Simon Berthon - A Secret Worth Killing For

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 you OK?’

‘Yeah, just the heat.’ She smiles. She can’t take the tension much longer, not knowing if he’ll bite. Maybe he’s sussed something – but he hasn’t come with his own prepared story, she’s sure of that. She needs her moment of truth right now. She looks at her watch, finishes her drink and finds the line to close Act One. ‘Bastard still hasn’t shown,’ she says angrily. ‘Suppose I’d better be heading.’

His head jerks up and round. ‘Don’t do that, I’ll buy you another.’

He’s bitten. She inspects him, to make him feel he’s undergoing an examination, to ratchet up his gratitude if she accepts. ‘I probably shouldn’t,’ she says. ‘I dunno you, do I?’

‘I’m harmless as a butterfly.’ His eyes plead with her. He’s on the hook.

‘OK, then, might as well get pissed. Nothing else to do, is there?’

‘You’re the local,’ he says. ‘I was hoping you might have something in mind.’ It’s his first openly suggestive remark and it’s taken time. He’s a cautious man, but now he orders a double vodka and Coke for her, and a double Scotch for himself.

They drink and chitchat, nothing personal or controversial, but a mutual hunger in the eyes. Occasionally she flashes a look around the room. ‘Just in case the bastard’s skulking,’ she tells him. In a corner of the bar she spies a man she’s seen with Joseph once or twice. He’s always peeled off as soon as she arrives, back into his undergrowth. But not tonight. The exit door is jammed shut.

Just before 10.30, an alarm sounds, abrupt and deafening. A voice booms over the Tannoy. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, we have a bomb scare. Please evacuate the building now.’ The warning words are repeated every five seconds. They’re on cue.

‘I’ll grab my coat,’ she says.

‘I’ll wait for you,’ he replies.

They walk out into Great Victoria Street to join the hundreds retreating behind the barricades. Bomb warnings are no longer scary – the age of nightly explosions and shootings has long gone. Now it’s a meaner war. Individual murder, assassinations, suspected informers tortured and ending up with a bullet through the knees or head. A few weeks ago three IRA men were ambushed on a country lane and shot dead by the SAS. That had to come from a grass. She remembers it – no wonder Joseph, her brother and friends want an intelligence propaganda victory. Maybe what she’s doing is OK.

She sets off south and he sticks to her limpet-like. Once they reach the other side of the yellow tapes, they stop to catch their breath. Sirens and shouts echo, nothing more.

‘Bastards,’ he says, ‘why did they have to break that up? I was enjoying myself.’

‘Me too,’ she agrees. ‘Fucking eejits.’ She pauses. ‘Well, I suppose this is it, my flat’s not far. Better be away.’ She’s nearing the end of the second Act – moment of truth number two. She looks at him. ‘And you should be, too,’ she says cheekily.

‘We shouldn’t let them get away with it,’ he says. ‘Busting up the evening like that.’ He takes a breath and exhales into the night air. ‘Can I get you another drink?’

‘Reckon I’ve had plenty,’ she says.

‘Coffee, then?’ he pleads.

‘Honest, I should be heading.’

‘OK, coffee in your flat. And then I go home.’

She laughs at him. ‘You don’t give up, do you?’

‘You make it hard to,’ he says.

‘OK, coffee in the flat.’ Hook, line and sinker. She pounces, giving him a quick kiss on the lips. She feels him relax with pleasure and anticipation as they head towards Botanic and he puts his arm round her. Act Three is about to begin.

They’ve taken a short lease on a first-floor student flat in a street of Victorian terraces. She’s been driven past it once – she wanted a second look but they said it was too risky. There’s a Yale lock above and a mortice below – they’ve told her the mortice will be left unlocked to make it easier for her. They should be in position by now. While she and the man walk, she tries not to search for their car and them waiting inside. The street lamp is opposite the front door, illuminating the house number. She unlocks the Yale and pushes the door open.

‘Don’t you double-lock?’ he says. He’s drunk plenty but he’s still a policeman.

‘No petty crime in this town,’ she replies without a beat. She thanks heaven her brain’s quick enough to disarm him.

She switches on the stair light and leads him up. With the university on holiday, both the ground- and upper-floor flats are empty. At the top of the landing, she slots a second key into a bare wooden door and ushers him in. She’s learnt the floor plan, memorizing rooms, doors, furniture, cupboard contents, electrical appliances. They’d better have got it right. She’d better have remembered it right.

‘Sorry, it’s a bit dire,’ she says. ‘My flatmates are away for the vac but I didn’t wanna be trapped at home with my ma and da.’ She pauses, feigning embarrassment. ‘It means I’m sort of camping in the bedroom.’ She nods towards the room at the back. ‘TV’s there if you want. I’ll make coffee. Oh, bathroom’s there.’

‘Thanks,’ he says. ‘I could do with it.’

She puts on the kettle. When it begins whistling, she creeps to the front door and peers out. They’re there. She puts the palms of both hands to the window, fingers and thumbs splayed out. Ten minutes. Ten minutes till the play ends and the job’s done. She wants it over.

She’s back in the kitchen just as he pulls the plug. She hears sounds of hand washing and face scrubbing. He’s preparing, cleaning himself for her. More washing sounds. She imagines him taking out his penis and soaping it in the basin. The nerves have been there all night. Now there’s a charge of fear.