Northern Spy(3)
“Another expenses scandal,” says Nicholas. “Roger Colefax was on the Today program this morning.”
“He wasn’t brilliant, it has to be said. Very equivocal about the whole thing.”
“Did he apologize?”
“No, but it looks like he’s going to resign.”
“We won’t take it today unless he does step down. Priya?”
“We’re on the Cillian Burke trial. It’s going to collapse at any minute.”
“Isn’t he on tape confessing?” asks Nicholas.
“It was covert surveillance,” says Priya. “And MI5 is refusing to reveal its methods. Their witness keeps saying he can’t answer on the grounds of national security.”
Nicholas whistles. Cillian Burke is on trial for ordering the attack in a market in Castlerock that killed twelve people. He has been a leader in the IRA since the Troubles, responsible for multiple car bombs and shootings. Now he will either be given a life sentence or be acquitted and reengage.
“There won’t be a conviction,” says Priya. “Not if MI5 won’t explain the recording.”
I doubt the security service will compromise. MI5 comes here to test new methods, to build capacity, to prepare its agents for their real fight, which is against international terror groups. We’re only their training ground.
Simon turns to me. “Tessa? What do you have on Politics this week?”
“The justice minister is coming in,” I say, and the room turns gratifyingly alert. “This will be her first interview since proposing the bill.”
“Well done,” says Esther, and the whip-round continues until it reaches sport, at which point everyone feels comfortable not listening. A few people read the newspapers on their laps while Harry says something about rugby. We’re all grateful to sport, though, since they can fill any dead space on air, they’re so used to talking about nothing.
* * *
—
After the meeting, Nicholas and I find a table in the canteen on the top floor, level with the roofs of other buildings and the dome of city hall. He says, “Right, what do we have?”
I show him the running order, though he needs very little producing. Nicholas became our political correspondent years ago. He started at the BBC in the ’90s, riding to riots on his bicycle, traipsing into fields to interview British Special Forces officers.
I like to play a game with myself of finding a political figure or statistic that Nicholas doesn’t already know. He could present tonight’s program from a ditch, probably, but we still sit together working through the questions. He reads one aloud. “Let’s be sharper here, don’t you think?”
In person, he’s kind and amiable, but he’s a brutal interviewer. “These people have quite a lot of power,” he says. “The least they can do is explain themselves.”
We keep working until Clodagh calls him. “We’ve got Helen Lucas in reception and Danny’s not back from Stormont, can you tape her interview?”
“Sure, sure,” says Nicholas, gathering his papers and coffee cup. “Tessa, we’re in good nick for tonight, aren’t we?”
“We’re grand.”
After he leaves, I put on a pair of headphones and listen to a speech Rebecca Main gave last week at a school in Carrickmacross. She has only been the justice minister for a few weeks, but she’s already drawing large crowds of supporters and protesters. “The United Kingdom will never bend to terrorism,” she says. I stop the clip, leaning forward. She is wearing a bulletproof vest. You can just make out its shape under her suit.
Rebecca Main lives in a house in south Belfast with a panic room and a security detail outside. I wonder if either helps her feel safe. I wonder how she feels about being constantly under threat.
It was exciting in the beginning, when the unrest started. No one wants to admit that, but it has to be said. In the first few weeks, when the protests and riots and hijackings began, the conflict was disruptive, rippling across ordinary routines. You couldn’t take your usual routes. Certain intersections would be barred by a crowd—mostly young men, mostly shouting, some with their shirts off, some throwing rocks—or by a bus that had been tipped on its side and set on fire. Sometimes we stood on the roof of Broadcasting House and watched black flags of smoke rising around the city. While working, or traveling across Belfast to my flat, I felt resourceful and competent simply for doing what I’d always done.
One morning a news crew from America was in the café around the corner from my flat. The reporter wore construction boots, jeans, and a bulletproof vest. I watched him with curiosity and scorn at his precautions, his self-conscious air of bravery. I thought, You’re only flying in, you don’t live here like I do.
I’ve often wondered what it would be like to live during the Blitz, and now I think I know. At first, the fear and adrenaline were sharpeners, they did make you more awake. Happier, even. Nothing was dull anymore. Every act—stringing up wet laundry, buying a bottle of beer—felt significant, portentous. It was a relief, in a way, to have larger things than yourself to worry about. To be joined by other people in those worries.
I recently read a scientific paper that said that murder victims, before they die, are flooded with serotonin, oxytocin, hormones that create a sense of euphoria as the body tries to protect itself from the knowledge of what’s happening. That’s how I think of myself during those first weeks now.