Belfast Confidential

Belfast Confidential Page 14

by Bateman, Colin

  'In fact, she called me.'

  'Oh.'

  'She wanted to check that you were okay, and to say that she appreciated you coming over so late to update her, and to reassure me that you had behaved like a gentleman, because she knows how we women worry about our men.'

  'Oh.'

  'But she says you were sick on her bra.'

  'She wasn't wearing it at the time!'

  'She had no bra on?'

  'No! I mean, I was sick upstairs in her toilet, her bra was soaking in . . . wait a minute, how did she know I was sick on her bra?'

  'Because apparently you opened the bathroom window and threw it out, and the next-door neighbour was just putting her bin out and it landed on her.'

  'It landed on her?'

  'Wrapped itself around her face, according to May Li.'

  'Oh Holy Fuck.'

  Patricia laughed. I wasn't sure if it was a good sign. 'You are such a fucking wanker, Dan.'

  'Yes, I appreciate that, but that's why you love me.'

  'Sometimes I wonder.'

  I lazily pushed myself round in the swivel chair. I'd more or less forgotten that Liam Miller was still with me. He had his camera raised, and he was filming. 'Don't mind me,' he said.

  'Put that fucking camera down,' I spat.

  Liam kept the lens trained on me. 'Full and complete access and no editorial control. That's what we agreed.'

  'Not with me you didn't.'

  'With the company. You work for the company.'

  I sighed.

  Trish said, 'What's going on?'

  'Liam fucking Miller's filming me for a reality TV show.'

  'Liam Miller? You?'

  'Yes.'

  'You're going to be on TV?'

  'Yes. And according to Liam, so are you as well. In fact, he's coming round to film us having lunch and then he'll sort out our interpersonal problems and our fucking decking.'

  'We haven't got decking.'

  'Not yet we haven't.'

  'Liam Miller?'

  I had witnessed my lovely wife curse Liam Miller high and low; she had used words to describe him that no lady should ever, ever utter; she despised him and mocked him at every opportunity.

  'I'm going to have to get my hair done,' she said.

  'What?'

  'And the lounge is a fucking bollocks.'

  'What are you talking about?'

  'He can't come round with the place in this state.'

  'He can't come round full stop. Have you taken leave of your senses?'

  'It's Liam Miller!'

  'Exactly!'

  Liam still had his camera raised. 'I'm fucking warning you,' I said, and pointed.

  'Sticks and stones,' Liam half-sang.

  'Trish – no.'

  'Dan – yes. Remind me, my darling, as to who has the moral high ground right now?'

  I took a deep breath. 'You do.'

  'Remind me, my darling, who went sucking around May Li when he was drunk?'

  'I did not . . .'

  'Dan . . .'

  'I swear to—'

  'Your punishment, should you choose to accept it, is to allow Liam Miller into our life.'

  'No.'

  'Yes.'

  'Trish.'

  'Dan.'

  I drummed my fingers on the desk. Liam's camera moved to focus in on them. I raised them into a two-fingered salute.

  'If I do, does that mean I'm forgiven?'

  'No, Dan. I neither forgive nor forget. I merely extend the time in which you're allowed to travel in my exalted circle.'

  'That's one name for it,' I said.

  'Well, at least it'll be mine, rather than that bitch May Li's.'

  'Oh – she's a bitch now.'

  'Of course she is. She phoned up to see how you were? Bollocks. She phoned up pretending to be concerned, but really to let me know that you'd come to her door with your tongue hanging out. She was letting me know she can have you any time she wants.'

  'She can not,' I said. Then added after a suitable pause, 'She'll have to make an appointment like everyone else.'

  Patricia laughed quietly. 'What are we like,' she said.

  'We are what we are, and no one can change us.'

  'Well – perhaps Liam can.'

  I looked across the table at Liam. 'Yes, perhaps,' I said.

  He was a one-man band. He said that with the advances in digital cameras he didn't need a crew or a soundman or a producer or a director or an editor. He was all of these things, and so much more. It sounded to me like he was just cheap. He followed me around the office like a dog. He swanned around us as we drank coffee, debated the merits of certain photographs, he criticised the lighting, and mocked the office furniture. He talked summer vacations with the girls in the office, performed some kind of wanky Feng Shui ritual and coughed in a loud and exaggerated fashion every time Mary wandered past with a cigarette hanging out of her mouth.

  He asked, on camera, if I was aware of a bad atmosphere in the office, and I said only since he arrived and he laughed long and hard and asked me to repeat the story about throwing up in May Li's bra because he'd only caught one side of it. I refused. He insisted. I stormed off. I couldn't get rid of him.

  Eventually I put a hand over his lens and said, 'This is about the Power List, isn't it?'

  'Power List?' he asked innocently.

  'You're doing this to make sure you're on it. If I tell you you're on it, will you go away and leave me alone?'

  He smiled. 'Darling, I'm way above the Power List.'

  He removed my hand from the lens, and I let him do it. I was really pissed off.

  Patricia phoned me half a dozen times to update me on her progress. She was shifting furniture and painting walls and hoovering like there was no tomorrow. More than once she said, 'Liam Miller! Wait till I tell the girls!'

  She called again just as I was pulling on my jacket. I had to get out. I had to get away. Naturally Liam Miller slipped into his jacket as well. 'I'm like a limpet!' he exclaimed, 'Except I don't smell of fish.'

  Patricia asked what Liam would like for dinner. 'Liam, what would you like for dinner?'

  'It's not my show,' he replied. 'It's entirely up to you.'

  'It's entirely up to you,' I told Patricia.

  'Oh shite,' she said. 'What do you think?'

  'Well, sausage, beans and chips works for me.'

  'No! Jesus Christ, Dan, this is going out all over the country.'

  'Are you ashamed of sausage, beans and chips?'

  'Yes, frankly. Ask him if he would like Famagusta chicken with beansprouts.'

  'I'd ask him if I knew what the fuck it was.'

  'Just ask him.'

  I asked him. He gave me the thumbs-up. 'That seems to be a yes,' I said.

  'Brilliant. I can buy it in Marksies then tart it up to look like my own.'

  'Is that ethical?' I asked.

  Liam raised an eyebrow. 'Is what ethical?'

  I smiled for the camera. 'Wouldn't you like to know.'

  Trish said, 'No one needs to know. How are you getting on with him?'

  'Liam? He's a pain in the hole.'

  Liam paused his filming for a moment. 'You can't say that.'

  'Say what – hole?'

  'Yes.' He gave me a thin smile and patted his pocket, home of the metaphorical contract.

  'Well,' Trish said, 'I better go.'

  'Hold on a mo.' I handed the phone across to Liam. 'The wife wants a word.'

  Liam took the receiver and said, 'Well, hello . . .'

  I moved swiftly across the room, opened the door, removed the key, then closed it after me and locked it.

  On my way out I gave the key to Mary and said, 'Leave him to stew for half an hour, and if he starts whining, blow smoke through the keyhole.'

  23

  I drove from the office to the former green belt site that was now pegged out as the future headquarters of Ryan Auto. Mary was having trouble fixing up an interview with Jacintha Ryan, and as
I was determined not to put myself through the indignity of peeking under everyone's mask at the upcoming Ball in order to secure a few words face to face, and also in part to escape Liam Miller's attentions, I decided to drive out to West Belfast and take a look at the lie of the land there for myself.

  What had once been green and pleasant fields (with added trolleys), was now completely ploughed up and apparently ready for building work to begin. There were three connected Portakabins situated behind a high wire fence, with entrance gates policed by two burly security guards. Seeing as how I was not only the new owner of Belfast Confidential but was also driving one of only three Ryan Jets in existence I thought they might overlook the fact that I was turning up without an appointment.

  The gates opened before me and I gunned the sleek little machine through the rutted entrance. It was about the only gunning I'd managed, as every driver between here and there had slowed down to take a closer look, boxing me in and only allowing me to crawl along. I'd driven with my elbow resting on the window frame, and the wind blowing through my hair. It was rather nice. All kinds of interesting women smiled at me, which made up for the way their husbands scowled. It felt good to be in Mouse's shoes, as opposed to the clown ones I normally wore.

  'One careful driver, returning a borrowed motor,' I said when the first guard approached. 'Who's in charge?'

  He nodded and raised a walkie-talkie and spoke quietly into it. Behind me the gates purred shut. I was instructed to enter the closest Portakabin, so I splashed through the mud, then wiped my feet inadequately on a rubber mat by the entrance. I opened the door and stepped inside.

  'Oh,' I said.

  I'd expected your average workaday builders' cabin, but this was all plush carpets and designer furniture. There were three glass desks, each with its own iMac; the desks were arranged on three sides of a larger glass table upon which sat a scale model of the planned factory. There was a man in a grey suit and red tie sitting behind one of the desks. He was thin-faced and his eyes were a little bit too close together for comfort. The other two desks were unoccupied. On the wall behind him was a framed animation cell from Bambi.

  He looked slightly annoyed as he stood up. 'You should have called,' he said. His accent was difficult to place, but mid-Atlantic probably covers it.

  I said, 'Sorry, only time I could get away.'

  'And you are?'

  I told him who I was and what I did.

  'Ah,' he said. 'It was most unfortunate, what happened to your predecessor.'

  'Yes, it was.'

  'The car is more than a week overdue, but we felt it inappropriate to demand it back, given the circumstances.'

  'I appreciate that.'

  'Liam understood as well.'

  'Liam?'

  'Liam Neeson. He was next on the list.'

  I nodded, then I tossed him the keys, which took him a little by surprise. He fumbled and dropped them, and they landed silently on the carpet. Thick shag. He didn't make any attempt to pick them up, as if the effort might crease his nice suit beyond repair.

  'So,' I said, nodding at the table-top model, 'this is what it's going to look like. Very impressive.'

  'We like to think so.' Then he added, 'I'm sorry – I'm Matthew Rye, Project Manager.'

  He came forward and we shook hands over the top of the model. There were little buildings and little people and a car park full of little Jets and the fake grass that landscaped the grounds was made out of that powdered stuff model railway enthusiasts swear by. I nodded down at the little people. 'Which one's you?' I asked.

  'I'm inside,' he said, without a trace of humour, 'working the phones.'

  'Okay,' I said.

  'We brought the basic design with us from America, and then Liam Miller added a few touches, more of an Irish feel. The windows will be angled in such a way to maximise the light. There's not a lot of light in Ireland.'

  The model was encased in a glass box, presumably to stop the locals from stealing the cars. I gazed wistfully down.

  I said, 'I used to play all around here when I was a kid. There was a nice pond and some ducks. We used to frolic amongst the yellow diamond daisies.'

  Matthew Rye stiffened slightly. 'Well, all things must change. Thank you for returning the vehicle. Is there anything else I can help you with?'

  'I'm keen to get an interview with Jacintha Ryan.'

  'You and everyone else.'

  'You're aware of how influential Belfast Confidential is?'

  'In Belfast, yes. But elsewhere? This is an international operation, Mr Starkey, and with respect, Belfast Confidential hardly touches the market we're aiming for.'

  'Well, I just thought she'd be anxious to make a good impression.'

  'Once again with respect, Mr Starkey, I believe investing hundreds of millions of dollars and creating thousands of jobs does make a good impression.'

  'Fair point,' I conceded.

  I looked at the model some more. He looked at me. And then at his watch.

  'I enjoyed the drive,' I said.

  'It's a fine vehicle.'

  'Although I know bugger-all about cars.'

  'Well, let me assure you, you won't find a better one.'

  'Apparently there was a problem with the brakes.'

  'I would find that difficult to believe.'

  I shrugged.

  'The brakes are state of the art,' he said. 'There is no problem with them.'

  'Well, there was with these. Seems a pity to spoil such a positive article with negative comments.'

  He clasped his hands before him and gave me a look. 'Are you trying to blackmail Ryan Auto?'

  'Not at all. Just I have an invite to the Masked Ball thingy but it's not really my cup of tea and everyone'll be trying to catch Miss Ryan's ear and to tell you the truth, we have a Power List special issue coming out and she's in with a fair chance of being number one, except the Ball's a bit close to our print deadline, so I thought a few words in advance . . .'

  He cleared his throat. 'Perhaps if you put your request in writing.'

  'Is that press office speak for "Bugger off and die"?'

  'That's not for me to say. You would have to contact New York. As I said, I'm only the Project Manager, Press is a separate division.'

  'Tell you what.' I took out a business card and handed it to him. The ink was barely dry. It said Dan Starkey, Editor & Publisher, Belfast Confidential. I was quite proud of it. 'Maybe you could pass this on to the press office on my behalf. We've tried from our end without any luck.'

  Matthew Rye gave a slight nod, then slipped the card into his jacket pocket without looking at it. And that appeared to be that. I took a final look down over the sea of toy cars, then glanced back up at Matthew Rye.

  'Don't know about you,' I said, 'but I kind of preferred it when there were yellow diamond daisies.'

  Rye just looked at me. Then as I stepped out from behind the table, his attention switched to my feet.

  'You've tramped mud into our carpet,' he pointed out.

  'Yes, I have,' I said.

  24

  Belfast Confidential, dealing as it does with all kinds of potentially libellous situations, has a team of solicitors on call virtually around the clock. It's a good thing too, for I was at the end of my tether. It was a little after midnight, and the phone was answered on the second ring. I explained who I was, and what I wanted.

  'Okay,' the solicitor began.

  'But first,' I said, 'are you sitting in an office, working late, or are you tucked up in bed, cursing the existence of mobile phones?'

  'The latter,' he said.

  'Excellent,' I replied. 'A level playing-field. Now—'

  'Before you go on, Mr Starkey, we have received a directive from Mrs May Li McBride to transfer a forty-nine per cent ownership of Belfast Confidential to your name, and also to draw up a contract to employ you as Editor on a salary equal to that of your predecessor.'

  'Forty-nine?' I asked.

  'Forty-nine,' he said.r />
  'Not fifty.'

  'Not fifty,' he clarified.

  'All right,' I said.

  'However, as far as that ownership is concerned, Mrs McBride has first to supply us with paperwork showing that she is herself in a position to transfer it, i.e. proof that she is the actual owner of the magazine. I understand that this will take a while to prepare, given the circumstances of her husband's death and the necessary complications associated with an individual who dies intestate. We have greater leeway on the salary question, as the company must continue to function, and I don't see a problem with putting a temporary contract through immediately.'

  'Good,' I said.

  'As for the other thing – well, the contract between Belfast Confidential and Liam Miller's Vanity Productions is, as far as I can determine, legally binding. It was signed by Mr McBride and countersigned by – well, by us. Me, to be exact.'

  'Shite.'

  'Liam Miller insisted on inserting a number of clauses which may or may not be relevant to you, but which Mr McBride signed off on. Clause 3C, for example, specifies that the subject refrain from using swearwords while being filmed.'

  'Fuck.'

  'Clause . . . 5F specifies that the subject may not consume alcohol while being filmed, other than as approved by the director.'

  'Oh bollocks.'

  'And there's a . . . 6A, I think, which specifies that for the course of filming the production company has access to your office and place of residence for twenty-four hours a day, with no parts of the above to be deemed off-limits, save for those mentioned in appendix . . . let me see . . . upstairs bathroom, loft . . .'

  'Yes, yes, that's where I am now.'

  'In the loft?'

  'Yeah, and it's fucking freezing.'

  'It's not—'

  'Converted? God, no. Just me, some thirty-year-old Beanos and the water tank.'

  'If you don't mind me asking . . .'

  'Because the fucker's downstairs now, going through my cupboards.'

  'But it's gone midnight.'

  'I know! But it's television, darling, we never sleep! The fucker. Jesus Christ, man, there must be something I can do.'

  He was quiet for a few moments. 'Well,' he said, then stopped again and seemed to think some more about it. 'Yes. I suppose. But please bear in mind that technically speaking I'm giving legal advice against my own contract here.'

 

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