Grab your sleuthing hat and dive back into the thrilling world of espionage in Northern Spy. Northern Spy finds sisters, Tessa and Marian, attempting to untangle the web lies tearing them apart. The scene is a flashback of when Tessa is at university in Dublin when Marian comes for a visit. Read on to see a conversation Tessa remembers years later as an adult, while trying to uncover her sister’s secrets.
On the last night of my sister’s visit, we met my friends at a restaurant on Clanbrassil Street. I had on a tight dark sweater dress that one of my friends had loaned me and burgundy lipstick, which wasn’t mine either. My flatmates shared their makeup with me, their Nars blush and Benefit mascara.
“I’m confused,” said my sister on our walk to the restaurant. “If you’re a Marxist, why are all your friends rich?”
“They’re not.”
“How many of your friends’ parents own second homes?” she asked, and I shrugged.
During breaks, I went to stay in their guest rooms in France and Portugal. I swam in slate pools surrounded by acres of olive trees, ate brioche pastries stuffed with cream. I was a good guest. Offering to cook dinner one night, getting the whole family to help me make pizzas. They always invited me back.
Marian said, “You’ve won the lottery.”
“You’re making it sound permanent. I’m their guest on those trips, it’s not like I get to keep anything when I leave.”
“Of course you do,” she said.
“Do you think my friends’ parents give me money?”
“Yes.”
“You’ve lost the run of yourself, mate.”
We were walking along the canal, past students drinking tins, their shoes dangling above the flat water. Marian said, “On a practical level, how much have they spent on your food at restaurants? A couple hundred euro?”
I stared at her.
“And that’s nothing, that’s just the start. When you graduate, they’ll help you find a job.”
“Right, okay, and you can’t get a job because you have the wrong friends?”
“I do have a job,” she said. “And I never said you have the right friends.”
At dinner, I was across the table from my sister. I twisted my fork on my plate, twirling a neat basket of spaghetti onto its end. Watching me, Marian tried to imitate the gesture with her own fork. “Are you at university in Belfast?” my friend Jack asked her.
“I work at a dry cleaner’s,” said Marian.
“Oh, are you saving up to go traveling?”
“No.”
He cleared his throat, then coughed, and Marian caught my eye across the table. Jack said, “What’s Belfast like?”
“It’s two hours from here. You’ve really never been?” she asked, and he shook his head.
He said, “Were any of your family in the IRA?”
Marian frowned, looking down at her lap. I said, “Our great-grandfather fought in Cork.”
Later, on our walk home, Marian said, “So that’s the bargain? You tell your friends about the IRA and they let you borrow their expensive shampoo.”
Without looking at my sister, I reached up and wiped the lipstick off onto the back of my hand, leaving a dark smear like a bruise. We walked together in silence, then I turned to her. “Since when do you care about the IRA?”
