This particular beating had happened just off the Falls Road, and the worthy councillor I got to interview came over all pious and meek and distraught at the thought of the kind of message the attack would send out to the wider world, and I'm sure he meant it, but I couldn't get out of my head the fact that ten years previously he'd been one of the IRA's top bombmakers and had killed dozens of people, which hadn't done much for the tourist trade either. I try to forgive and forget, but it's difficult. I'm glad there are people who can do it quite easily, because if it was left to me there'd never be any progress at all. What annoyed me even more was the fact that he insisted on being addressed by his full Irish name throughout. This was their peace dividend: we got to stay in the United Kingdom, but we had to address them by their Irish names. It wasn't a bad deal, over all, but every time I said his name I mispronounced it and he seemed to think I was doing it on purpose. His name was Padraig O'Mallaighourberhouchiecouchie or something equally stupid. It was a dead language, littered with modernisms, and anyone who insisted on using it was a pain in the hole.
On my way to meet Mouse, still pissed off at Padraig O'Mallaighourberhouchiecouchie, I was listening to Radio Ulster. David Dunseith was hosting his Talkback phone-in show. His was a rare voice of reason, dealing in a quietly exasperated fashion with that horde of lunatics otherwise known as the general public. As I drove into the city centre, an ex-squaddie was explaining how he'd suffered nightmares for years about the time he'd served in Belfast, the horrors he had seen, and the treatment he'd suffered at the hands of the bigoted locals. He hated the Irish with a vengeance, but this hatred made his life so miserable he'd decided to confront his demons and return to Belfast for a short holiday. And to his amazement he'd found the city and its people totally transformed: everyone was lovely and friendly and helpful and he'd absolutely changed his opinion.
I phoned in. I did this from time to time. Deprived of my column, it was one of the few ways I could let off steam without getting sacked. I never gave my real name, and used a different one each time. I was in a queue of callers, but by the time I'd found a parking space outside the restaurant, I was on.
'. . . and now we have Frank from Bangor. Frank, what do you want to say?'
I affected a rather more cultured accent. 'Your last caller – the soldier – did he never hear of the expression "beauty is only skin deep"?'
'What do you mean by that?'
'That if he cared to look beneath the surface he'd find this place hasn't changed at all. It's just waiting to explode again. If he'd worn his uniform they would have torn him to shreds.'
'You're very cynical.'
'I've every reason to be.'
'Why's that now?'
'I lost a son.'
'Well, that's very sad. But do you not think that it might be time to move on? People have been lost on both sides. It's dreadful. But you know, we won't get anywhere unless we learn to talk to each other. Anyway, thank you for calling. We have another—'
'Oh, David?'
'Yes, caller?'
'I just wanted to say: piss, fuck, wank.'
I hung up. They had a delay button, but they never seemed to use it. I got them every time. I locked up the car and then took my usual table in Macari's front window. Mouse arrived five minutes later, parked across the road, and then spent ten minutes walking up and down trying to find the restaurant. Eventually I knocked on the window as he passed for the second time. He looked quizzically at me for a moment, then took a step back and looked up at the sign. He shook his head, gave a short laugh, then came in and sat opposite me.
'Very funny,' he said.
'What?'
'You said it was an Italian restaurant.'
'It is.'
'It's a fucking chip shop.'
'I know. It's run by Italians. They're the best.'
'I wanted pasta, not fucking pasties. I was running up and down there like a fucking lilty looking for Macari's Italian restaurant. How was I supposed to know it was this dump?'
'It's not a dump, Mouse. It's the best chip shop in Belfast.'
'But it doesn't say Macari's. It just says Frank's Chips.'
'Yeah. Frank Macari. Everyone knows it as Macari's.'
'I don't.'
'I thought you had your finger on the pulse, mate. And you don't even know Macari's?'
Mouse sat back on the wooden bench and sighed. A waitress with a huge lovebite on her neck and a thumping great boil in the middle of her forehead came across to take our order. I chose. It was my turn. Fish and chips, fresh from the freezer. Two cans of Lilt, with a thin coating of grease dew. The food arrived on two stained trays, on paper plates, with plastic knives and forks and three sachets of ketchup half-inched from McDonald's.
I tucked in.
Mouse managed several mouthfuls, then put his utensils down and dabbed his lips with a paper napkin. 'I get it now,' he said. 'You've switched sides, haven't you? The people out to get me – you're working for them.' He nodded down at the food. 'Another bite of this and my arteries will close for good and I'll keel over.'
I gave him a long, searching look, then nodded. 'Damn it,' I said. 'Got me in one.'
6
'Please, I need this,' said Mouse. 'I know you don't like to be seen in these places, but bear with me.'
He was sitting on an exercise bike in the Elysium gym, which was attached to the Culloden Hotel, about five miles out of Belfast. He was wearing Speedo shorts and a Gucci T-shirt and Nike trainers and he looked very much the part. If he'd gone for a hairband I would have ripped it off and set fire to it. I had my twenty-year-old Fuck Art Lets Danse T-shirt on, my battered bomber jacket and black jeans with knees which were about to go through old age rather than design. My trainers cost £13.99 in Dunne's and were white at the toes. I'd never worked out in a gym in my life, and the last time I'd been on a bike it had had stabilisers. Now Mouse was the one who needed stabilisers. Two before breakfast to start with. He was trying to work off both bites of his fish supper. That very same fish supper was in a plastic bag in the car. I was taking it home to Trish. Waste not want not. He'd signed me in as a guest, and I was sitting on the bike beside him, but I wasn't pedalling. Life is too short.
There was a bank of television screens on the wall above us. They were all showing the same thing: our First Minister Frank Galvin visiting a children's school. It was one of the main items on the news. He was announcing that Irish was to be introduced to the school curriculum of all schools in Northern Ireland. It would help 'bind the communities to the island' and 'foster a fuller appreciation of our shared history'. I thought it would help foster some rioting in East Belfast. Most everyone else would take it lying down; perhaps people were getting lazy after so many years of Trouble. As ever it would fall to the dour working classes to make a stand.
Galvin was a natural on TV. He had to be really, as for years he'd been the public face of Sinn Fein, the political wing of the Provisional IRA. He'd had to explain away bombs and bullets and make it look as if this was a perfectly acceptable way of working towards a 'lasting and peaceful solution', and the thing was, he usually managed it, and as the PIRA campaign dropped the vowels and became a PR one he inevitably rose through the ranks until he was deputy leader of the party. It was widely acknowledged that Gerry Adams, the leader of Sinn Fein, would never be allowed to become the First Minister of Northern Ireland because of his controversial past; so eventually he stepped aside, retired to contemplate his pipe and the lucrative American After Irish Stew circuit, and Galvin, without a smudge on his CV, took over.
'How's your Irish?' I asked Mouse.
'Better than yours.'
He had a point.
'How much do you usually do?' I asked, nodding at the bike.
'Five hundred calories,' he said between breaths. 'Twenty-one kilometres . . . thirty-four minutes . . .'
'And you feel better for it?'
He nodded. His face was bright red and you could see the pulse vibrating on the si
de of his head. He'd only been going five minutes and there was already a puddle of sweat growing beneath the bike. I was no further along in finding out about what was bothering him.
It was a large gym, and as far as I could judge, state of the art. There were half a dozen fit-looking ladies on rowing machines towards the back, and off to our left three men with sculpted figures that would not have looked out of place on a billboard advertising underpants. Not that they would call them underpants. Boxers. Jockeys. Shorts. The old words were being phased out. Soon, if I walked into a department store and said, 'Take me to your underpant department,' they would look at me like I was some kind of halfwit. There were other words that I found myself still clinging onto – talc, gutties and products like Matey bubble bath and Pacers. I stopped myself from thinking about it, because once you start that train of thought you can go on for ever. There would soon be enough obsolete words and brands to create a dead language to rival Irish.
'Looking good,' I said. His body shape had certainly changed in recent months, but it didn't mean he wasn't setting himself up for a coronary. Sloth would do it, and over-exertion would do it. I preferred to tread the middle ground, which involved beer and crisps.
'My trainer says . . . another six months . . . and I'll be as fit as an Olympic athlete.'
I snorted. 'What, like the Paralympics?'
'He's serious . . . he means . . . for my age. I feel it. I feel . . . good.'
'Be a shame if someone kills you then.'
He kept his eyes on the electronic gauge on the handlebars which would warn him of approaching death. 'I told you, I . . . over-reacted.'
'Over-reacted to what?'
'To . . . Look, it was just something that was said. And a coincidence. The garage said the brakes could have gone at any time. I've been a bit lax with the—'
'What are you talking about, the brakes? Did someone mess with your car?'
'No, that's what I'm saying. It could have happened any time. I just put two and two together and got, like, seven. Relax.'
'Mouse, you were worried enough about it to come to me.'
'I was just stressed out. It's that time of the year – the Power List, it's always a bit frantic . . . but I'm fine. Honestly.' He upped the pedal rate for the final few minutes, then climbed awkwardly off the bike and winced as he straightened. 'They say they're state of the art,' he wheezed, 'but you've still got a numb arse when you're done.' He put one sweaty arm around me and squeezed. 'Now, Dan, I absolutely insist – come and have a sauna with me.'
I shrugged it off. 'Yeah. Right.'
'No, really, I insist.'
'You can insist all you want.'
'They have towels here. It won't be a problem.'
'No.'
'Come on. You'll feel great.'
'No.'
'Dan, come on.'
'No.'
'What are you scared of?'
'I'm not scared of anything. I just don't want one.'
'Have you ever had one?'
'No.'
'Well then.'
'Well then what? I've never stuck my hand in a fucking deep-fat fryer.'
'It's hardly the same, is it?'
'How do I know?'
'Then come and find out!'
The sculpted underpant men were looking at us now. I wanted to say, 'What the fuck are you looking at, underpant men?' but I was worried in case they blew me over.
'There's no need to be ashamed of your body,' Mouse said.
'I'm not ashamed of it!'
'Then come for a sauna. You'll feel great. It brings all the poison to the surface.'
'Great, I'll come out covered in boils. Mouse, I—'
'If you're worried about taking your clothes off in front of these guys, I'll make sure it's just the two of us.'
'Why the fuck would I be worried about that? You think I want to look like a muscle-bound cretin?'
They weren't just looking now, they were glaring. Mouse gave them the thumbs-up. 'He wasn't talking about you, lads,' he said. 'He was talking about different muscle-bound cretins.'
This didn't seem to placate them much, so Mouse quickly ushered me out of the main gym towards a small reception desk. 'Two sets of towels for the sauna,' he said. A T-shirted attendant smiled pleasantly and handed them over.
'Mouse . . .' I began.
'Tell you what, we'll treat it like a confessional. While we're in there you can ask me anything you want. About the thing.'
'The thing?'
'The thing with the death threats.'
'There were death threats?'
'I'll tell you in the sauna.' He lifted the towels and walked off.
'Okay,' he said. 'What do you want to know?'
'Apart from how long you can stay in here without dying? It's not what I want to know, Mouse, it's what you want to tell me. You called me.'
'Yes, I did.'
'And if you really and truly think it's nothing, we can forget about it and I can go back to a world of cool air and rain.'
There were several benches, at different levels, and you chose your position according to how close you wanted to be to the steam hissing out from the centre of the floor. I was on the top bench, Mouse was on the bottom. I did not feel better, or wonderful, and although we'd only been in there for forty seconds I'd already sweated out half a cod and nine chips.
'I have messed you around, Dan, but only because . . . well, because I'm still not sure.'
'Mouse, a death threat is a death threat.'
'I know, but things are said in the heat of the moment, you don't always mean them, or follow up on them.'
'Who threatened you?'
'I don't really know.'
'Mouse.'
'I mean, it was a phone call, and I didn't recognise the voice.'
'What did he say? I presume it was a he?'
Mouse nodded. 'He said, and I quote, "Stop your fucking interfering or you're a dead bunny".'
I nodded. Twenty-seven droplets of sweat rolled off my brow and hissed on the floor. 'What are you interfering in?'
'Well, Belfast Confidential interferes in rather a lot. But I imagine it's something to do with the Power List. That's our big issue. It's always a talking point.'
'Okay, is there something particularly controversial or revealing that you're working on?'
'It's impossible to say'
'Well, try.'
'I'm not being reticent, I just mean, who can say what's important to any particular individual? It could be Daniel O'Donnell thinking we're into his sexlife or the First Minister worried about his dodgy investments.'
'Daniel O'Donnell's on the Power List?'
'No, I'm just using him as an example. He was on the Power List, but then he got married and lost the blue-rinse brigade. His influence is on the wane.'
I shook my head. 'We're really at the cutting edge here, aren't we?'
'That's what's so great about the Power List, Dan – it's a real mix.'
'But as of this moment, you're not aware of any great revelation that might cause anyone to warn you off?'
'No.'
'So it could be something that you might discover if you were to investigate a particular individual.' Mouse nodded. I said, 'I don't suppose you happened to record the call?'
'Nope.'
'Or notice caller ID or what is it, 1471?'
'No, it was all over so quickly. But it was from a callbox, because his money ran out.'
'If his money ran out, he must have said more than "Stop your fucking interfering or you're a dead bunny".'
'No, I think he just had to wait a while before he was put through.'
'So he must have spoken to your – what? Secretary, receptionist?'
'I suppose.'
'And she didn't ask for a name?'
'No, because a lot of the stories we run rely on caller confidentiality.'
I took a deep breath. I was starting to feel a little bit dizzy. 'How long are we supposed to stay in this hell-hol
e?' I asked.
'Give it another five,' said Mouse.
'There might not be any of me left in another five.'
'You'll feel better for it, I swear to God.'
'Yeah – famous last words.' I steadied myself on the bench. 'Okay. Look, Mouse, how many years did you work on the news desk?'
'As a reporter? Ten. I was twelve after that as a sub and news editor. You know this.'
'I'm just trying to make a point – which is, how often were you threatened? With violence or death or ex-communication?'
'About once a week.'
'And how many times were you actually beaten up, or killed, or chucked down the church steps?'
'Well, never.'
'So. What's different about this?'
'I told you. The brakes on the car.'
'You said they were about to go anyway.'
'And they followed me.'
'They?'
'Well, it felt like they. It could have been just one.'
'You actually saw someone?'
'Not exactly. I just . . . Look, I know this sounds crap, but it just felt like someone was following me. And when I came out of work, somebody had scratched my car.'
'The phallic-symbol car?'
'It's not a . . . it's a Jet. It's fantastic. I'd my name down for one. It was May Li's idea. She says I deserve it for all my hard work.'
'And someone did what? Run a key along it? Chip the paintwork?' Mouse nodded. 'Mouse, for fuck sake, it's a natural reaction to want to damage a Jet. I could have done it. Everyone who will never be able to afford one would do it. It's jealousy.' I shook my head. 'Mouse, someone gave you an earful on the phone. The brakes on your car gave up the ghost. You think you might have been followed. And somebody scratched your car.'
Belfast Confidential Page 4
