I sighed. I rolled off the bed, opened the bag and took out a formal black suit. So far so good. Then the mask. I said, 'What the fuck's this?'
'It's a silver and blue full face Moon eye-mask.'
'Uhuh,' I said. One half was silver, one half was blue, with little stars. I tried it on. I looked at myself in the mirror. 'I look like a robot,' I said.
Patricia nodded beside me. 'It's weird, it's creepy.'
'This was the best they had?'
'Well, they had some Marquis de Sade masks left, but I guessed the bad guys would be wearing those.'
'The Marquis de Sade was a bad guy?'
She thought about this. 'Depends on your point of view, I suppose. Relax – you look good.'
'You said I looked weird and creepy.'
'Mmmm. But in a good way.' She smiled. 'Come on, weird and creepy guy, take me to bed.'
'With the mask on?'
'With the mask on.'
'If you ask me, you're the weird and creepy one. If you ask me, you should be wearing a mask as well, but seeing as how we only have one, maybe I should put a pillow over your head, or an oven glove.'
She smiled patiently. 'Do you want sex or do you not?'
'Yes, please,' I said.
We lay in bed. The mask was off. It was impractical for what we'd gotten up to. She said, 'I missed that.'
'So did I.'
'And if you're not careful, you'll be late for the Ball.'
'Did you ever think, in all your wildest dreams, you'd get to say that? "You'll be late for the Ball".'
She smiled, and snuggled against me. 'You don't have to go,' she said.
'No, I don't,' I agreed.
'You're just putting yourself in harm's way again.'
'Yes, I am.'
'And for no good reason. What can it achieve?'
'I don't know, Trish. I honestly don't. I just know that this guy Rye killed Mouse, and that he might have been responsible for Liam Miller's death, and he must have been involved in Stephen and Patrick's murders. And I can't go to the police because he appears to be in cahoots with them. So the only thing I can think of is to go to this Ball and do my usual thing.'
'Act like a shit-magnet.'
'Exactly.'
'In the hope that Rye and whoever else is involved will somehow betray themselves.'
'Yes. You know me too well.'
She stroked my chest. 'Will it work?'
'I have no idea.'
'And if it doesn't?'
'Well, I'm up shit creek without a paddle already, so it can hardly get any worse.'
'Yes, it can, Dan.'
'I know. But I'll be wearing a mask. Nobody will recognise me.'
'I am not reassured.'
'Look – it's the best I can manage.'
'And you just expect me to lie here, tearing my hair out, wondering?'
I nodded.
'And if for some reason, you don't come back to me?'
'Then you go to Paul McDowell or someone else at the Telegraph and tell them everything you know.'
'And what's to stop us doing that right now?'
I pointed at the television screen. It had been on throughout our lovemaking, and every once in a while, to slow things down, I'd taken a peek at the Ceefax page we'd called up as soon as we'd gotten into the room. The headline said Journalist Sought In Gay Murder Horror.
We read it again, just to see if it had been updated, or if I'd been arrested and nobody had let me know. Patricia hugged me a little closer as she read. Nothing had changed.
'On the bright side,' she said eventually, 'it must feel good to be wanted.'
48
I travelled by taxi, mask already in place, and thanked God that He hadn't decided to have another laugh by granting me the Belle of Belfast City as my driver. I got a fat fella in a baseball cap who glanced at me a dozen times in the mirror, but hardly said a word. When he did, it was about the weather, not the fact that there was a moonman in his back seat.
In five minutes we were approaching Belfast City Hall. I had always found it to be a hugely impressive building, despite all the crap talked in it. Its four towers surrounded a huge central dome, which dominated the city centre. Massive beams of light swept across it, as if it was hosting a Hollywood première, or being defended against an air raid. Fleets of executive taxis and stretch limos vied for dropping-off space close to the gates, and barriers held back crowds of onlookers as Belfast's finest arrived for the social occasion of the season. I had attended hundreds of events here over the years, but I'd never seen it look quite like this, or felt such a buzz of anticipation in the air.
Getting inside was surprisingly easy. Everyone was wearing masks, including the bouncers. They weren't going to ask everyone to provide ID or reveal themselves. That would have spoiled the whole atmosphere. Perish the thought. If you had an invite, you were in. And I had one. One of the few things I'd rescued from my desk at Belfast Confidential. I watched as a group of a dozen or so guests, already half-drunk, spilled out of a white stretch, then slipped in amongst them. I made small talk with them as we approached the bouncers, then laughed at some imaginary joke as I handed over my invite. The bouncers didn't even look at it. We were all waved through.
We moved into a vast entrance hall, its walls lined with Italian marble, the floor equally impressive in black and white marble. Ahead of us there was a noble staircase, richly carved and lighted by seven stained-glass windows portraying various scenes from Belfast's colourful history, although I noted there wasn't one showing The Clash's arrival in 1978. The building has four halls, of which the Great Hall is the largest. I had presumed that this was where the Ball would be held – and it was, but Ryan Auto had also taken over the other three halls, decking them all out in vast swathes of dark cloth and netting laced with autumn leaves and providing subtle lights which completely altered the character and atmosphere of the building. In one word – gothic. And I suppose in its own way it was quite classy, in that as hard as I looked, I couldn't find one single reference to Ryan Auto, the Jet itself, or to our host for the evening, Jacintha Ryan herself.
The Ulster Orchestra had been split into four sections, the largest in the Great Hall, the smaller ones providing the music in the other three. Each of the halls also boasted a free bar; these were, understandably, already packed. I wasn't sure exactly what I was looking for, or hoping to find out, so I sought out a place by the bar in the Great Hall, ordered a drink, and waited for something to happen. It was bound to. I was there.
Most of the men were also wearing full face-masks – at least fifteen of them, I noted, exactly the same as mine. However, because of the small mouth openings, they'd had to push them up on top of their heads or take them off entirely in order to drink their pints without spilling them down their fronts. The ladies, on the other hand, resplendent in shimmering silk ballgowns, were mostly wearing eye-masks, which allowed them to drink freely without fully revealing their identities.
I saw Brian Kerr, standing with his Advertising Manager, Alan Wells. I saw Paul McDowell, my old Editor from the Belfast Telegraph. I saw TV stars. I saw Kieren Kitt, his mask pushed up onto the top of his head, but still wearing sunglasses. He was deep in conversation with his three former band members; they were laughing and joking and I crossed my fingers that a reunion was on the cards.
At one end of the bar: Mooney and Mayne.
They were the only ones I'd seen so far who weren't dressed for the occasion. No formal suits, no masks. They had their drinks, two each, but they were scanning the packed room and looking rather frustrated because so many people were still wearing their masks. I perused a long list of cocktails spelled out in gothic lettering on a silkscreen print hanging above the bar, and ordered from a waitress in a cat mask, but whose proportions and smile I recognised from Past Masters. It seemed that Patrick O'Brien had his fingers in every pie. Almost literally. Cocktail in hand, I went and stood by Mooney and Mayne.
Keep your friends close, your ene
mies closer.
Not that I had any friends.
Mayne was saying, 'Once the dancing starts, they'll take them off then, won't they?'
Mooney shook his head doubtfully.
'Christ,' said Mayne, 'it shouldn't be allowed. C'mon, let's circulate.'
As they moved past me I said, 'Sorry, mate, you wouldn't have the time, would you?'
Without thinking, Mayne turned his wrist to check the time, and spilled the top of his pint over the sleeve of his jacket and down his trousers. 'Fuck!' he said. He shook his head at his own stupidity. 'Ten past fucking eight,' he snapped, then moved on, still shaking his head. I was smiling widely, but no one could tell. As I mingled, I heard my name mentioned several times, and at first I froze, thinking that I'd somehow been recognised, but then I realised that I was being talked about and was perfectly free to stop and listen, and even join in. I kind of liked that. The masks were a great equaliser.
A man said, 'Oh yes, they had their heads blown clean off, and I heard they were mutilated as well – you know, down there.' He nodded down at his crotch. 'Oh yes – cut them off and put them in the fridge, that's what I heard.'
'Nonsense,' said a woman in a gold eye-mask with a design like a starfish. 'I heard they weren't shot at all but they were – you know – fucked to death.'
'Oh Christ,' said another man.
'I suspected it all along – that Starkey was gay. There was something about him.'
I said, 'You've got it all wrong – he's as straight as they come. I have it on good authority from a woman who should know that he's the best lover in Belfast. A sexual wildebeest, she said. Not a gay cell in his body.'
Another lady said, 'I heard he was straight, but crap in bed. I heard that from his wife's best friend.'
'Who's his wife's best friend?' I asked.
'Well, I couldn't say here, it wouldn't be polite.'
'I heard he was a fruit,' said yet another man, this time with a devil eye-mask with black horns on either side, 'who was living a lie. I guess the pressure got too much for him and he just exploded.'
'Inside those poor boys,' said the starfish lady, and they all started laughing.
'Oh Ruth, you are awful. I just hope they catch him. Gay or straight, he's a menace.'
'But what if he's innocent?' I ventured. 'What if he's been framed?'
They exchanged glances, then burst into laughter again. 'Framed?' asked one, incredulously. 'In this day and age? And in our home town? That'll be the day!'
I heard variations of the same conversation half a dozen times. I'm sure the Ryan Auto people were livid. The way things were going I'd sell more copies of my autobiography than they'd sell cars.
Everyone was getting progressively drunker and drunker. By nine they'd run out of ice at the bar, and the beer was running low. Emergency kegs were cheered in. I drifted from hall to hall to hall to hall without hearing anything but gossip or spotting anyone suspicious or having any kind of a brainwave. I kept my eyes peeled for Matthew Rye, but it was impossible to tell. I supposed he would be wherever Jacintha Ryan was, and she had yet to make her grand entrance.
I had another cocktail and wondered whether Liam Miller would have approved of the costumes on show or of how the City Hall had been transformed for the occasion. And then I thought about Terry Breene and how under different circumstances I might have stood at the bar of the Great Hall getting quietly pissed in the company of my hero. Or what sort of an impression Concrete Corcoran might have made, his exhibition a sell-out, a critical triumph, surrounded by his reformed terrorist cronies, the pride of West Belfast, embraced but also kept at arm's length by the city's elite.
And how I would have liked to have had Patricia by my side, looking fantastic in a ballgown. I could have walked her down that staircase, and led her onto the dance floor and she would have stared lovingly into my eyes while we tripped the light fantastic.
Something like that.
I snapped myself out of it as the music suddenly changed: one moment a soothing chamber piece, then suddenly trumpets blasting out. The main lights began to dim and be replaced by swirling spotlights. People started to rush into the Great Hall and I found myself squeezed back towards the bar. Then there came an audible, 'Oooh! Look!' from somewhere behind me, and I saw a woman pointing up at the ceiling. A bright and shiny Jet, which must have hung unnoticed there all evening, was beginning to descend. It was suspended from what appeared to be impossibly thin wires. It was only as it cleared the shadows of the highest part of the ceiling that we could see that there was something perched on the roof of the vehicle. The car itself was a bright green, with what looked like a giant yellow flower stuck on top. All around me people were pointing and whispering and trying to work out exactly what it was . . . and then an elderly woman just in front of me let out a gasp of recognition. 'Why, it's a yellow diamond daisy!' All around her, other partygoers nodded and agreed. As it reached the halfway point between the ceiling and the floor, people began to scatter to make room for its landing. Then the petals of the flower suddenly began to move and spread and open. A voice boomed out:
'Ladies and gentlemen, your host – Miss Jacintha Ryan!'
The flower opened fully at last, and there she was, resplendent in an equally yellow dress. Jacintha Ryan beamed down at her adoring public; she waved royally, acknowledging the cheers which resounded around the Great Hall and far beyond.
The Jet finally touched the floor. Giant sparklers exploded out of the ceiling and thousands of little specks of glitter began to rain down harmlessly around us. From the four sides of the car, Armani-suited and silver-masked attendants hurried forward to help Jacintha Ryan down from the roof.
It was way over the top, and could easily have been very, very tacky, but somehow it seemed to work.
It was an entrance to tell your kids about. And she did look absolutely devastating as she almost glided forward. She stopped suddenly and in a very theatrical manner, raised a confused finger to her mouth. Then, acting as if a bulb had suddenly gone off in her head, she turned back to the Jet and opened the driver's door – and out stepped First Minister Frank Galvin, to huge applause. Hand-in-hand they then began to make their way through the crowds, shaking hands and smiling and laughing.
If I'd been Frank Galvin, I'd have shot the PR who'd okayed the stunt. It made him look like he was playing second fiddle, the dumb side-kick to the Queen of the North. A Prince Philip, a Denis Thatcher, ladies and gentlemen, Mr Olga Korbut. But God love him, he probably wasn't even aware of it. He was lapping up the attention and the applause, his familiar smile fixed in place, and a minder following behind, whispering the names of the devoted followers.
The crush was too great for most of the guests to get close. So, to appease them, Past Masters waitresses began to pass out little gift boxes wrapped in perfumed yellow paper which, when opened, revealed a Matchbox-sized model of the Ryan Jet. The box said Limited Edition, and they went down a treat with all the drunk men, who immediately began making brmmm-brmmmm noises.
Too many people, too much chatter, and all of it insubstantial. I had learned nothing, yet it was possibly the only opportunity I might ever have to mingle unrecognised with the surviving major players in my own divine little comedy. I stood at the bottom of the grand staircase and stared up. I knew the City Hall well enough to know where the VIPs hung out when they weren't required to gladhand the plebs, and had been at enough official functions to know that when the A-list ladies needed to powder their noses they didn't want to have to do it in full glare of the bitching squad. There was a Green Room on the first floor, which came complete with its own toilet suite. That's where I needed to be. Sooner or later the royal couple would retreat there.
I hurried up the steps, expecting at any moment to be stopped by the two security guys at the top, but they hardly blinked as I passed. Just like outside. It came down to confidence and acting like you belonged. Most of the VIPs who were still upstairs weren't actually in the Green Room itself, but
standing outside it, watching over the rail as Jacintha Ryan continued her stately progress through the Great Hall. I stood with them for a moment, and saw that Frank Galvin had finally let go of her hand and was now following just a few steps behind. Then I stepped into the Green Room. There were half a dozen other VIPs sitting around drinking and talking; several also stood by a long wooden table weighed down by a massive buffet. I walked up to take a closer look, and found myself standing beside a man with an identical silver moon-mask to mine; he was looking at the dozens of different types of sandwiches, trying to decide. He finally settled on a plain ham one, raised it to his mouth, then laughed as he realised that his mask was still in place and there was no possibility of squeezing it through the narrow gap.
'Bloody nightmare, aren't they?' I said, tapping the side of my own mask. I was starving, actually. I couldn't remember the last time I'd eaten. The man beside me nodded, then pushed his mask back.
Matthew Rye.
My eyes darted to the food.
He took a bite, then nodded. 'Lovely' he said. 'You should try one.'
I raised my glass. Our eyes met. He didn't blink. I did. Three times. Couldn't help it. 'Think I'll stick to these,' I said, and took a sip through my straw.
He smiled, nodded, then said, 'Nice mask.' He gave me a wink, then pushed the rest of the sandwich into his mouth, pulled his mask back down and turned for the door.
I should have grabbed him by the throat and demanded answers or a confession. The only thing that stopped me was a fear of death.
I had spoken to him once before, in the Portakabin on the West Belfast factory site. But then he'd just been a company man in a decent suit and access to a lot of hard hats. He hadn't been a threat. But knowledge is a powerful thing, and the fact that I knew he was responsible for Mouse's murder and possibly for any number of others changed my reaction to him entirely.
Shiver.
Christ.
I lifted a handful of sandwiches, then pushed through a different door into a small corridor leading to the VIP Ladies and Gents toilets. I knocked on the door of the Ladies, and when there was no response I entered. It was plush and smelled of roses. Aerosol roses, but still roses. There was a sink, and a long mirror, and an armchair and a small pile of towels. There were two cubicles. I opened one of them, slipped in and locked it behind me. I sat on the toilet and pushed up my mask. I ate my sandwiches and waited.
Belfast Confidential Page 29
