She would come.
I know women.
She would come.
49
. . . but not yet. Two cultivated ladies came chattering in and one went into the next cubicle and closed the door, while the other tapped on mine and asked if I was going to be long. Alec Large's line came back to me: You have to load them up before you shoot them out, but my voice wasn't high enough to carry it off. She tapped again and said, 'Excuse me?' and I still didn't respond. She tutted.
The toilet beside me flushed. I could see under the gap that she was wearing Prada shoes. I wouldn't ordinarily have known Prada from a clown shoe, but Patricia had recently taken to pointing them out and lamenting wistfully, 'Perhaps for Christmas.' Meanwhile I smiled knowingly, because she was bound for disappointment. Life was too short to spend that much money on shoes. Prada giggled, and clipped across to fix her face while the other woman came in and sat down; this one was apparently less modest, for she left her door fully open. She said, 'Do you think she's had a tuck?'
'Who, Jacintha Ryan?'
'Who else?'
'I think she has. And her eyes. You can always tell with the eyes.'
'You didn't guess with mine.'
'You never . . .'
'Yes, I have! New guy on the Malone Road – he's fantastic. I'll give you his number, not that you need it.'
They yittered away for another five minutes.
I bided my time.
I had nothing else to do but bide.
Lots of biding. The sandwiches were gone. My mask was back down and breathing into it was kind of weird and steamy. The sounds of music and partying drifted up from the halls of fun and brmmm-brmmmm. I searched for graffiti, and eventually found some in very neat handwriting near the bottom of the door. It said: If you need some ironing done, phone Belfast . . . A better class of vandal, indeed.
Three minutes after Prada and her mate went out, Jacintha Ryan came in. I could tell by the hem of the yellow diamond daisy dress, and the yellow high heels that went with it. There was a small gap between the door and the frame, and I was able to watch as she leaned on the sink, let out a small groan, then slipped off her shoes. She gave a sigh of relief, opened her handbag and removed a cigarette and lighter. She lit up and took a long drag, then pressed her face close to the mirror. It had one of those very bright lights that shows everything.
She was still looking in the mirror as I unlocked the cubicle door and came out, but was self-confident enough to continue to concentrate on herself, so it wasn't until I approached the cloakroom door, and instead of opening it, bolted it shut that she looked round and realised that I was a man in the Ladies toilets. But there was no panic at all.
She smiled, checked an eyelash in her reflection and said, 'Matthew – you're always one step ahead of me.'
I didn't say a word.
She turned from the mirror and came up close. She smelled of peaches. She said, 'It's such a strain, smiling all the time. And I can hardly feel my fingers at all. Shaking all those hands, they're numb.' Her hand slipped around behind me and caressed my arse. 'But I can feel you.'
Oh.
'You're so strong.'
Her other hand began a circular motion on my other cheek.
'And it's been so long.'
Her left hand began to move round to the front. She started to caress me there.
'Didn't you miss me?'
Her right hand lifted my hand and rubbed it across her breast. And back again.
'Didn't you miss this?'
I gave a little grunt.
'Oh, it's the strong, silent type, is it? Are your lips sealed, Matthew? Because mine aren't . . .'
She sank slowly to her knees and kissed my crotch. Then she reached for my zip, while continuing to kiss me.
'Do you like this, Matthew? Did you miss this?'
She rubbed her hand across me, then slowly eased down the zip. Then she hesitated. 'What's wrong, Matthew? Aren't you interested?'
Someone tried the door handle. Then they knocked on the door.
'Jacintha – are you all right?'
Matthew Rye's voice.
Jacintha lurched backwards, lost her balance and ended up on her arse on the floor. 'Who the fuck are you?' she hissed.
'Jacintha!'
'Tell him you're fine.'
'What?'
'Tell him you're fine. This will only take a minute.'
Jacintha scurried backwards, like a spider with two legs pulled off. 'You wouldn't—'
I charged across the floor after her. Catching a glimpse of myself in the mirror, a weird moonfaced robot man on the attack, I understood the fear that had now enveloped her. She was backed up against the far wall, with nowhere else to go. Nothing else to do but scream. I knelt down beside her, put a finger to my moulded lips. 'Shhhhh,' I said.
Her mouth was half-open, her eyes wide. 'Please,' she begged, 'don't hurt me. Please.'
'There's nothing to be scared of,' I whispered. 'Just tell him you're fine – now.'
A brief moment of decision. Gamble on a scream? The door was locked. What this madman could do before it's forced open. She nodded. 'Matthew!' she called. 'Matthew! I'm fine. I'll just be a minute.'
There was a pause, and then: 'You're sure?'
'Yes!'
Then silence.
She stared at me. She was shaking. 'Who are you?' she whispered. 'What do you want?'
'A free test-drive of the Ryan Jet.'
'What?'
'Nah, that's just to break the ice.' I pivoted forwards, until my knees were on the floor. 'Relax, okay? What is he, Matthew Rye – your boyfriend, lover?'
'He's . . . what does it matter? Please, just—'
'Need I remind you that I'm the scary one in the mask? Just answer the questions.'
'He's just . . . someone I know.'
'You pull the oul' zipper with everyone you know?'
'No, we just . . . sometimes . . .'
'Casual.'
'Yes. Please, if you want money, I—'
'I don't want money. I want to know about Matthew Rye.'
'Like what? Please, I'll tell you anything you want to know, just don't hurt me.'
'Like why he's killing people.'
Her eyes widened. 'What?'
'The Editor of Belfast Confidential, Liam Miller, two gay journalists, Toothless Malone . . .'
'I'm sorry – who are these people?'
'You don't know?'
'Why would I? I'm not from here any more.'
'They were important people here, in this town, and your boyfriend killed them.'
'No, look, I'm sorry if these people are dead, or murdered, but Matthew – you don't know him – he works for me. He builds factories, he oversees—'
'He oversees murder.'
'No.'
'Yes. There is evidence. On videotape.'
'That he killed someone?'
No, actually. It was purely circumstantial. 'He tied a man up, then burned him to death.'
'Oh my God.' Her hand went to her face; her fingers covered her lips. She pulled at the bottom one nervously, exposing perfect white teeth. 'I don't . . . Matthew?' I nodded. 'But why?'
'Well, I was hoping you could tell me that.'
'Me? What would I know about it? I came here to build cars. Why would— How could Matthew do this?'
'I don't know.'
She sucked up a deep breath, but couldn't stop a tear from springing. She wiped it away, then hugged herself. 'Tell me,' she whispered. 'Tell me everything you know.'
There was another sudden rattle at the door. 'Jacintha?'
Matthew Rye, getting impatient.
'I'm just having a cigarette, I'll be there in a minute, all right?' Silence again. She clutched my arm. 'Please tell me, I have to know.'
I pushed my mask back. It had done its work. She was clearly distraught. So I gave her the shorthand version, about the Belfast Confidential Power List and how people started dying and our big break was getting
the surveillance tape showing Matthew Rye, and how we did some checking on him and he turned out to be a sometime gangster from Miami who'd faked his credentials from Harvard. And how he was spending Ryan Auto money to pay off local cops and tap phones and how I was on the run and framed for the murder of my two young gay friends. 'Which is why I'm sitting on the floor of a Ladies toilets in a penguin suit and a moon-mask, frightening the Great White Hope of Irish industry half to death.'
'I'm not frightened,' she said.
'Well, I did my best.' I gave her a reassuring smile.
She shook her head slowly. 'My Matthew?'
I nodded.
She raised her hands to her face and tried to wipe her tears away. Her mascara had run. She looked a bit of a mess. 'I can hardly believe it.'
'I know.'
'Why would he do something like that?'
I shrugged. 'Deep psychological problems, or a bad hair day. You never know.'
'But what am I supposed to do?' Her eyes were pleading. 'I've spent my whole life planning for this moment. This was supposed to be the best night of my life – and it was – and now . . .'
I patted her arm gently. 'It's not you, it's him. You go to the police and—'
'But you said he was paying them!'
'Good point. Then go higher. Frank Galvin – you trust him, don't you?'
She nodded slowly. 'Yes. Frank. I'll talk to Frank.'
The door was rattled again. 'Are you sick, Jacintha? Please. People are waiting.'
'I'm all right,' she called back. 'I'll be right there.'
I helped her to her feet. She straightened her dress, touched my arm and said, 'Come with me. We'll sort this out together.'
I shook my head. 'That's my way out.' I nodded at a window just above where she'd been sitting. I'd enjoyed numerous escapades in this building, mostly involving copious amounts of alcohol, and/or angry local politicians, and I'd had reason to work out the best escape routes. I knew that beyond this window there was a small drop to a terrace below, and from there I could jump down to a garden of remembrance and make my escape that way. 'You've been gone a long time, Jacintha. Round here they shoot first and ask questions later. You do your stuff, I'll hide.'
I gave her a reassuring wink. She managed a weak smile, nodded, and turned for the door. But then she noticed the state of her face in the mirror, tutted, and quickly dabbed at her eyes with a damp tissue, to no great avail. She pumped up her hair again, then swept across to the door. She hesitated for a moment, took a deep breath, then unlocked it. She opened it just wide enough to slip out, then pulled it firmly closed behind her.
She was vulnerable, but tough. She reminded me of Patricia in many ways. Scare the pants off you one moment, need a hug the next. An acquired taste, but worth the effort.
I turned to the window. It opened easily enough. Then I saw the security grill.
When the fuck did they install that?
I grabbed it with both hands and gave it a shake, but it wasn't for moving.
Okay.
Okay.
It wasn't the end of the world. I still had my mask. It was just a question of one more walk through Belfast's elite, then lie low until Jacintha Ryan did her work.
Just as I fixed it back in place, the toilet door opened, and I was already launching into a fake drunken spiel about thinking it was the men's toilet, when I saw that it was Matthew Rye, without his mask, and he was flanked by Mayne and Mooney, and beyond them, Jacintha Ryan.
'Oh,' I said.
To cover the mess around her eyes she had donned a devil eye-mask with black horns, like the one I'd seen earlier. It was very effective. So was the way she pointed at me and said: 'Get rid of him. Get rid of him now.'
50
They bundled me out of the toilet. I put up a valiant struggle for three seconds, but they were too big and too strong, and they had guns which they hit me with, which probably wasn't in the user's manual but which was nevertheless very effective. On the way past Jacintha I said, 'Nice tears,' and she just smiled, and they hit me again, harder, so that when they dragged me through the VIP room I was hanging like a drunk and shouting accusations which made no sense. Outside in the corridor they turned away from the main staircase and led me towards a fire door, and then the fire escape beyond. I fell several times as they led me down it, then when we reached the ground they pushed me up against a wall at the back of the building where it points towards the Dublin Road, while Mayne hurried away to get a car. Nothing was said. I slumped down on the damp lawn. Music and laughter soaked through the walls. Mayne was back in just a couple of minutes. Mooney hauled me up and then pushed me into the back and got in beside me. Matthew Rye stood and watched while I was driven away.
We were halfway up the Dublin Road before Mooney said anything. 'You stupid fucker, Starkey.' He ripped my mask off. 'You stupid cunt.'
'Well,' I said groggily, 'a cunt's a useful—'
But he smacked me again, and the lights went out.
I was slapped awake. Back of a car, nothing but the light of the dash, the end of a cigarette, and the fleeting sweep of distant headlights. No engine. No sound but the soft whisper of trees moving in the gentle breeze. And then Mooney grabbed my lapels, pulled me out and threw me down in the damp autumnal leaves and churned-up mud of a country lane. Mayne came round from the other side, and between them they hauled me to my feet and then led me forward.
'A Forest'. Song by The Cure.
Other songs were 'Love Cats' and 'Killing an Arab'.
Long time ago.
My legs were as heavy as lead. My head kept falling forward.
Patricia in bed, waiting for me.
Jacintha Ryan in a devil-mask. In it up to her neck.
Once again I had badly misjudged a good-looking woman's character. And it didn't matter. I was dead. They weren't taking me on a nature trek. Mayne had his gun out, and Mooney had picked a shovel out of the boot.
I'd faced death before. Lots of times. Now here it was, popping round again, like an old friend. I wondered if it had anything to do with the cats, and the killing of them. That if Mouse had rested his chucking arm, neither of us might have ended up dead. Maybe that's how it worked. You kill one thing, it comes back to haunt you.
The wind was picking up, or we were in a more exposed area. We might have been walking for five minutes, or five hours. Pushed and prodded. I might have swung back suddenly and struck one or the other, but not both. Sometimes you just have to give in. Go with the flow. Perhaps the trees would come to my rescue. Or a small army of Disney creatures would spread the word and Thumper would . . .
'Here,' said Mayne.
I don't think it was a prearranged spot. I think it was picked quite arbitrarily. Miles from civilisation. Deep in the woods. Pliable soil. Somewhere for me to rot undisturbed until the turning of the world. The playground of Elves and Ores. I was just wondering why Tolkien had never tackled leprechauns, when I was shoved hard in the back and I toppled forward onto my knees. I steadied myself with my hands. The ground was cold and wet. I didn't turn.
'All right, smart cunt,' Mayne growled. 'This is it.'
'This is it,' I agreed.
'You should have left well enough alone.'
'Hindsight is a wonderful thing,' I observed.
'You can say that again.'
'Hindsight is—'
'Shut the fuck up.'
'Sorry,' I said. 'Wouldn't want to make you angry.'
I heard a click. I let out a sigh. Oh well, Trish. Fucked up again.
Mooney said, 'Wait a second.'
'For what?'
'Well, you know – any last words.'
'Get away to fuck, just fucking blast him.'
'I know, I know. But just say it, okay? Make me happy.'
'Starkey?' Mayne barked. 'Any fucking last words?'
Oh Trish. Waiting there. Throughout our lives we had been continuously cast somewhere between Romeo and Juliet and the Krankies. I was tempted to think that this woul
d be just as hard on her as it would be on me, but then I realised what utter crap that was. I was about to die, with damp knees, in a distant wood.
'Any time today, like,' said Mooney.
I turned slightly. I nodded at Mooney. 'I forgive you.'
'Cheers,' he said.
I nodded at Mayne. 'And as for you, your mum gives great head.'
It was too dark to see his reaction properly. But he did spit out, 'My mother's been dead for eight years.'
'I know,' I said, 'but still curiously attractive.'
He lunged forward. Kicked me hard. I fell over.
Good. Go for it. Go for it!
I felt him standing over me. 'Fucker,' he whispered.
I closed my eyes; and then my head seemed to explode with sound and light and I knew I was dead. I thought, That was surprisingly painless. And then there was a second shot, but it seemed to come from further away, and I thought, He's making sure, and also, It sounds further away because I'm further away. I'm moving down the tunnel, towards the light, always towards the light.
It was quite a relief. I'd seen so many bad things in my time, and caused many of them. I had hurt people, I had killed people, I had betrayed people and been very, very cheeky to them.
Now it was over.
Heaven.
Hell. Reincarnated as a bat. Or a tortoise. Pearly Gates. Who'd be there to welcome me? My son? Mouse? Liam Miller? Or would he be in hell, redesigning it? Too much red! Turn down the heating, open a window, for god sake . . .
'Dan!'
Calling me now. Heaven or hell.
'Dan!'
Towards the light, towards the light . . .
'Dan!'
I opened my eyes. The light was too bright. I winced. Shivered. Maybe hell wasn't hot at all. Maybe it was cold and damp, like Northern Ireland always was. No place like home.
The voice said, 'Are you all right?'
Belfast Confidential Page 30
