Northern Spy Berry, Flynn (books for 9th graders .TXT) 📖

An orderly brought me dinner on a tray, with ice water and a chocolate pudding cup. “Are we getting special treatment?” I asked, and he laughed. He thought I was being sarcastic, and I said, “No, it’s really good.”

He said, “Imagine how you’ll feel about food that’s actually good.”

For the first time in ages, I don’t have to do anything. My family is safe. A few hours ago, a constable drove my mam and Finn to a nearby hotel for the night. My hair is cool against the pillow, and something in the room smells like eucalyptus. I stay in this hinterland, drifting.

—

Fenton returns in the morning. He explains that Marian and I will be interviewed separately, for preservation of evidence.

“Were you close to finding us?” I ask.

He hesitates, then says, “No.”

“Did you coordinate with MI5?”

“They said they had no record of you or your sister ever working for them.”

I stare at him. “Have you told Marian?”

He nods. Her pledge account was emptied. She called the Swiss bank and was told her account had been cleared two days ago, the day of our abduction.

“I don’t understand.”

“Let’s start at the beginning,” he says. “Why were you under suspicion?”

“It wasn’t anything we’d done. An operation to assassinate the justice minister went wrong, and someone blamed it on us. Someone set us up.”

“Who else knows that you’ve been informing?”

“Our mam,” I answer, “and our handler, Eamonn.”

The detective has me describe my meetings with Eamonn. He asks for a physical description of Eamonn, and an account of everything he ever asked me to do. He says, “Did you ever meet with anyone else from MI5?”

“No. Why didn’t Eamonn help us?” Even if, somehow, Marian’s tracker had failed, Eamonn knew the location of the farmhouse. He could have had it checked.

Fenton shakes his head. “It’s hard to say. MI5 is not exactly transparent.”

“If you had to guess—”

“They were protecting someone else. Someone else did sabotage the assassination, and was advised by MI5 to blame it on you.”

“But we were working for them.”

“They might have considered the other informer more valuable. Higher up the chain.”

“So they would have let us die?”

“It’s happened before,” he says. “Quite—quite a bit more often than you’d think.”

“Who were they protecting? Who accused us?”

“We might never know.”

It had been a witchcraft trial, really. During those, your only protection was to accuse someone else. Four hundred years later, the mechanism worked exactly the same.

The security service had decided to let us die, for the greater good. I’d never once considered that as one of the ways they might use us. The last time on the beach, when we celebrated, Eamonn had nearly kissed me. I’d been so stupid, I hadn’t realized that was an operational strategy.

The detective asks me what happened at the farmhouse. It feels like describing events from years ago, even though my feet are still covered in blisters from running through the snow. I describe Seamus coming into the room, then stop. He already knows the interrogation ended in violence, he has seen our clothes.

“It was self-defense. Seamus was going to kill us.”

He says, “The prosecutor’s office has granted both you and Marian immunity from prosecution of any crimes, in exchange for your evidence.”

I tell him that Marian stabbed Seamus in his throat with her hair clasp, and he listens with an impassive expression.

“Why did the guards let you go?”

“Self-preservation, probably,” I say. “They hadn’t stopped us from killing Seamus, the IRA would have punished them. They must have been relieved to be given a way out.”

Though I’m not sure if that’s entirely true. I remember the expression in the guard’s eyes before he told us to run. He hadn’t wanted to hurt us.

I hope we’re not the only ones. I hope that others of the IRA’s disappeared are alive, that instead of shooting them, the gunmen told them to run. It’s possible, I think. There might be dozens like us, who survived.

—

The police have brought me a change of clothes. A navy cardigan, white v-neck t-shirt, and tracksuit bottoms. And a nude cotton bra and knickers in a sealed polystyrene bag. Odd, to think of someone in the police finding out my bra size.

I sit on the hospital bed with Finn, waiting to be discharged. My mam leans against the window. “Neither of you had coats,” she says. “You could have frozen to death.”

“Well, we didn’t,” I say, bouncing Finn on my lap.

“You’ve been limping.”

“Only from blisters. We had to walk for a long time when we left,” I say, which doesn’t come out sounding as reassuring as I’d hoped.

Marian steps into the room, in her own police-issued clothes, followed by the detective. “The IRA has issued a statement,” he says, handing me his phone. I scroll past the picture of Seamus, in a mustard-yellow corduroy blazer, to read the statement. “A devoted volunteer, Seamus Malone, was tragically killed in an unintended explosion in South Armagh yesterday morning.” The statement goes on about Seamus’s legacy, his standing among his comrades, and the plans for a full paramilitary funeral, with a guard of honor. The service will be held at St. Peter’s cathedral, with a procession to the burial at Milltown cemetery. Near the bottom, the statement says, “Two others, Marian Daly and Tessa Daly, also died in the explosion after having been court-martialed and found guilty of informing.”

“Oh,” I say softly. It’s like stepping into a lift shaft. I look at the detective, Marian, my mam. “Everyone who knows us will think we’re dead. I can’t do that to them.”

“You don’t have a choice, love,” says my mam. “It’s this or the IRA looking for you. You’re safe now, that’s all that matters.”

Finn shifts on my lap, and I smooth his hair. I can’t go home, I can’t even go back to say goodbye. “What will happen now?”

“You’ll be given new names,” says the detective. “And resettled outside of Northern Ireland.”

Marian presses her mouth into a thin line. She loves Belfast even more than