Divorcing Jack

by Colin Bateman

  The city centre was already crowded with Saturday shoppers enjoying the sun. As we passed the city hall we had to slow down to allow a hundred or more Linfield supporters, all decked out in red, white and blue scarves and hats, and for the most part skinheads and Doc Martens, to cross the road, shepherded by about two dozen cops with Alsatians straining enthusiastically on chain leads. They would be off to cause havoc with local rivals, Glentoran, near the shipyard. Two winter-grey armoured police Land-Rovers moved slowly against the flow of traffic behind them.

  When I got home there was a letter waiting for me on the kitchen table. The envelope was plain white but my name was written in block capitals on the front in thick red strokes. It was either a note from Patricia or a final demand from the Blood Transfusion Service. I took it into the lounge and sat down amongst the empty beer cans. She hadn't bothered to tidy up.

  Dear Dan

  I think we have a major problem. We're having too many fights. And we're drinking too much. We should think about what we want to do.

  I've gone to Mum's for a few days. Hope you enjoyed yourself with that girl. Bastard.

  Your wife.

  PS A man called Maxwell called. Wants you to call him. Said you had his number.

  PPS You know your mint-condition copy of the Sex Pistols' 'Anarchy in the UK' (EMI label) you say is worth £300?

  I melted it under the grill.

  And she had. I pulled the grill out from the cooker. The disc, hardened into black plastic stalactites, hung pathetically from the thin metal rungs of the grill.

  I made a charge for the record collection. It was still haphazardly slung around the stereo system, most of the albums out of their sleeves, but it only took me a moment to realize that all of the records particularly valued by Patricia had already been whisked away. She knew me too well. I sat down to let my anger subside; I thought briefly about crying, but instead I started giggling. It had been a smart move on her part. She hadn't let her fury crowd her judgement, she knew how to strike where it hurt most and protect herself against reprisals. I wondered if she was laughing herself now.

  I set about tidying the house. There were two or three half-full cans of Harp sitting about and I drank them as I worked. They were a bit warm and a bit flat, but I was trying to wean myself off Coke and I didn't reckon they were half as bad for me. I finished the tidying and adjourned to my study, the scene of the previous night's passion. It was shielded from the sun, pleasantly cool and dim. I tinkered with a few lines on a short story but didn't have the energy for it. I lay down on our bed and dozed off thinking about Patricia and about Margaret. Taking what must have been a thumping hangover into account, Patricia couldn't have left the house until quite late, so she'd still be on the road to her parents' house in Portstewart, a holiday-resort-cum-retirement-town up on the north-west coast. She couldn't stand her parents or Portstewart, all three of them old and decrepit and buffeted by the Atlantic gales, so she must have been pretty bloody angry with me to go to them. I'd call her later.

  I woke with a start after maybe an hour and went downstairs to watch the football results come across the teleprinter on BBC 1. Liverpool won, United lost, a good omen. I phoned Neville Maxwell. It was his home number, but he answered it on the second ring.

  He said: 'Maxwell.'

  'Hi. Dan Starkey. You called.'

  'Ah, yes, Starkey. Good man.' Five words in and he'd already complimented me. 'How are you?'

  'Fine. Practising chopsticks. I think I've got them cracked.'

  'Ha, yes, mmmm. Listen, Starkey, I have a man coming in on Monday morning and I thought you might like to meet him and show him around.'

  Sure.'

  'You know the form, Starkey, we've been over that. Let me know what you think of him and if he's up to scratch we'll maybe try to arrange for him to meet the Big Chief himself.'

  'Big Chief himself?'

  'Brinn.'

  'Ah. Right. Got you now. What about him being up to scratch?'

  'You know, sympathetic. He's an American, by the way, and we're quite keen for some positive coverage on that side of the ocean. A lot of money in it, if you know what I mean.'

  'For me?'

  'For the country, Starkey, for the country.'

  'You didn't manage to find me a Brazilian then?'

  'Ah, no. Not this time. Maybe another time, eh? Man's name is Charles Parker, no relation to the jazz person of that name, works for the Boston Globe. He'll be arriving at 10.30 on a puddle jumper into Sydenham. He's staying at the Europa. I've arranged for you to meet him there for 11.30.'

  'Okay. Sounds good.'

  'Charge all sundry expenses to me, I have an account there, and get receipts for everything else.'

  'No trouble.'

  'Oh, and Starkey?'

  'Yeah.'

  'Americans tend to have an odd attitude to things. They may not appreciate all of your witticisms. Try not to be too much of a smartarse.'

  'No fear.'

  He put the phone down. I resolved to spend the next day swotting up on American history. I already had The Alamo on tape.

  * * *

  I got out of my dirty suit and showered. I pulled on my black jeans and a white short-sleeved shirt. I meandered between my tweed jacket and my stone-washed denim. Tweed got it. By the time I hit the street there was a pleasant early evening coolness settled on the city, blowing in off the lough, successfully battling the stench of the River Lagan. I called into the Empire Bar, housed incongruously in an old church beside the railway station on Botanic Avenue and had half a pizza and a pint and then headed into the Evening News.

  The daily paper and the Sunday paper were put together by two distinctive groups of journalists and editors who enjoyed an occasionally friendly rivalry. I was a columnist for the daily and a sub on the Sunday, so I fell between both camps. Sometimes they all hated me, and distrusted me, other times they all loved me, and distrusted me. But they seemed to like what I wrote, apart from those who didn't.

  I was late. Sloth and Slow Ltd.

  Paul McDowell, editor of the Sunday, saw me slope in. There were five or six disks sitting by my terminal, all of them containing football reports.

  McDowell was thin and pale-skinned; he looked kind of wasted even though he was an abstemious Christian. I knew rockers who'd OD on every drug they knew to get an effortlessly decadent look like his. He shuffled over as I took my seat and switched the screen on.

  'Hi, Paul,' I said.

  'About time.'

  'Sorry.' I pointed to my face. 'Bit of an accident.'

  'You okay? What happened?' Car.'

  'Glad you could still come in.'

  'Wouldn't have missed it.' Paul was a real softie for most of the time, but when the occasion demanded it he could run the tightest ship in the country. I flashed him a painful smile and turned to the screen. Half an hour was enough to turn them into English, then I dropped them down to the process operator to be run out for lay-out on the stone. It could have all been done on my own computer screen with a little extra investment, but times were hard and the unions were causing trouble.

  While I waited for the stories to appear on the stone I wandered into an empty office and phoned Patricia's parents in Portstewart.

  Her dad answered, his voice ragged.

  'Hi, Joe,' I said, 'it's Dan. Your throat sounds bad.'

  'It is bad. Bloody sea air.'

  'You'd be better off down here.'

  'Don't I know it.'

  'Is Patricia there?'

  'Aye, I'll get her,' he said and then hesitated for a moment. 'Listen, Dan, everything all right?'

  'Sure.'

  'She seemed a bit.. .'

  'Upset?'

  'Yeah, upset. She hasn't said, of course, but it's nothing serious, is it?'

  'Nah, Joe, never worry. Y'know women. Wrong time of the, if you get my drift.'

  I could almost hear him nodding at the other end of the phone. And to think I was once equality officer for the NU
J.

  'Ah. Understood. I'll get her for you.'

  I heard the receiver being set down and her dad limping away on the hardwood floor of their cottage. I could just about hear the wind whistling in the background.

  More footsteps and - 'What?'

  'Now, there's a pleasant greeting.'

  'What do you expect?'

  'What about "Hello, darling, missing you terribly"?'

  'Catch yourself on.'

  She wasn't finding me terribly amusing. I tried another tack.

  'I'm missing you.'

  'I noticed that last night.'

  'That was nothing.'

  'You mean there's worse.'

  'No, I don't mean that. It was stupid. You know how plastered I was. I'd just been sick in the bathroom. She just grabbed me.'

  'Sure.'

  'Honestly. Jesus, Patricia, I could have been kissing a Jack Russell for all I knew. It shouldn't have happened, I know that. I'm sorry. Jesus, if you could see the state of my face you'd know I've already paid the price for it.'

  'It serves you right.'

  'I know.'

  There was a moment of silence. I said: 'Will you come home?'

  Silence still, then: 'I don't know, Dan.' Again: 'I don't know.'

  'Jesus, Patricia, over a wee kiss. You've done as bad yourself for Christ's sake.'

  'It's not just her. Look - I just need a bit of time away from you, and this is as good a time as any when I have a bit of an excuse. I just... feel like I should be doing something else. We need to change. We're getting older, Dan, and we're still running around like kids.'

  It is too easy to argue with loved ones. That is the attraction of strangers. You're on your best behaviour. I bit my lip. 'Patricia, look, I'm not going to suddenly develop an interest in bloody gardening. I'm not thirty yet. You're not twenty-eight yet. We are young. Jesus, 'Trish - we've gotta have a good time while we can - you never know when that giant piano is going to fall on us from the sky.'

  'I know that. You've always said that. It's just that I don't know if what we're doing constitutes having a good time. Drinking, dancing, having a laugh, is that a good time if you do it every single bloody week with exactly the same bloody people? You saw last night what it can lead to.'

  'Well, what do you want to do? Stay in Portstewart? It's where old people go to die.'

  'Of course not. I don't know. But that's why I'm here. I want to have a think. Just a wee think. Give me a few days, eh? Then we'll talk. Just a few days.'

  'Do you still love me?'

  'You know I do.'

  'Good.'

  'You still love me?'

  'Yeah.'

  'Okay then.'

  Paul McDowell appeared at the office door and signalled me back to the stone, I nodded and stood up from the edge of the desk where I'd been sitting.

  'I'll have to go. I'm in work. I'm needed. Someone needs me.'

  'Okay. Oh - Dan? Did you sleep with her?'

  Sneaky. Suspicious. Tread softly.

  'Don't be ridiculous. I hardly knew her.'

  'Well, where did you stay all night?'

  'I tramped the streets for a while until the blood stopped.' Easy, go easy. 'Then I went round to wait for Mouse to come home. You know I did. I always do when we have a fight.'

  There was another pause. She said quietly, 'I'll see you.'

  'Bye, love,' I said and put the phone down.

  I should have left it at walking the streets. Always the tendency to say too much. Glancing up, I saw McDowell had his back to me out at the stone, so I tapped in another number.

  Mouse answered. He said: 'YES?'

  'Hi, Mouse. It's me.'

  ‘AH, MR POPULARITY.'

  'Very funny.'

  'I'M SERIOUS. WE HAD TO RESTRAIN PATRICIA FROM TAKING A CARVING KNIFE TO YOU.'

  'Yeah, well, these things happen.'

  'NOT TO ME THEY DON'T.'

  Mouse never argued with his wife. I wouldn't argue with her either. She wasn't large or particularly overbearing, but she had a presence that was unnerving, a mental strength that enabled her to beat me at arm wrestling despite lacking any discernible muscles.

  'Listen,' I said, 'I need you to do me a favour. If Patricia calls can you tell her I stayed in your place last night? It's important.'

  'LOVE TO HELP, DAN. PATRICIA CALLED FIRST THING THIS MORNING, LOOKING FOR YOU. UNFORTUNATELY MANDY GOT TO THE PHONE BEFORE ME AND TOLD HER SHE HADN'T SEEN YOU. I WOULD, OF COURSE, HAVE HAD THE PRESENCE OF MIND TO SAY THAT YOU'D BEEN AND GONE. BUT I DIDN'T HAVE THE CHANCE.'

  'Shit,' I said.

  'SORRY,' Mouse said, and added: 'DAN, NO HARM TO YOU, LIKE, BUT YOU SHOULDN'T MESS AROUND WITH WEE DOLLS. IT'S DANGEROUS.'

  'Thanks, Mouse,' I said, 'I'll bear that in mind,' and put the phone down.

  I'd have to think about this one.

  Out on the stone things were progressing more quickly than normal, but I knew it wouldn't be long until some unfortunate occurrence pushed things into overtime. It happened every week without fail. The workers liked their overtime pay and didn't appreciate the benefits of getting the paper out earlier and improving circulation. Too long term. Within the next hour or so somebody would accidentally overload a computer, wipe out a disk or cause a power failure. The management knew all about it but couldn't do anything. It had always been like that.

  The front page lead was fairly tame. A chapel had been burnt in the north of the city, not far from Margaret's home off the Antrim Road.

  As I stood by the front page I said to Miller, who was pasting the story in, 'So they've burnt another one.' It paid to keep in with the workers. There was a photograph beside it with the charred building in the background and a priest carrying several planks of wood in front of it. There was no caption on it. I said: 'What's he up to?'

  Miller said: 'He's building a temporary one.'

  'Good idea,' I said, nodding sagely.

  'They're all temporary,' said Miller, turning narrowed eyes from the page to me.

  'Right on,' I said and moved. We still had to do some work on the bigot front.

  From the front page. Miller shouted up the stone, 'Paul, I need a wee piece of single column.'

  Behind me a voice replied, 'I bet that's what your wife says too.'

  'At least mine speaks to me,' Miller replied and laughter rumbled over the assembled workforce.

  After work I bought a carry-out and went home. I sat in front of the box and watched a late-night film. Sylvester Stallone was in it. My old da always referred to him as Victor Stallion. For that matter he always called boxer George Foreman, George Formby. And once accused javelin thrower Tessa Sanderson of throwing a harpoon. And then I thought about Patricia again and how much I was missing her and how I'd dug my own grave over the phone.

  Was all this wondering about her life just a reaction to me kissing someone, or had she been thinking this for a long time? I'd thought we were okay. Sure, things could be better. Every marriage could be better. She'd come round. Just because I wasn't at Mouse's didn't mean I slept with the girl.

  And then I thought about Margaret. Young. Innocent, yet plainly experienced. Alone, perhaps, tonight. No, I told myself.

  5

  Charles Parker was two inches over six foot and built like a heavyweight, more Holyfield than Tyson. He wore a dark suit with narrow lapels and his trousers were very slightly flared. His shoes were brown leather, scuffed at the front. His hair, although clearly receding, was cut short. I was an hour and a half late arriving at the Europa. Illness, self-inflicted. Rolling Rock.

  I put out my hand and he shook it warmly.

  'You'll be Mr Starkey,' he said. A soft voice, curiously at odds with his appearance. The Whip and Saddle bar where we were standing is part of the Europa Hotel, the biggest hotel in Belfast. It was and is known as the most bombed hotel in Europe, an over-used description and rather misleading. Not that many European hotels get bombed.

  I nodded. 'Sorry I'm late. Got held up.' I poin
ted to my face . ..

  'What happened to you? You look like shit.'

  'I always look like shit. Car accident. The prescribed medicine is an Irish whiskey. That should really be your introduction to Northern Ireland.'

  He smiled widely and signalled to the barman. 'Nothing I like better than getting straight into some research, Mr Starkey.'

  'My pleasure to be your guide, Mr Parker.' He ordered two drinks and we adjourned to a side table of the bar overlooking Great Victoria Street. 'You're from Boston, right?'

  'I work in Boston. I'm from New York.'

  'Big Irish interest in Boston, isn't there? Keen to see peace break out over here, I suppose.'

  'You could say that.'

  He lifted his glass to me, swirling the half-finished drink. 'It's made nearby, I understand,' he said.

  'Aye. Up the road. Bushmills. It's popular with tourists.'

  'I've had it before - but I'll have to admit it tastes better in Ireland.'

  'Like Guinness tastes better in Dublin. And stick to calling it Northern Ireland, although you'll hear variations. If you're a Loyalist you'll call it Ulster, if you're a Nationalist you call it the North of Ireland or the Six Counties, if you're the British Government you call it the Province.'

  'And what do you call it, Mr Starkey?'

  'Home.'

  Parker came complete with a fancy hire car, a grey Saab which I drove round the city for him. I took him the usual terror tour, up the Falls Road to see the Republican wall murals, up the Shankill to see the Protestant equivalent, past the shipyard, out to the old government buildings at Stormont and finally down to City Hall. He looked underwhelmed by it all.