“I told them Marian’s not in the IRA,” she says, “but they didn’t believe me.”

Miranda and Richard told her to plan to come in on Monday, since they needed some time to consider their decision. When she returns, the dirty tablecloth and napkins from their dinner will be in a pile on the laundry room floor, smeared with butter and wine and lipstick, and crusted plates and roasting pans will be stacked by the sink. They always leave the washing for her.

10

IT’S AFTER TWO IN THE MORNING. Finn has just gone back down after nursing, and I’m filling a glass of water at the kitchen tap when I see torches in the field behind my house. I stand frozen at the window, aware of my breathing, of the lock on the sliding door, of the baby asleep in the other room.

I can’t see the people holding them, but they’re advancing steadily. The torches are being held level, angling through the darkness toward me. They seem to be pointing straight at our house. In a few minutes, their beams will catch the stone wall at the bottom of the garden.

They could just be teenagers, out late. Except teenagers wouldn’t be moving at that pace, or in lockstep. I try to think of other reasons for two people to be crossing the field at this time of night, but in my bones I know that they’re IRA, and that they’re coming to hurt someone.

The cottages on this road all look the same from the rear, eight identical houses backing onto the field. They might have counted wrong. They might be coming for my neighbor, Luke. He is a police constable, which makes him a legitimate target in their view.

Or this is about Marian, and they are coming for me. Someone might have told them that I went to the police station, that I gave information, that I accused the IRA of abducting her, which would be enough for them to consider me a tout.

I’m already under suspicion because of my employer. Almost every time I’m out with my mam in Andersonstown, someone asks why I work for the BBC. They consider me a sellout. They have bad memories of the BBC from twenty, fifty years ago, of English reporters asking their children to pose with grenades, of them cutting the news feed on Bloody Sunday.

I’m standing next to the block of knives. I could lift the sharpest one, but if I do that, it will mean that this is real, that something is seriously wrong, when it might still be nothing, or just a conversation. They might only want to clear up a few things. I don’t know what happens during their interrogations, or how they decide whether to believe you. I know they’ve made mistakes.

I need to get Finn out of the house, but there might be others waiting out front, or at the end of the road. They wouldn’t hurt him on purpose—they don’t deliberately harm children—but if I seem to be running away, they might shoot at me. I can’t step out of the house with him in my arms.

The beams are growing brighter. They’re almost halfway across the wide field now. If I wait outside, those people won’t come in here to find me. They won’t come near him.

Finn is sleeping with his knees drawn in and his bottom in the air, in a cotton sleepsuit. I lean over the crib, taking in his smell, his warm, solid shape, the soft cuffs of the sleepsuit at his wrists and ankles. He turns his head to the other side and sighs.

I stroke the hair from his forehead. If they make me leave with them, Finn will be safe in his crib until my mam can get here. Crying, maybe. He always wants to be held as soon as he wakes.

I pull a jumper on over my nightdress and step outside, sliding the door shut behind me. The torches are about an acre away now. I cross the lawn to the low stone wall at the bottom of the garden. Strands of hair blow across my face and I hold them back. Then I wait, rolling up my sleeves, aware of my bare legs in the cool air.

Halfway across the field, the torches click off. My knees soften. Whoever’s out there is invisible now. I wait for two figures to materialize on the other side of the wall. In the darkness, I might not see them until they’re quite close. They often wear black tactical uniforms and ski masks.

My ears strain, listening for the sound of boots in the grass. I wonder if it will make a difference to them that I have a son, that he’s only six months old.

I wait, but nothing happens. No one appears. They must have stopped walking, or gone in a different direction. I cross my arms over my chest, rubbing my shoulders through the wool jumper.

Finally, lights click on in the middle of the field, and then the torches are moving away from me. They illuminate the base of the hill, then sweep up its length. The elm at its top appears briefly, its branches suspended in one of the beams, and then they disappear over the ridge.

I walk around to the front of the house and look at the row of streetlamps, at my neighbors’ darkened windows. No one is out here, no vans are waiting for me on the road.

* * *

—

When I step back inside, the house seems different, like I’ve been away for years. A green light glows on the coffee machine. I look at the corked bottle of red wine on the counter and the bunch of parsley by the sink.

Now that the adrenaline is fading, I’m so tired. And I can’t even tell myself that I was being delusional. The IRA might have taken me somewhere to be interrogated. It happens. It was reasonable of me to be afraid, just as it’s reasonable now to be afraid in a train station or a holiday market. My cousin reads electric meters, and his job has become impossible, since no one will open their door to a stranger anymore.