Borderlands

Mary Knox
Chapter Eleven

Saturday, 28th December

It took twenty minutes for the fire brigade to arrive. By then the car was no more than a smouldering wreck and Debbie's parents had arrived to take her and the kids to stay with them for the night. Several lads from the station arrived with odd bits of wood and plastic to cover the windows until morning. Finally, Costello himself arrived and made coffee with a nip of whiskey. He sat in the kitchen with me and tried to figure out who had attacked my family.

"It's a… it's a bloody disgrace is what it is," he said. "We'll hang the blackguards when we get them."

"If we get them," I said, knowing that if my car had been bombed because of something to do with the Cashell case, then Costello himself was a suspect. Not that I thought he would be standing in the middle of the countryside at two in the morning, petrol-bombing cars. But that didn't mean he couldn't get someone else to do it.

"So, who do you reckon?" Costello asked.

"I'm not sure, sir. Someone connected with the case, perhaps. Someone pissed off at me for some reason. Mark Anderson, getting back at me for his sheep being killed. Maybe the person Penny saw the other night. God only knows."

"Firebombing smacks of Johnny Cashell," Costello suggested.

"Except he's safely in jail in Strabane."

"Aye. Maybe some of McKelvey's crowd," he replied. "Taking their anger out on someone."

"Maybe."

Next morning, the glaziers arrived to begin fixing the windows at the front of the house. I helped the salvage crew clear the last twisted scraps of metal off my driveway and hitched a lift with them to the station, where I picked up an unmarked car to use until my insurance paid for a new one. Then I drove to Strabane.

I passed under the tin sculptures of musicians and dancers which dominate the local skyline, standing some twenty feet tall. The winter sun was a lemon mist above the hills to the east, twinkling weakly off the burnished metal of the statues.

I went first to the library. In addition to the books and CDs, internet access was available, though even at this early hour it was booked solid. I asked for the microfiche machine and copies of the Strabane Chronicle from 1977 to 1979 and, fifteen minutes later, started winding my way through the ribbons, one at a time, looking for mention of Mary Knox. I went immediately for the first edition in 1979, which was 4th January. The headline read, rather unimaginatively, "Woman Missing", though at least it made my search easy.

Police are appealing for information regarding the whereabouts of Strabane resident, Mary Knox, who has been missing since New Year's Eve. Knox, in her early thirties, is described as being of average height and build. She has dark brown hair and brown eyes and was last seen wearing a floral print dress and black boots. Anyone with information regarding Miss Knox's whereabouts is asked to contact Strabane Police Station on 36756.

The following edition, dated 11th January, provided more information, under the heading "Fears for Missing Woman". More importantly, it included a photograph showing a woman sitting on some steps leading to a beach. It was the same photograph I had removed from Ratsy Donaghey's box of possessions:

Police are still appealing for information about missing woman Mary Knox, who disappeared on New Year's Eve. Miss Knox moved to the area three years ago, having lived in Manchester, and has a pronounced English accent. She is described as being of average build, with brown hair and eyes. Miss Knox was a well-known figure in local circles and was last seen wearing a floral print dress and black high-heeled shoes.

The change of tense in the last sentence was conspicuous, perhaps an unintentional slip by a copy-editor, perhaps a pragmatic acknowledgement that, after eleven days, Mary Knox would not return. Over the following weeks the articles grew shorter and shorter until, eventually, a week passed with no article at all and Mary Knox was forgotten.

I had to go back almost eight months before I found mention of her name again. Hendry's comments about her lifestyle had made me suspicious, so I had looked at the Court Report page in each edition, and sure enough, in April of 1978, her name appeared: Mary Knox, of no fixed abode, had appeared before Strabane District Court charged with soliciting and prostitution. She had pleaded guilty after the court heard evidence from Sgt Gerry Willard, who stated that he had seen the defendant provide sexual services in exchange for money in a lay-by on the Leckpatrick Road. RM Edward Benning warned Miss Knox that she would face a custodial sentence if she persevered in such behaviour. He stated that he had spared her on this occasion because of her dependants.

As the editions slid past me on the screen, Mary Knox's name appeared four more times: twice for soliciting, twice for being drunk and disorderly. In one of the soliciting cases, the officer giving evidence was identified as Constable James Hendry. Knox's dependants were not mentioned again.

I phoned Hendry and asked him to meet me for lunch, which, by the time he arrived, consisted of sandwiches wrapped in wax paper, eaten on a park bench outside the library. The sun was low in the sky and our shadows stretched along the pavement.

"Anything on Knox?" I asked, trying to eat and talk at the same time and doing neither with any great success.

"Fairly much what I told you yesterday."

"You didn't tell me you arrested her."

"Did I? I don't remember, but I'm sure I did arrest her. She was one of those characters everyone in the town knew. Rumour was that she was piecing off a bit of action to anyone in uniform who would give her a free pass." He added quickly, "Not that I ever availed of the offer myself."

"Was she working this side of the border or on the other?" I asked, wiping mayonnaise from my mouth.

"Both, I guess," replied Hendry. "She had quite a range of clients, all things considered. If she'd been inclined to mediate, she'd have been a one-woman peace process."

"No thoughts on what happened to her?" I asked.

"She's dead," Hendry said, in a matter-of-fact way, rolling his wax paper into a ball and pitching it at the bin beside our seat. The paper hit the rim and skittered onto the road. A woman walking past with her two children looked at it, then at us, and scowled. "I'd say she's buried under a housing estate, or in the woods, or under a beach or car-park somewhere," Hendry added.

"Who did it?"

"Hard to say, really. At the time, the IRA had 'disappeared' quite a few people: informers, non-informers, people who spoke out against them in the local shops. Disappeared and never seen again. Provos wouldn't admit it then, but it's coming out now. Tortured them to find out what they'd said, then dumped the bodies on building sites. So that was high up on our list. The other possibility was some customer, unhappy with the services she provided. Maybe a john she was blackmailing, threatening to tell his wife. Whoever did it probably never killed again. She just vanished."

"The newspapers talked about her 'dependants'. Who were they?" I asked, lighting a cigarette and offering Hendry one.

"Two kids. A boy and a girl. Damned if I know what age they were, though," Hendry said, drawing on the cigarette, then looking at the tip to ensure it had lit fully. He blew the smoke out with an audible sigh, wiping crumbs from his moustache as he pulled at it.

"What happened to them?"

"I've no idea. I'd nothing to do with the disappearance. I encountered her occasionally. Knew her by reputation, really." He looked at his watch. "I better go. Take it easy, you hear," he said, waving as he walked off back to his station. Then he stopped and came back. "Thought you might want to know. Johnny Cashell was up yesterday. Fined five grand. Got off light all things considered, even if in some ways he did the community a service!" he laughed.

After picking up Hendry's discarded litter, I returned to the car. So Johnny Cashell had been back in Lifford yesterday – shunting him right back to the top of the list of suspects for burning my car. And also putting him nearer the top of the list of people I had to speak to. First, I drove along the Derry Road to the new council offices, where I asked for the registrar. The woman who came out to help me was a heavyset, reticent lady, who seemed to whisper when she spoke. I explained to her that I was looking for birth certificates for the two Knox children, and gave her a general idea of the period in question. She took all the details, then told me she would call me when she had copies.

Next, I returned to Lifford, stopping off at the station to confirm what I already knew to be the case: the photograph from the site where Angela's body was found was the same as that taken from Ratsy's flat. Mary Knox. Williams had left a note saying that she and Holmes had gone with a police artist to get a sketch of the girl spotted with Terry Boyle the night he died. I headed straight for Clipton Place to confront Johnny Cashell over the arson attack on my house. It seemed, however, that he had been out the night before celebrating his release and, slightly the worse for wear, was now in the pub, searching for the hair of the dog.

As it turned out, I missed him in McElroy's bar. However, I did find out that Johnny had been there all of the day before – after his daughter's funeral – and had had to be carried into a taxi at three in the morning – which meant he was still lying comatose in the bar when someone torched my car – which meant he slid right back down my list of suspects.

Finally, when I had nothing left to do to avoid it, I drove back over to Lifford and to Powell's house. This time I pulled into the drive where Miriam's BMW sat alone. I knocked on the door twice and was about to turn and leave when I heard the slamming of one of the internal doors. Seconds later, Miriam pulled the front door open, her face flushed and her breathing heavy. Her breath smelt of cigarettes and drink. She stood in the doorway, leaning slightly against the doorframe, and smiled. "Come in," she said, and turned and led me into the living room.

"Debs said you wanted to see me, Miriam," I said, standing by the sofa.

"Sit, Ben, please," she said, doing so herself. As she sat, she ran her hands along the backs of her legs, as though to smooth out a skirt, but it was clearly force of habit, for she was wearing jeans and a white, man's shirt with the top buttons open wide enough to reveal the flush at the base of her throat and the swell of her tanned chest. She seemed to be aware of my gaze for, as she spoke, she fingered the collar of the shirt and rubbed her index finger along the length of her collarbone.

"I wished to apologize for my behaviour in your home the other night," she said, smiling at me girlishly.

"I need to apologize, too, Miriam, for what happened in the car."

She waved her hand, as though wafting my words from the air.

"No need, Ben. Just think of it as two old friends renewing their acquaintance."

"You wanted to speak about your father-in-law?" I prompted, already growing uneasy with the direction the conversation was taking.

"He saw someone again the night before last," she said.

"In his room?" I asked.

"Not quite. Outside. He said he saw shadows at his window, trying to peer in through the crack in the curtains."

I was reminded of our own experience several nights before. Could the two incidents be linked? "He didn't see their face?" I asked.

"No," Miriam replied. "I just thought it might be important."

"You could have phoned me with this, Miriam," I said, standing up.

"I know you're mad at me," she said quickly. "I know you hate me for what I did to you. With Thomas."

"I don't hate you, Miriam," I said.

"You do. You're right. It was horrid of me. But, I've paid the price for it. My wonderful husband. He's standing in the next election. It'll be the first time he's stood near me in years. His waitresses and nurses, they do it for him. He thinks I'm withered up. Used goods, he says." The words tumbled out without pause, as if Miriam were somehow aware that if she stopped now, she would never have a chance to unburden herself again. Or perhaps she just liked an audience. "Am I used goods, Ben?"

"I need to go, Miriam," I said, moving towards the door.

"You used to be a better man than this, Ben. I remember. I remember touching you. You were so excited you couldn't hold yourself back. I remember. You do, as well. I know you find me attractive. Oh, Debbie's a great mother, I'm sure. But would she do what I'd do? Remember you and me down by the water station? We have unfinished business, Ben. Let's finish it," she said, playfully. She moved towards me, swaying gently from side to side, her head lowered slightly so that she looked up at me through her fringe. "No one need ever know," she said. "Just a bit of harmless fun."

She was close to me now and I could feel the heat radiating from her body. Her skin seemed to emanate something more than warmth. I could smell again the exotic coconut of her skin and taste again her mouth, cold and sharp. I wanted to feel the soft tug of her lips. She put one hand on my chest, the tip of a finger finding its way between the buttons and rubbing the hairs of my chest. She ran her fingernail along the skin and something deep inside me began to well up. She smiled at me with her mouth, but her eyes remained slightly out of focus, as though she were not really there, and in their emptiness I saw my children and my wife. I felt again Deb's neck and the softness of her hair. I took Miriam's hand and lifted it from my chest, then moved away from her. Her smile wavered, as if she could not understand what had happened. Then it faltered completely as I moved backwards towards the door.

"Goodbye, Miriam," I said. "I want to go home to my family. I'm sorry if I gave you the impression that there was something else there."

She set her face defiantly against the shafts of winter sunlight streaming down the hallway. "Get out, you useless shit!" she spat. "See if your wife will be a whore for you on the back seat of a car."

As I turned to open the door, I came face-to-face with Thomas Powell, who flashed his most political smile. He looked freshly showered, his hair still damp and slightly spiked. He had recently shaved and smelt strongly of aftershave, despite it being late afternoon. "Have I missed something?" he said.

I did not tell Debbie of my visit to Miriam Powell, and all evening I debated with myself over the real reason for it. Miriam had sensed the unfinished nature of our relationship; but it was also vanity on my part. Miriam Powell would still sleep with me out of pity, or charity, or some obsessive need to debase herself even further.

Perhaps she wanted revenge against her adulterous husband. Perhaps she just wanted to enjoy herself.

If I had not seen the emptiness in her eyes, would I have gone ahead and given myself to her and given away all that was important to me? I told myself that I would not. And, as I kissed my children goodnight and curled up to sleep behind Debbie, I believed that to be the truth.

I dreamt that night of Miriam Powell. She and I were together in the back of a car, parked behind the cinema. We were kissing and her breath was hot and urgent against my ear as she pressed her cheek to mine. Over her naked shoulder, through the windshield, I could see the body of Angela Cashell lying on the grass. Debbie was standing over her, shaking her head. Miriam tugged at my shirt, flicking open the buttons, and I heard shouting. Rubbing the condensation from the window, I looked across to another car, parked beside us. The light was on inside and I could see Costello with a faceless woman. She had brown hair and brown eyes and her body was scarred and abused. She looked at me and screamed. Then the car I was in began to move. Behind me, flames forked out of the boot and I believed I could hear the petrol bubbling in the tank, ready to explode. My stomach lurched, and when I looked again, Terry Boyle was sitting beside me, the fetid smell of his breath and his scorched flesh thick in my mouth and nose, the charred remains of his hand clasped on my knee. Then Whitey McKelvey was driving, his face contorted and frozen, his hands lying useless on the melting wheel, which spun wildly out of all control.