Father and Son Read Online Free
cigarette in his mouth. He has the permanent air of
someone who’s just walked out of a casino in time for breakfast.
“What’s that on your shirt?” she says, her eyes having already
returned to the screen.
“I had a fight with a coffee machine.”
He hears the beginning of a news report from the speakers of her laptop.
She fumbles with the touchpad, turns the sound off. But it’s too late.
“That about Bernard Sheenan?” he says, walking across and looking
over her shoulder.
Paused on the screen is the image of a white cottage, a police
cordon outside.
She says nothing.
“He’s dead, then?” he asks. “Sheenan?”
“Yes. Been dead over a week, apparently.”
“You don’t sound very happy about it.”
“Should I be?”
She lets the report play, the sound muted. They watch in silence as
the career of Bernard Sheenan is summarised in thirty seconds of news clips. Swift
rise through the ranks of the IRA, five years in the Maze, prominent role in
the Peace Process…
John knows the story well enough. Sheenan was convicted of arms
offences in the early 90s. He was also suspected of having planned the Leeds
supermarket bombing, the one that killed a baby.
“Let him rot in hell.”
“How about not speaking ill of the dead, eh?”
“I’ll call a murderer what I like. Look.” He leans over her, jabbing
a finger at the laptop as the footage of the Leeds bombing is played. “You seen
this before?”
“Of course I have.”
John realises he’s trembling, heart going fast.
“Can you turn that off?” he says, unable to take his eyes off the
image of the young man, behind him the ruins of a building in flames. All these
years later, and still he can’t look away.
She closes the Mac.
“Want one?” he says, lighting himself a cigarette as he sits
opposite her on the other sofa, a long, narrow coffee table between them, piled
high with yachting magazines.
“I only smoke when I’m drinking.”
“There’s a bottle of vodka in the fridge.”
She smiles, brushes big handfuls of auburn hair from her face.
“I knew him, all right?” she says. “That’s all. I knew him.”
“You knew Sheenan?”
Investigative journalist? She probably knows half the criminals in
the country. He’s not going to tell her about Roberto, though. Lanny was dead right
about that.
“Work, y’know,” she says. “I interviewed him a couple of times.”
He’s only marginally interested, but he’s got to say something,
anything to avoid the thought of Roberto.
“Trying to get a confession out of him?”
She shrugs.
“You were !” He stops. Thinks. “Hey, didn’t they say he had
cancer. Death bed confession?”
She drinks from a mug, her hair falling down as her head dips,
shrouding the mug and her hand. She’s in her late thirties and it suits her, one
of those women who’ll look just as good when she’s sixty.
“Sort of. He had cancer. Don’t you read the papers?”
“Hardly ever. They’re full of bad news.”
“He announced he had cancer about a month ago,” she says, lifting her
head and pushing all that hair back off her face again. “I think he was going
to admit to the bombing before he died. A final act of contrition. Lay the past
to rest.”
John nods. Lay the past to rest . He nods, but he
doesn’t agree. The past doesn’t rest, it just finds new ways of coming back at
you. What kind of rest is Roberto going to get? And that young man, walking out
of the rubble with a dead baby?
“Was Sheenan going to give you the exclusive?”
“I tried. I’ve got to get my stories from somewhere. Anyway, he’s
dead now.”
She leans forward and helps herself to a cigarette, lighting it and
blowing several long plumes of smoke up above her head before settling back
down on her sofa.
“How did he go? Softly into the night? Peacefully in his bed?”
She stops, confused. “You really haven’t seen the news this morning?
He was murdered.”
He tries to summons up an emotion. But he
someone who’s just walked out of a casino in time for breakfast.
“What’s that on your shirt?” she says, her eyes having already
returned to the screen.
“I had a fight with a coffee machine.”
He hears the beginning of a news report from the speakers of her laptop.
She fumbles with the touchpad, turns the sound off. But it’s too late.
“That about Bernard Sheenan?” he says, walking across and looking
over her shoulder.
Paused on the screen is the image of a white cottage, a police
cordon outside.
She says nothing.
“He’s dead, then?” he asks. “Sheenan?”
“Yes. Been dead over a week, apparently.”
“You don’t sound very happy about it.”
“Should I be?”
She lets the report play, the sound muted. They watch in silence as
the career of Bernard Sheenan is summarised in thirty seconds of news clips. Swift
rise through the ranks of the IRA, five years in the Maze, prominent role in
the Peace Process…
John knows the story well enough. Sheenan was convicted of arms
offences in the early 90s. He was also suspected of having planned the Leeds
supermarket bombing, the one that killed a baby.
“Let him rot in hell.”
“How about not speaking ill of the dead, eh?”
“I’ll call a murderer what I like. Look.” He leans over her, jabbing
a finger at the laptop as the footage of the Leeds bombing is played. “You seen
this before?”
“Of course I have.”
John realises he’s trembling, heart going fast.
“Can you turn that off?” he says, unable to take his eyes off the
image of the young man, behind him the ruins of a building in flames. All these
years later, and still he can’t look away.
She closes the Mac.
“Want one?” he says, lighting himself a cigarette as he sits
opposite her on the other sofa, a long, narrow coffee table between them, piled
high with yachting magazines.
“I only smoke when I’m drinking.”
“There’s a bottle of vodka in the fridge.”
She smiles, brushes big handfuls of auburn hair from her face.
“I knew him, all right?” she says. “That’s all. I knew him.”
“You knew Sheenan?”
Investigative journalist? She probably knows half the criminals in
the country. He’s not going to tell her about Roberto, though. Lanny was dead right
about that.
“Work, y’know,” she says. “I interviewed him a couple of times.”
He’s only marginally interested, but he’s got to say something,
anything to avoid the thought of Roberto.
“Trying to get a confession out of him?”
She shrugs.
“You were !” He stops. Thinks. “Hey, didn’t they say he had
cancer. Death bed confession?”
She drinks from a mug, her hair falling down as her head dips,
shrouding the mug and her hand. She’s in her late thirties and it suits her, one
of those women who’ll look just as good when she’s sixty.
“Sort of. He had cancer. Don’t you read the papers?”
“Hardly ever. They’re full of bad news.”
“He announced he had cancer about a month ago,” she says, lifting her
head and pushing all that hair back off her face again. “I think he was going
to admit to the bombing before he died. A final act of contrition. Lay the past
to rest.”
John nods. Lay the past to rest . He nods, but he
doesn’t agree. The past doesn’t rest, it just finds new ways of coming back at
you. What kind of rest is Roberto going to get? And that young man, walking out
of the rubble with a dead baby?
“Was Sheenan going to give you the exclusive?”
“I tried. I’ve got to get my stories from somewhere. Anyway, he’s
dead now.”
She leans forward and helps herself to a cigarette, lighting it and
blowing several long plumes of smoke up above her head before settling back
down on her sofa.
“How did he go? Softly into the night? Peacefully in his bed?”
She stops, confused. “You really haven’t seen the news this morning?
He was murdered.”
He tries to summons up an emotion. But he