SLOOT

by Ian MacPherson

  ‘Bejasus now. Put me down for a copy. So where are you headed?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘You said you were packing.’

  ‘Dublin,’ said Trace. Hayden sighed. He realised there were downsides to sharing your phone calls onstage. Trace shot him a sidelong glance. ‘Whereabouts?’

  What sort of question was that?

  ‘Different bits,’ he said. ‘All depends where I am at the time.’

  Steve nodded sagely. ‘Makes sense,’ he said. ‘How long?’

  ‘Couple of nights tops,’ said Hayden. ‘Maybe three.’

  Steve leaned across the counter and dropped his voice. ‘A word to the wise,’ he said. ‘Underpants.’

  Hayden arched an eyebrow and paused for effect. ‘Underpants.’

  ‘Three nights, two pairs? Bad,’ said Steve. ‘Vice versa? Good. Trust me. I speak from bitter experience.’

  ‘I’ll bear that in mind,’ said Hayden as he pushed his stool back. He nodded to Steve, waved a half-hearted farewell to Trace, and left the bar. Steve reached into the cooler for another bottle of sparkling water. Trace stared wistfully at the counter.

  ‘Well anyway,’ she said softly as Steve placed a fresh glass in front of her. ‘He’s doing just great.’

  Next door the audience hooted.

  Hayden lived close to the venue, just off Kentish Town Road. It was a hot summer night. The pavement teemed with the chemically ecstatic, so he sweltered home in the gutter, the memory of his performance still rankling and raw. True, he was going to write his breakout novel, but that was still at the pre-embryonic stage and besides, the best idea so far had come from someone else.

  So this was what it had come to. At forty-three, he was old and – literally, if the gutter was anything to go by – in the way. He let himself in to his tiny bedsit. Two-ring stove. Fold-up bed. No visitors. Visitors were allowed; they just wouldn’t fit.

  He closed the door on the outside world. He was still old but no longer in the way, which was better, but not much. A letter from his landlord lay crumpled on the folded-down fold-up bed. I won’t repeat it in full; too painful. Here’s the gist: We’ve decided to triple the rent, because we care. Hayden tossed it on the floor and crashed down on the bed. Cue age- and career-related depression. Fortunately, his mobile came to the rescue. He glanced at the screen. His agent.

  ‘Ay!’

  ‘Dickie!’

  ‘Black mark, Ay. Name’s Rich.’

  Hayden wasn’t having this. ‘While we’re on the subject, Rich, my name is Hayden. Two syllables. With a H.’

  ‘With you, Ay. Anyway. Gravesend. Tuesday. You to headline, don’t-ask-me-why. New promoter, shit taste? Whatever. Great support act. Kid from, wait for it –’

  ‘He’ll be supporting himself, Rich. Can’t do it. I’m dealing with a bereavement at the moment.’

  ‘Your career?’

  ‘Plus –’ and Hayden shouldn’t have said this but he did ‘– I’m writing a novel, actually.’

  Damn. ‘Actually’ again. He had to cut it out. Luckily, Rich ignored it. He was already thinking money.

  ‘Call me Mister 25% on any – wait for it – fillum deals. Get it? Fillum?’ Hayden said nothing. He got it. ‘This novel, Ay. Any good?’

  ‘Haven’t started yet, but –’

  ‘Oh, that writing a novel. I’ve got one of those on the go myself.’

  Hayden sighed at the ceiling. ‘Much as I’d like to chat all night, Dick,’ he said, ‘I’ve decided I’d prefer, on balance, to sit alone in a darkened room and decompose.’

  This was followed by a three-second pause, which threw Hayden. He’d never experienced a pause with Rich before. Time was money. Maybe, at last, he’d got through to his empathetic side.

  ‘You’ve never really made it, ’ave you, Ay?’

  Hayden searched the tone for empathy and didn’t find any. He didn’t have to press End Call. Rich had done that for him. He put his mobile down and grabbed a blank notebook. He’d begin his novel here, and he’d begin it now. Celtic screwball noir. He untopped his biro and opened the notebook.

  The blank notebook.

  Three hours later it was still blank.

  3

  As a writer, I’m always happy to travel, and where better than Dublin? My home town! So when Hayden decided to take a couple of days’ respite from the real world and attend Eddie’s funeral, I thought, why not follow him over? Describe his journey, ex and internal. And I’m very glad I did.

  What unfolds over the coming pages follows the archetypal ‘overcoming the demons’ narrative which has existed in popular fiction since humans’ earliest attempts at plot structure. Who, for instance, hasn’t watched in joyous wonder as the small boy with motor neurone disease overcomes every obstacle, including a working-class father with traditional values, to dance the pas de deux with the Royal Ballet and make the front cover of Vanity Fair – all before the age of six – as lovely Gloria Crump? Bit like that with Sloot. It ends on a triumphant note, so relax. Happy ending guaranteed.

  Hayden also tackles his own crime novel with surprising results. Think of it as a book within a book, and rather him than me to write it, to be honest. Don’t get me wrong – I love crime fiction, but it’s not as easy as it looks. I should know. I’ve tried, several times. The secret? Plot, plot, plot. Unfortunately, my ability to tell a gripping story was effectively killed off at an impressionable age. I was seventeen. I went to university. I fell under the dubious influence of the postmodernists, in particular How to Write an Experimental Novel That Doesn’t Sell and Keeps on Not Selling, by – actually, you don’t want to know. Forget I said it. That way madness lies.

  But said malign influence helps to explain the structure of this book. At its heart, an accidental detective who’d rather write his own Celtic screwball noir than solve the crime, and a narrator who loses the plot. Literally. Sound complicated? Not so. Thanks to a revolutionary narrative structure of the author’s own devising, The Inquisitive Bullet, it’s simplicity itself. I’ve also adapted certain aphorisms attributed, I believe, to Sigmund Freud. ‘If you introduce a cigar in Act One,’ for instance, ‘make sure you smoke it in Act Three.’

  Where was I? Dublin and, more specifically, Clontarf. Perfect. I grew up in that leafy suburb myself. Mother. Father. Siblings. I could happily have dispensed with the latter but what can you do? People will breed. Childhood overall was a happy experience, for me at least. Not so for Hayden. His parents moved from Clontarf to Honolulu on the eve of his seventh birthday. Something about job opportunities. They live in Honolulu to this day. His mother runs the Celtic Studies department at Waikiki College of Higher Education, his father writes a regular column for the Irish Times about living with a woman who runs the Celtic Studies Department at Waikiki College of Higher Education. No mention of Hayden, though. He was farmed out to his three aunts and Uncle Eddie. Why? And how did this sudden wrench, at such an impressionable age, affect Hayden?

  The short answer is that he took it surprisingly well. His parents had always been a bit cold and distant. Following the move they were still cold, and doubly distant. They feature in Hayden’s story, but only towards the end of Chapter 32, and only as catalysts for a plot twist so audacious I still blink in slack-jawed awe when I bring it to the forefront of my mind.

  4

  While I’ve been filling you in on these sniblets of crucial information, the plot has been bubbling away nicely in the background. Hayden has bought the cheapest plane ticket available, cancelled a gig in Morden, gone to the airport, touched down in Dublin. He’s also, after much dithering, packed three pairs of underpants, including the ones he’s got on. An unnecessary detail? Not so. As with cigars, so with underpants.

  But I digress. Hayden. Airport. There to meet him in the arrivals hall was his oldest and best friend, Bram. They played together as children. Went to sch
ool together. Primary school, secondary school. Then the inevitable parting of the ways. Bram to Bus Eireann, Hayden to university and the heady joys of exile. But still the friendship endured; possibly more nostalgic attachment than actual friendship by now, but even so. Your best friend is your best friend and Bram, in this case, was his.

  Hardly a word passed between the two men as they made their way to the car. Bram strolled on ahead with Hayden’s shoulder bag while Hayden examined the back of his head. It had aged considerably since he’d been over last. Hayden put it at – what? Five years’ absence? Six? He couldn’t put a precise date on it. The past was an alcohol-fuelled blur, but since his last visit Bram had developed a bald spot, and what had been a profusion of black curls in his youth now grew wispy and grey. Hayden, having the narcissistic streak of all comedians, was wondering about the back of his own head. Was he developing a bald spot too? He knew he was turning grey, but he didn’t like the thought of wispy. It was a small step from wispy to frail to…

  Bram clicked the car lock from a distance with a flourish. He was old enough to remember keys you stuck into things, and the novelty hadn’t entirely worn off.

  ‘Welcome back,’ he said. ‘You haven’t changed a bit.’

  ‘I really should get back more often,’ said Hayden. ‘I mean, it’s been what? Years.’

  Bram looked at him quizzically. ‘Right,’ he said. ‘Certainly seems that way.’ He started the ignition and moved off. ‘So, how’s the career?’

  Hayden settled back in his seat. ‘I’m writing a novel, actually,’ he said.

  ‘Brilliant,’ said Bram. ‘When’s it out?’

  ‘Early days yet,’ said Hayden.

  Bram nodded. ‘Enough said.’

  Silence. Bram concentrated on the traffic. Hayden struggled with his ego and lost. ‘It’s a crime thriller,’ he said.

  Bram glanced over with a new respect. ‘Good man yourself,’ he said. ‘Big fan of the old crime genre. Big fan. Tried one myself a while back. To be honest, it was probably a mistake making him a lady cop. And setting it in Malmö. Never been to Norway. Who’s your main man?’

  ‘I’m still working on that,’ said Hayden.

  Bram nodded and pointed towards the back of the car. ‘See that box on the back seat?’ he said. ‘Tons of hard-boiled paperbacks for Oxfam. Hold on to them if you like. Might come in handy, you know? Research.’ He whacked the steering wheel, animated. ‘Grab hold of one there.’ Hayden resigned himself to a Bram monologue, reached back and took one off the top of the pile. ‘Go on,’ said Bram. ‘Hit me.’

  ‘An American Toddler,’ read Hayden.

  Bram gave it the thumbs up. ‘Good one. Child psycho. Little Charlton. Blows his ma away with her own gun. Can’t be held culpable at age three. No charge. We’re talking Land of the Free here, right? So, he starts popping other people’s mammies. Contract stuff. Screw you to the judge; he’s got the gun lobby behind him. I won’t spoil the ending for you. I think that cowboy actor fella’s directing the screen version. Next?’

  ‘Tell you what,’ said Hayden. ‘I’ll have a look later. Don’t want to clutter the head.’

  ‘Fair point,’ said Bram. ‘Maybe that’s why I never got anywhere myself. Read all the books, read all the how-to manuals, never got past the opening line. I knew who dunnit, but I didn’t know why he dunnit. Or, come to think of it, what he dunn. Make sense?’

  ‘Not really, no,’ said Hayden. ‘And Malmö is in Sweden.’

  Bram mulled this over as if it made a difference. He seemed to be going the wrong way for the cemetery, but Hayden didn’t like to intervene. Besides, they were heading towards Clontarf, and Hayden was feeling nostalgic.

  ‘Okay,’ said Bram. ‘First rule of crime fiction: Know Thy Perp. Perp is Scandinavian for culprit. Anyway, if you know who perped the crime you work backwards, planting clues as you go, till you reach the beginning. That way, when the reader reaches the end, it’s all totally logical. You’re left thinking, should’ve seen that one coming, couldn’t have been anyone else.’

  Interestingly enough, thought Hayden, that does make sense. Maybe Bram was an idiot savant after all. ‘I’ll make a mental note,’ he said. ‘Anything else?’

  Bram looked pleased with himself. He seemed to have grown in stature in his own head. ‘Second rule,’ he said. ‘Your hero, the guy who’s looking for the guy who dunnit, right? He has a flaw.’

  ‘What?’ said Hayden. ‘Like he’s a woman?’

  ‘That’s not a flaw,’ said Bram. ‘Is it?’

  ‘Joke, Bram,’ said Hayden. ‘Go on.’

  Bram was on a roll. ‘He’s got a thicko sidekick. The talk-to guy. That way he keeps the readers up to speed through someone who’s even thicker than they are.’

  ‘Good point,’ said Hayden. ‘Bit like life, eh?’ Bram looked over at him, puzzled. Hayden, thinking pile-up, changed tack. ‘This is good stuff, Bram. Big help.’

  Relaxing, Bram turned his attention back to the road. ‘At your service,’ he said. ‘Can’t help you with the opening line, though.’

  ‘Leave that to me, Bram. I’ll run it past you when I get there. Why are we stopping here?’

  They’d taken a detour via Coolock and Vernon Avenue, past Mac’s sweetie shop, Madden’s Supermarket, Menton’s, Sullivan’s, The Nook. Left at the sea front. Stop.

  ‘The Nautical Buoy, Haydo. It’s been refurbished. I thought you might fancy a quick pint before the do.’

  ‘It’s not a do, Bram. It’s a funeral. We don’t have time. And I don’t drink.’

  ‘Ah. Right. Because of – you know?’

  ‘No, Bram. I don’t know.’

  ‘You know. The incident that dare not speak its name.’

  ‘What incident? You mean Scrabster?’

  Bram nodded. A conspiratorial nod. ‘If you say so. Scrabster it is.’ A pregnant pause. ‘Half? Glass of wine?’

  ‘Great to be back,’ said Hayden. ‘Sobriety and the Irish: discuss.’

  As he said it, a distinguished-looking drunk in a fedora lurched out of the Nautical Buoy and spilled into a taxi.

  ‘Funny,’ said Bram, ‘I could almost swear that’s your man.’

  Hayden thought he recognised him from somewhere but he had other calls on his time. ‘If we don’t get a move on,’ he said, ‘we’ll be late.’

  ‘I’m a bus driver,’ said Bram. ‘It’s my job to be late.’

  ‘Brilliant,’ said Hayden. ‘Mind if I use that?’

  ‘Really?’ said Bram.

  ‘No, not really,’ said Hayden. He patted Bram affectionately on the shoulder. ‘Drive on.’

  Bram drove on in silence. Bus driver silence. Thinking bus driver thoughts. Hayden embraced the imaginary glass partition and watched Dublin fly past. Its roads. Its houses. Its people. They arrived at Glasnevin Cemetery late. Bus driver late. Bram drove slowly through the gates and parked the car.

  ‘I went to the laying in, by the way,’ he said. ‘Took a shot of Eddie for you on the mobile. Very peaceful. I suppose he would be though. You know. What with him being dead.’

  5

  Inside the crematorium the rows were full of mourners. Hayden and Bram stood unobtrusively at the back. Hayden spent most of the funeral service thinking about his own mortality and putting faces to the backs of people’s heads. Did he know them? Had they aged? Was the back of his own head bald? And who was the statuesque, imposing woman in the last row? He certainly didn’t know her, and he wasn’t about to find out. As the celebrant droned to a halt and Eddie’s coffin trundled towards the incinerator, she stood up suddenly, turned and, with eyes obscured behind a half-veil, walked briskly towards the exit.

  As she brushed past Hayden their eyes met – as much as eyes can be said to meet behind a half-veil. There was something unnerving about her. Hayden considered following her out and observing her from a discre
et distance, but something stopped him. Possibly fear. His mouth was certainly dry and she didn’t look like the sort of woman you’d mess with. Contained. Assured-looking. Well-endowed shoulders. Doubly striking in funeral black. He chose to stay and deconstruct her where he was. The intellectual’s way out. Eddie, meanwhile, disappeared from view and the mourners stood up slowly and shuffled out. Hayden, lost in thought, shuffled with them.

  Outside the crematorium were men with hands buried deep in trouser pockets and women checking their mobiles. The usual funeral banalities; until, that is, Hayden’s nonagenarian aunts doddered into view. Three tiny little heads bobbing about as if with one body, like a benevolent hydra.

  ‘Will you look who it is.’

  ‘Howaya, stranger.’

  ‘Haven’t seen you in yonks.’

  ‘Longer than yonks I’d say.’

  ‘Well that all depends how long a yonk is, Dodie.’

  ‘Dottie. Anyway, nice to see you back for the funerdle, Hayding.’

  ‘And will you look at young Abraham.’

  ‘Hasn’t he got very big?’

  ‘Plus, it hasn’t escaped our attention in spite of our great age and concomitant waning powers, he’s wearing longers.’

  Bram gave them a puzzled look. He hadn’t worn short trousers for decades. And his name wasn’t Abraham.

  ‘So how are tings in Londinium, Hayding?’

  ‘That’s what it was called when we were over first. Young ladies in our prime.’

  ‘Awful sad though, isn’t it?’

  Hayden was confused. ‘What is?’

  ‘Eddie. Our dear departed little brudder. To go like that, you know?’

  ‘In his prime.’

  ‘Eighty-six. So young. So young.’

  One of them, possibly Florrie, poked Hayden on his hip bone.

  ‘Did you see the mysterious lady at the back, Hayding?’

  ‘His secret lover, you possibly surmise?’