by James Nally
She always thunders in with the Chardonnay rage, ranting and raving about how shit her life is and the inherent injustices of motherhood.
The mornings are worse, when she’s gripped by hungover paranoia about what she may or may not have said or done during those alarming blanks in her memory. But even this fails to poop her party lust; she wouldn’t miss her ‘girls’ nights out’ for the world. Now I’m beginning to suspect why.
Suddenly, another terrifying thought strikes – who else knows about this? Has she told her best friend? Could Sophie be trusted to keep her mouth shut? Of course not! What if everyone knows? How can I look them in the face again? How can she humiliate me like this?
Matt’s even more unsettled than usual tonight. It’s almost like he knows something is wrong. Eight or nine times I fail to placate him. It’s as if we’re both being tormented by the same quandary: How can she do this to him?
By dawn, the anger has morphed into a sick sort of satisfaction. For months, she’s been guilt-tripping me about my unsuitability for fatherhood. The Bad Dada Intifada always starts and ends with my drinking. In between that dual denunciation, she takes a tortuous route through my other myriad failings: working all the time; messiness; chronic insomnia. The irony of the latter complaint stings: guess who does the night feeds?
I’m stockpiling self-righteous claims as a Doomsday believer might tinned tuna. I can’t wait to cut her down to size. I’ll use my most patronising voice: It’s not about whether I can forgive you, Zoe, it’s whether Matt can forgive you. Dr Kübler-Ross is good. By the time Matt cries out at 6.10am, I’ve moved through Denial and Anger, and am well up for a good old Bargain.
You see, in the martyr barter that is our relationship, I’d rarely seized – let alone held – that key strategic piece of ground known as High Moral. I feel unassailable, statesman-like. Nobly, I elect to spare our confrontation until Matt goes down for his mid-morning sleep. I don’t want him to hear us rowing and be traumatised in any way. To be fair, neither would she. Despite everything, we both love that boy with all we have.
‘So,’ I say breezily as she tackles the dishwasher, ‘who is Charles?’
I’m expecting a smashed plate, a torrent of Data Protection Act-based indignation: How dare you spy on me. What I’m not expecting is a flat, emotionally detached weather report, as she focusses chiefly on installing the dishes in the right places.
The relationship has just started. Charles is no one I know. This, for reasons I don’t fully understand, provides enormous relief. She then says the things I need her to say; the things I need to hear. It’s all been a dreadful mistake. She’ll finish it with Charles, in her own time. Her saying his name aloud staggers me – the gall. But, for some reason, I find myself believing every word coming out of her lying, cheating mouth. I need to believe every word. She will end it, for sure, I conclude – if only for Matt’s sake.
I swallow hard on the gutful of questions I want to spew. Have they had sex? How many times? Where? When? Is he better than me? Bigger than me? Does she call out his name? Does she love him? In my heart, I know the one question I’m too scared to ask: Why?
‘Please stop staring at me like that, Donal,’ she says firmly. ‘I’ve promised to end it. Can we just leave it at that?’
Later, while she’s taking a shower, I get hold of her phone again to find out more. It’s locked. I try both her email accounts; she’s changed the passwords so, just like that, I’m frozen out of her life and powerless.
Chapter 9
Green Lanes, North London
Friday, June 17, 1994; 12.00
My eyes feel dryer than old grapes and my head thumps like Christmas afternoon. I make for our bedroom but can’t feel the floor beneath my feet. I must still be in adrenalised shock at Zoe’s admission of infidelity.
My temples buzz intermittently, my vision shuddering and dimming in time, obeying the sporadic white noise soundtrack. It’s like I’ve just walked under the world’s biggest electricity pylon. Something’s interfering with transmission.
Then I remember. I’d been standing next to Julie Draper’s dead body less than twenty-four hours ago and she’s got my subconscious on repeat dial. She’s desperate to connect to me. I must sleep so Julie can get through.
I lie down, eyes closed, exhausted brain agape; come on in, Ms Draper, the water’s toasty.
Random phrases echo and overlap:
Failed relationship … the wink-and-elbow language of cruel-girl delight …
The love peters out, the sex peters out, so you might as well be with someone who’s loaded …
Once you’ve had twenty-five, you don’t want less …
There’s Sinead O’Connor at the end of the bed, tears rolling down her porcelain white face. She’s smiling at the same time, holding a photo close to her chest. I see it’s Zoe, Matt and me on Brighton Beach last summer. Her mouth sneers and that photo rips right down the middle, as if by magic. Dolores O’Riordan of The Cranberries is beside her, drinking a pint of white wine and loving every second.
Jesus, ladies, what is your problem? Why do you hate men so much?
What’s that they’re singing?
Na na na na
Na na na na
Hey Hey
Goodbye
Oh and here’s Julie Draper now, bald as a coot, singing her little heart out in that pink-striped blanket, giving it all Alison Moyet, thinking she’s the bee’s knees. What is this, ladies, Fun Girl Three?
Behind them, in black and white, Zoe is bowed and shuffling away at speed, dragging a reluctant little boy in shorts alongside her. Matt turns and smiles and waves. He’s oblivious to the masked black figure in front of them, which, at that instant, spins and re-shapes into a perfectly ordinary shadow. They continue to march onwards and into that black shadow …
I follow and the black figure reconfigures between us. He starts to turn. I will him; turn … turn … make yourself known! A shape is forming. I know that profile from somewhere. I know this man. He wants to make himself known to me. He’s turning to me … coming to me. Keep turning!
He freezes, spooked by a shrill, repetitive tone. I recognise that din. My brain clicks; it’s my mobile. He flicks off like a puppet shadow. Damn! One more second and Julie’s killer would have revealed himself.
What the hell was all that about? Why the cameo appearances by those self-styled Banshees of rage, Sinead and Dolores? And why was Julie Draper’s killer stalking Zoe and Matt, then luring them into some sort of darkness? It’s got to be cross-pollination of my current dual traumas – the death of Julie and the prospect of losing the people that I love. That can be the only explanation.
I’m stunned to see it’s gone 4pm Why do I always sleep better after bad news? Maybe its pessimistic relief; the worst has happened, so you can quit your fretting now and relax.
I pick up. ‘Fintan?’
‘You still good for the Archway Tavern?’
‘What?’
‘What do you mean, what? It’s Friday the 17th. The World Cup finals kick off in less than one hour! That’s where we always watch the games. Is she letting you out? Because you know it’s Ireland–Italy tomorrow night. If you’ve only got the one pink pass for the weekend …’
‘I don’t need her permission,’ I announce, thinking if only he knew why.
‘Good man. That’s the spirit. Right so, I’ll pick you up in twenty. Is she there?’
‘Yeah.’
‘I won’t come in so.’
‘Ah, come on, Fintan, Matt would love to see you.’
‘I thought we had orders to address him only as Matthew. Anyway, I’m barred.’
‘You’re not barred.’
‘Zoe made it very clear she thinks I’m a … how did she put it again?’
‘A misogynistic menace. She didn’t mean it. She just worries that every time I go out with you, we end up on a bender.’
‘We end up on a bender because you’re so pussy-whipped. She said the hango
vers make you an unfit father. How can you put up with that shite? You do more for that kid than she does.’
‘Come on, Fintan. Give her a break. She’s under a lot of pressure lately and she hasn’t been well,’ I say, then realise I’m trying to justify her affair to myself.
‘Damn right she’s not well. She’s a control freak. Every man needs to cut loose now and then. The day you roll over and let her control your social life, she’ll end up hating you for it. I’ve seen it happen, Donal. You need to man the fuck up.’
‘Why don’t you man the fuck up and knock the door?’
‘Listen, Donal, I’m dumping that silver concrete block on your doorstep. Then I’m off to watch the Americans fail to “get” soccer. My advice is: be ready, because I’ve sensational news.’
‘Not like you to sensationalise news, Fintan.’
‘Fine. If you don’t want to know what Julie Draper’s kidnapper is up to now, maybe you should stay in and watch Friends, like a proper dad.’
Ten minutes later, I find Fintan loitering on our front door step, awkwardly cradling the silver breeze-block so that it doesn’t touch his suit.
‘You should present this to Zoe,’ he smiles. ‘Tell her it’s your first down payment on that house of her dreams.’
‘Arsehole.’
‘Remind me again why I’ve been ferrying it around southern England since yesterday?’
‘I just have a feeling about it,’ I say, taking the block and placing it in the boot of my car. He’s still driving the flashy Porsche. ‘I see you figured out how to get the roof up.’
‘Not exactly. I took it to that grease monkey around the corner. He sorted it out for fifty quid.’
‘Fifty quid? That’s a miracle.’
‘Let’s hope the miracles continue, and it rains solidly for several months after I give it back to Jamie.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well let’s just say, when they fixed it, they didn’t bother too much with the electrics.’
He clocks my mounting horror and roars with laughter.
‘They welded it shut.’
‘Jesus, Fintan. Jamie will go apeshit.’
He throws his arms out in mock defence. ‘I didn’t know he’d set about it with a blowtorch. It kept raining!’
I get in to inspect. ‘He’s added lots of nasty-looking metal,’ I say. ‘It’s now like being in one of those shark cages. Poor Jamie.’
Fintan’s in fits now and takes several minutes to recover, giving me plenty of time to marvel at the crow-black cruelty of his humour.
I can’t wait any longer. ‘Commander Crossley hasn’t been in touch. No one’s been in touch. I presume that, as usual, you and your journo friends know more than me about what’s really going on. Has John West or Kipper resurfaced?’
‘Police got a typed note this morning, which they suspect is from him. He’s threatening to abduct and murder again, unless he gets another pay-off. Except this time, he’s going to target a child.’
‘Bloody hell. Is it definitely the same guy?’
‘Police think so. He explained in the note that Julie had to die because her mask slipped and she saw him.’
‘She did know him then?’
‘He said he couldn’t risk her being able to identify him afterwards. Police think all this proves is that he has form and she could’ve picked him out of a photo album of ex- offenders. They’re refusing to think anything except Kipper, Kipper, Kipper.’
‘But you think differently?’
Fintan pulls that pained face, which revs his brain to max. I’d better pay attention.
‘I think the kidnap of Julie Draper resembles the Fairclough case too much. It’s like whoever kidnapped her is desperate for police to make that connection and not look elsewhere.’
‘Maybe this Kipper character is taunting them. That’s not uncommon.’
‘Maybe, but I can’t help thinking Crossley and co. have bought the Kipper/John West thing too easily. They’re blinkered, which means they’re not keeping an open mind or delving properly into Julie’s personal life. If the kidnapper is someone else, he’s done a great job of hoodwinking the police. Again, it smacks of the kidnapper getting help from the inside, and you saw Crossley’s reaction when I said that. He knows there’s something else going on here, a bigger play.’
‘So, what now?’
‘What now is we’re doing your job for you, as usual. We’re getting stuck into Julie’s personal life, finding out who might have had a grudge against her or Crown Estates. I’ve got my ferret-like crime reporter Alex Pavlovic on it.’
‘Has he got a source in the Kidnap Unit?’
‘I don’t ask, Donal. Though sometimes he tells me about his antics, if he’s feeling especially proud of himself. So yesterday, Julie Draper’s mum is under armed guard in hospital. Doctors, nurses and cops won’t let anyone near her. Alex Pavlovic, aka The Prince of Blackness, sends her a massive bunch of flowers, hides a mobile phone in the stems with a note offering her £50k. She’s agreed to meet him today.’
Fintan parks up, slaps his fake ‘Doctor on Call’ sign against the windscreen.
‘You must lie awake at night, Fintan, worrying that he’s more devious, underhand and amoral than even you?’
‘And connected,’ he sighs, oblivious to my dig. ‘Ex-cops, private detectives, tech whizz-kids. He’s got this one fella, Gerry Woods, on side, who used to work for the spooky wing of the Met. This guy can place a secret camera in a cigarette lighter. Amazing. That’s how we’ve brought down all these cheating Tories.’
‘Isn’t secret filming and bugging illegal?’
‘Using the material gathered is illegal. We don’t use it. It’s just insurance.’
‘Insurance?’
‘These people always deny it. You’ve got no idea how many politicians and people in power have got away with affairs because they denied it and we couldn’t categorically prove it. We learned our lesson.’
‘What does it matter that someone’s had an affair? Maybe it was just sex. Or they made a mistake. Don’t you worry about destroying families?’
I’m surprised at the raw emotion in my voice. The last thing I want is Fintan twigging about Zoe’s affair. He might joyously choke from the satisfaction. Luckily, he’s in full lecture mode so doesn’t notice.
‘Hang on, Donal. These are the same Tory politicians who launched moral crusades against single mothers and the press. David Mellor told us we were drinking in the last-chance saloon and threatened privacy laws; we catch him shagging a MAW.’
‘A what?’
‘Model-Actress-Whatever. John Major lectures the nation about morals and getting “Back to Basics” and we expose half his married Cabinet playing away. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s at it.’
‘And, of course, journalists never have affairs.’
‘You know what, Donal? I think everyone has affairs. Monogamy is against our nature. Look at the closest relatives to humans, bonobos. They live in peaceful communes and shag like rabbits. That’s what humans were like for millions of years until society evolved this idea of sexual incarceration.’
I hear my voice creak in emotional protest. ‘Monogamy isn’t always enforced. Some people like the security and the trust. What’s wrong with that?’
‘If we accepted that humans can’t be monogamous, then there wouldn’t be this sense of betrayal by the “wronged” party. That’s what causes all the divorce and strife, someone playing the victim. Anyway, why the hell are we talking about this now? We’ve got to go and shout for whoever’s playing Germany.’
For some reason, the only major international country without a professional soccer league has been awarded the 1994 World Cup. As Fintan puts it: ‘Yanks just don’t get soccer, the way I don’t get fishing, unless I can catch a shark every five minutes.’
On the plus side, the Republic of Ireland has qualified. And the opening ceremony provides unexpected joy when Oprah Winfrey falls off stage and a lip-
synching Diana Ross fails to kick a ball ten-feet into an empty goal. ‘Are you watching, Tommy Coyne?’ we chant in delight.
We shout for Bolivia as they lose to Germany. We roar on South Korea as they go 2-0 down to Spain. Then, out of nowhere, South Korea score two late goals and the pub erupts. ‘I doubt they’re this fucking ecstatic in Seoul,’ shouts Fintan.
I can’t face Zoe tonight. But I haven’t got the energy to tell Fintan the truth.
‘She’ll be on the warpath if I come home like this. Can I kip at yours?’
‘Any time,’ says Fintan. ‘You need to show her that you’re still your own man.’
‘God, you really are like something out of The Quiet Man.’
We stumble outside and head for the mini-cab office.
‘Are you sure we should just abandon Jamie’s eighty-grand Porsche outside a pub?’ I ask.
‘What Irish person would be caught dead in a sports car?’ he says. ‘We’re just not like that. Anyway, I doubt if Houdini himself could get in through those welds.’
As we follow the cab driver across the car park, I think suddenly of Nathan Barry – the bailiff Edwina had mentioned to me who’d been axed to death behind a pub in East Croydon. I ask Fintan what he knows about the case.
‘I know the guy who led the investigation.’
‘Will he talk?’
Fintan laughs: ‘Try to stop him! What’s so interesting about the Barry case?’
‘We got information that it might be connected to Julie Draper,’ I say flatly, failing to add that the sole source is one of my rabid, booze-fuelled dreams.
‘Really? How?’
‘I don’t know, but I said I’d check it out.’
‘I’ll text him in the morning. See if he’s up for a meet.’
‘What’s your take on it?’
‘My take? Donal everyone knows who murdered Nathan Barry. And so should you. The police just haven’t been able to prove it.’
Chapter 10
Coombe Road, Croydon
Saturday, June 18, 1994; 11.00
