Belfast Confidential

by Bateman, Colin

  'Watch your mouth, Concrete.'

  I lowered my arms. Concrete kept his up, although in an ironic fashion. Artists.

  'We had a report you'd been kidnapped and were being held against your will.'

  I shook my head. 'No. No, I wasn't.'

  Concrete winked at me. 'I don't suppose you boys have a search warrant?'

  'Fuck off, Concrete.'

  They turned for the door. One stopped and said, 'Do you want to come with us, Mr Starkey?'

  'Okay,' I said.

  Delores and the driver were just getting back up. A cop offered her a hand, but she brushed it off. 'Missed the end of fucking Holby now,' she snapped.

  'Don't worry, boys,' said Concrete, 'she's got it taped.'

  They filed out of the kitchen, along the hall and towards the front door, which had been smashed off its hinges. Glass was scattered everywhere.

  'Send us the bill, Concrete,' a cop said with the kind of fatigue that suggested he'd said it a hundred times before.

  Concrete followed us through the broken door. There were half a dozen cop cars and several unmarked vehicles fanned out in a semi-circle facing the house. Several cops, with their weapons drawn, had taken up covering positions behind their vehicles, only to be given the word that everything was okay.

  As I set foot in the garden, one of the unmarked cars flashed its lights, and a moment later Alec Large pushed the driver's door open and stood, looking rather sheepishly towards me. 'Sorry,' he said, 'this is all my fault. I thought you were in trouble.'

  I gave him a resigned shrug and crossed to the car. I opened the passenger side door, but before climbing in I looked back up at Concrete, standing with his driver on a small first-floor balcony watching as the cops bent back into their own vehicles. 'Thanks for the show,' I called, then thumbed behind me down the drive. 'I thought you had a state-of-the-art security system.'

  His driver snorted beside him.

  'Aye, you'd think that,' said Concrete, 'but it's fucking counterfeit, like everything else around here.'

  28

  I was tucked up toasty in bed, but I couldn't sleep. Rain was beating against the window, and somewhere beyond it, Topper mewed. For shelter. For his brother. For revenge. Maybe he'd spotted the ghost of Liam Miller wafting across our lawn, tutting. Perhaps I could make it up to Topper by getting him to pose for one of Concrete Corcoran's paintings. It would be a kind of immortality, another life to add to his nine. But no, Topper wasn't exotic enough. If he'd been a walrus or an alligator, he might have been in with a chance.

  I asked Trish about the redemptive powers of art.

  She said, 'Shut up, I'm trying to sleep.'

  'No, seriously,' I said, 'do you think he's genuine?'

  'Dan, please, it's late, I've to go to work.'

  'I know that. I'm sorry. I understand. But he's a hood of the highest calibre, or lowest, depending on your point of view. And he thinks he's transformed himself, but he's already leaning on art critics. He has no idea at all about how to conduct himself in a civilised society. The question is, have we done this to him, brutalised him, or is he just a sick fuck?'

  'You're the sick fuck, now shut up.'

  'He's invited us both to the launch of his exhibition. What with that and Liam's funeral, our social life is certainly taking off.'

  Patricia sighed. 'If you'll recall,' she said wearily, 'I didn't go to Liam's funeral, and there's no way I'm going to an art show organised by Concrete Corcoran. I know I don't get out much, but I know who he is and what he's capable of, and if you think I'm going along there to be nicety-nice and be strong-armed into buying a painting, then you've another think coming. So count me out.'

  We lay quietly in the dark. Then we turned this way and that.

  'Do you hear that cat?' Trish asked after a while.

  'I do.'

  'He sounds like he's pining for something.'

  'He's probably just locked out, wanting in.'

  'No, they've a cat flap.'

  'Well, then he's just being a cat.'

  'Well, it's bloody annoying.'

  'I know.'

  'Maybe you should go out and throw something at it.'

  I sighed. 'That would be cruel and heartless.'

  'That's life,' she said.

  Another five minutes passed, and I was finally beginning to slip into a bit of a doze when Patricia said, 'I'm worried about the garden.'

  'The garden?' I asked groggily.

  'The grass doesn't seem to be taking.'

  'It was starting to sprout.'

  'I know, I thought that too, but it's only here and there. We planted the last few weeks of September – maybe it was too late. I was thinking we should get someone round to look at it.'

  'Whatever,' I said.

  'Show some enthusiasm,' she said.

  'It's three o'clock in the morning.'

  'You woke me up.'

  'Not to talk about fucking gardening.'

  'No. What was it? The redemptive powers of art? Fascinating.'

  'Well, sor-ry.'

  We lay silently for another couple of minutes. Then she said, 'Liam thought we'd misread the chart in his book.'

  'Back to fucking Liam.'

  'He said that laying a lawn was a marriage of soil and seed.'

  'Just like us.'

  'Not just a case of throwing down the first thing that came to hand.'

  'Uhuh. That's right. Have another dig.'

  'It's not a dig, Dan. It's common sense.' She sighed. 'He was so sweet.'

  'Uhuh.'

  'He was. You never gave him a chance.'

  'I gave him every chance.'

  'You did not. You know something? I only knew him for a few hours – and I miss him already.'

  'Well, part of him's still on the wall downstairs.'

  'Dan!' She sat up straight. 'You just never know when to shut your mouth, do you!'

  'I was only saying.'

  'Sometimes you just make me really sick, do you know that?'

  'I was only raking, Trish, for god sake.'

  'He was killed in our house, Dan. He was murdered.'

  'I'm aware of that.'

  'And the best you can do is some sick fucking joke.'

  'Okay! I'm sorry! But it wasn't that sick.'

  'Oh fuck you.' She turned in the bed and gave me a hard shove.

  'What was that for?'

  'You! And this one!' She shoved me again.

  'Trish – fuck off! I'm trying to sleep.'

  She shoved me again. 'No – you fuck off.'

  'Trish . . .'

  'I'm serious. Go and sleep in the other room.'

  'Trish . . .'

  'Go!'

  'Trish . . .'

  'GO!'

  'Ah, fuck you.' I rolled out of bed. It was back to discretion being the better part of valour. We'd be at it all night otherwise. I tramped across the carpet in the dark. I opened the door and said, 'Trish . . .'

  'I'm serious. Just go, Dan.'

  But I didn't leave. Not yet. I hesitated by the door and said, 'Can you hear that?'

  She was silent for a moment; there was the rain still, but Topper had quit his mewing. 'Hear what?' she snapped.

  'Listen. There's music.'

  She listened. 'What music?'

  'Can't you hear it? It's from a musical.'

  'Dan, what are you—'

  'Listen . . . listen,' I said with enough urgency for her to try again. But still she couldn't hear anything.

  So I began to sing it. 'I'm gonna wash that man right offa my wall . . .'

  Trish screamed, and threw an alarm clock, but I was long gone.

  The spare room was filled with all kinds of boxes we hadn't yet had time to open. Or might never open. They do say that if you don't need something within six weeks of first moving house, then you don't need it at all. But for every box of shoes and handbags belonging to Trish there was one of football programmes and Land of the Giants bubblegum cards belonging to me. She would
never wear her shoes again, but once every few years I still took my stuff out and went through it, reminiscing. I would think about the child I had been, and the child I once had, and wonder whether there might be another, one day. I would think about the disparity between how much the programmes and cards were supposedly worth, and the chances of finding someone fool enough to pay that much for them. I'd heard about eBay, but it scared me.

  I sat on the bed. The curtains were open and I could see the blue Mercedes sitting in complete darkness across the road. I couldn't make out the outline of the man within, but I knew he was there.

  Alec Large.

  Someone to watch over me.

  29

  When I came down in the morning Alec was sitting at the kitchen table, eating a fry. Trish was in her dressing-gown, cleaning the George Foreman Grill.

  I said, 'Oh,' and he said, 'Oh.'

  I looked at Trish and said, 'What the fuck are you doing?'

  She shrugged.

  I said, 'The last time you made me a fry it was the nineteen-eighties and you were into Haircut One Pound.'

  She shrugged again and asked Alec if he would like another cup of tea. He looked at me, then said no.

  I headed for the front door. He dropped his knife and fork and hurried after me, pulling on his jacket. Trish stepped into the kitchen doorway and called down the hall. 'Oh Alec?'

  He stopped.

  'Nice talking to you. I hope it works out with your girlfriend.'

  'Thanks,' he said. 'Oh, and thanks for the breakfast. Lovely.'

  On the drive to work he started to say something.

  'I don't fucking want to know,' I spat.

  I sat down opposite Alan Wells, our Advertising Manager, at a little after ten. I was late for work. Something to do with a broken alarm clock. I said, 'I understand Concrete Corcoran's taken a double-page centrefold advert in the Power List issue.'

  Alan didn't look up from his computer. 'Yes, he has.'

  'And how much did that cost him?'

  Alan kept his eyes on the screen. 'A double-page advert in Belfast Confidential costs eleven thousand pounds.'

  'He's a first-time advertiser, right?' Alan nodded. 'And it's company policy that all first-time advertisers pay in advance, is that true?'

  'Yes, it is.'

  'Did Concrete Corcoran pay in advance?'

  'Yes, of course he did.' But then his eyes flicked up for the first time as he added, 'Kind of.'

  I took a deep breath. 'Explain.'

  Alan pushed his chair back. 'This way.' Then he added, 'Please,' when he saw I wasn't moving.

  I followed him out of Advertising into the Editorial part of the open-plan office. He stopped, then nodded forwards. I followed his gaze, and then shifted it left and right searching for what he meant. But it was just the office. Everyone was beavering away.

  'What?' I asked.

  He raised an eyebrow, and nodded forward again.

  'Look, for god—' And then the penny dropped. I'd seen it dozens of times, it had just never registered: hanging on the far wall – a landscape painting.

  'You didn't!'

  'It had a price tag of twelve thousand pounds and rising, so Mouse thought it would be a good investment.'

  'He okayed it?'

  'Yes, he did. Although it didn't actually arrive until after the fire. Weren't we lucky? And we had it valued independently.'

  I moved closer. It was a Concrete Corcoran production all right. Trees, bushes, a river, the Antrim Hills, and peeking out from behind an outcropping of rock, the head and trunk of an elephant.

  I said, 'Would you pay twelve thousand pounds for this?'

  'Of course not.'

  'So why did we?'

  'Because Mouse wanted it.'

  'Did he often swap expensive advertising space for . . . favours?'

  'Not that I'm aware of.'

  'Right.'

  I left him to it. Mouse was starting to piss me off. Of course he was entitled to swap advertising space in his own magazine for a painting, even one with an elephant in it. It just didn't seem like him; so I could add that to the growing list of other things that didn't seem like him. The reason we'd drifted apart wasn't laziness on either side, it was because he had moved to a completely different planet.

  My head was still elsewhere as I passed Mary's desk. She smiled up and said, 'You wouldn't guess who called to see you.'

  'Mother Teresa?'

  'Mother Teresa is dead.'

  I gave her a look. 'I know she's dead.'

  'Well, that's not funny then.' She pulled out a cigarette and lit it. She already had one burning in her ash tray. When she'd taken a long enough drag on it she picked an envelope out of her in-tray and handed it to me.

  'Terry Breene,' she said, as I opened it up.

  'He came here?'

  'Hand-delivered. '

  I took out a Press Pass for the second leg of Linfield's European Championship match against Maccabi Tel Aviv at Windsor Park the following night, with a printed invitation to an 'After Match Reception' in the boardroom.

  'What did he say?' I asked.

  'I have no idea,' said Mary. 'I was too busy looking into his eyes.'

  'Right,' I said. 'Great.'

  'Isn't he lovely, still?'

  'Yes, Mary, that's right.' I slipped the pass and invitation into my jacket pocket and turned for the stairs. But before I mounted them I turned back and said, 'Mary, do you know how you knew Mother Teresa was a Catholic?'

  She looked a little confused. 'No – how?'

  'She looked like one.'

  I gave her a wink and hurried up to my office.

  Half an hour later Pat came up the stairs. He handed over a sheaf of papers and I started to flick through them as he gave me a running commentary.

  'The top one's a list from the Arts Council of all the artists who've received lottery grants in the past eighteen months, and I cross-referenced them with our database of convicted terrorists. The last page shows the names of the eight lucky artists who've also done time for being naughty.' I glanced through the names: Concrete's was there, of course, but I also recognised Thomas 'Biro' McFarlane's, Malachi 'Three Strokes' Murphy and Edna O'Boyle. 'All were in the H Blocks, with the exception of Edna O'Boyle who was in Armagh Women's Prison.'

  The first two were fairly well-known players in their time; I hadn't heard of the woman, though. 'Know anything about her?' I asked.

  'Weapons found in her house, she got six years. She's not a painter, she specialises in textiles. Last year she won an Arts Council Fellowship for crocheting a bulletproof vest.'

  'A . . .'

  'I believe it was an ironic statement on . . . something.'

  'Okay, can you find out if any of this lot are connected to Concrete's school of painting, or to this exhibition that we're so thoughtfully advertising for them?'

  'Will do.' Pat took the sheets back.

  Around lunchtime I took a stroll across the square. A wrecking ball had been brought in to help dismantle what was left of the old Belfast Confidential building. I said to myself, 'Happens to us all,' and it was only when a familiar voice said, 'Aye,' beside me that I realised both that I'd spoken out loud and that Alec Large was with me.

  'Where did you pop up from?'

  'I'm always here. You won't always notice me. But in future, I'd prefer it if you advised me in advance where you're going – you know, gave me a schedule or something. I can check places out, assess the risk.'

  I nodded. 'Well, at eight o'clock in the morning you can usually find me having breakfast with my wife. Unless of course you're there first.'

  He cleared his throat. 'That was a bit of a miscalculation,' he said.

  'So perhaps in future then we could keep it on a strictly professional basis?'

  'Yes, sir.'

  'I don't give a flying fuck about your girlfriend.'

  'I understand that.'

  We walked on.

  'I'll need to know your blood type,' he s
aid. 'Just in case anything happens.' I nodded. He said, 'Well?'

  'Well what?'

  'What is your blood type?'

  'I have no idea. But I can find out. I'll stick a Post-it note to your windscreen tomorrow morning.'

  'Okay.'

  I'd noticed him on more than one occasion touching a finger to his ear and muttering something into his cuff, and now he did it again. He turned suddenly and I went with him. There was an old lady with a tartan shopping trolley coming towards us. We both gave her a hard look, but she trundled on past without exploding.

  I said, 'Who are you talking to?' and I gave a little pull on my own cuff.

  He said, 'No one.'

  'But you're talking to your sleeve, and you're wearing an earpiece.'

  'Yes, I am.'

  'So who are you listening to, then?'

  'Radio Ulster.'

  'You're what?'

  He cleared his throat. 'Let's keep moving; best not to provide a stationary target.'

  So I started walking again. There was the usual amount of daylight traffic around the square, and none of the pedestrians were noticeably bearing arms. I said, 'No, seriously who're you listening to?'

  'Talk Back, Radio Ulster.'

  'Is that code for There's an elite squad of highly trained security agents watching my every move?'

  'No, it really is Talk Back. You have to understand, Mr Starkey, that although I'm the best that money can buy, I'm operating on a limited budget. So there's no back-up.' He touched his ear again, and glanced about us as we approached Great Victoria Street. 'But as long as whoever is watching us thinks there's backup, they'll probably leave us alone.'

  'Someone's watching us?'

  'I have no idea, but why take the risk?'

  I glanced up and around me. At windows. I was thinking about Kennedy and his very complicated public suicide. And Martin Luther King and his penchant for cheap motels.

  'Well,' I said, 'if you insist.'

  The offices of JJ Howe, the Fine Arts auctioneers who'd given Mouse a £12,000 plus evaluation on the Concrete Corcoran landscape, were a five-minute walk away. I had an appointment, though I'd kept it deliberately vague as to exactly who I was. As far as the guy in charge was aware, I was just a punter looking for a valuation, and as long as he lived down a dark hole and didn't read the newspapers or watch TV he wouldn't suspect a thing.