by Bateman
We walked on out of the stables and stood on the brow of a small hill which sloped down towards the tennis courts. Now that we were closer I could see that the net was sagging and although the grass on the court was closely cropped the white lines were badly faded. I couldn’t imagine Corkery in tennis whites. He was more a duffel coat and Guinness man, more interested in rackets than racquets.
I turned and looked back up at the house. What a windfall. Geordie McClean would have been kicking himself at having to hand over the keys to the likes of Mark Corkery. And all because he’d overstretched himself.
Geordie made his money in the seventies in the insurance business when Belfast was literally booming. He soon branched out into retail and property. He was always a bit of a risk-taker, and that inevitably led him into gambling. He bought over a small chain of ‘turf accountants’ in East Belfast. It was just his bad luck that within a month of opening Mark Corkery placed an accumulator covering six different race meetings, a million-to-one shot really, the sort of crazy bet only a lunatic or the truly inspired could ever come up with, and one that threatened to bankrupt Geordie’s whole newly acquired chain. He should never have accepted the bloody thing in the first place, but he was new in the business and some fresh-faced eighteen-year-old in his first year as well took it on without referring it above. Most bookies are insured against such freak results, but again there was a slip in the paperwork somewhere and McClean had to face the fact that not only did he have to pay out, but also that he couldn’t pay out. He had the money, but it wasn’t liquid. He could have realised it in a few weeks, but Corkery wasn’t prepared to wait. McClean had a choice, of course, because the one thing the Government has never done is make betting debts enforceable under law. It is left as purely a matter of honour and trust between the bookie and the punter. And fair play to him, McClean fully intended to make good his debt; besides, without public confidence he’d have no business. So he offered Corkery the house as a stopgap and they agreed on a handshake that he could buy it back as soon as the cash was handed over; except Corkery fell in love with the house and reneged on the deal, and there was nothing McClean could do about it.
Except drop a car on him.
‘Dan, my man was killed. I want whoever did it punished.’
‘I understand that.’
‘The Horse Whisperer will not die with Mark. What they don’t understand is that it’s now largely self-perpetuating. You saw those e-mails, the faxes, it’s like that all the time. There’s so much horse shit out there, it just has to have an outlet. If Mark was killed because of the Horse Whisperer, then Geordie McClean is one confused fella right now, because the Horse Whisperer just keeps appearing.’
‘Or he’s going to keep coming back until the job’s finished.’
‘Not if we nail him first. And for that we need proof and I’ve a nasty feeling it’s not something that’s going to land in my e-mail basket, or come through the fax. I need you to do what Mark used to do best.’
‘I take it we’re not talking sex here.’
‘Stop it. Will you go down there and stick your nose in and see what he’s up to? Will you do it for Mark?’
‘Of course I will.’
‘Thank you.’
We looked at each other for several moments. Then she said, ‘Oh fuck it,’ and came forward to hug me. I hugged her back. We released each other after a little and she wiped at another tear.
‘There’s just one crucial piece of information I need to know,’ I said.
‘Anything.’
‘What’s your name?’
She let out an involuntary laugh. ‘Why, I presumed . . . It’s Hilda. Hilda Abernethy.’ She put out her hand and I grasped it. ‘I’m very grateful, Dan.’
‘Yeah, well, you might not be. Let’s see what happens.’
I got a cab down to the King’s Head.
Mouse looked up as I came through the door. He was sitting by himself at the bar. He nodded and ordered me a pint. ‘I KNEW YOU’D TURN UP EVENTUALLY.’
‘Shhhhh,’ I said. He rolled his eyes and left a fiver on the bar for the drink. ‘Everyone else gone home?’
‘Aye,’ he replied, a little more quietly, ‘soft shower of bastards. Used to be an occasion like this they’d be throwing us out at closing and then we’d head off to a party . . .’
‘Usually at my house . . .’
‘. . . usually at your house. But half of them spent the whole friggin’ afternoon on their mobiles making sure––’ His mobile beeped. Without a blink he answered it. ‘No,’ he told it, ‘page seven . . . he’s never been front page in his life . . .’ Then he clicked it off and turned back to me. ‘Sorry,’ he said, ‘where was I?’
‘Bastards with mobiles.’
‘Oh aye, and it was all mineral water this and iced tea that. The cunts.’
I nodded and sipped my pint.
‘How was the old girl?’ he asked.
‘Corkery’s?’ He nodded. ‘Okay.’
‘What’s your interest up there?’
‘Nothing. Paying my respects.’
‘You? It’s not your style. What’re you after, Dan?’
‘Why do I have to be after anything?’
‘Because I know you.’
I shrugged and looked at my pint for a while. Mouse looked at his. There was racing on the TV above the bar but I tried not to show any obvious interest. The brown horse seemed to be leading. I said, ‘You ever hear of the Horse Whisperer, Mouse?’
He kept his eyes on the screen, but nodded slowly.
‘What do you think?’
‘I think Redford’s starting to show his age.’
I took a sip. ‘I’m thinking of going back to work.’
‘I thought you might be.’
‘I’ll be looking for some freelance shifts.’
‘Shouldn’t be a problem.’
‘But first I’m going south. Dublin way.’
‘Is it something to do with Corkery?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Anything I can do?’
‘Keep an eye on Trish.’
‘As ever.’
‘She’s living on Windsor Avenue with some bloke. She seems happy. We have to break it up. See if you can find out anything about him. There’s bound to be something, he has a beard. His name’s Clive.’
‘Beard and Clive. I hate him already. Any chance of a surname?’
I shook my head. ‘She’s playing her cards close to her chest.’
‘And what a chest it is. In a strictly not-interested-in-my-best-friend’s-ex-wife’s-chest kind of a way.’ He cleared his throat. ‘So where should I start?’
‘By checking a list of all those recently released from institutions for the criminally insane.’
‘Are you serious? You think he’s . . .?’
‘Well of course. He’d have to be fucking mental to take on Trish, wouldn’t he?’
6
There are one-horse towns, and there are thousand-horse towns, and Ashtown is a combination of the two. Twenty minutes north of Dublin, three pubs, one victualler’s, a post office with a green postbox outside and a video store. Its claim to fame is having the Fairyhouse Racecourse, home of the Irish Grand National, a stone’s throw away. Beside the course stands the Irish base of Tattersalls, the world’s first bloodstock auction house. Ten thousand horses a year pass through its books and parade rings, millions upon millions of dollars. Horses are to Ashtown as dope is to Amsterdam, and the business can be just as murky.
I drove down on Easter Saturday. It was a relief to get out of Belfast, partly because there was a hiccup in the peace process and all sorts of trouble was threatening to break out, but mostly to get away from me. The old me. The memories and the broken heart. I put them into a shoebox and pushed them under the bed in my little palace. Out of courtesy I called the landlord and told him I’d be away for a few days. I’d the feeling it wouldn’t have worried him if I dropped dead, decomposed and started dripping through to the s
lum flat below as long as the Government rent cheque kept filtering into his bank account.
Hilda had given me the lend of a car and the keys to the house in Ashtown that Corkery had rented for the duration of the Easter races at Fairyhouse. She drove round to hand the car over personally. I took one look at it and said, ‘This is the car that flattened Corkery.’
She nodded. ‘It’s okay. It’s been cleaned.’
I took her word for it, but it seemed to me that at least some of her late boyfriend would still be going to the races. Perhaps his soul had transferred into the car. Maybe my life was turning into Herbie Goes to the Races. Or possibly Christine. I had my laptop and an e-mail address for the Horse Whisperer. She handed over Corkery’s ATM card and his bank card and said there was around a thousand pounds between the two accounts and I was welcome to use it as expenses. I said I wouldn’t abuse her trust, and she laughed, although I think she meant it kindly. I promised her I would do my best; I also pointed out that my wife usually said that my best wasn’t good enough. She said she had every faith in me and gave me an Easter egg. I looked at it and thought about my dead son, then gave her a hug. If she’d been twenty years younger I’d have invited her to come along, and she’d have said no.
I drove south. I filled up on petrol before crossing into the unoccupied twenty-six. Not that it was any cheaper, but just so that I wouldn’t be contributing to their economy. It wasn’t much, but it was something. Then on across the border, or lack of it. There’s nothing physical any more, just a sense of time warp and the grass seems a little less green. I drove through Dundalk, still home to hundreds of terrorists, then turned right at Drogheda. I passed through Slane, where I’d once seen Bruce Springsteen play a massive open-air concert, and then across the Boyne river, where King William of Orange had co-headlined an even bigger gig with King James three hundred years before, so successful that people were still talking about it.
I arrived in Ashtown in early evening. It took me a while to find the house, and sixteen seconds to move in my worldly possessions. It was recently built and had five bedrooms, which was four too many. There was a television and an ensuite shower and a kitchen I could have swung a whole family of cats in. There was an intercom system for fending off unwelcome visitors. There was a Spar around the corner. I bought groceries and a bottle of Ribena. I was pleasant and they were pleasant. They asked me if I was down for the races and I said yeah. I refrained from asking if the murder suspect Geordie McClean was a regular. I returned home and made myself beans on toast. Before I could launch into them there was a knock on the door. When I opened it there was a man in a smart suit standing there with three oil paintings in his arms.
He smiled pleasantly and said, ‘Would you like to buy an oil painting?’
‘Excuse me?’
‘Would you like to buy an oil painting?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘They’re by some of Ireland’s finest artists. I’ve been selling them for twenty years.’
‘And you still haven’t got the message.’
‘Sorry?’
‘I said, I don’t need an oil painting.’
‘Okay. Do you mind if I call again?’
‘I’m only here for the weekend.’
‘Oh. Right. Fair enough then.’
If he’d had a cap, he would have doffed it. Off he went back to his car. I watched him load up his paintings and drive off. Across the road kids with hurley sticks were staring at me. I closed the door and went back to my beans. I reheated them.
Five minutes later the doorbell went again. When I opened up there was a man standing there with a coat on a hanger and a receipt book under his arm. ‘Do you want any dry-cleaning done?’
‘What?’
‘Do you want anything dry-cleaned? I’ve been dry-cleaning in this area for twenty years. I call every Monday.’
‘This is Saturday.’
‘I know, but it’s Easter Monday on Monday, there’ll be no dry-cleaning done that day. So I’m calling today. Do you want anything dry-cleaned?’
‘No, I don’t think so.’
‘Right-oh, then. Good afternoon now.’
I watched him go down the path and climb into a small van. As he drove away the boys with the hurley sticks stared across at me.
I returned to my beans. I microwaved them again because there are few experiences in life more depressing than eating cold beans. They’d already soaked through the toast, turning it to mush. I finished them, then cleaned and washed the plate. I tried to watch something on the TV but I couldn’t concentrate. I was a stranger in a strange land, even though it was only down the road. I couldn’t relax. There was a crack against the window and then a boy came over the garden wall to retrieve a ball. He didn’t look up at me standing glaring down as he lifted it.
I unpacked. Another twenty seconds. There was a knock on the door. A young fella in a white coat said: ‘Ice-cooled chicken breasts?’
‘Excuse me?’
‘I’ve ice-cooled chicken in the van. I call here every Monday.’
I looked beyond him to a plain white van, then back to him. ‘Are you having me on?’
‘What?’
‘Are you taking the piss?’
He blinked several times. ‘Do you want to buy some ice-cooled chicken breasts?’
‘No, I’m a vegetarian.’
‘I also do frozen vegetables.’
‘No. Thank you.’
He nodded. ‘I can call again. I’m always in the area.’
I said, ‘Please do.’
As he walked back down the drive the ball came into the garden again. The boy came over the wall and had picked it up and was already climbing back out when I shouted, ‘Why don’t you go and play outside your own house?’ like my father.
He glanced back, his brow furrowed. ‘I was,’ he said.
I looked across the road to where a middle-aged man was scraping birdshit off his lounge window. He glanced round at me and I waved across. ‘Well just be careful of that wall,’ I said and closed the door.
I switched the TV off and paced. I had an address for Geordie McClean’s stables but it was getting into early evening and there didn’t seem much point in driving out immediately. That left the option of more TV and an early night or checking out the pubs in town. I went upstairs and had a shower. I dried my hair and had a think about what to wear. I decided on black jeans and a green tartan shirt. Black trainers and a smile. Friendly. Ingratiate. See how they are about strangers. The doorbell sounded again. There was an intercom by the master bedroom. I pressed the button and said, ‘Whatever the fuck you’re selling, I don’t fucking want it, now fuck away off and don’t come fucking near me again.’
I combed my hair and cleaned my teeth. When I went back downstairs I looked out of the front window at two nuns standing with collecting tins talking to the man who’d been cleaning birdshit off his window. One of the sisters saw me, then quickly pointed me out to her colleague. They both glared at me, then turned their backs and hurried along to the next house. The birdshit man fixed me with a steady gaze, then darted back inside.
Third pub. Third pint. The first two had been dead but the third was much better. It was called Muldoons, and like the others was decorated with photos of previous Fairyhouse winners. The barman was big and jolly and I didn’t understand a blind word he said, his accent was that thick. Maybe he had the same problem. Every time I asked for a lager he poured me a Guinness. I can’t stand Guinness, but seeing as how I was undercover it was important for me to blend in, so I accepted it without complaint and drank for God and Ulster. There were a couple of dozen people drinking, enough to give it a nice buzz. I’d brought a newspaper with me. I sat on a bar stool, reading some, pausing, looking, then reading some more. I’d thought about cutting eyeholes in it to simplify the process but I resisted on the grounds that it was getting a bit close to being origami, and origami sounds a bit like orgasm, and I hadn’t had one of those for months and I did
n’t want to get depressed, first night on the job. The talk around and about me was not of horses, but of life in general. EastEnders, Brookside and Manchester United. I could have launched into a diatribe on British colonisation by cultural stealth but thought it would be better to ingratiate myself by volunteering to make up the numbers on one of the teams when the barman announced that a pub quiz would be starting shortly. He took a note of my name, pronouncing it slowly to himself, then added it to a list of three others. He pointed to a corner which had thus far been shielded from my field of vision by a cigarette machine. ‘Yucan joinem,’ he said.
I lifted my pint and walked over. Sitting at a table, looking depressed, were the oil paintings salesman, the dry-cleaner and the chicken man. They looked up, but if they recognised me they gave no hint of it.
‘Hi,’ I said, ‘I’ve been drinking alcohol in several areas for more than twenty years, but you three are without a doubt the saddest-looking individuals I’ve ever come across. I think I’m absolutely perfect for your team, if you’ll have me.’
They looked at me, then gave me a collective ‘What?’
‘Speak slower,’ said the chicken man.
‘What’re you on about?’ said the dry-cleaner.
‘You’re no oil painting yourself,’ said the oil paintings salesman.
‘I said,’ I said, ‘what can I get you to drink?’
‘Guinness.’
‘Guinness.’
‘Guinness.’
‘Okay then,’ I said.
We weren’t the worst team on the night, and we weren’t the best. I excelled at the movie questions but was found rather wanting on the silage round. Bloodstock left me bloodied and I won no points on the point-to-point. But they weren’t a bad bunch of lads. They worked on the farms there and about and tried to earn an extra punt or two in the evenings with their various franchises, scrambling into action every time word went out that somebody new and innocent had moved into town. But none of them made any money at it and they were all in debt to their shark of a supplier in Blanchardstown.
