Nine Inches

by Colin Bateman

  ‘It’s not bravery, it’s foolishness.’

  ‘Is that not what I said?’

  I smiled. I told her I’d phone her as soon as I heard anything, and cut the line. It was a pleasant morning for walking. Having a good conversation with Trish always cheered me up.

  Five minutes later, just as I neared the office, a Romanian approached.

  ‘Big Issue?’ she asked.

  ‘Fuck off,’ I replied.

  The shutters were up on Joe’s, but the meat hadn’t yet made it to the trays in the window, and the front door was still closed. They were probably slicing and dicing out back. I placed the Jaffa box against my throat and jammed it there with my chin while I felt in my pockets for the keys. As I did, I glanced around at a bunch of kids in Methodist College uniforms gathered around something on the pavement that I couldn’t quite see but which they evidently found hilarious. I located the keys and slipped the correct one into the lock. There was a mechanical wheeze from behind and I turned to see an Ulsterbus: its doors were open and the kids were hurrying towards it. Just as I turned the key and opened the door, my eyes fell on what they had been gathered around.

  A leg.

  A false leg.

  Standing erect.

  All by its lonesome.

  Except for a wire, leading away from it.

  And in that very moment of jarring recognition, a huge force lifted me off my feet and hurled me into the air, and for what seemed like an eternity I was looking down on Belfast from above, at the traffic, and the smoke, and the flames, and glass, and the charging pedestrians, and I was wondering how come I was flying, and who’d turned the sound down and what had happened to the Jaffa Cakes, and I had the distinct impression that something wasn’t quite right.

  48

  White sheets. Bed. Nurse. Hospital. Ringing. Ringing. Ear bleeding. Rain beating against the window, branches swaying in the wind.

  ‘You have a perforated eardrum,’ the nurse said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You have a perforated eardrum.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You have . . .’

  She stopped. ‘I’m glad to see you have retained your sense of—’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’m glad . . .’ She stopped. ‘How are you feel—’

  ‘What . . .?’

  ‘He can be very annoying.’

  My eyes flitted left. Patricia was sitting there. Tear-stained. She sounded like she was about twenty miles away.

  ‘I think I may have a perforated ear drum,’ I said.

  ‘Yes,’ said Patricia, ‘and three broken ribs, and concussion and some minor burns. The doctor said it was a miracle you weren’t killed.’

  ‘What?’

  She looked at me.

  The nurse said, ‘He’s disorientated, and the sedative, and the morphine for the pain . . . Will I tell them he’s awake?’

  Trish said, ‘The police are waiting outside to interview you.’

  My head felt like it was filled with cement. I said, ‘Is the other guy okay?’

  ‘What other guy?’

  ‘In the other car.’

  ‘What other car?’

  I looked at her. ‘The car I crashed into. I’m sorry about the drugs and the money, did it go everywhere?’

  ‘Dan. It was a bomb. Or an IED, as they call it these days.’

  ‘A bomb?’

  ‘Bomb.’

  ‘A bomb bomb? Oh yes. Now I remember. It was the IRA. Oh no, they’re gone. It was the Diffident IRA, although they’re too shy to claim responsibility.’

  ‘Dan . . .’

  ‘No, in fact it was the Surreal IRA, though I’m surprised, they’re usually all over the place . . .’

  ‘Dan!’

  I looked at her. ‘What?’

  ‘How are you feeling?’

  ‘Fine,’ I said.

  I had not yet moved my head off the pillow. I tried.

  And I wouldn’t try that again in a hurry. Everything swam and I almost threw up.

  The nurse said, ‘Easy there.’

  ‘You’re lucky to be alive,’ said Trish.

  ‘A miracle,’ said the nurse. ‘You’re lucky she was there.’

  ‘Who was where?’

  ‘You swallowed your tongue, nearly choked to death. Lucky there was a Romanian woman, gave you the kiss of life, got you into the recovery position.’ She looked at Trish. ‘So will I tell Detective Constable Hood it’s okay to come in?’

  ‘No,’ I said.

  ‘No?’ said Trish. ‘But—’

  ‘No.’

  There was a jug of water on the locker beside me. I tried to reach for it and nearly fell out of bed. The nurse came to my rescue. She poured, and held it up to my lips. I sipped greedily. She smelled of mandarin oranges and Dettol.

  She said, ‘The police officer is very keen to—’

  ‘No.’

  ‘All right, dearie, have it your way.’ She set the cup down and turned for the door. When she opened it, I caught a glimpse of Hood, sitting on a chair against the corridor wall. He started to get up. The nurse closed the door behind her.

  I closed my eyes. Trying to remember.

  I said, ‘Are they okay?’

  ‘They?’

  ‘I had Jaffa Cakes.’

  ‘Dan . . .’

  Coffee. Jaffa Cakes. Big Issue. School kids.

  Leg.

  I sat up again.

  ‘Bobby?’

  ‘He’s gone . . .’

  ‘Gone . . . What . . .?’

  ‘They took him . . .’

  Dizzy. I slumped back down. It was flooding back. I held on to the side of the bed to stop it tipping up. I let go and waited for it to settle. I pinched my nose and closed my eyes and took big gulps of air in through my mouth. The Millers. They were not supposed to be able to do that. That wasn’t the deal I had struck with Pike. He was supposed to have them arrested in the early hours of the morning. He was supposed to announce a new crackdown on organised crime and that the Millers were in custody and would be charged with terrorism, drug trafficking, murder, membership of a proscribed organisation and playing music in public without the proper licence. As part of the investigation, a number of police officers would also be arrested and charged with blackmail, extortion, murder and other offences related to collusion with paramilitaries.

  But evidently not.

  I suppose it did not surprise me.

  Of course, I knew better than to put all my eggs in one basket. I had a Plan B. I knew I had a Plan B. I was reasonably sure I had a Plan B. I just could not, at that moment, with my eggs scrambled, remember exactly or even vaguely what it was.

  ‘Joe . . .’ I said. ‘What about . . .?’

  ‘He’s down the corridor,’ said Trish. ‘Broke his jaw, knocked him out, fire bridgade found him just in time, the whole building has gone up.’

  ‘My office?’

  ‘Yep,’ said Trish.

  ‘The police know about Bobby?’

  ‘Yes, of course, they’re looking for him.’

  ‘Him . . . out there?’

  ‘Yes . . .’

  I shook my head. I glanced at my watch. The face was cracked.

  ‘What time is it?’

  ‘What? Oh – three o’clock.’

  ‘Three?’

  ‘You were unconscious for . . .’

  ‘It doesn’t matter.’

  I rubbed at my jaw. My teeth felt like they’d been yanked out, and then smacked back in with a toffee hammer.

  The Millers had Bobby. On past form they would torture him until they learned the whereabouts of their missing cash and drugs, and then they would kill him. They were fearless. They had completely ignored my threat to release the evidence against them virally. The only reason I was alive was that traditionally Loyalist paramilitaries are a bit shite at making bombs.

  There were raised voices in the corridor.

  The door opened and Maxi was standing there, grim.
/>   I managed a smile and said, ‘Don’t worry, I’m harder to kill than they think.’

  But then I saw that he had blood on his shirt, and smudges of black on his face and hands. Hood was behind him, white-faced.

  ‘Maxi?’

  His voice was gravel-dry.

  ‘They killed my wife,’ he said.

  49

  Maxi sat crumpled in the chair by my bed, and he cried, and he cried, and he cried. He was a big man, hard but fair, and as far as I knew, he had spent a lifetime keeping his emotions in check. But now here he was, distraught. It was just plain wrong, like watching John Wayne having a breakdown. Trish had never met him, and knew little about him, but she still sat on the arm of his chair and put her arm around him and he cried even more, against her; and I lay there in bed, knowing, yet again, that I was the reason his wife was dead and his retirement home burned to a crisp. I had drawn him in and the Millers had punished him for it.

  Hood stood awkwardly by the door. He said, ‘I don’t know what the hell is going on.’

  And in an extraordinarily fluid movement, Maxi leapt from his chair and grabbed Hood by the throat and began to crack his head back against the door frame. With each bang he spat out:

  ‘Ask . . . your . . . pal . . . Springer!’

  ‘Please . . . stop.’ Trish had a hand on his arm. Maxi’s purple face turned to her, and he seemed to struggle to place her, and then he slowly nodded and let go of his former colleague, and Hood slid down, clawing at his throat and gasping for breath. There was blood on the door frame. Maxi backed away towards his chair. He tripped on the leg of the bed and stumbled and fell back on to the seat. Trish looked at me helplessly as he buried his head in his hands.

  ‘I don’t . . . understand,’ Hood rasped. ‘We’ll be all over this. Why would Springer . . .?’

  Before, he had been full of the swagger of a young cop on the make, but I could now see the confused kid in him. He had had two mentors in Comanche Station – now one was in bits in front of him, the other was teetering on his pedestal.

  Hood felt the back of his head, then examined the blood on his hand. Maxi saw it and wiped his sleeve across his own face. He shook his head.

  ‘My wife, my girl . . .’ he said. ‘She was . . . unrecognisable.’

  Trish stroked the top of his head. It was a soothing motion, but she said, ‘Bastards.’

  ‘I didn’t know,’ said Hood. ‘I’ve heard nothing. I’m sorry, Maxi.’

  Maxi let out a long, miserable groan. ‘I drove up last night to surprise her,’ he said, ‘but they beat me to her. I was at my farewell party all afternoon; all the time youse were clapping and wishing me the best, and I was telling you all about my perfect wee cottage up the coast, someone was passing it on. Someone like Springer.’

  Hood was shaking his head in disbelief. ‘How do you know it was him?’

  ‘Because he works for the Millers,’ I said. ‘He’s their enforcer.’

  ‘They shot her in the legs,’ said Maxi. ‘She couldn’t move. Then they set fire to the cottage. The neighbours, they wouldn’t let me near, but I could hear her, hear her screaming . . .’

  ‘Jesus,’ said Trish.

  There was a knock on the door. Hood turned, raising his hand to stop whoever was coming in, but he was too late. It was Joe, a bandage on his head, the lower half of his jaw badly swollen.

  ‘Sorry, mate . . .’ Hood started.

  ‘It’s okay,’ I said. Hood gave me and him a doubtful look each, but stood aside. ‘Hi, Joe. How’re you doing?’

  ‘Okay.’ His eyes met Maxi’s.

  ‘Hey, Joe,’ said Maxi. ‘Long time.’

  ‘Sorry for your loss,’ said Joe. When he spoke, his lips barely moved; and even that caused him to grimace.

  Maxi nodded. He rubbed at his face as Joe came fully into the room and closed the door behind him.

  ‘How do you two . . .?’ I asked.

  ‘I told you where I’m from,’ said Joe. ‘It was Sergeant McDowell who put me inside, way back when.’

  ‘Aye,’ said Maxi, ‘you were a hard wee nut.’

  ‘Best thing that ever happened to me. They said down the hall what happened. I put two and two together.’

  ‘Was it the Millers did you too?’ Maxi asked, indicating his jaw.

  ‘Some of their boys, aye.’ Joe nodded at me. ‘There was nothing I could do, I’m sorry. I was out at the wholesaler’s early; when I came back, they were dragging Bobby out the door, jumped me before I could do anything. I was out for the count when the bomb went off, some fireman dragged me clear. Shop destroyed, my home gone, and my apprentice stolen. They just can’t do that.’

  Maxi was staring at the ground, but nodding in agreement.

  ‘There has to be someone we can call,’ said Trish. ‘Someone who can save him.’

  ‘There’s no one,’ I said. ‘No one we can trust.’

  ‘Of course there is,’ said Hood. ‘My God, we get back to the station, we get warrants . . . we go after them . . .’

  ‘You think they’re going to give you your head?’ Maxi spat. ‘They won’t move against the Millers unless it comes down from on high. By the time they manage that, if they manage that, it’ll be too late for the boy. He’ll be floating gutted in the Lagan with the rest of them.’

  ‘I know for a fact the government won’t do anything,’ I said.

  It was clear in my head now. The Pikes as a couple were both under the sway of the Millers. The Millers could do whatever the hell they liked.

  ‘We can’t just leave him,’ said Trish.

  ‘No,’ said Maxi.

  ‘No,’ said Joe.

  It sat in the air. Eyes met, flitted.

  ‘You get your hands on anything?’ Joe asked.

  ‘Sure,’ said Maxi. ‘You?’

  ‘Our boys who did the decommissioning kept a few to one side for emergencies. I haven’t been involved for years, but I’ve enough mates who are.’

  ‘Wise,’ said Maxi. ‘They’ll lend?’

  ‘Sure. They’ve no love for the Millers.’

  ‘This is all my fault,’ I said.

  They all looked at me.

  ‘There’s a first,’ said Trish.

  ‘It’s not your fault,’ said Maxi. ‘That’s like blaming an X-ray for the fact that you have a tumour. You’ve just drawn attention to the bleeding obvious. We have to cut the tumour out.’

  ‘Cutting is my field of expertise,’ said Joe.

  ‘I know a thing or two about it myself,’ said Maxi.

  ‘At the risk of stating the bleeding obvious,’ I said, ‘are we talking about what I think we’re talking about?’

  Joe nodded at Maxi. Maxi nodded at me.

  ‘If you want him back alive,’ said Joe, ‘it’s the only way.’

  ‘I’m going that way anyway,’ said Maxi.

  ‘I have to go with you,’ I said.

  ‘No you don’t,’ said Trish. ‘But you will.’

  ‘You’d be better off waiting here,’ said Maxi.

  ‘No,’ I said.

  ‘You’ve just been blown up,’ said Joe.

  ‘I’m going,’ I said. ‘I have my own gun and everything.’

  Maxi looked to Joe. Joe shrugged. ‘Well if you have your own gun . . .’

  It even coaxed a smile out of Maxi.

  ‘I just need to go and get it,’ I said.

  Patricia said: ‘Right. Where is it? I’ll drive you.’

  ‘It’s in your car,’ I said.

  ‘My . . .?’ She took a deep breath. ‘Why am I not surprised?’

  I threw back the blankets and moved my legs round. Patricia helped me up. I groaned. Things swam.

  ‘I’m fine,’ I said.

  ‘You must be. When you get a sore throat, you’re usually in bed for months.’

  Maxi pushed himself up from his chair. Joe turned and put his hand on the doorknob, but he couldn’t open it without Hood shifting. Hood had no intention of it.

  ‘Just . . . jus
t hold on to your horses there,’ he said, looking around us. ‘Youse can’t be serious.’

  ‘Move it,’ said Joe. ‘We’re going to get the boy.’

  ‘I can’t allow it,’ said Hood.

  ‘You’re not in a position to stop it,’ said Joe.

  Hood looked at Maxi. ‘You . . . can’t . . . You’re one of us.’

  ‘I was, I’m not now. And even if I was, with what’s been going on, it’s not a boast I’d care to make. Now get out of the way.’

  ‘No . . . Maxi . . . Sergeant McDowell . . . listen to me. It’s just . . . madness. Man, you’re the cop everyone looks up to; don’t throw that away. I’m sorry about your wife, it’s a horrible, terrible thing, but they’ve gone too far now, you know we always get them when it’s one of our own.’

  ‘Well it shouldn’t have to be,’ said Maxi.

  Hood drew himself up. He puffed his chest out, what there was of it. ‘If you’re knowingly going to commit an act of violence,’ he said, ‘then I’m going to place you under arrest for your own protection. It’s nothing more than you’ve taught me to do.’

  ‘Just move, son,’ said Maxi.

  ‘No.’

  Hood was tall, but skinny as a rake. He had planted his feet at the optimum distance apart to give him both leverage and a base from which to resist an attack. He was armed, and could have gone for it. He chose not to.

  Joe looked him up and down, and nodded admiringly. ‘You’ve got balls, kid, I’ll give you that. But you should protect them at all times.’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  By way of response, Joe punched straight down, smacking Hood full in the groin, and he went down instantly.

  In my head I was thinking: this time all bets are off.

  50

  I was doing a lot of groaning. I couldn’t help it. Every time the car went over a speed bump, it was like getting a punch to my broken ribs. And Belfast is obsessed with speed bumps. The fresh air had cleared my head enough to be wondering how sore I would be feeling if I hadn’t been shot full of morphine.

  Trish drove, Joe was beside her, I was in the back. Maxi had gone off to retrieve his weapon. Hood was handcuffed to a radiator back in the hospital, with surgical tape over his mouth and, courtesy of our friendly neighbourhood nurse, an injection of something that had been intended to help me sleep in his arse. There was a hospital equivalent of a Do not disturb sign on the door.