understand his accent.

      Ten miles out of Serena the antique jeep gave out.

      ‘Damn.’

      ‘What? Why have you stopped?’

      ‘Not me. The car.’ He slid out of the driver’s seat and popped the bonnet. Steam. Smoke. The red-hot engine hummed sadly.

      ‘Do you know anything about cars?’ Kipenzi asked, leaning on one elbow out of the passenger window.

      ‘Nope.’

      ‘Neither do I.’ She said it with something like a smile. You won’t find it so bloody funny when we wind up stuck here all bloody night, Conor thought irritably. He scanned the horizon. Nothing to see but a stand of pot-bellied baobab trees and a skein of ibises silhouetted against the setting sun.

      ‘That’s that, then,’ he said to himself.

      Kipenzi had climbed down from the passenger seat and was rooting in the back of the stricken jeep.

      ‘Afraid we’re stranded,’ he called. ‘I suppose we’re going to have to—’

      She turned, shouldering a sheaf of blankets and swinging a half-gallon water can from one hand. ‘There’s a stream a mile to the south-east of here,’ she said. ‘Do you know how to filter water? We have fruit and a loaf of bread and there are Osuga berries near the stream. Doctor Nkono will be driving this way in the morning. We will sleep in the car. The temperature can fall to minus ten at night. Anyway we will have to wind up the windows to keep out,’ she smiled wryly, ‘unwelcome guests.’

      Conor felt like he ought to make a contribution. ‘I’ve got a mosquito net,’ he offered.

      ‘Does it work on leopards?’ Again the fleeting smile.

      There weren’t any leopards, in the end. They ate the fruit and bread perched on the tailgate of the jeep. When the sun went down, Conor made himself as comfortable as he could under a blanket in the passenger seat; Kipenzi curled up cat-like in the back.

      While the stars came out in the deep sky, they talked: family, work, travel, food (Kip spoke three languages and had lived in Brazil and Japan, but she’d never had a bacon soda farl from Kenny Hegley’s on Cloister Street). When the red sun rose in the morning they were still talking. At eight, when Doctor Nkono pulled up in his dust-caked 4x4 alongside the stranded jeep, he found Conor dozing in the driver’s seat, and Kip sound asleep with her head on his shoulder.

      Conor came round to find the doctor shaking his arm. ‘Good morning, Mr Maguire,’ he said.

      It took Conor a second to register it all: the dazzling sunlight, the doctor’s wry, kindly smile, the thought that he’d spent the night sleeping rough in the African savannah, the ache in his back, the scent of Kip’s hair on his clothes.

      Belfast seemed every one of the six thousand miles away in that moment – and a million years ago.

      But here you are, Conor told himself as he manoeuvred out of Barry Lever’s yard and pulled onto the Belfast road. You kissed Kip goodbye for good, and here you are – home again.

      He didn’t notice the car behind him until he was deep into the city suburbs. At a red light on Montgomery Street he squinted in his rearview. Yeah, that was it, all right: the car he’d seen outside the Cherry Tree that night, after Ella’s party. The cops.

      Conor fought down a rising panic. Sure, there’d been a time when the police in Belfast knew his name and his face; there’d been a time when they were more than keen for him to – what was the phrase? – help them with their enquiries. But now? He was clean. He’d been out of the damn country for nearly six years, for Christ’s sake. But then the police, like everyone else in Belfast, had long memories.

      He drove carefully, mindful of road signs, signals, speed limits (he could hear Mags’s voice in his head: give the bastards nothing) – easing the Land Rover through the thickening traffic on Albertbridge Road.

      Before Short Strand and the river he swung the car into a layby and braked. He breathed a quick prayer: please God let them go past. In his right-hand wing mirror he watched the black car move alongside – and then slow – and then stop.

      The darkened nearside window hummed open. There was no one in the passenger seat. The driver, keeping one hand on the wheel, leaned across and motioned for Conor to wind down his own window. Heart thumping, he pushed the switch. The window rolled down; the traffic fumes and the dank Lagan air caught in Conor’s throat. He swallowed uncomfortably and met the driver’s eye.

      ‘Hello, Conor,’ she said. Yeah, the coppers round here knew him, all right –and he knew them. This was a name and a face he’d have been glad to forget. He nodded stiffly.

      ‘Hello, Detective Galloway.’

      ‘Surprised to see you round these parts again.’ Galloway’s accent was softly but markedly Glaswegian.

      ‘I’ve been away.’

      ‘I know – I remember you leaving.’ A bleak smile. ‘Sort of sudden, wasn’t it?’

      ‘An opportunity came up. You know how it is.’

      Traffic was getting tailbacked behind the black car. A horn beeped irritably. Galloway sighed. ‘Look at me, holding up traffic. Now, Conor – you’ve five minutes for a chat with an old friend, haven’t you?’

      ‘Yeah – yeah, I suppose so,’ Conor shrugged. It was easier to play along – to pretend that he had a choice in the matter.

      ‘Great.’ She smiled. ‘Follow me. Try and keep up.’ The darkened window rolled up. The black car moved off.

      Conor signalled and pulled out in its wake. When he moved his left hand from the wheel to shift gears he felt it tremble and he gripped the gear lever till his knuckles showed white.

      Detective Lisa Galloway. He’d been wondering if he’d see her again, hear her voice again – and hoping like hell that he wouldn’t.

      ‘I’m not trying to play games with you, Conor,’ Galloway said. ‘I’m just trying to do what I’m paid to do.’

      They’d driven to a rundown pub on Laganbank Road. Galloway had led him to a table outside – so she could smoke, she’d said with a self-critical grimace. ‘Keep meaning to quit,’ she said, ‘but bad habits die hard in this job.’

      Conor guessed that the truth was she didn’t want to be overheard.

      They were the only drinkers on the windblown terrace. Conor could hear TV football commentary coming from inside the pub – then someone shouted something, and someone else swore loudly. Then someone started up a chant: hello, hello, we are the billy boys… Rangers fans. At least there was no chance of bumping into any of his relatives here. He sipped his half of bitter and watched Galloway warily as she settled on the bench, set down her glass of vodka and coke, and fired up a cigarette. She’d lost weight since he’d last seen her, and she’d been skinny as an alleycat then. And she looked older – of course she did; it’d been six years. There was a permanent crease in her brow. Bags under her eyes – not a lot of laughter lines. This