All the Colours of the Town

by McIlvanney, Liam

  ‘You’re the war correspondent?’ A blocky torso was squeezing through the hatch. A fat finger tapped a wristwatch. ‘You’re a bit late, fella. The war’s over.’ He wheezed and held out his hand. ‘Isaac Hepburn.’

  His hair had thinned and the face had filled out and the beard was a tight white goatee. But the eyes, with their hard, hooded brightness, were just as they were in the photo.

  ‘Gerry Conway. Nobody told the doctors.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  His grip was moist, surprisingly light.

  ‘The war’s over? Nobody told the doctors at the Royal. The knee surgeons.’

  He tutted. ‘Och no, son. It’s much more civilised now. Now the bad guys phone the ambulance in advance. They wait till they hear the siren before pulling the trigger. It’s a whole new level of service. Why are we talking about this? I’ll show you the gym.’

  A sparring match was in progress. Hepburn raised his hand and moved into a half-crouch, as if to say Keep going, boys – don’t stop on account of me. The boxers – a skinny, long-haired galoot with strawberry splotches on his torso and a shorter, thickset, swarthy, purposeful crophead – never wavered. A man at ringside glanced over with no expression and then turned back to the fight.

  ‘What would you like?’

  There was a bar at one end of the gym, six feet of lacquered pine with half a dozen tables in front. A big guy in a blue sleeveless vest was sitting at one of the tables with a Nintendo DS Lite. He was jabbing the stylus at the little screen. I recognised the beeps and pings of Brain Trainer. He wore half-moon reading glasses which he tossed on the table when he went behind the bar and frowned at us.

  I looked at my watch. ‘Let’s not go daft.’

  I ordered a mineral water. Hepburn had a tomato juice.

  We took our seats. Hepburn looked at me and then scanned round the club. He looked back at me. ‘Yeah.’ I cleared my throat. ‘Yeah, this is a nice place.’

  ‘I’m glad you think so.’ He sat forward. ‘And it’s not just a gym, either. We’ve had some government money – a peace dividend, you could call it – but mostly we raised it ourselves. Raffles, charity boxing bouts.’ He knocked on the tabletop, dark mottled red like a tenderised steak. ‘Actual granite, this is.’

  ‘Nice.’

  The booming noise was the noise of the ring, the boxers’ boots on the canvas floor. My money was on the short guy. No one had thrown a punch yet, but you can tell a lot from how a fighter moves. The small guy was everywhere, eel-like, all flourish and swank. He bobbed about with beautiful side-stepping slides; he feinted and weaved. There was a contemptuous excess to his movements, a scornful slickness. The tall guy stumped about in his wake, jabbing empty air, stopping now and then to hitch his shorts.

  He was hitching his shorts when the small guy stepped in and tagged him, two head-snapping lefts that tipped him onto the ropes.

  Hepburn frowned. The big guy bounced off and wrapped the other in a stiff-armed clinch.

  ‘There’s no prejudice here.’ Hepburn tapped the actual granite. ‘You can’t afford bigotry in this game. Once you’re through these ropes all bets are off. Everyone’s equal in there.’

  Try telling the big guy, I thought. He took a dull one on the ear as we watched. He listed a little but kept coming on.

  ‘That’s an interesting idea. Beating the shit out of each other brings the warring tribes together. Hasn’t worked so far, has it?’

  Hepburn smiled tightly. ‘You’re a cynic, Mr Conway. That’s your job. If we were all as cynical as you we’d still be at war. Once you’ve been what we’ve been through, then you can talk.’

  I let that go. We watched the tall guy taking more punishment. If he was suckering the short guy it was time to spring the trap.

  Suddenly Hepburn smacked down his drink and got to his feet. ‘For Jesus sake, Gilmour! Keep your guard up. Try and look as if you mean it. Move your feet. Move your feet.’

  The big guy paused to absorb these instructions, his red and white face tilted blankly in our direction, and the little guy stepped in with a body combo – rat-a-tat jabs to the ribs – and a big looping head shot. Gilmour pitched forward. He tipped over like a bucket and stayed there on his elbows and knees, a rope of mucus swinging from his lip.

  ‘Aw, for fuck sake!’ Hepburn turned away in disgust. The barman looked up and grinned, hunching his shoulders and rubbing his palms together.

  ‘How much?’ I said to Hepburn.

  ‘Fucking score. And you –’ the barman made a show of stifling his grin – ‘get us a real bloody drink.’ They both looked at me.

  ‘I’m fine,’ I said, putting my hand over my glass.

  When the drinks arrived – a whisky for Hepburn and another water for me – there was a twenty on the table. The barman palmed it. He whistled something jazzy under his breath.

  ‘Fucking flyman.’ Hepburn looked sourly round the gym. Then he looked straight at me. ‘What did you want to talk about, son?’

  ‘I thought John had told you. It’s a mutual acquaintance. Guy called Peter Lyons.’

  Hepburn relit his roll-up. He looked at the Dictaphone when I set it on the table.

  ‘I don’t think so, friend.’

  I lifted the Dictaphone and stowed it in my pocket, but I thumbed ‘record’ as I did so.

  ‘You don’t know him?’

  ‘Did I say that?’

  ‘But you don’t want to talk about him.’

  He studied his glass.

  ‘What did you see me for then?’

  ‘A favour. Young Rose out there is a family friend. I knew his daddy.’

  ‘No other reason?’

  His eyebrows rose coyly. ‘You mean do I know your work? Am I a fan? Sorry to disappoint, Mr Conway.’

  ‘That’s all right. I’m not a big fan of your own work. It must take you back a bit.’ I spread my palm towards the table – the notebook and drinks. ‘When did you last do this? It must be a while.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘Since someone found you worth interviewing.’

  He snorted. ‘You think I’ve missed it that badly? Is that what you think?’

  ‘Yeah, that’s what I think. You used to run this estate, from what I hear. What did you call yourself: brigadier? Battalion commander? Nowadays? I’m not sure you even run this gym. Of course you miss it. That’s what the will he/won’t he stuff was about. That’s why you’re dicking me around right now. You probably don’t even know Peter Lyons, you can’t even place the name.’

  Hepburn was smiling. ‘Very good, son. This is where I lose the rag, is it? Give you the starting prices on Peter Lyons. You think we don’t know the techniques? We wrote the fucking manual, son.’

  I tipped my chair back and stared at the ceiling. The chair legs cracked on the floor when I leaned forward. ‘Frankly? Who gives a shit any more? Wrote the manual! I’m not in the market for anecdotes. Tales from the H-blocks. I’ve got the fucking History Channel if I want that. I came to you for help. Either you’ll help me or you won’t. Right now it looks like you won’t. That’s all right. Thanks for the drink.’

  The barman was looking up from his console. He was too far away to hear my words but he didn’t like the tone. Hepburn looked over and shook his head and the guy eyed me levelly and went back to his game. Hepburn wetted his finger and thumb and doused his smoke with a tiny hiss. He let out a sigh.

  ‘He’s done well for himself, hasn’t he?’

  ‘Lyons? He’s doing OK.’

  ‘What is he now?’

  ‘Justice Minister. Prisons and police.’

  Hepburn laughed. ‘Prisons and police. Fat lot he’d know about that. And what are you after him for? What’s he done?’

  ‘I was hoping you might tell me that.’

  Hepburn nosed his whisky and set it down untouched.

  ‘You think he’s done something but you don’t know what.’

  ‘We got a tip-off.’

  He stopped his glas
s halfway to his lips. ‘Should’ve let you buy this after all. Must be a queer load of money in the Scottish papers. You’re over here on the strength of a tip-off.’

  ‘It’s not just a tip-off.’

  ‘I know it’s not, son.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You’ve got a photo of some guys in fancy dress. It’s not much more than a tip-off, is it?’

  I looked at the door.

  ‘Don’t blame him. He lives here. You fuck off home tomorrow or next week; he’s got to eat.’

  I took a drink of water. I didn’t say anything.

  ‘I’m in it too, I hear. Captured for posterity. Do you think I could see it?’

  I took it out and slid it across the table.

  ‘Jesus Christ.’ Hepburn grinned. ‘That fucking tache. I thought it gave me a military bearing, like a wing commander or something. I look fucking gay.’

  He shook his head and passed the photo back.

  ‘How well did you know him?’ I said.

  Hepburn was still shaking his head. I thought he hadn’t heard, so I asked him again.

  ‘Do you know what a tout is, son?’ He fished the roll-up – it was barely an inch long now – from his shirt pocket.

  ‘I’m not asking for his life story. I just want to know what he was like, what brought him to Belfast every other week. What he did with you guys.’

  ‘Uh-huh.’ He was lighting it now, tilting his head to keep the flame from singeing his moustache. ‘That’s all you want is it? Let me tell you something.’ The voice was quieter now, but the guy in the vest was paying attention. ‘Let me tell you something, friend. I did sixteen years. I did sixteen years in a British jail. If I’d talked when they pinched me, I needn’t have done a day. I could have walked right out the door. But sixteen years is what I did. So why would I talk now? Why would I do that? If you want to ask about the prison thing, in general terms, with no names mentioned, I’m happy to oblige. If you want my own story, I’ll talk about that. But I can’t talk about anyone else. I don’t know what John Rose told you, but that’s not what we do.’

  The boxers had finished showering. The big guy looked tougher with his street clothes on. He paused at our table. Hepburn jerked his chin at him.

  ‘How you doin’, kid?’

  ‘I’m sorry you lost your bet, Mr Hepburn.’

  ‘Don’t worry, Gil. Next time, eh? Watch the right.’ He feinted a little, poked the air with two short jabs.

  The big guy nodded. He hung around for a few seconds, as if Hepburn might do the intros. Then he hitched his shoulder bag.

  ‘I’ll see you again, Mr Hepburn.’

  The door banged behind him.

  ‘Good kid,’ said Hepburn. My face must have betrayed me since he added in a regretful undertone: ‘If a fucking donkey.’

  ‘I’ll get going as well.’

  Hepburn got to his feet, held out his hand in that regal backhand grip favoured by pontiffs and mobsters.

  ‘I didn’t mean to bite your head off, son. I’m sorry I can’t help. Anyway, it’s twenty years ago. I couldn’t tell you what I had for my tea last night, let alone twenty years ago.’ He took a card from his wallet and tapped it into my breast pocket. ‘You might need some help over the next few days. If that happens, you let me know.’

  The barman looked up from his Brain Training, watching me over his reading glasses.

  ‘Thanks. I’ll do that.’

  In the car park I turned my phone on and it rang straight away.

  ‘Gerry. Thank Christ. I thought you’d vanished.’ It was Martin Moir. ‘Lyons has been in. He’s trying to get a hold of you.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘He came by the office. He knows you’re on to something.’

  The rain came down just then – big spare bulbous drops that spotted the dry ground. I held out my arm and watched the splotches bloom on my sleeve.

  ‘Shit.’ I ran through the possibilities. ‘Maguire? Neve McDonald?’

  ‘That told him? Who knows? Stick a pin. The thing is, he’s on to us.’

  ‘Yeah, but what does he know?’

  ‘I’m not sure. What do we know? He knows you’re in Belfast, Gerry; that’s enough. He knows you’re not over for the Walk.’

  The rain was pleasant on my scalp, the big droplets bursting in cool hard slaps that pasted my hair to my crown.

  ‘It’s not so bad. Rix never liked him anyway.’

  ‘There’s that.’

  Moir paused. He seemed to be holding his breath.

  ‘What? What else?’

  He breathed out. He said evenly, ‘Tennant was in.’

  Barbara Tennant – houndstooth-suited, spike-heeled and burnished, the harpy with the weathergirl gloss – was a new appointment to the Tribune’s board, where she’d taken her late husband’s seat. The board met once a month in Edinburgh. You only ever saw a board member in the building when something was wrong. Tennant was trouble. She was also a partner in Lyons’s law firm.

  ‘She see Rix?’

  ‘What do you think? Half an hour. Forty minutes maybe.’ Moir sighed. ‘He’s going to need to see something, Gerry. Soon. He needs a result.’

  The rain was easing off now, just a few dark plashes spotting the ground.

  ‘Yeah? Would tonight do, do you think?’

  ‘Really? You’ll have something by tonight?’

  ‘I’ll have something by tonight.’

  ‘Great. I’ll tell Norman. I’ll tell Rix. I’ll bell you later.’

  I climbed in beside John Rose. He lodged the sudoku book in the glove compartment and turned the ignition.

  Chapter Ten

  ‘You forget there were so many,’ Malachy said. ‘Nearly thirty. And they have this makeshift morgue with the bodies covered in blankets, old curtains, anything. And the blood. You see this guy, he’s literally mopping it up, it looks like footage of a flood, a guy with a bucket and mop.’

  ‘Jesus.’ Simmonds shook his head. We all took a sip of our pints. There was a daytime talk show on the telly and I wished someone would turn it down or off. We all kept glancing at the screen and feeling bad about it. At least I did.

  ‘It was bad,’ Malachy said. ‘The footage. But know what was worse? They played audio tapes. Jesus. The screams and the wailing. These pitiful shouts for help. Like fucking lost souls, the moans of the damned.’

  We were in the Duke of York. This was the last of the journo pubs that Rose had promised to show me. Malachy Kane was Ireland correspondent for one of the London dailies. He was just back from Belfast High Court. For the past two weeks he’d been covering a trial. One of the big bomb blasts back in the nineties. The criminal case had collapsed a few years back. Now the victims’ families had brought a civil suit against the suspected bombers.

  ‘You’ve never heard a noise like it. It’s worse than the visuals: you’re trying to imagine what could cause people to produce a noise like that.’

  ‘I don’t remember that,’ the tall guy said. Tall and bald, a face like a boxer’s. He’d been introduced as Down-in-the-mouth Macpherson. ‘I was there. On the day. We got there within the hour. All I really remember is the shoes. Shoes all over the main street. The blast had knocked out a shoe-shop’s windows. But it wasn’t just new shoes. And both kinds – the new shoes and the old ones – were all mixed up together, on the pavement and the street.’

  ‘You do remember,’ Simmonds said. ‘You think you don’t remember but you do. It’s all in there,’ he tapped his temple. ‘And it’ll all come back. Believe me. You’ll wish you didn’t remember.’

  ‘Cheers, Willie.’ Macpherson raised his glass. ‘That’s a cheery fucking thought.’

  Simmonds shrugged. ‘I’m just saying.’

  Macpherson and Simmonds ran the Northern bureau of the Sunday Citizen. The Citizen was a Dublin-based red-top that specialised in exposés of organised crime. The Northern edition had a narrower brief: go after the paramilitaries. Macpherson was editor and Simmonds his chief report
er. Most of the journalists I’d talked to over the past few days had no interest in the Troubles, they didn’t even like to waste time talking about it. Macpherson and Simmonds talked about bombs and assassinations the way an exile talks about home. They looked like they could stand here talking all day and sometimes, according to John Rose, that’s what they did. Dublin gave them a pretty long leash. Certainly, the prevailing interpretation of lunch-hour seemed spiritedly vague. Another round of beers appeared on the bartop.

  ‘Excuse me a minute.’ My phone was ringing. ‘I need to take this.’

  I walked on up to the pub’s far end.

  ‘Gerry, what’s the word?’ Fiona Maguire was sounding upbeat. ‘That couldn’t be a pub I hear in the background?’

  ‘Listen, I can’t talk, Fiona. I’m with someone.’

  There were pictures on the bare brick wall, a line of caricatures, middle-aged men with drinker’s faces. The little sign above them said The Twelve Apostles.

  ‘You’re not just sitting in the Crown drinking Guinness?’

  ‘The very thought. I’m in the Duke of York.’

  ‘Just tell me you’ve got something, Gerry. There’s a big hole in Sunday’s paper with your name on it.’

  I told her I’d file something by Thursday or Friday. ‘I’m on the case.’

  When I rejoined the group they were talking about Hepburn.

  ‘Kiwi was different,’ Simmonds was saying. ‘Kiwi’s got class, a bit of style. There’s a bit more up here –’ he tapped his head again ‘– than your average bear.’

  Macpherson was looking at the ground, grinding something with the toe of his brogue. He looked up.

  ‘Why don’t you ask Gerard Dolan about Hepburn’s class.’

  Simmonds shook his head.

  ‘Who?’ I said.

  Macpherson kept staring at Simmonds.

  ‘Gerard Dolan,’ Malachy Kane said, in an undertone to me. ‘Kiwi shot him in eighty-one. Before he did your man in Ardoyne.’

  ‘Shot him in the stomach,’ Macpherson said. ‘Eighty-two, not eighty-one. In front of his wife and wee lad on the Springfield Road. Took him ten hours to die. This guy’s a nightwatchman, not too bright.’ He turned to me. ‘He’s practically special needs. And Hepburn calls him a top Provo. Shoots him in the belly.’