Twisted Agendas Page 6

  “A new do will be as good as a tonic.”

  “Not today.”

  “Why not? We’re not doing anything. What I’ll do is go upstairs right now and run you a nice hot bath. After you’ve soaked, I’ll nip in and wash your barnet. And while I’m at it, I’ll pop your things into the washing machine because I’m just about to do a load.”

  As the silence stretched, Agnes wondered if Martha’d guessed what she was attempting to do. A car drove up quickly outside. The driver began to park in the vacant spot beside Agnes’ house. She approached the window and drew back the net curtain half-an inch with her finger.

  “Speak of the devil and she appears.” Agnes drew the curtain back a fraction more. “She’s got three with her today. A blonde woman I’ve been seeing a lot of lately and two blokes.”

  “Who, dearie?”

  “That Ralston slag.”

  As she watched Julia take a case of beer from the car and hand it to one of the men, Agnes wondered how she could ever have considered the tart a match for her son and make his dream of combining both houses a reality. The sale of the house devastated him, reopening the festering wound of his having been passed over for a funeral director position at his job and the catalyst resulting in his hastily leaving Agnes to take a position at a funeral establishment in a bleak South Yorkshire town.

  Journalist in training

  She hadn’t needed to use the fake journalist’s pass she’d tucked in the pocket of her skirt to get into Westminster Palace. Security hadn’t even inspected her backpack. Having once served as a Congressional page while a high school student, Piper had experienced negotiating political establishments albeit the workings of Westminster and Capitol Hill very different.

  Locating Paisley’s office wasn’t as easy. When she arrived at the bustling Central Lobby, the tall arched hallways of polished marble ran off in several directions. Clusters of people were gathered chatting spiritedly to Members of Parliament and their staff. She asked an old man dressed in a cute, old-fashioned uniform, who turned out to be a member of the Commons security, and he’d helped her.

  Before she entered Paisley’s office, Piper whipped out the journalist’s pass and slung it around her neck. A member of his staff sat at a desk in the reception area, his face and pristine white shirt striped like a zebra from the rays of sun streaming through the adjacent venetian blinds. He looked up as she approached.

  “Sheila Doughty, New York Times.” She held out her hand. The aide shook it very tenuously. “I’m here to see Mr. Paisley.”

  “Doctor Paisley’s not expecting any reporters,” he said, in a nasal Northern Irish accent, the kind she’d used to think was Scottish but now knew as Ulster Protestant. “The procedure is to call and request an interview. Even for American journalists.”

  She let the sarcasm slide. “I’ve been here interviewing another MP and thought I’d drop by on the off-chance.”

  “I take it ‘off-chance’ is part of your journalistic armoury, Miss Doughty.”

  “Exactly.”

  “What’s the member’s name?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “The member you interviewed.”

  “I don’t disclose that kinda information until my story’s in the can.”

  “Quite.”

  He was a cold fish. Changing tactics, Piper flashed him a bright smile. “Is it really not possible to ask if Doctor Paisley would see me for a few minutes, Sir? I’d be really grateful.”

  “Nothing I can do.”

  “I tried to meet with him when I was over in Northern Ireland but he had to cancel.” She smiled again. “Please.”

  The aide sighed. “I’ll see what I can do. He’s leaving in an hour to catch a flight back to Belfast. I’m sure you know Doctor Paisley’s busy dealing with issues relating to the upcoming elections.” His eyes narrowed. “I’m assuming that’s what you want to talk to him about?”

  “Of course.”

  Telling her to take a seat on one of two chairs placed adjacent to the door, the aide disappeared down the nearby hallway. Dust motes agitated by his departure floated in the shafts of sunlight. Down the hall she could hear phones ringing and people talking. Her own mobile phone rang. She fished it out of her pocket.

  “Can’t talk for long, Todd.” She kept her eyes on the hallway entrance. “I’ve bagged him. You owe me big time.”

  When she’d told Todd about her plans to get an interview with Paisley by posing as a journalist he’d said she didn’t have the nerve to pull it off, even bet her five pints of the most expensive draft beer that she wouldn’t go through with it. She knew now how real journalists in the field felt when they got a scoop. It made her think she should more seriously consider becoming a journalist, either here or on her eventual return to the States.

  If she did become one, Piper knew she’d work only for a prestigious outlet. One of the big networks if television or The New York Times if print. She could never do the regional beat with its incessant flurry of shootings, road accidents and fires. Her mind’s eye skipped to her New York Times job interview and she pictured herself revealing the ruse she’d played to get to Paisley, backing it up by handing the interviewing editor a copy of her dissertation containing his comments as the evidence.

  Footsteps started down the hallway. “Gotta go.”

  The aide approached. “Doctor Paisley will see you shortly.”

  “Thank you so much.”

  Minutes later, a middle-aged woman whose glossy smile proved incapable of extinguishing her natural frown lines appeared at the opening to the hallway. Her head jerked back slightly as she scrutinised Piper, taking in her face, clothes and backpack in one incisive sweep. She turned to the aide, said she needed to speak to him immediately and walked away.

  Alert to the sinister vibes, Piper rose and watched them pass along the corridor and go through the second doorway. She sneaked down the hall. The first office was empty, as she heard the woman’s urgent voice in the next office.

  “My instinct’s never wrong,” the woman said. “I’ve dealt with too many media types to know that woman’s no reporter, never mind one from The New York Times.

  “She did seem a bit young,” said the aide.

  “She could even be dangerous. Didn’t you see her rucksack?”

  “Security would have checked that.”

  “Security here’s not like in Stormont.” A phone rang. The woman answered. “Make it fast.” The receiver slammed down on its cradle. “The police are on their way to question her. Go out and stall her till they get here. Tell her… ”

  Piper fled down the hallway and out the door as fast as her six-inch heels and pencil skirt would permit. She ripped off the journalist’s pass as she scuttled along the outside corridor, expecting at any moment to hear the screech of alarm bells, a security code or even an alert blared from the banks of latent speakers she knew must be mounted within the building’s nooks and crannies. Arriving at the stairs, she attempted to negotiate them in twos but couldn’t. Two policemen came up the last flight of stairs, one carrying a walkie talkie, the other a machine gun. Her heart stopped but her feet clicked onward and she whipped out her mobile and pretended to take a call. Affecting an English accent as the policemen drew closer, she said, “It’s simply got to be struck from the bill. It’s got to. If it isn’t, Tony won’t be happy when I talk to him, believe you me.” She nodded perfunctorily as they passed by, cringingly aware of her grimy backpack. The men nodded and continued up the stairs.

  The policeman’s walkie-talkie crackled to life just as she exited the stairs. She walked at a brisk pace, the back of her heels on fire because the thin leather ankle strap had rubbed her skin raw. She hoped she was headed in the right direction. Moments later, she arrived at the hexagon shaped Central Lobby and threaded her way through knots of people toward the Saint Stephen’s entrance. A group of school children, the girls in grey pinafores and boys in shorts, shuffled in pairs toward the exit. Piper joined them. Someone t
ouched her right shoulder. She spun round to see a liver-spotted hand with a shiny wedding band.

  “Ma’am, do ya know how we get to the debatin’ chamber that’s on C-Span?” A man in pointy-toed cowboy boots asked, his wife in a pink tracksuit standing beside him.

  “No clue.” She turned back toward the vacating line of children. “Wait for teacher, please.”

  Outside, three policemen stood chatting near the vaulted entrance, their Victorian-era helmets and submachine guns they carried a study in contradiction. She passed them, looking straight ahead. Deciding it prudent not to use the nearest tube station, Piper limped off at a leisurely pace bound for Waterloo station that lay across the river. Though she removed her shoes, hoisted her skirt and jogged across Westminster Bridge as soon as she reached it.

  Offbeat places

  Piper cooked what she referred to as ‘comfort food’, a batch of minced beef shaped like a loaf that she served with buttered sweetcorn and mashed potatoes. Her lodger Pat was also present. Now they’d spent some time together, Danny found him friendly and intelligent though the circumstances of their introduction were never far from his mind.

  After eating, they went into the living room to watch the news. Following a segment about a proposed congestion charge for central London, a report followed about a security breach at Westminster. With the parliament building serving as a backdrop, a Metropolitan police inspector stated they had no further information about the identity of the woman who’d come to Doctor Paisley’s office masquerading as an American journalist. When probed further by the journalist, the policeman admitted it could have been an assassination attempt by the Real IRA.

  “The Provos should have got him years ago,” Pat said, his lips curled in disgust. “With the elections looming, I bet Paisley’s blowing this whole thing up just to get out of living up to his part of the bargain once the IRA decommission their arms.” He sat back on the sofa. “The Provos should never have agreed to disarm.”

  A crude sketch of the suspect with slicked back hair, pert nose and a sullen expression flashed on the screen. Piper edged forward in her seat and peered intently at the screen.

  “That doesn’t look like me, right?” she said.

  Pat laughed.

  “I’m serious. It’s me who went to see him.”

  Pat slapped his thighs. “You’re quite a joker.”

  Danny smiled. “You know, there is a similarity.” He winked at Pat.

  “Are you serious?” Piper asked, her face full of concern.

  The phone rang, and Danny answered it. “It’s Todd.” He held out the phone.

  “She’s a card, eh?” Pat said.

  “She is that.”

  As they watched the rest of the news, Danny heard Piper say she was going to dye her hair as a precaution in case the sketch appeared in the newspapers. Pat’s brow furrowed and he looked at Danny.

  “You weren’t coddin’,” Pat said, after Piper hung up.

  “No, but offing him wasn’t on the agenda.”

  Danny couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Just when he’d decided his imagination had been running riot about Piper, that his father’s warnings had made him paranoid.

  “More’s the pity,” Pat said.

  As Piper explained what had occurred, Danny was incredulous.

  “With that sort of nerve, you’d make a hell of a volunteer,” said Pat. “Wouldn’t you agree, Danny?”

  “I don’t know anything about that sort of thing.”

  “Nor do I.” Pat paused and looked at the television. “Yer tone seems very anti, though.” Pat’s eyes flickered with annoyance or menace. Danny wasn’t sure which.

  “Don’t you approve of what they’ve done through the years?”

  Danny’s instinct was to be silent but also felt he was every bit as entitled to state his opinion as Pat. “I think it’s moot, Pat.”

  Pat’s eyes changed to slits. “What’s ‘moot’ mean?”

  “Pointless,” said Piper.

  “Why would you say that?”

  “The fighting’s over now. It doesn’t matter what my opinion is... ”

  “You fucking hear what this man’s sayin’?” Pat said.

  “Don’t get all bent out of shape,” said Piper. “He’s only saying what people are thinking.”

  “What kind of man are you anyway?” Pat said, turning back to Danny.

  As he rose out of his seat, Danny raised his hands but Pat snatched his jacket off the armrest. “Is the tricolour flying from Belfast City Hall yet?” he asked. “Last time I saw, it was still the bloody Union Jack.

  Pat reminded Danny of some of the bullies at his school. They were so pugnacious, so quick to take offence.

  “Hey listen Piper, no more visits to parliament, at least not for a wee while.” He hugged Piper and then smiled at Danny. “That was some dinner she made, wasn’t it?”

  Danny couldn’t answer, he was so amazed at how quickly Pat’s mood had changed.

  Though he’d vowed not to look at the shotgun again, Piper’s escapades at Westminster brought Danny’s uneasiness about her back and he wondered if there’d been a sinister reason for her going there. He knelt and stretched his hand toward the far right corner of the wardrobe where he’d placed the weapon, hoping his fingertips would feel its smooth metal snout. He felt nothing but the rough grain of the wardrobe. He shifted the bottoms of the dresses, trousers and coats and peered inside. The gun was no longer there.

  Saying she needed a break from her revision and as his German course hadn’t yet begun, Piper insisted on taking Danny on what she’d called a ‘tour of London’s offbeat places.’ After calling at the US Embassy to renew her passport, they’d visited Saint Giles, a quaint church where Oliver Cromwell was married, and paid two pounds apiece to climb to the top of the Monument so he could see out over the city. They were now standing in front of a three-storey house in Craven Street where the statesman Benjamin Franklin had lived for sixteen of the eighteen years he’d spent in London.

  Throughout the tour, Danny wondered how to bring up the anxiety he felt without insulting her if he was wrong. Standing before the old house afforded him an opportunity.

  “Franklin was a revolutionary, wasn’t he?” he said to Piper, who’d now dyed her hair a colour she described as ‘Irish red’. To Danny, it looked the same colour as an aubergine.

  “I think of him as an inventor first.”

  He pretended to mull. “Pat a bit of the revolutionary, eh?”

  “Hmm. I read in a magazine back home they’re planning to open this house to the public at some point.”

  A squadron of pigeons passed over the rooftops on their way to nearby Trafalgar Square.

  “I think Pat supports terrorism judging from last night’s comments.”

  “Franklin was very friendly with the landlady’s daughter Polly. Apparently he treated her as a second daughter while he lived here. They remained lifelong friends.”

  “Do you support terrorism?”

  “Polly was at his bedside when he died in Philly.”

  “I mean, could you shoot anybody?”

  Her deflections were as rude as they were admirable. He’d always found it difficult to turn a tricky conversation, especially with his father. Unsure now how to proceed without getting angry, Danny glanced across the street while he considered his options. A man in a beautifully cut denim shirt with a yellow Venetian lion on its breast pocket was at the bus stop. He’d seen the tourist at Saint Giles taking photographs. The man looked up from his newspaper and their eyes locked for an instant, before Danny turned back to Piper.

  “You’re avoiding my questions, Piper. Why?”

  Her eyes remained fixed on the shiny black front door of the house. “One person’s definition of terrorism is another’s definition of war.”

  “Is that something you learned on your course?”

  “It’s what I believe.”

  “How come you believe that?”

  “Well, se
eing as we’re at Franklin’s old pad, let’s consider the case of the American patriots first. They didn’t jump on some ship and sail to England to ask the King for independence. They knew they’d get their asses thrown in jail. Instead, they raised an army and used guns to fight and make the English understand the colonies wished to be free. That was war. And it worked. But to the English, it would have been terrorism, except it was called rebellion back then.” She looked about as if checking to see if anyone was listening, then took a step closer toward him. “Now let’s consider the British occupation of your homeland. The British have tried for years to make the public believe the IRA are terrorists. But they’re not. They’re a legitimate, disciplined army. They’ve used their guns and bombs to bring the British to the negotiating table.” She paused and looked hard at him. “And to answer your other question, I’d have no problem shooting somebody in that kind of situation. I think anyone who cares about freedom and justice would agree with me.” She paused again. “What’s your thinking here?”

  He wondered now if she might be in the IRA. There’d been Americans in its ranks in the past. She’d stuffed writings into her bra that she didn’t want the police to see. She owned a gun. She’d gone to Westminster in search of Paisley. Did he dare ask if she was an IRA volunteer? Did he really want to know? Was he just being paranoid? If he shared what he was thinking and he was wrong, she’d laugh. He’d be utterly humiliated. Worse, she’d think he was ungrateful, and taking advantage of her kindness.

  Horns blared from the traffic circling Trafalgar Square. Two could play the avoidance game.

  “My thinking’s you made your hair a bit too red.”

  “Who’s avoiding now?”

  “You need to tone it down.”

  “Opinion or hair?”

  After they’d eaten lunch, Piper suggested going to the Three Tuns, a student pub that looked seventies institutional.

  “I’ve had class in here,” Piper said, as she set two pints on the table.

  “I figured that was a tutorial going on over there.” He nodded toward a corner where five students and a man with silver hair were gathered around two tables.