Belfast Confidential

by Bateman, Colin

  I managed to keep my smile in check. He was like any star who'd become a media fixture – on the one hand decrying his lack of privacy, and on the other desperately craving its attention. With the passing years the media's focus had shifted to the next generation, leaving the likes of Terry Breene out in the cold. So on the surface he was biting my head off, but really, he wanted to talk. I didn't mind. He was a Liverpool legend. I'd been a member of his fan club.

  I said, 'I used to have your poster on my wall.'

  'Used to?'

  'Well, when I got married I had to take it down.'

  'Aye, bloody women.'

  'No – it's a gay marriage, but he still wouldn't allow me.'

  His mouth dropped open a fraction, and for a moment he seemed genuinely lost. So I smiled and said, 'Only rakin'.'

  He laughed then, but the laugh morphed into a long hacking cough, which he tried to stifle by inhaling a thick cigar. It wasn't entirely successful. When he was finished he rubbed at his chest, then ordered me another drink. I protested, although not very strongly, that I already had one. 'So what brings you back to Belfast?' I asked.

  'I think you know that.'

  'Yeah, but – I mean, London's where it's happening. Hardly anyone ever comes back here – and you've been gone thirty years.'

  'Aye, well, it's still home though, know what I mean? And I was given this chance to take over Linfield.' He took a sip of his drink. I kept looking at him. 'And after the liver op, and all the publicity about my drinking, and cursing like fuck live on national TV, I'm pretty much in the Last Chance Saloon, so I thought, What the fuck, you only live twice, and you can't fucking take it with you, so let's take a chance on this.'

  'And now that you're here?'

  'Well, it's great. I mean, it's unrecognisable this place, ain't it? No soldiers, no roadblocks, no bombs, everything's dead modern, a bit flash, there's stacks of money around. You see the cars out there? Porsches, Ferraris, and once those new wee beauties get going . . .'

  'The Jet.'

  'The fucking Jet – name down for one of them, so I have. Brilliant. So yeah, it's pretty cool.'

  'That may be, but Linfield?'

  'Dream come true.'

  'To manage an Irish League side?'

  'Absolutely. See, I was – am – a Catholic, so my da never allowed me to go and see Linfield. I never got into hurley or anything, it was always a case of the grass is always greener. Or red white and blue, depending on your point of view.'

  'Well. Fair enough. I just supposed you'd have bigger dreams.'

  'It's all about potential, Dan.'

  'The only potential they've previously shown is as a recruiting ground for the UDA. What's changed?'

  'Europe, son, Europe.'

  'They've never gotten beyond the first round.'

  'Not yet. But that'll change. Look – I've built up a tidy wee nest egg, right, but not enough to go out and buy the likes of Liverpool or Newcastle or, heaven forbid, Coventry or Nottingham Forest. But at a stretch I've bought the home team in my home town. And you know what that gives me?'

  'Depression?'

  'The gateway to Europe. Look, take England. If you're a Premier League club, you've got to finish in the top four to get into the Champions League, right, which is where all the money is. That could cost you hundreds of millions and take you what, three, four years to buy in the right team and get them working together. But, no offence to the Irish League, it's dead easy to win, and all you have to do is invest a couple of million in the ground and a few thousand on a handful of ex-Premier League stars who're past their best, but still good enough to run circles around the locals. So you win that and you're in the qualifying rounds of the Champions League. All you have to do then is win a couple of those matches and you're into the League proper, and then you start to rake the millions in, depending on the draw. So you make money, you buy better players, and each year you qualify for Europe again and each year you do a little better, and you earn more money. It's like what that Liam Miller says, "success begets success; you just have to wrap your thighs around it."'

  'He does,' I said. 'It sounds easy.'

  He laughed. 'Well, that's the theory.'

  'And if it doesn't pan out that way?'

  'It will. I've worked it out. I've got a good team together.'

  'And if it doesn't, you can still sell Windsor Park for houses.'

  'You said that, I didn't.'

  I signalled the bar, and they brought us some more drinks. 'Do you really object to being on the Power List?' I asked.

  'Couldn't give a fuck one way or the other.'

  'So what were you meeting Mouse about? The night he died.'

  The waitress set the drinks down. Terry looked at her admiringly, and she smiled back extravagantly. I smiled at her and she ignored me. Terry took a sip from his new drink, then swirled the rest in his glass. 'Because he asked me to.'

  'What do you mean?'

  'I was in the bar when he came in and I recognised him from the press conference to launch our project. We got talking and he asked me to join him for dinner.'

  'Simple as that.'

  'Simple as that. Look, I've been gone from Belfast for the best part of three decades. I don't actually know anyone here any more.'

  'You were lonely?'

  'Not lonely, no. Just . . . sometimes it's good to talk to someone who isn't, you know, wanking all over you.'

  'What about your players?'

  'Well, it's not good to mix with them socially – fucks with the discipline. You need to keep them at arm's length. They can't afford it in here anyway!' He laughed. Swirled his drink some more.

  'Who can?'

  'They can.' I followed his gaze across the bar. Two men in grey pin-striped suits had just walked in. They carried briefcases and the authority of bean counters on an expense account. 'Accountants,' said Terry, 'my fucking accountants.' They began to scan the bar, obviously looking for him. 'Better be off,' he said, quickly finishing his drink and standing. 'See you around, mate.'

  He hurried across to the suits, and extended his hand. They disappeared back out of the bar, and with the swinging of the doors I was able to see them head upstairs towards one of the private rooms O'Brien had shown me earlier. I sat for a while longer. I was enveloped in a warm glow, and it wasn't just the alcohol. My football hero had just called me 'mate', and it felt good, and I began to appreciate a little bit how Mouse must have felt, mixing with the celebs. But then I remembered that that mixing might well have led to his death, and that for all of his undoubted talent as a footballer, Terry Breene, thanks to a road-crash victim's liver, wasn't much more than a born-again alcoholic with his eye on the main chance. He'd also just lied to me about his dinner with Mouse being an accident. It was in the appointments book that Mary carried everywhere. Next to it was a note that said: Remind not to eat too much! Friends later!

  Friends indeed.

  Outside, waiting for a taxi, I phoned Patricia and told her how much I loved her, and she said, 'Great, you're pissed again.'

  I said it was all in the line of work and she gave a sarcastic laugh. 'So if you're getting a taxi home, why are you calling me?'

  'Just to let you know I'm safe and sound and I'll be home soon.'

  'More like to make sure your dinner's on the table.'

  'The thought hadn't crossed my mind. Although if by chance . . .'

  'Your boss called.'

  'May Li?'

  'No, the Belly Telly. It seems you gave them a sick line for a few days, and you haven't been back.'

  'Oh that. Aye.'

  'It seems that you never told them that you were taking on Belfast Confidential.'

  'I was keeping my options open.'

  'They say you're an arse, and I'm inclined to agree.'

  'I'm on a freelance contract! What're they getting their knickers in a twist about?'

  ' "Common courtesy" and "loyalty" were some of the words being bandied about.'

  'Sh
it, Trish, c'mon. I just didn't know how long I'd last with this thing. If it wasn't going to be any more than a couple of days there was no point in letting on, was there?'

  'And you didn't think they'd find out? It being the best-selling magazine in the history of best-selling magazines?'

  I shrugged. She couldn't see the shrug, but she probably guessed. I said, 'Sorry. But if it's any consolation I just got drunk with Terry Breene and he's my new best mate.'

  'No, Dan, that's no consolation at all.' She fell quiet. I said sorry again. She sighed. 'You can't just treat people in such a cavalier fashion.'

  'I know that.'

  'You'd better call them and apologise.'

  'I will.'

  'Promise?'

  'Promise.'

  'Okay. So when will you be home?'

  'Ten minutes, tops.'

  'Okay.' She cut the line.

  A taxi finally pulled up and I climbed in. The woman behind the wheel ducked down a little to look up at the Past Masters entrance. 'So that's the fucking place. Top ho, what!'

  There was something vaguely familiar about her. Her hair was short and spiky, and she was wearing a cap-sleeve T-shirt with tattoos clearly visible on each arm, although what they depicted was impossible to decipher due to their crapness. Despite the vehicle being plastered in No Smoking signs, she had an unfiltered fag in her mouth, with an inch of ash hanging off the end.

  'Where to?' she asked, and I gave her the address. As she drove, she kept looking at me in the mirror. I tried to ignore it. I'd had a lot to drink and my eyes were heavy, and the gentle movement of the vehicle was making me feel sick. I was just moving towards the Land of Nod, but before I could claim citizenship she let out a whoop and said, 'It is you! Fucking Starkey, right?'

  I nodded warily.

  'Fuck sake, I gave you a ride about ten years ago. Not that sort of a ride, this sort of a ride. You were in my cab before all that stuff blew up. Remember?'

  I hated to admit it, but I did. She was the Belle of Belfast City.

  'So you're hanging out with all the fuckin' nobs now, are you?'

  'Not exactly.'

  'I never see your fuckin' name in the fuckin' paper any more.'

  'No, I—'

  'I mean, I never used to fuckin' read it, like, but my ould fella, he used to love it.'

  'That's nice.'

  'Aye, and so was he, then he fuckin' two-timed me, so I turfed him out.'

  'Oh.'

  'Fuckin' dead loss he was. So what're you doing now?'

  'I'm a . . . well, Belfast Confidential.'

  'Seriously? Fuckin' class. I love that. All the fuckin' movers and shakers, eh? All the fuckin' tit jobs and them wankers tryin' to pull a fuckin' fast one. Wouldn't miss it. And you work for them? Fuckin' brilliant.'

  I nodded wearily. Her eyes met mine in the mirror. 'You married still?'

  'Last time I checked.'

  'Last time I checked. I like that. I'm fuckin' playin' the field, you know what I mean?' I nodded again. 'No use fuckin' tyin' yourself down – different fella every week.'

  'No,' I said.

  'Keep them on their toes, you know? I said to this fuckin' guy last night – I'd just given him a blow job like and he was all, "I love you, I love you, I love you" – I said, 'One swallow doesn't make a summer, mate, know what I mean?'

  I cleared my throat, and this time closed my eyes and nodded vaguely, and she seemed to get the hint and concentrated on the driving for a while.

  Next thing, I felt a hand clamp onto my leg, and a nicotine-tinged voice purring, 'Wakey, wakey,' as I jolted upright.

  'Sorry, I . . .'

  She removed her hand from my leg, and I tried to massage some life back into it. 'Four seventy-five,' she said.

  I rummaged in my pocket, and gave her a fiver. As I climbed out I said, 'Keep the change.' I closed the door, and then stood there in some confusion. I knelt down to her open window. 'This isn't—'

  'It's what you fuckin' asked for,' she snapped.

  'But I don't live here. If you could just take me—' I went to open the door again, but she flicked on the lock. Her head appeared through the window; the ash was by now almost down to her lips. She looked up at the overcast sky. 'Is it raining, or did a bird shit on my face?'

  I said, 'What?'

  'Thanks for the big tip! Once a wanker, always a fucking wanker!' Then she rolled up the window again and sped off.

  I stood in the middle of the road, watching her go.

  I had my mobile, and I could easily have called another taxi.

  Or I could have walked. However, I didn't have the brains, or gumption, to do either. You see, the subconscious is an occasionally wonderful thing. It had clearly brought me to this address for a reason, and now that I was. here, I had to find out what that was. Clearly it had nothing to do with my advanced state of inebriation. Something deeper. So I marched right up to May Li's front door and rang the bell.

  20

  'Howdy pardner,' I said, just as the first true wave of nausea hit me.

  May Li was in a flowered silk bathrobe, with her hair tied up. I was in a black, zip-up bomber jacket and black jeans and trainers. She had a surprised, then quizzical look on her face, and I must have just looked a bit gormless, and green.

  'Dan?'

  'I was just passing,' I said, my head now beginning to spin, 'and I thought you needed dated. Updated.' I lurched forward suddenly, cupping my hand over my mouth and gasping through it, 'Can I use your bog?'

  'My . . .'

  I charged past her up the stairs and threw up in her bathroom sink.

  It would have been an idea to remove the bra soaking in bleach first, or indeed to use the toilet, but it was any port in a storm. It was the taxi ride, and maybe the Past Masters pie was past its sell-by date. That, or the unthinkable. That I was becoming allergic to alcohol. Or to be more strictly accurate, allergic to huge great amounts of it.

  I was getting older, I couldn't cope with it any more.

  May Li stood on the landing and said, 'Are you okay?'

  I made a groaning sound and reached back with my foot, gently pushing the bathroom door closed. A man has to have some dignity.

  'Do you want me to call Patricia?' May Li asked through the wood.

  'No,' I managed. 'That would not . . . be a good idea.'

  She left me alone for ten minutes. Then she came back and knocked gently. 'Are you feeling any better?'

  'Yeah . . . yeah. Thanks. I'll be . . . down in a minute.'

  It was no word of a lie. I was feeling slightly better. I was reclaiming a toe-hold on an eternally spinning planet. As she padded quietly away I just managed to lift my head off the sink. I examined my reflection. Bleary-eyed and pale, but otherwise as stunning as ever. I looked back down at the sink. I pulled the plug and the water drained away, leaving a thick coating of vomit around the rim and all over May Li's lacy white bra.

  I had kind of imagined encountering May Li's bra, unlikely fantasies being the justifiable preserve of the married man, but not boking on it. Boking was one thing, but explaining, justifying and worst of all, cleaning the offending lingerie presented a whole different range of problems. Avoiding the issue though, is a bit of a male art form, so I carefully lifted the offending article by its strap, briefly admiring the cup size, while allowing some of the vomit to drip off so that it wouldn't get on the carpet. Then I rushed across to the bathroom window, opened it up, then hurled the bra out as far as I could.

  I returned to the sink and rinsed around the basin. I splashed water on my own face; I gargled with her mouthwash and then sprayed some of her deodorant around. Satisfied, I made my way downstairs. May was sitting on her leather sofa with her legs folded under her, looking concerned.

  I sat opposite her. There was a glass table between us.

  'Sorry,' I said. 'Something I ate.'

  'I made you some coffee,' she said, and leaned forward to pick up a cup. Her bathrobe fell open a little, and after five minut
es I averted my eyes. She moved her hand across to secure it, but she caught me looking, and I knew that she had caught me, and she knew that I knew that she knew.

  'Thank you,' I said, for the coffee as opposed to the view, although it was pretty marvellous as well. 'Thai?' I asked after my first sip.

  'Nescafé.'

  I nodded. 'Good stuff.'

  She looked at me, I looked back. She said, 'I was just opening a bottle of wine, but you probably don't need any more.'

  I put my coffee down and said, 'Hair of the dog.'

  Her brow furrowed, and I explained about hair of the dog. It was a long rambling explanation which involved going off on many tangents and entering a bewildering number of cul-de-sacs, but she listened attentively until I'd exhausted myself, and then she asked, 'Do you want a glass?' and I said yes.

  We sipped our wine. A better man might have reflected that this young woman had recently been tragically widowed, and that her dead husband was my lifelong friend, but then a better man wouldn't have come here in the first place, and even if he had, he would have come armed with a better excuse for being there, and he wouldn't have thrown up on her bra.

  I told her what had been happening at the magazine, and how I thought it was going quite well, considering. She asked about the Power List and I explained about the names we'd come up with as possible suspects. I asked her if any of them meant anything to her, and she said she'd been there when Mouse went to pick up his Jet from the airport, and that Jacintha Ryan had spoken to Mouse over a speakerphone from her office in America.

  'What was she like?' I asked.

  'Distant,' said May Li, with a smile. 'Professional.'

  'In what sense?'

  'That American have-a-nice day thing, you know? She had her man here take us out for dinner. He treated us well.'

  'Where was this?'

  'Past Masters. It's convenient and it's private, and they don't let civilians in.'

  'Civilians as in ordinary plonkers like me.'

  'You're not a civilian any more, Dan. You're a – what do they say? – mover and shaker.'