Nine Inches

by Colin Bateman

My thoughts shifted back to Abagail Pike, and the way she’d been leaning on her Porsche, arms folded, as I was driven away from her home. She had either rumbled that I wasn’t a Malone employee as soon as she answered the door, or I’d given myself away during our conversation. The best politicians are adept at matching names to faces. Maybe the photo shoot had lodged in her memory and it had just taken a while to click. The text she’d sent while standing with me in her kitchen was to summon help. She’d pretended to drive off, but waited around the corner for the cavalry to arrive. She could just as easily have waited in the house, but by absenting herself she could rightly claim not to have been present if it ever reached the media that Malone Security had given me a beating. She was an MLA and the wife of a government minister. If she had sanctioned the beating, it was by any stretch of the imagination a risky overreaction to being asked a few questions.

  I lay back in bed and scrolled through my phone until I found Neville Maxwell’s number. When I was a newspaper columnist, he had worked at Stormont, and recruited me for some freelance work shepherding visiting reporters around the North in the run-up to an election that would have given us full independence. I was supposed to encourage said reporters to give positive coverage to the preferred candidate, Michael Brinn. I hadn’t, and of course it had all gone pear-shaped. People had died; the fate of a nation – or at least a province – had hung in the balance.

  Neville, bless him, hadn’t borne a grudge. He was a civil service man, obliged to work for whoever was in power irrespective of his own political beliefs. When Brinn was exposed as a fraud, Neville had just soldiered on, as supportive and gracious towards the next man in charge as he had been to the previous. That was fifteen years ago now, and although he was retired, he still kept his finger on the pulse. He was something of a media go-to man when they wanted a precise, sober take on whatever was happening in Northern Irish politics. As I got to know him better over the years, I discovered that this presentation of himself as the statesman-like voice of reason masked the fact that he took a feverish delight in behind-the-scenes intrigue and gossip, the more malicious the better. He was a godsend for a reporter.

  When he answered, he said he couldn’t stay on for long, he was about to get his make-up on.

  ‘Really? Anything you want to tell me?’

  ‘I’m due on telly. Doing a pre-record for Stormont Live. Both viewers expect me to look my best. How’s Patricia?’

  ‘I hear she’s fine.’

  ‘Like that, is it?’

  ‘As it ever was. Listen, Abagail Pike, what do you think?’

  ‘Fine chest.’

  ‘Apart from that.’

  ‘I’m serious. Don’t underestimate the power of the chest.’

  ‘Neville, I’m ser—’

  ‘I know you are, and so am I. What have you done to upset her?’

  ‘Just curious.’

  ‘Dan, I know you.’

  ‘I’m working on something.’

  ‘Will it echo in the very corridors of power?’

  ‘Probably not.’

  ‘Not even in some side rooms?’

  ‘Unlikely.’

  ‘So what’s in it for me?’

  ‘A nice lunch, maybe.’

  ‘The Shipyard?’

  ‘It’s overrated.’

  ‘Tell you what, as I’m kind of stuck for time, why don’t you come up here and we can have a natter? There’s a very fine restaurant on site, and it’s subsidised to the hilt, so it won’t cost a fortune. Jesus, what am I doing, I’m talking myself out of your treat!’

  I got dressed, not without some difficulty, and slipped out. I had a brief glimpse of Joe behind the counter, and Bobby beside him, looking uncomfortable. It was probably the stripy apron and hat. It was a difficult enough look for a grown man to carry off, let alone a teenager.

  I flagged down a taxi and tried not to shout out every time it hit a pothole or braked too suddenly. Of all the roads, the smoothest was the half-mile sweep from the Stormont gates up to the Parliament buildings themselves; it had been lulling politicians into a false sense of security for years.

  The uniforms at the guard hut looked at me with distaste. I couldn’t blame them. I had forgone a shower in favour of trying to get the bloodstains out of my shirt and jacket, without much success. My hair was all over the place. One eye was still partially closed over and I’d scrapes on my forehead, cheeks and the one hand that wasn’t trussed up like an oven-ready chicken. The three middle-aged, out-of-condition guards appeared to be all the protection our government required. Even in my weakened condition, I could have seized power with a catapult. They took a long time to examine my ID and to check that I really, really was expected. Then I was pointed in the right direction and left to walk alone to the grand entrance to the buildings where the fate of my country had never quite been decided. I paused only to nod respect to the statue of Carson – Edward, as opposed to Frank – glaring defiantly over the fine lawns and rolling grounds, before entering the marble foyer. I presented my ID again and was already turning instinctively for the underground canteen where I’d always chowed down in the past when I was yelled at and redirected upstairs to the members’ brasserie.

  Heads turned as I entered, but only because I looked a complete shambles. Neville Maxwell was neater, and tidier, but scarcely much healthier. He was all skin and bones. He had the sallow complexion of someone not long for this world, and that was with his television make-up still on. He stood to greet me. His handshake was firm, but his fingers felt as brittle as Twiglets.

  The brasserie wasn’t the kind of establishment where you ordered a pint of Harp. I had a glass of white, Neville a Coke. There was classical music playing in the background. Dvorak. Neville seemed to notice it at the same time as I did. We nodded at each other over our menus. Though it was long ago and far away, I had come to the conclusion that he had known exactly what he was doing back then, employing a loud-mouthed, semi-drunken reporter to shepherd an American journalist around the North; he had expected that I would put a spanner in the works, though I’m sure he couldn’t have imagined exactly what the fallout would be.

  ‘The duly elected,’ I said, nodding around the tables, ‘saving Ulster one scallop at a time.’

  ‘My, Dan, you sound almost cynical.’

  ‘Moi?’ I tilted my glass. ‘Used to be I knew this place inside out. I’ve been out of the game a long time. But let’s get to the subject at hand.’

  ‘Ah yes. The wonderful Abagail Pike. She’s a fine politician, but she has her knockers.’

  He giggled. I giggled too. He was seventy-three years old, and I felt it. But sometimes it’s great to have a mental age of twelve. We dialled it down to a smirk as the waiter arrived to take our order, and eventually we settled.

  Neville sipped his Coke, then set it down and nodded across the fine linen tablecloth at me. ‘Dan,’ he said, ‘I’ve been observing politicians for a long time, and they’re all pretty much the same. Just look around this room. I guarantee you that with the exception of a few of the converted terrorists, every one of them shared identical traits at school – they were smart and they knew it, they held strong opinions, of course, they were great debaters, but they . . . how do I say this kindly? They . . . they were bland, overserious swots. They didn’t know how to have fun or relax; their teenage years passed in a blizzard of conformity; they probably didn’t lose their virginity until they were in their twenties. They were boring, church-going, terrible at sports, largely friendless and old before their time.’

  ‘You’re too kind.’

  ‘It’s the truth. They were born to do this and this alone. They control our lives, but they do not live in our world. This is a place where a little personality goes a very long way. So when they actually rub up against one, they are utterly flummoxed – and that’s where Abagail comes in. Friend or foe, they just can’t cope with her. She’s fast and funny and flirty, she’s in their faces. I have seen politicians who can talk eloquently on
extremely complicated subjects completely off the cuff for ninety minutes who still cannot manage two words to her without dissolving into puddles of sweat. In the real world she may not be the most gorgeous creature God ever created, but in these rarefied surroundings she’s a Bardot, a Monroe, and she knows how to use it.’

  ‘Even with her sisters?’

  ‘Yes, I think so. They admire her ability as an operator. Oh, there’s a little jealousy in there as well; not all of them are similarly blessed in the looks department.’

  ‘Oh bitchy.’

  He gave a little shrug. ‘I’m old enough now to say what I want. What’re they going to do, throw me out? They know I know where the bodies are buried.’

  ‘Metaphorically speaking,’ I said.

  He raised an eyebrow, before adding: ‘Of course.’

  ‘Then tell me something about Abagail Pike I don’t know.’

  He smiled. His teeth had recently been capped, probably to meet with the requirements of HD television. Seventy-three-year-old prefluoride smoker’s teeth would scare children. But they appeared over-sized in his shrinking face.

  ‘What do you want, rumours or fact?’

  ‘Frumours.’

  ‘I’m told she’s accidentally walked into a few doors.’

  ‘Doors can be dangerous.’

  ‘Yes, almost like getting punched in the face.’

  I raised an eyebrow. ‘Seriously?’

  ‘That’s the . . . frumour.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘She has expensive tastes.’

  ‘How expensive? Her man’s supposed to have made a fortune in the private sector before he entered politics.’

  ‘And I believe he did. He’s set up a number of charities, and plenty of his money goes into them. They do a lot of work abroad.’

  ‘You mean Pike smuggles it into offshore accounts?’

  ‘No, I mean actual, verifiable charity work.’

  ‘Commendable, I’m sure. But still, a minister’s wage packet, his wage as a sitting member, her own . . . put that all together, it’s not to be sniffed at.’

  ‘No indeed. Not to be sniffed at.’

  He touched the end of his nose as he said it and gave the smallest sniff up. At that moment the starter he’d ordered for both of us arrived. The waiter said, ‘Sir, quail eggs and shark fin soup with ginseng.’ It was £3.50 on the menu, but still not as cheap as the version Patricia and I had not enjoyed at the Shipyard. Neville shook out his napkin and tucked it into his shirt collar. He thanked the waiter. He then allowed his eyes to rove around the brasserie. He nodded at a couple of Assemblymen I didn’t recognise. When he came back to looking at me, I think he knew my eyes hadn’t left him.

  ‘Are you sure?’ I asked.

  ‘Am I sure what, Daniel?’

  ‘That she . . .’ and I touched my own nose as subtly as I could with my bear paw of a free hand.

  ‘I’m sure I don’t know what you mean. Lovely soup,’ he said.

  I tried a spoonful. Wherever you got quail eggs and shark fin soup with ginseng, it seemed it still tasted like cack.

  A different waiter, passing by and noticing the depressed state of my glass, asked if we were okay for drinks. I ordered another wine. Neville raised his glass and drained it. He handed it to the waiter.

  ‘Why don’t you bring me another Coke?’ he asked. ‘It’s really quite addictive.’

  36

  When we were done, Neville walked me towards the foyer. He stopped at the top of the stairs and nodded admiringly at the Italian travertine marble. It was lovely – sleek, clean, cold.

  ‘Spent my whole working life here,’ he said. ‘Fifteen when I started; can’t do that these days, can you? My dad fixed me up. By the time I was eighteen, I knew how a government worked, I knew what was wrong with it, and I knew when to shut up and when to speak. There’s guys starting here nowadays, twenty-five years old, loaded down with degrees in this and masters in that, they can wave ten million statistics in your face, but couldn’t tell you who Carson was.’ He shook his head around the foyer, but it wasn’t meant to be negative. ‘I love this place. There’s so few measure up to it. Dan, I’ve always done what I can to protect it, the idea of it, and I’ll keep doing it until the day I die.’

  He had been using the wide marble steps for more than fifty years, but old age had brought with it a need for care. He had one hand on a gleaming rail, the other thrust into his jacket pocket to hide a slight tremor I’d noticed at the table. I was on the verge of offering an arm for support, but with my luck we’d probably have ended up tumbling to our deaths. When we eventually reached the bottom, he turned towards a small alcove close to the front doors.

  ‘You want to come down and watch me record?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m not eleven,’ I said.

  All the impressive bits of the building were above ground – the Great Hall, the Assembly and Senate chambers – but the door in front of him led down into the bowels of the building. There were miles of claustrophobic corridors down there where much of the real, sleeves-up, heads-down dirty work of government got done. I’d been up and down them a thousand times in my reporting days. Drink used to be freely available. I had once gotten lost in their labyrinth-like design for twenty-four hours. But she was worth it.

  Neville held his hand out and I shook it. ‘Thanks,’ I said.

  He held on to it. ‘Watch yourself, Dan. I don’t know what you’re into, but things have changed these past few years. It’s more like business now – it used to be about defending this, or attacking that; now it’s about the bottom line. No morals, no principles, no prisoners. And it’s impossible to keep secrets – we’re such a small bloody country, everybody finds out everything, instantly, and Tweets it. It took thirty years for the Disappeared to turn up; these days they wouldn’t stay hidden for thirty minutes.’ He nodded at the various Assemblymen and civil servants around us. ‘The funny thing is, the terrorists, the ones who’ve given up their guns and gone into politics, and won’t even acknowledge that this place has any legality, they’re actually better politicians than those who choose it as a career. They bring passion to it.’

  ‘If you can conveniently forget the fact that they used to blow people up,’ I said.

  ‘Let he who is without sin cast the first stone.’

  But it wasn’t Neville. It came from behind us. I turned.

  Man mountain, black suit, sharp, handsome but dour face, grey hair swept back.

  ‘Will I walk you down, Neville?’ Professor Peter Pike asked. ‘I’m on just after you.’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ Neville replied. He darted a wary glance at me. I gave him the slightest nod. ‘Professor Pike . . . I don’t believe you’ve met . . . Mr Dan Starkey.’

  Pike’s brow crinkled. He put his hand out. ‘Dan Starkey . . . Dan Starkey . . . Didn’t you used to be big in newspapers?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said.

  You can never remember a good line when you really need it. Also I instinctively dislike people who employ vice-like handshakes. Also, also I instinctively dislike people who stare into your eyes when they talk to you and who prosper because of snake-oil charm. Threepike didn’t have much going for him, really. I don’t have to agree with a man’s beliefs, but I like a man who stands by them. I’ve often argued with Trish about our changing times: she favours giving people a second chance, allowing them to change. I maintain that a leopard can’t change its spots. She says I’m a miserable, curmudgeonly old stick-in-the-mud and I say I probably am.

  Threepike said, ‘You look like you’ve been in the wars.’

  ‘Yes,’ I said.

  ‘We were just talking about your lovely wife,’ said Neville.

  ‘Really? What’s she been up to?’

  ‘Oh you wouldn’t believe it!’ Neville cried. ‘That woman! She’s a scandal!’

  ‘Neville.’ Pike pretended to give the old man a punch on the arm. ‘Though for all I know, you could be right. Honestly, we’re like s
hips that pass in the night.’

  ‘Shits,’ said Neville. ‘Isn’t that what Republican News said about you? Shits that pass in the night.’

  ‘They did,’ said Pike, drily. ‘They’re always misquoting me. Luckily we’re all friends now. Isn’t that right, Dan?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said.

  ‘Are you joining us?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Come then, Neville, let’s get down to yon poky little studio. I do believe you’re the only one around here who knows the short cut, isn’t that right?’

  Pike pulled the door open and indicated for Neville to lead. As they disappeared through it, Neville gave me a wink.

  I stood where I was, a little stunned by my own inept performance. I used to be able to pin assholes. A question with a barb, backed up to the teeth with facts that could not be denied. Or fictions that at least earned an unregimented response. I had managed a grand total of three yeses and a no. He’d caught me by surprise as I was still trying to come to terms with the gossip Neville had so undiplomatically imparted. I was in physical pain from my burning and beatings. I had all kinds of instant excuses, but I couldn’t escape from the fact that in my heyday I would have laughed in the face of any or all of these handicaps. I was Dan Starkey, master of the put-down, but I had flailed, my reflexes as rusty as . . . oh, fuck it. I was . . . diminished.

  I stepped out into the fresh air.

  It was raining hard and winter cold.

  I stepped back inside to ring a taxi. I’d switched my mobile off during lunch. But now I saw that there were three voicemails: one from Joe saying that Bobby had stormed out of the shop and disappeared; one from Patricia saying that Bobby had called her at work, and that she was having to leave to let him into the house, and she wasn’t very happy about it and had I sorted anything for him yet; and a third from Maxi McDowell asking me to give him a call right away.

  I did. He said, ‘You’re in luck. The Millers have a cancellation. They’ll see you at noon tomorrow. I’ll get you in and out, but you’re the performer. Okay?’

  ‘Okay,’ I said.

  I cut the line. I took a deep breath. I stood in the doorway and looked out over the lawns sweeping away down to the gates. The grounds were open to the public, and were dotted with joggers braving the elements and dog-walkers with extended leads sheltering under trees that had not yet sprouted leaves.