Belfast Confidential

Belfast Confidential Page 5

by Bateman, Colin

  'Yes, I know, but put them all together . . .'

  'Put them all together and you've got fuck-all-squared in a box.'

  Mouse closed his eyes for a moment; he pushed his fingers into the corners and rubbed. He took the kind of deep, refreshing breath you'd expect to take at the top of a mountain, but in here it must have been like sucking on a volcano. He coughed a little, then opened his eyes again and looked across at me. 'You think I'm imagining it all?'

  I thought about it for a few moments, forcing myself to concentrate because I was starting to feel a bit woozy. My stomach gurgled unhappily. 'Yes, maybe,' I said, rubbing at my tummy. 'If a psychiatrist was sitting here instead of me, I think he'd say you were having an MLC.' And when his eyes narrowed: 'A midlife crisis.'

  'Crisis?' he laughed. 'No offence, Dan, but I'm rich, successful and I've a gorgeous young wife who can't get enough of me. Spot the crisis.'

  'He might say that's exactly the point. You have all this but you're still not happy.'

  'Happy? Are you joking?'

  'Deep down, he might say.'

  'Oh bollocks, Dan.'

  'On the surface you might appear happy. You might think you're happy. But a psychiatrist might say that although you're now rich and successful, and have a beautiful young wife and you've got the flashest car in the country bar none, deep down you don't feel you deserve any of it, and that manifests itself in a kind of low-level paranoia. You're scared that someone's going to take it all away from you – your business, your wife, your car.'

  'Christ,' said Mouse. 'That's a bit deep.'

  'Yeah, I know. That's psychiatrists for you.'

  'Forget the psychiatrists, Dan – what do you think?'

  'Honestly?'

  'Honestly.'

  'Well, they say wanking makes you blind. If you're having four orgasms a night I think you're probably suffering from some kind of minor brain damage.' I reached down to squeeze his shoulder in a best-mate fashion, but his shoulder was damp with sweat and my hand slipped down and cupped his nipple instead. It was an awkward moment.

  'Nice tits,' I said and laughed.

  He looked at his chest and said, 'Enjoy them while you can, they're next.'

  'Listen mate,' I continued hurriedly, 'if you're really that worried about it I'm the last person you should be coming to. You should know better – I'm a walking disaster area, so go out and hire someone to look after you, you can afford it. Some big doughnut with a gun or at the very least a black belt in looking mean. Get him to follow you around for a while, he'll soon . . . shit!'

  The dizzies were back.

  Then, very quickly, a bitter taste in the back of my throat.

  And gurgling.

  'Dan?'

  'Sorry,' I gasped, my hand across my mouth.

  I forced myself up and yanked at the door, stumbling out into the lemon-scented changing rooms. I'd had a sleepless night, a backwards headbutt, a hangover, an argument with a reformed terrorist, a fish supper, a can of rusting Lilt and then boiled myself for twenty-five minutes in a sauna. Now, as I clutched my towel for security and leaned against the wall for support, I could see the Adonai from the gym standing to my left comparing thongs. I threw up into a plant pot.

  7

  'You did what?' Patricia asked. Demanded.

  'Is that a rhetorical question? Or is this a rhetorical question about a rhetorical question? Or is this a rhetorical question about a . . . oh, I could go on all night. The eternal–'

  'Dan! Please! You're doing my head in. Why the fuck did you do it?'

  It wasn't about throwing up. It was about something much worse.

  'It just seemed like the right thing to do.'

  'Without even consulting me?'

  'Without even consulting you. Trish, I'm old enough to make decisions that will affect both of us without thinking them through thoroughly. I'm big enough to make decisions that will really piss you off without calling home first.'

  'I really am going to swing for you.'

  'Trish. Come on. It's long overdue. What was I supposed to say?'

  'You were supposed to say, "Let me check with Trish and get back to you".'

  'It would've looked like I was trying to squirm out of it. And if I had phoned to check, what would you have said?'

  'I would have squirmed out of it.'

  'Exactly. So I said yes on your behalf because unless we confront this now, we're never going to be able to confront it.'

  'So what?'

  'Trish – he's my best friend, and it's only dinner.'

  'It's only dinner. Listen to you. That woman broke up my best friend's marriage, she stole my best friend's husband with her . . . with her Oriental ways.'

  'Oriental ways. Listen to you! What're you talking about? You mean she put on a silk dress and made him a curry? You mean she did it inscrutably?'

  'Yes! No! Jesus, Dan, I don't know. I just don't feel right about it. It's like betraying Wendy.'

  'She doesn't have to know.'

  'She'll know. She's bitter and twisted and she watches his every move like a hawk.'

  We were sitting on the sofa watching EastEnders. I was drinking Harp and she'd opened her second bottle of Asti. She paused as she went to take another sip. I was laughing and she wanted to know what she'd said that was so funny. Clearly, it couldn't have been anything on EastEnders, which is like Largactyl for the masses.

  'She's bitter and twisted and watches him like a hawk?'

  'Yes, and why not. Can you blame her?'

  'Would this watching him also mean following him? And vandalising his new car?'

  'Following maybe. I don't know about vandalising his car, but I wouldn't put it beyond her.'

  'The stupid bitch. He's got it into his head that someone's trying to kill him. That's what he came to see me about! Don't look at me like that, he made me swear not to tell you.'

  'Why?'

  'I don't know. I think he's scared of you.'

  'Me?'

  I cleared my throat. She gave me a wan smile. 'Anyway,' I pointed out, 'if she's following him, and she's mad enough to run her keys along his Jet . . .'

  'It's a Jet? Christ.'

  'It's only a prototype. So maybe the brakes did just go of their own accord and it was just some pissedoff tosser who phoned in the death threat.'

  'Mouse got a death threat?'

  'Aye, that's why he's so jumpy. I mean, now that I think about it, I wouldn't even put it beyond her messing with his brakes or hiring someone to make the call. It doesn't have to be connected, but it makes sense. Christ, wait'll I tell him this.'

  'You can't tell him this.'

  'Why the hell not?'

  'Because he'll go and have it out with Wendy, or have her arrested, or committed, and then she'll know it came from me.'

  'How will she know that?'

  'She will, she's bound to, and Mouse can't hold his own water, he'll tell her. Then I'll be in deep shit.' She finished her glass and poured another.

  I said, 'I have to tell him.'

  She sucked on one of her lips. She tutted. But eventually she said, 'All right. She's been a bit of a pain in the hole lately anyway.'

  'And you'll come to dinner?'

  She sighed. 'If I have to.'

  'You never know, she might be lovely.'

  'Yeah, right.'

  We finished unpacking, quite drunk, at 3 a.m. We crawled into bed dirty and dusty but too tired to shower. Patricia lay back and said, 'Where's the carving-knife set in the decorative box?'

  'Kitchen cupboard, top left.'

  'What about the figures-in-glass dancers Mum bought us that you say is tasteless tack?'

  'Third shelf, display cabinet, the lounge.'

  'Where's the spare mobile phone charger?'

  'Plugged into study, charging the spare mobile phone.'

  'And the one hundred and twenty CDs that came free with the Sunday papers?'

  'In the roofspace, where they belong.'

  Patricia nodd
ed. 'Well, everything seems to be in order. I think it's all right to have sex now.'

  'Okay,' I said.

  8

  I hate press conferences at the best of times, but I reserve particular loathing for press conferences where the main focus of attention can't even be bothered to turn up, but instead make their appearance by satellite link.

  The venue this time was Hillsborough Castle, the Government's playhouse just outside Belfast. Newspaper, TV and radio journalists crowded into an austere lounge and stared at an incongruous hi-tech plasma screen as First Minister Frank Galvin shook hands with Ryan Auto founder Jacintha Ryan in New York.

  Jacintha Ryan was a real mover and shaker – a Northern Irish immigrant who was the living embodiment of the American Dream. Her parents had arrived penniless in New York, but had scrimped and saved to send her through college. Then she'd joined General Motors and begun a breathtaking rise through the ranks to the point where she'd been hotly tipped to become the first female CEO of that august American institution. Instead she'd shocked everyone by resigning in order to start her own motor company – Ryan Auto. She'd attracted hundreds of millions of dollars' worth of investment, despite the fact that she'd insisted that production would be based in Belfast. So fair play to her. There had been a lot of hype at the start, when it was first announced, but this was the latest in a lengthy series of press conferences and the number of new tilings you could say about a car factory were becoming increasingly few and far between. This particular one was to mark the handing over of the land, and Jacintha Ryan's pull was such that she could take possession without going to the trouble of leaving her New York office, but instead could insist that Northern Ireland's First Minister actually came to her to sign on the dotted line.

  Eventually, after much posing and waffle, they got to the point where they asked if the reporters had any questions, and where once I would have been chomping at the bit to stir things up I quite happily stood at the back, eating their sandwiches and listening in. The fact was I didn't care. Cars. Fields. Build things. Sell them. It was the fourth such press conference I'd attended in recent months, as the whole Ryan's Jet project gained momentum, but I hadn't asked a question yet. The info was all there. They gave it to you in a nice press pack, with a Matchbox version of the Jet, so you could impress your friends and go brmmm-brmmmm with your kids. If you had any.

  Jacintha Ryan was forty-seven, blonde, and as far as I could judge, expertly turned out. She spoke with a cultured American accent, which reminded me a little of JFK's. Mouse was at the press conference, of course. He asked the kind of arse-loosening Belfast Confidential questions that made the rest of us squirm.

  'First of all I want to compliment you on the car. The prototype is fantastic – Belfast Confidential certainly approves.'

  'Why, thank you.'

  'What's your birth sign, Jacintha?'

  'Gemini.'

  'And are you a typical Gemini?'

  'That's not for me to say.'

  'You've never married?'

  'No.'

  'Are you in a relationship?'

  'No comment.'

  'I'm told you're planning a spectacular party when you come to Belfast.'

  'Well, it's important to make an impact.'

  'Do you want to tell us something about it?'

  'Not yet – but if there are any ladies amongst you, think ballgown.'

  Mouse sat again, then winked at me across the room. I shook my head disdainfully, and he laughed. Five or six other questions were asked, but they were the kind that everyone already knew the answers to. We were each clutching an exhaustive press pack which covered every possible angle. Back in the office I had three just like it. Then the questions dried up. Jacintha stared somewhat awkwardly at the camera, then glanced to the left, probably to some producer and asked if the satellite was down. She must have got a negative response. She looked a little surprised, then returned her attention to the camera. It was getting towards the embarrassing stage, and where once I would have revelled in it, I actually felt a bit sorry for her, sitting there with all her billions and nobody wanting to talk to her, so I shouted, 'You say you left Belfast when you were six. What do you remember of it?'

  'Very little. Virtually nothing, in fact. Sorry. I can make something up if you like?'

  Smiles through the press pack. She couldn't see them, of course. It was never going to be a real face-to-face conversation. It was strictly a one-way experience. 'So why do you want to set up here?'

  'To give something back.'

  'Something back to somewhere you don't remember.'

  'Is that so strange? It's my heritage. It's what my father would have wanted.'

  'Your father is – deceased now.'

  'Yes. Fifteen years. Asbestosis. From working on building sites around Belfast.'

  'Why did youse go to America in the first place?'

  'For the same reason everyone else did. The Troubles.'

  'You worked your way up from Sales to Management to the Board of General Motors. You were tipped for CEO.'

  'By some obscure business paper.'

  'But you were a high flyer, and you gave it all up to become your own boss.'

  'I had a dream.'

  'Is that Martin Luther King, or the Abba song?'

  She smiled this time. 'It's the truth. That's the difference between America and Ireland, Britain, Europe – here, people believe in realising their dreams; over there it seems to be they quite often can't be bothered.'

  'Those are strong words. You don't think people will be pissed off?'

  'I would hope they'd be inspired.' She glanced at her watch. 'Okay, ladies and gentlemen – thank you.'

  And the screen went blank. Just like that. We stood looking at it for several moments, then the cameramen began to pack up their equipment and the reporters turned off their tape recorders. I closed my notebook (I still did things the old way). But I hadn't made a single note. Nobody was dashing out of the door shouting. 'Hold the front page!'

  Mouse sauntered across. 'Well, that was fun,' he said.

  There's fashionably late, and then there's Patricia late.

  We were due there at seven, it was a ten-minute drive, and it was already seven-fifteen.

  'You're doing this on purpose!' I shouted up the stairs, and her lack of response suggested that I'd hit the nail squarely on the head. 'You know if we arrive late, they'll just add the time on at the end!'

  I was pacing back and forth, jangling the car keys in my hand. I was itching for a drink, but I'd agreed to drive over, then get a taxi back and pick the car up the next day. I was enjoying one of those rare periods of actually being in possession of a driving licence. The next time I got caught I would probably be banned for life, and do some time, and keep pet budgies and get caught up in a riot in cell block number nine, and die.

  'Trish! Would you come on?!'

  'Dan!'

  'What!'

  'Do we have any ice?'

  'What? They'll have ice there.'

  'No – for my drink now.'

  'Christ All Mighty!'

  I charged up the stairs. Patricia was sitting in front of the mirror; she had the war-paint on, and a low-cut black top and knee-length skirt with black leather boots; there was a half-drunk half-bottle of Smirnoff vodka and a long, thin pint glass with an inch of Diet Coke in the bottom sitting on the dresser before her. Her eyes were slightly clouded and her cheeks, despite the make-up, had reddened up from the alcohol. She turned as I came through the door and her legs parted and her skirt rode up and clearly she wasn't wearing any pants. I stood for a moment and she smiled, and said, 'I know what you're thinking.'

  'What am I thinking?'

  'You don't know wever to fump me or fuck me.'

  That's the way she said it: wever and fump. She would sometimes lose the power of her 'th's when she was half-cut.

  I sighed. I did not immediately melt into her arms, and in her state she took that as a rejection and quickly clo
sed her legs and spun back to the mirror. 'Please yourself,' she said.

  'We're supposed to be there,' I said. I folded my arms and leaned against the doorframe.

  'I know. I'm just running a little late.'

  'Trish.'

  'I'm just nervous, okay?'

  'What's to be nervous about?'

  'Everything. '

  'Christ, Trish, it's only dinner.'

  'With the enemy.'

  'She's not the enemy!'

  I stormed off downstairs again. I opened the fridge and took out a can. One wouldn't do any harm. I lifted my mobile and phoned Mouse on his. That way, I was fairly certain of talking to him directly, rather than taking the chance of phoning his home number and May Li answering and me having to make crap excuses to her about why we were so late, and then having to repeat them because her English wasn't so good.

  It was answered on the first ring.

  'Mouse, it's me. We're running late, will you apologise to—'

  'Who is this?'

  'It's me.'

  'Me who?'

  I realised then that it wasn't Mouse at all. The voice was muffled, and slightly echoey, as if he was holding the phone away from his mouth. 'Dan,' I said. 'Is he there?'

  'He's in a meeting right now. Can I take a message?'

  'Well, I'm supposed to be having dinner at his house. Round about now. But if he's in a meeting . . . How long will he be?'

  'Not long.'

  'Well, will you tell him I'll see him there in about twenty minutes?'

  'Will do. And who will I say you are again?'

  'Dan.'

  'Dan who?'

  'He'll know.'

  'Well, can I take your number in case he needs to call you back?'

  'He has it.'

  'Please yourself.'

  He put the phone down. I shook my head. Mouse would say, 'You just can't get the staff these days,' but the real problem was he offered shit pay and you got what you paid for. The reporters that worked for him were probably straight out of college, anxious for their first break, all full of vim and vigour and attitude and not that worried about the money.

 

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