The fact that they had then allowed me to accompany Bobby to the hospital – yes, of course I’m his legal guardian – meant that they at least partly believed that I was the innocent bystander I claimed to be. I had, of course, planted my useless replica gun on one of the corpses, and my pointing out towards the fire escape and proclaiming, ‘They went thataway,’ as the peelers entered also contributed to my pulling the wool over their eyes. It couldn’t possibly last.
Once she was assured we were safe, via the expeditious method of spotting us being brought out by the cops and escorted to an ambulance, Patricia managed a quick smile and wave, but otherwise kept her head down. As more and more police arrived, she quietly got into her car, started the engine, and gently pulled its mangled rear end free of the lamppost with the minimum of screeching and drove away, completely unnoticed. The cops were too busy with the carnage in the church, while the people of the Shankill had no further use for her now that they had picked her car clean. Not only was every single twenty-pound note gone, but the cocaine with it; not content with that, they’d stolen a family bag of mini Mars bars from the dash, and rifled Trish’s multi-CD player, removing Van, David Gates and Simon and Garfunkel’s Greatest Hits. For some strange reason they left behind my sole contribution to her playlist, the Ramones’ It’s Alive, even though she pursued them up the street offering it to them for free.
When she was finally allowed in to see Bobby, Trish was all concern for him and daggers for me.
‘My car . . . you used my fucking car . . .’ she hissed, as he began to drift off. ‘How dare you!’
‘How dare I what? Come up with a plan that saved Bobby?’
‘That . . . that . . . that was not part of the plan!’
‘Sure about that?’
‘You’re a deceitful, untrustworthy, lying son of a—’
‘Hold your horses, Trish,’ I said, raising calming hands, which were guaranteed to inflame her further, and didn’t disappoint. ‘Didn’t it all work? All’s well that ends well?’
‘Don’t fucking give me that!’ She leant across the bed, her elbow resting on the covers where one of Bobby’s legs should have been. ‘What if I’d been stopped by the peelers and they’d checked the boot and found all that money? How would I have explained that away?’
‘You wouldn’t,’ I admitted. ‘But look on the bright side, they mightn’t even have noticed it. They would have been distracted by the cocaine.’
‘The . . . Holy fuck . . . you didn’t.’
‘Holy fuck I did.’
She raged as only Trish can.
‘You fucking big waste of space, you can’t even look me in the eye, can you?’
I couldn’t, but mainly because I’d spotted DS Hood coming towards us over her shoulder. His lips appeared red and swollen, probably from being taped shut. His demeanour was earnest and concerned. Not for me, obviously.
‘What about Maxi?’ he asked.
‘What about him?’
He made an apologetic hand to Trish, and took me by the arm and led me off to one side. ‘I’m talking to you now as a friend of Maxi’s, not as a police officer.’
‘Aye, right,’ I said.
‘I swear to God I didn’t know Springer was . . . involved.’
‘Involved?’
‘I know, I know. I had no idea. Honestly. Just, just tell me what I can do to help Maxi.’
‘Detective Sergeant Hood,’ I began, ‘forgive me, but I’ve forgotten your first name?’
‘Gary.’
‘Detective Sergeant Hood, Maxi’s wife is dead, killed by your colleague and partner. His life is over, there’s not a damn thing you can do to help him.’
‘Then . . . save him. What can I do to save him?’
‘From what?’
‘I don’t know. Himself. From doing anything worse.’
‘I think that horse has bolted.’
He studied me. I studied him back. His demeanour changed.
He said, ‘I’m going to have to take you in.’
‘For why?’
‘What do you think? We haven’t even spoken to you about the bomb outside your office, about how you came into possession of an incriminating photo of the late Paddy Barr, what your connection to Malone Security is, what your connection to a serious assault on the head of that company is, why you accompanied two gunmen into the headquarters of the de facto leaders of the Ulster Volunteer Force, what you have to do with the death of the Miller brothers, and why your wife’s car, according to the CCTV footage I’ve just watched, appears to have disgorged several million pounds’ worth of banknotes on to the Shankill Road.’
‘You’d have to ask her about that,’ I said.
Hood was no more Maxi’s friend than I was, but I think he cared enough. However, he was still a cop, and had to do his business. Fortunately, there was enough going on, what with everything he’d just pointed out to me, plus the fact that there were two gunmen on the loose, and in pursuit of a rogue cop, that he didn’t have to haul me down there and then. We came to a gentlemen’s agreement that once we’d sorted Bobby out, then I would volunteer myself at Comanche Station. I would do my very best not to incriminate myself, and possibly not Patricia either, depending on her attitude.
We remained on the ward, either side of Bobby. After a while, the police disappeared. It should have been a depressing place. Sick kids, dying kids. But they were up to their necks in mischief. It was good to see, and might have brought a tear to the eye, if I’d been the type.
I looked at Trish across the bed. She was a brave, compassionate, funny, beautiful woman, and I’d loved her since the year dot. We were older now, but clearly less sensible.
I said, ‘What do you want to do?’
‘About?’
‘The boy wonder.’
‘Oh, I don’t know.’
‘He’s a one-legged drug-dealing hoodlum who has just cut his mother’s killer to ribbons with a butcher’s knife.’
Trish smiled. ‘I know. Every home should have one.’
I looked at her. ‘Good one,’ I said.
‘Good one, what?’
‘Every home should have one?’
‘He has nowhere else to go.’
‘Excuse me? The Millers are dead, the threat is lifted. He can go to his relatives.’
‘Would you put him back into that environment, after what he’s been through?’
‘Absolutely.’
‘Dan.’
‘Patricia.’
‘You know something? He reminds me of you.’
‘Thanks a million.’
‘I’m serious. I mean, his attitude. And he’s funny, when you’re not there.’
‘Trish.’
‘Dan.’
‘He reminds you of me? Well if you want a me, you can have a me.’
‘Darlin’, I already have you.’
She smiled. It was warm.
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ I asked.
‘Work it out,’ said Trish.
She elected to stay by his side. I elected to leave. Elections are so divisive. It was early evening. It had been a busy day. I was exhausted. And confused. And exhilarated. I was in need of a drink.
There was a line of taxis outside the hospital.
I climbed into the first and said, ‘The Bob Shaw.’
He caught my eye in the mirror.
‘Kid sick?’ he asked.
‘Aye.’
He pulled out on to the Falls and headed for the West Link.
‘It’s not the answer, you know,’ he said.
‘I didn’t even know there was a question,’ I said.
‘I was on the bottle for twenty years.’
‘Really.’
‘Nearly killed myself.’
Not nearly enough.
I enjoy the occasional pint or three. I’m not the worst at it. I’m not the worst at anything, unless you include marriage. I don’t fall down drunk, I don’t throw up over people, I don’t annoy
strangers, unless they’re asking for it. I enjoy my own company, and thinking things through, like why or how or what the fuck Trish was thinking of wanting to take a waif and stray under her wing. She struggled to cope with me as it was. You couldn’t adopt every sick puppy in the pound. Sometimes you had to just nod in sympathy and leave them to their fate.
The driver was yittering on about how he was saved, and his twelve-step programme. I grunted and nodded.
By way of distraction, I took out my mobile. I hadn’t looked at it since giving Trish the okay to crash her car into the lamppost. If she’d showed a little more restraint, I would have been several million to the good, and a drug baron to boot. I sighed. I’d switched the phone off on entering the hospital, because there was a sign, and a nurse warned me. There was a voicemail waiting.
It was from Bobby’s dad in England. He said he’d finally talked to his wife about it, and she was mad that he hadn’t told her he had a son from a previous relationship, and absolutely he should get in touch with the boy. He said he wasn’t promising anything, but, you know, he could maybe have a chat with the lad, see if he could start something with him, it might lead somewhere.
I deleted the message. If he wanted to make contact bad enough, he’d find a way. In the meantime, Trish could have a free run at Bobby. She needed it. She had been carrying a coal shed full of guilt about the death of our boy for nearly a decade; if it made her feel better offering Bobby a leg-up in life, even if it was just for a short while, then who was I to stand in her way? I’ve made her miserable and happy in equal measures, and one day we’ll meet somewhere in the middle. I thought maybe that Bobby might help that process a little.
Or stab us to death in our beds.
I glanced at my watch, then leaned forward a little and said, ‘You wouldn’t stick the Jack Caramac show on the radio, mate, would you?’
‘That mouthpiece?’
‘Aye, him.’
He blew air out of his cheeks and switched it on.
I don’t quite know what my expectations were. Jack is an odd mix of righteous indignation and rampant ego, but he does seem to care about this stupid place, about the concerns of the little man and the very simple but wilfully ignored importance of doing the right thing.
The first voice I heard was not Jack’s, but a caller into his show. He was saying, ‘Say what you want about the Millers, but at least the streets were safe to walk at night . . .’
‘You’re talking through your hat,’ said Jack.
‘Before they came along, there were gangs of kids terrorising us, and now they’re not . . .’
‘Because the Millers shot them!’
‘Well the peelers weren’t doin’ nothing!’
‘So you think anyone should be able to take the law into their own hands?’
‘All I know is we were able to walk down our street without—’
‘I hear what you’re saying. Thank you for your call.’ He cut the line. ‘If you’re just joining us, we’re talking about the tragic death of the Miller brothers in a shoot-out on the Shankill Road earlier today. And when I say tragic, I’m only joking. Everybody is someone’s son, some-one’s brother, someone’s dad or daughter. But I’m sorry, Mrs Miller, if you’re out there, your boys are gone, and I say good riddance to bad rubbish. We’ve been getting calls about this all afternoon and into this evening from concerned citizens hoping and praying that now that someone’s done the decent thing and gotten rid of this . . . pestilence, maybe the forces of law and order will step in and stop it happening again. Am I being naïve? Am I being ridiculously optimistic? Let me know what you think. Call us up, go on to our website, Facebook, Twitter, open your front door and shout, get in touch whatever way you can.’
‘He just likes stirring things up,’ said my taxi man.
I grunted.
‘Now,’ said Jack, ‘for something completely different – or is it? I have a book in front of me here, a book that might just strike terror into many people across Belfast and further afield, and have many of the rest of you nodding your heads and saying, I told you so. I don’t normally promote books on this show, apart from my own autobiography, because it’s such an entertaining read – and which is, incidentally, still available from all good bookshops – but this isn’t that kind of a book. It’s what you might have called in the old days a ledger, that is, a book used in accounting. I’m sure it’s all software programs these days, but this is just an old-fashioned book with names, and amounts, and dates. Do you remember the tick man, used to come round the doors collecting debts? That’s what this is. Now why would I want to talk about a ledger live on national radio? Well, you see, this isn’t a record of ordinary transactions. This isn’t the milkman keeping tabs, it’s not the Belfast Telegraph delivery boy; this is for a company called Malone Security, a company owned by . . . you guessed it, the Miller brothers. And what it shows, I kid you not, is a record of all the cocaine deliveries they were making to private addresses across our wonderful city. Yes, folks, cocaine! And huge amounts of it! Millions of pounds snorted up those nice middle-class noses in south Belfast!’
‘Is he serious?’ my driver asked.
‘Who knows?’ I said.
The fact was that I’d given Jack an iPhone, not some ancient ledger, but he was a showman, he knew how the story would play best. A ledger felt more real.
‘Now, folks, I’m not saying these people are guilty of using drugs, I’m not saying this will stand up in a court of law, and I certainly hope I’m not libelling anyone or slandering anyone; all I’m going to do is read out a list of names and addresses I’ve found in a book belonging to two drug dealers who were just this morning killed in their gangster headquarters on the Shankill Road. You may draw whatever conclusions you want. Let’s just flick randomly through it and see what name I come to first. Oh – that’s interesting. Abagail Pike. Isn’t that . . . no, that couldn’t be . . .? Abagail Pike, the Assembly member, wife of our Minister of . . . Surely not? And in debt for how much? Good Lord! Oh my goodness. Why, if this was true, she’d have to resign! And probably her husband, too! Okay, let’s turn to the next page!’
The taxi man indicated and pulled in outside the Bob Shaw. He looked back at me and said, ‘He shouldn’t be allowed to say stuff like that.’
‘Well switch him off, then,’ I said.
‘I will as soon as I hear what happens next,’ said the driver, and then quickly added: ‘Six fifty.’
I gave him the exact money and got out. He rolled down his window and said, ‘What about the tip?’
‘Don’t sleep in the subway,’ I said, and winked, and turned. I could hear him swearing after me as I pushed my way into the bar.
It was early yet, but busy. I took a seat and ordered a pint from Lenny. She was looking as lovely as ever. I scanned the clientele, looking for her husband or heavies in his employ. There appeared to be no immediate threat, and her welcoming smile seemed to confirm it. I was just lifting the glass to my lips when someone behind me said, ‘Dan Starkey?’
My heart beat a little faster. I turned to find a small man with receding hair and wearing an unremarkable grey suit. His cheeks were flushed red, and his bottom lip was quivering nervously.
‘Maybe,’ I said.
‘It is, isn’t it? She said you’d be in.’
He nodded at Lenny. Lenny smiled encouragement to him.
I raised pacifist hands. ‘Okay, you got me,’ I said.
‘I heard you were like a private investigator . . .?’
I was about to laugh and say no, but instead, and it being easier than trying to explain about my bespoke service, I nodded and said, ‘Uhuh?’ like it was a perfectly normal thing to be asking.
‘Just, my wife – I think she might be having an affair. She’s a big woman, but not unattractive. Is there any chance you might look into it for me?’
I looked at him. I looked at Lenny. I looked at my pint.
I took a sip.
It was good.
/> I have long believed that in life, there are no happy endings, just happy beginnings, and that my own life has been a series of troughs, connected by creaking bridges.
But as I stood there, drink in hand, I had to admit that for once, things had turned out okay. The boy was safe, the bad guys were vanquished or in the process of being . . . vanked. Maxi and Joe, our unlikely saviours, were still somewhere out there in pursuit of Springer, but I did not doubt that they would find him and kill him. I was battle-scarred but otherwise in fairly good nick, considering what I’d been through. Patricia had made some optimistic noises about our relationship, and I would do my best to make things right there. But for the moment, there was a girl behind the bar making eyes at me, I’d a cold pint in my hand, and if the man in the grey suit was an indication of things to come, then my new career was beginning to show signs of life. I couldn’t complain.
‘Well?’ the grey-suited man asked. ‘Will you do it for me?’
‘Absolutely,’ I said, ‘but first . . .’ I held my hand up and turned back to the bar, ‘let there be crisps.’
Nine Inches Page 28
