The Living by Léan Cullinan Read Free Book Online Page B

to be discussing the flat. Matthew looked on, his face thoughtful, difficult to read. He looked …
    He looked fucking gorgeous , in point of fact. I kept a grip on myself and made an inoffensive remark about this being the chill-out room.
    â€˜Yeah,’ said Linda. ‘It’s a nice little room, isn’t it? We might make it into a study, we were thinking.’ She looked past me, to where Donal had just come in. ‘Hello, Mr Breen.’
    Donal had a bottle in each hand. ‘Hello, there, Missus. Top-up for anyone?’ He poured wine into the proffered glasses.
    Linda said, ‘The landlord keeps calling me Mrs Breen.’ She added airquotes. ‘I can’t be doing with that at all. Donal thinks it’s sweet.’
    â€˜Well, I do,’ said Donal, mock-aggrieved.
    â€˜It’s a load of shite,’ said Linda. She took a long swallow of her wine. ‘“Mrs Donal Breen” – I mean, I love you and all, Donal, but for fuck’s sake. I’m Linda Muldoon. It’d be like putting on a new face, or something. I couldn’t do it.’
    â€˜Ah, you’d get used to it,’ Donal said.
    â€˜Well, why don’t you change yours then?’
    â€˜Because it’s not – I’d be – I don’t know, I just wouldn’t.’
    â€˜Well, don’t expect me to, then.’ She turned to me. ‘Would you?’
    I hesitated. ‘It hasn’t arisen.’
    â€˜Yeah,’ Linda said, draining her glass and holding it out for Donal to fill up. ‘First catch your man.’
    Talk turned to the Belfast gig. Mircea the Romanian bass said,‘Yes, but what is the gig exactly? I mean, what is the event?’
    Joan explained, ‘It’s a European peace summit – they’ve invited the Turks and the Greeks and the Cypriots, and I think a big name may put in an appearance. Not Clinton or Blair, I can’t remember who they said it was. Anyway, we’re singing at a sort of gala evening on the Saturday. They’ve got three choirs lined up to do that Daintree piece – London, Belfast and us – voices from all three communities, peace and harmony and all that jazz.’ Joan paused for a drink of beer and looked down for a moment before going on. ‘And by the way, to be blunt, they will probably run a background check on all of us. The audience is going to be full of government ministers and diplomats from all over the place.’
    â€˜Hang on, though,’ put in Val. ‘That doesn’t make any sense. Why would they waste their time investigating Carmina Urbana when they can just use someone like the National Chamber Choir – people who do this kind of gig all the time and already have whatever clearance they need?’
    â€˜They could do that,’ said Joan. She looked uncomfortable. ‘But …’
    â€˜Oh!’ said Val. ‘It’s the Diane connection, isn’t it?’
    â€˜I suspect it is,’ said Joan. ‘What’s the Diane connection?’ asked Mircea.
    Joan lowered her voice and leaned forward, glancing from face to face. ‘It’s not something she advertises, particularly, but Diane is the daughter of Jennifer Mallon, if you remember.’
    I didn’t. Or, wait, a faint memory stirred. A name to bringout when you needed to end an argument – ironclad, irrefutable. Jennifer Mallon : I could hear it in Mum’s voice.
    Beside me, Matthew spoke for the first time, ‘Wasn’t she … shot by a British soldier some time in the early eighties?’ He’d spoken as softly as Joan had.
    Joan nodded.
    Val said, ‘It was one of those totally awful, unnecessary tragedies – I remember hearing about it at school. She was driving her baby daughter to visit her dying husband in hospital – I know, you couldn’t make it up – and she got caught in the wrong place at the wrong time. Young soldier panicked. Shot her