War Baby

by Colin Falconer

‘Mickey, I’m forty-three. I have a sedentary lifestyle.’

  ‘Look, I think he likes me.’

  ‘He adores you.’

  She astride him and with one sinuous movement of her hips he felt himself slide inside her. She leaned over him and he felt her hair on his face. ‘No more tidal waves,’ she breathed. ‘Let’s just surf for a while.’

  He couldn’t help it; he felt cheated. This was the way it should have been from the beginning. Mickey was right what she said; so much wasted time. But then he thought: no, there is a season for everything. Perhaps back then it could not have been like this. Now they had both grown up a little, perhaps they had a chance.

  * * *

  Webb sat at his desk, staring at the cove, whistling tunelessly between his teeth. Sunlight bounced off the windscreens of the cars crossing Southampton Bridge. Two hours at the keyboard and he had written perhaps fifty words.

  The phone rang, snapping him from his reverie.

  An international connection. ‘Webb.’

  ‘Hugh, it’s me, Croz.’

  ‘Croz. Where are you?’

  ‘Rome. IPA made me bureau chief here.’

  ‘Congratulations.’

  ‘Don’t bother congratulating me, they did it because my knee’s fucked. I’m deskbound for a while. Look, Hugh, you been watching the TV?’

  ‘The cartoons mostly.’

  ‘Yeah, sure. You seen what’s happening in Yugoslavia? It’s an unbelievable story out there. Unbelievable.’

  Webb steeled himself for the pitch.

  ‘I thought maybe you could do some feature stuff for me. Anything we don’t use, you can put in your next book. I’ve got authorization to offer you some very serious money for your byline. What do you think?’

  Webb almost asked him what he meant by ‘very serious money’ but stopped himself. As soon as someone mentioned a figure they thought you had accepted the offer and were just quibbling over price. ‘I think you’re crazy.’

  ‘Hey, you can’t sit on your ass down there for the rest of your life. You’ll go crazy, man.’

  ‘No, going back to a war zone when I don’t have to - that’s crazy.’

  ‘You do need to do this. It’s not about the money. I read you last book.’

  Not such a non sequitur as it sounds, he thought. The bastard’s on to me.

  ‘Think about it, Hugh. Sarajevo’s getting pounded to shit every single day and no one gives a damn. Except us, right?’

  ‘I’ve paid my dues, Croz. I’m not going back.’

  ‘Think about it. That’s all I ask. I’ll leave you my number. Okay?’

  Afterwards, he sat for a long time staring at the phone, as if it were an Aladdin’s lamp. All he had to do was pick it up, dial a number...

  ‘Still life with troubled journalist,’ he said aloud. No, it was impossible, he had finished with all of that. He was not going back there. In one year almost as many journalists had died in the Balkans as the whole ten years of Vietnam.

  No. No way.

  * * *

  He had lunch with his new editor at a Park Avenue restaurant and then, instead of going to Penn, he took the subway to Houston. Mickey’s apartment was not far away and she finished her shift around three in the afternoon. He thought he’d surprise her. He bought roses at a florist on the corner of Houston and 67th.

  A young man, dressed entirely in black, was sitting on the stoop of her West Village brownstone. He wore purple-tinted granny glasses and he had a row of gold earrings through his left ear. He looked like one of Jenny’s boyfriends.

  It was meant to be a security apartment but there was someone just ahead of him and he simply followed them in before the front door clicked shut. Great security. He took the stairs to the third floor and knocked on the door of 3E.

  It opened.

  Sean Ryan flashed him a grin. ‘Well, how about that. Instant reunion.’ He looked down at the roses and raised his eyebrows.

  Webb looked over his shoulder. Mickey was standing in the middle of the room in a white bathrobe. Nice. Cosy.

  He held out the flowers and gave them to Sean. ‘These are for you.’

  ‘Thanks, Spider.’

  ‘Well, I’ve missed you.’

  Ryan lowered his voice. ‘You wearing that aftershave for me as well?’

  ‘I just had lunch with my editor. He’s gay and I like to tease him.’

  Mickey stood there, looking guilty as hell. Well, there was no law against sleeping with your former husband. ‘Well. Great to see you again. I’d better be going.’

  She pushed Ryan out of the way. ‘Hugh, don’t go. Come in. Please. I wasn’t expecting you.’

  ‘Clearly.’

  Ryan had overcome his initial surprise. ‘Yeah, come on, Spider. I haven’t see you in God knows how long. At least have a drink with me.’

  Webb shrugged and turned around.

  Mickey fussed in the kitchen. ‘I get home from work, suddenly I have all these visitors. You guys want orange juice? I don’t keep anything stronger.’

  Webb shrugged. ‘Sure. Orange juice is fine.’

  Ryan held out the flowers. ‘Can you put these in a vase for me?’

  Mickey took the flowers and slammed them on the counter top in the small galley kitchen. She went to the refrigerator, took out a pitcher of orange juice and fetched three glasses.

  The door to the bedroom was open and the bed was a mess. ‘I didn’t have time to make it this morning,’ she snapped, and pulled the door shut with her foot. She put the orange juice and the glasses on the coffee table. Ryan and Webb sat awkwardly side by side on the only sofa.

  Mickey dragged over a chair from the dining table. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘this is really nice.’

  ‘Saw Crosby in London,’ Ryan said. ‘He told me how he’d met Mickey over here. I got her address from him, thought it would be a surprise. And there you were thinking you’d surprise her too. Now look at us, mate. All of us sitting here. Surprised.’

  ‘When did you get into New York?’

  ‘Last night.’

  ‘Still with CNN?’

  ‘Pays the bills. What about you? Still churning out bestsellers?’

  ‘I’m the darling of the talk shows’

  ‘I always thought you would be.’

  A strained silence.

  ‘So what brings you to New York?’

  Mickey poured the juices and slammed the glasses on the table. She was in a bad mood. Getting caught out did that to people, Webb supposed. ‘I came to see Mickey. What brings you here?’

  ‘I came to see Mickey.’

  ‘What a coincidence.’

  ‘Isn’t it?’

  Her eyes were bright and angry. Well, he didn’t know what she had to be pissed about. He was the one being messed around. ‘So, how’s things going? I’ve seen you on television a few times. Hardly recognized you just now without your flak jacket.’

  ‘Mate, I’ve tried to tell them but they won’t listen. Suppose it doesn’t do the ratings any harm to play up the risk angle a little bit. You know how it is.’

  ‘Sure I do.’

  ‘You’re looking well, Spider.’

  ‘Thanks. You haven’t changed a bit either.’

  ‘Clean living.’

  ‘I can imagine.’

  Ryan sipped his orange juice. ‘Funny, I was hoping I might catch up with you while I was here. From my lips to God’s ear, eh?’ He was smiling and tapping his foot at the same time. Webb could feel the anger radiating out of him. Because Mickey had found herself another man or because the man is me? He probably preferred it if his women took themselves off to a monastery after he’d finished with them, pined after him forever. That would suit his ego. ‘Mate, I read all of your stuff. It’s not bad. My favorite was Deception. You’ve got a gift, Spider. You know how to make your point in a very entertaining way.’

  ‘It’s not meant as entertainment.’

  ‘No, but it’s got to be, hasn’t it? If you want to get people�
�s attention. It has to be either grotesque or gruesome or exciting or people just switch off. When you’ve got something to say you have to mesmerize them with blood stains, then creep up behind them and shout your message in their ear while they’re distracted. We only have to do it for thirty, maybe sixty seconds. Doing it in a whole book is a lot harder. I admire you for that.’

  Webb watched his face for signs of irony. But there were none. He meant it.

  ‘Where are you living now, Spider?’

  ‘Out on Long Island. You’ll have to come out before you go back.’

  ‘Yeah, I’d like that. I can bring Mickey out with me.’

  He smiled ingenuously. Webb looked at Mickey.

  ‘High and I are sleeping together,’ she said to Ryan.

  ‘I would have put it another way,’ Webb said. ‘I would have said I was in love with your ex-wife. But there you are. Different perspectives.’

  ‘Shucks, you two,’ he grinned. ‘Now don’t you mind me.’

  ‘Fuck you,’ Mickey said, and got up and went into the bedroom, slamming the door.

  Webb stood up to leave.

  Ryan looked up at him. ‘Nothing happened, mate,’ he said. ‘I mean, before you got here. We’re all finished years ago.’

  ‘Been great catching up.’

  ‘Can I still come out to Lincoln Cove?’

  Christ, Webb thought. He sounds like a small boy who thinks he’s just missed out on a holiday treat. ‘Mickey will tell you how to get there.’ He looked at his watch. ‘I’d better be going. My train leaves Penn station in half an hour.’

  He walked out. Screw Sean Ryan.

  And screw her as well.

  Chapter 66

  Ryan knocked on the bedroom door, opened it without waiting for an answer. Mickey was dressing in front of the mirror. She had on a pair of briefs and was in the process of fixing the clasp on her bra.

  ‘Get out of here!’

  ‘Want a hand with that?’

  ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing? This is my apartment.’

  ‘Nothing I haven’t seen before.’

  ‘Christ, you’ve got a nerve.’

  ‘Comes with the territory.’

  He sat down on the edge of the bed and watched her as she pulled on a blouse and skirt. ‘You look great, Mickey. I mean, you haven’t let yourself go.’

  ‘Why would I want to do that? Because of you?’

  ‘I didn’t mean it that way. Jesus, don’t be so touchy.’

  She knew what he was doing. He did this kind of thing all the time, exercised his charm for the hell of it, not because he meant it, just to see how well it still worked.

  ‘You look like you’ve really got things together. That’s good.’

  She finished dressing. She took a comb from the dresser and dragged it through her hair. She could feel his powder blue eyes fixed on her even when she had her back to him. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘I just wanted to see that you were okay,’ he said, and it sounded as if he genuinely meant it. He came up behind her and put his hands on her hips. ‘How about we grab some dinner someplace?’

  She moved out of reach. ‘What is it, Sean? You’re in town and at a loose end and you’re worried you won’t get laid tonight?’

  ‘I thought we were still friends.’

  ‘My friends don’t walk into my room when I’m getting dressed.’

  ‘Croz said you had your shit together. I just wanted to be sure. I’ve always felt bad ...’ He let the sentence hang.

  ‘You’re like one of those Irish Catholics who drinks and beats on his wife and kids six days a week but goes to church on Sundays because he feels bad about it. Fuck you, Sean.’ Having got that off her chest, the significance of what he had said hit her. Crosby had told him she was okay; so he had been guaranteed before he got to New York that there would be no demands on him. He could reconnect without feeling bad, perhaps even feel absolved.

  He was like a naughty little boy, she supposed. He wasn’t mean, just utterly selfish. He didn’t get that he had done anything wrong. ‘There’s a little Italian place round the corner,’ she said. ‘They do great tortellini.’

  He grinned. ‘I love it when you talk dirty,’ he said.

  * * *

  Ryan arrived at Lincoln Cove in the back of a stretch limousine. Webb stood on the porch with his hands in his pockets and shook his head. The only wonder was that he had not hired a helicopter and landed on the back lawn. He had Mickey with him.

  She came up the path first, swinging an overnight bag. They looked at each other.

  ‘Hi, Mickey.’

  ‘Hi.’

  ‘Did you have a swim on the drive up?’

  ‘It’s only the standard model. It hasn’t got a pool, just a sauna.’

  ‘That’s the trouble with Sean. He’s cheap.’

  Ryan tipped the driver and followed Mickey up the path. He was wearing a camouflage utility with cutaway sleeves, faded jeans and Fabiano leather boots. The combat photographer on holiday.

  ‘Nice ride,’ Webb said.

  ‘Live for today. You never know what’s going to happen tomorrow.’

  ‘I suppose you’ve hired the Queen Elizabeth to go home in.’

  ‘Peter Arnett’s already booked it.’

  Webb wondered if this was really such a good idea. ‘Come on in,’ he said. ‘I’ll make you a nice English cup of tea.’

  * * *

  ‘Nice place.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  He went out onto the deck. It was early evening and the Japanese lanterns were alight in a neighbor’s garden. The breeze was scented with charcoal and sea salt. ‘Great spot for seduction,’ Ryan said. ‘Isolated. Dark. In Lincoln Cove no one can hear you scream.’ He stretched. ‘Where are you working on the Pulitzer Prize?’

  ‘My study’s upstairs.’

  ‘Mind if I see? I’ve never been in a real writer’s place before.’

  Shit, this is going to be a long weekend, he thought. ‘If you agree to tone it down a bit,’ he said, and led the way upstairs.

  Ryan stood in the middle of the room, looking around. Webb leaned against the door, watching him. ‘I can just see you here, mate,’ Ryan said. ‘Sucking on a pencil, ruminating on the meaning of life.’

  Look at him, Webb thought. They say the Devil never grows older. He’s still the same fighting weight as Saigon, living in his Boy’s Own fantasy with the body of a thirty-year-old and hardly a grey hair.

  ‘I envy you,’ Ryan said for no apparent reason.

  ‘Envy me?’

  ‘You’ve got your life in order. I never seemed able to do that.’

  ‘Don’t give me that bullshit. You’re as happy as a pig in shit, you always have been.’

  ‘I’m okay when I’m doing stuff. It’s only when I stop it scares me.’ They stood for a long time in contemplative silence. The shadows lengthened. ‘I never thanked you for saving my life at Que Trang.’

  ‘No, you didn’t.’

  ‘Well, it was the least you could do for a mate. But I still don’t understand why you did it. If I were you I would have let them bloody shoot me.’

  ‘No, you wouldn’t.’

  ‘I might have. If there was a woman involved.’

  ‘Well, that’s where you and I are different.’

  ‘I’m trying to think of one way you and I are the same.’ He switched on the desk lamp, studied the photographs on the wall. ‘God, we looked young.’

  ‘I saw Croz when he was in town.’

  ‘Yeah, he told me.’

  ‘He said he saw you in Zagreb. I still can’t believe twenty years on and you two are still at it.’

  ‘Mate, I’m hooked. Can’t help myself.’

  ‘You’re a war junkie.’

  ‘That’s part of it, but it’s not all of it. That’s one thing I learned from you.’

  ‘From me?’

  ‘I accused you once of being Jimminy Cricket. Well, that’s me, these days. When you ret
ired I took over your job. I sit on the world’s shoulder and just keep yabbering away, reminding people of what happens outside their cozy littler living rooms. I’m going to keep yabbering till they put me in a box.’

  ‘And probably after, knowing you.’

  Ryan grinned.

  ‘You’re not going to change anything, Sean. People are immune to it now. They see so much violence on TV, real and faked, and they’re shock-proofed. They can’t tell the difference between the entertainment and the news.’

  ‘You’re an idealist, that’s your trouble.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘All idealists are also unrealists.’

  ‘Great. You make up that word or did you go to too many military briefings?’

  ‘War isn’t hell if you’re winning. If you’ve got a bloody big gun and the other bloke hasn’t, war is fun. It’s like a big video game. You’ve seen it, the door gunner blasting away at some piss-poor Vietnamese rice farmer with an M-60 is having a fucking fine old time. Like the Serbs blasting the living shit out of Vukovar. Tell them war’s hell. They’ve never felt so sexy. I’ll tell you something, Spider, I’ve seen wars of liberation, wars of attrition, wars of atonement, every kind of damned war. But you know why people really go to war? They do it because they fucking well enjoy it! Getting men to stop fighting is like trying to make them stop fucking. Being the world’s conscience is idealism. Thinking you’re going to change things is unrealistic.’

  ‘Maybe,’ Webb said, finally.

  ‘That wasn’t what I came up here to talk to you about.’

  ‘You want to talk about Mickey.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Shoot.’

  ‘Well … how can I put this? It’s hard not to take this personally.’

  ‘Explain.’

  ‘I thought you were a mate.’

  ‘Are you going to give me a lecture about morals?’

  ‘We’re back to Saigon. I knew it! You’re never going to let that rest, are you? Christ Almighty, how many times do we have to go through it? It wasn’t my fault. I didn’t arrange to get myself blown up.’

  ‘Going out to the Newport Bridge on the last day of the fighting? You might as well have done.’