The ball bounced into touch just beside us and Hepburn went after it. He moved with unlooked-for grace, his shoulders working in the blue checked jacket, and he trapped the ball before it stopped, trapped it neatly and punted it onto the pitch. He walked back, unbuttoning his jacket. Would he be taken for a grandfather, I wondered, or maybe the father of one of these lads?
‘You find things out,’ Hepburn was saying. ‘You find out what matters. I’ll tell you what matters to me.’ He was nodding, as if I’d contradicted him. ‘Trees.’ He grinned madly. ‘Trees! The way they move, the leaves and branches. Don’t laugh, son. It came to me inside the Kesh. What did I really miss? I missed lots of things. My family. I missed my rum and pep at the Rex. But the thing I remembered, the thing I missed most, was the tree out the back garden. How it moved in the wind. Coming down for a glass of water in the middle of the night, there it would be, through the frosted glass. It wasn’t even the tree, it was the tree’s silhouette, just its shadow on the glass. The waggle of the branches, the little flitter of the leaves. Before I put the light on I’d stand for a minute and watch the tree. And inside, when things got bad, when I’d lie awake in that tin hut with the smells of thirty men, that’s what came back to me. The tree out the back.’
He looked at me.
‘This was my great breakthrough, son. Brilliant, eh? I’m doing twenty years for defending Ulster and what do you know? It’s not Ulster I care about; it’s a fucking tree. What do I with that?’
‘What did you do with that?’
‘Nothing. I did my time. I did my duties. Muster parade. I cleaned the hut. I played footie. Later on I did the OU. And Good Friday came and they let us out. But that was it. That was me finished. I was out the organisation. I’m bye with it now.’
‘Just like that.’
‘Just like that. It’s not like the movies, son. You’re free to leave. They don’t shoot deserters.’
I nodded.
‘What they gonnae say? You havenae done enough? I did sixteen years.’ He snorted. ‘You think I need to impress somebody, flash my medals? Fuck that.’
He picked some grass from his trousers and wiped his fingers with a hankie.
‘Sixteen years.’
The whistle blew; a long trilling blast. The teams straggled off and the managers started their team-talk. The one on our touchline pointed and waved, sometimes gripping a player by the bicep. The players said nothing. They sucked their orange quarters and watched him, their eyes suspicious above the busy mouths. When he finished they nodded and lined up to drop their orange skins into a bucket. Then they trotted out to the goalmouth to warm up.
A man in a club tracksuit approached us waving a book of raffle tickets. His comb-over flapped in the breeze like Bobby Charlton’s.
‘Pound a go, gents,’ he said. ‘Never know your luck. Pound a go.’
Hepburn took five.
‘Just write your details on the stubs,’ the man said. ‘Or even just the name of your boy.’
He turned to me.
‘Oh no,’ I said. ‘I’m just over on holiday. But here …’ I fumbled in my pocket for a fiver. ‘Here’s a donation.’
‘Dead on.’ He moved on down the touchline.
The whistle blew for the second half.
‘What did you put?’
‘On the tickets?’ He spat demurely on the grass. ‘“Aidan”.’
‘“Aidan”?’
‘It’s a safe bet.’
We left before the end. The guy in the tracksuit nodded as we passed.
We were walking down the hill to Hepburn’s car. As we got closer to the car, Hepburn slowed, as if he’d forgotten where he’d parked.
‘Anyway,’ Hepburn was saying. ‘Anyway anyway.’ He raised his eyebrows. He clapped his hands together and rubbed them briskly.
‘What?’
‘What do you think, Gerry? The fuckin’ money.’
‘Whoa, whoa. Hang fire here. Who said anything about money?’
‘I did. I said something about fucking money.’
‘OK, and why is that?’
He blew out some air and shook his head. ‘That’s a good one, Gerry. That’s fucking priceless.’ He took his hand from his pocket and pointed his finger. ‘Don’t fuck me about, son. You get the gen, you pay for it. That’s how it works.’
I could still hear the game, the players’ shouts, their comical urgency. I looked in the direction of the park and then back at Hepburn’s expectant face. His finger was still pointing.
‘Aye, if that’s what you’ve agreed, that’s how it works.’ I wished he would put his finger down. The thumb was cocked, pistol-style, and the finger was aimed at my head. ‘But we agreed fuck all. You wait till now to bring money into it?’
Hepburn shook his head. The finger dropped to his side. He thrust his hands into the pockets of his jacket and yanked them out again.
‘Naw, you need to try harder than that, Gerry. What do you think I was doing it for? Public spirit? The repose of my soul? Nobody’s trying to stiff you here, Gerry. I just want the rate for the job.’
I stopped walking.
‘Oh there’s a rate, is there? You know the rates? What are you, a tout?’
I didn’t see him move. I felt a sort of wind at my back and then my shoulder flared in white tearing pain and something sharp and hard punched my cheekbone. My glasses skewed and the folder smacked onto the ground. The hardness slapped my cheek once more and it sounded like a dog was gnashing my ear.
I seemed to be lying on the ground and standing up at the same time. Something cold and hard on my face. I tried to crane round but the hardness slapped my cheekbone again. I was nudged from behind and my thighs banged into something; metal, a ridge, a car’s bodywork. He had twisted my arm up my back and cracked my face on the bonnet of a car. I was still there, bent over the car, Hepburn’s fist gripping my short hair, and the dog sounds were back again, the snarling in my ear.
‘Now you listen to me, you fucking Fenian piece of shit.’ Twice more he cracked my face on the hood. His spittle was drizzling my face. ‘That word you used? You know what that word means? It means this.’ He stabbed his fingers at the bone behind my ear. ‘It means one to the fucking back of the head.’ He was shaking me again, my face slamming the hood in time with his words. ‘So you ever’ – bang – ‘ever’ – bang – ‘put that word and my name in the same fucking sentence.’ He drew in a long noisy breath and let it back out. ‘I’ll do you,’ he said softly.
He stepped back and I crumpled off the bonnet onto the ground. I just lay there, spent.
‘A grand,’ Hepburn said.
‘What?’
I raised my head and something struck me in the eye. Hepburn was walking away.
‘That’s your bus fare, son.’ He threw the words over his shoulder.
I sat up on the hard ground. I fixed my glasses. Beside me was a greeny ball of paper. I reached out my hand and clutched it tight in my fist and held it to my chest. I looked round for the folder. It was lying in the gutter. I leaned over and pulled it towards me. When I sat up it all came up in a rush, all the whisky and Guinness in a hissing spate, hosing the ground between my knees. As I got to my feet, as I loped off, light-headed, to the station, dragging the back of my hand across my mouth, I kept seeing Hepburn’s pointing finger. When I got to the station I opened my fist. Moulded by sweat to a soggy nub was a crumpled Ulsterbank tenner.
Chapter Twelve
The restaurant was large but I spotted John Rose straight away, his bleached poll glowing like a struck match. A pained look crossed his face and I smiled to show it was all right but he turned away. A waiter blocked my path and in the time it took him to hoist two bowls of chowder past my nose I nearly turned for the door. But Rose had seen me so I carried on, picking my way through the tables with my smile tightening.
It must be a do, an occasion, a party of sorts. Twelve or thirteen men, their jackets slung on chair backs. I was conscious of the mess on my face, t
he green-and-red graze on my cheek, still tacky to the touch. Was this a birthday lunch? Somebody’s retirement? A glinting cityscape of bottles extended down the tablecloth.
The faces were turned to the head of the table where Down-in-the-mouth Macpherson was telling a story. Bent low, his chin almost flush with the table, his big hands waggling like antennae. Buttery sunlight caught the facets of his bald head. The story was reaching its climax. I hung back but Macpherson waved me forward, procured an extra chair, and summoned a fresh glass of red, all with his fluent hands and without disarranging his syntax. In a minute I was seated, like one of the boys, with a great globe of wine in my hand, nosing its rich vanilla. ‘No problem, my darling,’ Macpherson said. ‘Just give me a minute to pack!’ He reared back. The glasses clanked under the wave of mirth that crashed over the table. The diners came to life all at once, laughing in great winded heaves. I smiled foolishly round, nodded gormlessly at the faces as they raged in savage glee, gagging for breath, the red mouths chewing the air.
When groans and sighs brought the table back to earth, everyone looked at me. I felt my sobriety like a skin colour, like a separate nationality. I gulped at the great glass of wine and some of it slopped on my shirt. I wiped it down with a napkin.
Macpherson did the intros. Simmonds was there, and Malachy Kane. The others dipped their heads or smiled tightly or tipped two fingers to their temples in mock salute while Macpherson said their names.
‘Gerry’s from the Glasgow Tribune,’ Macpherson said. ‘He’s working on a story. Is that right, John boy?’
Rose stiffened.
‘You holding out on us, Rosie?’ someone said. ‘That’s not very Protestant, boyo.’
‘You find out who you’re friends are,’ said someone else. ‘A time like this.’
‘Give him a break, fellas,’ said Macpherson, tipping more wine into my glass. ‘I’m sure there’s nothing in it. I’m sure this big lad from Glasgow would tell his friends if there’s something they ought to know. Though it looks like he’s already seen some action.’
They all looked at me. I tried a laugh. ‘I’m saying nothing.’ I fingered my raw graze; gummy, like a sucked sweet.
‘Give us a clue then, John boy?’
Rose was flushed. ‘Uh-huh. Here’s a clue.’ His mouth worked silently for a bit. ‘Four across. Eight letters: mind your own business.’ He slurped some wine. ‘Get to fuck.’
There was a pause while everyone counted.
‘Actually, John, it’s–’
‘Yeah I know it is. Now fuck off.’
Their laughter rose to a mocking cheer as Rose told it off on his fingers.
‘Let’s just say,’ said Macpherson, ‘there’s a certain Antipodean dimension to Mr Conway’s researches. Let’s leave it at that.’
The meal was over anyway. A waiter brought a pay-pad and Macpherson punched his number while the others passed the bill around, wincing camply at the damage.
‘Aye, laugh, ya bandits,’ said Macpherson. ‘It’s your turn next month,’ he said, pointing at a grinning moustache at the far end of the table.
The men rose in ones and twos, patting their pockets, fiddling with their phones, wielding their car keys like tiny stilettos. They fished in pockets for their share of the tip, and a messy cairn of notes and coins piled up on the tablecloth.
Soon they were gone, all except John Rose and me and an angry fat man who slumped in his chair as if he’d been shot and sneered at his very full glass.
Rose was collecting his things, getting ready to leave. I tried to gather my thoughts. The table was littered with glasses and bottles and it was hard to remember that I’d drunk just two glasses of wine. Suddenly, as though the diners had been quietly tipped off and had stolen away, the restaurant was empty. The clash of cutlery filled the air, the bare brick walls throwing the waiters’ voices around, giving their footsteps a tinny ring. The place looked like a warehouse again, as if all the wine and drapery, the ponderous napkin rings, were melting away and soon we’d regress to the bare brutal walls.
‘What’s the occasion?’ I asked him.
‘Nothing much. It’s a wee group we have. The Stringers Club. We do it once a month. None of them’s stringers any more, except me. Most of them aren’t even hacks now.’ He looked at the debris on the table. ‘They just act like it.’
I watched him notice my face and decide not to ask.
‘Oh you’re still one, are you?’ I said.
‘What?’
‘A stringer. I thought you might have jacked it in.’
He drew me a look, then shrugged and shipped another gulp of wine.
He hadn’t shown up that morning. We’d planned to visit Duncan Gillies’s mother, to see if she could tell us anything about her son’s death, if maybe she had heard about a Scotsman being involved. But after forty minutes I gave up waiting and went to the library. I was livid. Rose was drawing a daily wage as a fixer and he couldn’t drag his carcass out of bed. I needed to talk to him, too; I needed to ask about Hepburn, find out how to play it. But after an hour in the library I took a coffee break and thought about it. He’d probably been up till all hours, driving his cab. He was knocking his pan in to barely break even. And here’s me, the fancy dan from Glasgow, snapping my fingers and watching him jump. Of course he’d get scunnered. Anyone would. So I called his cab company and after phoning the Tribune to check my credentials they told me where I’d find him. I came to the restaurant to make it OK, let him know that I wasn’t pissed off.
‘It’s no biggie,’ I told Rose. ‘We were due a break. We’ll do it tomorrow. It’s not a problem.’
Rose looked at the floor.
‘What, tomorrow’s out too?’
He fiddled with his eye-ring; his gaze tracked lazily round the room.
‘Well, Jesus, John. You’ve got to do something for the money. It’s not a retainer.’
‘See, that’s the thing. The money? It’s not worth it any more, Gerry. It’s not worth the grief.’
The fat man surfaced briefly from his chins as the waiter reached for his glass. He shook his head with surprising vigour and jabbed a minatory finger in the air. Then he slumped back down and got on with his scowling.
‘Grief? John, c’mon. I gave out a bit yesterday. I’m sorry about that. But I had to see Hepburn. You can see that, can’t you? I needed to see him. Look.’ I dropped my voice. ‘I saw him again yesterday.’
‘Yeah?’ Rose checked his watch.
‘John, it’s not good. He wants money.’
Rose’s frown deepened a little.
‘He told me some stuff. About Lyons. He was dropping hints. About the Gillies thing. But now he thinks we’ve made a deal and he’s asking for money. A grand.’ I gripped his wrist. ‘A grand!’
‘OK, Gerry, calm down.’ Rose glanced at the fat man and then back at me. He centred his glass on its coaster. ‘So where do I come in?’
‘What you talking about, where do I come in? What the fuck do I do? What do I do?’
‘Gerry, you do whatever you want.’ He shook his head. ‘Why you even telling me this? You asked for the meeting. I set it up. You were pretty fucking insistent as I remember. I got you the meeting. I had to pull some strings but I got you the meeting. Now you’re not happy with how it went. Fine. That’s not my problem: that’s your problem. Tell me this: did I mislead you? Did I give a wrong impression about Kiwi Hepburn, that the guy was a Lollipop Man or something, a fucking Sunday School teacher? Did I? The guy’s a gangster, Gerry. He’s a class-A thug, a sociopath. You want to meet these people, I’ll set it up. That was the deal. You want me to babysit too? That’s a whole different thing.’
He drained the last mouthful of wine.
‘Well that’s very handy to know, John. Thanks for looking out for me. What is it, did he speak to you? Are you feart? Is that it? Are you scared of Hepburn?’
‘It’s not that.’ He looked at the ceiling. He practically rolled his eyes. It was as if there was a third
party present, to whom my obtuseness was apparent. I looked across at the fat man but his eyes were closed. Rose was embarrassed; not for himself but for me.
‘What is it then, John?’
He fingered his empty glass, flicked it with his finger so the crystal sang.
‘There’s other things involved, Gerry. If you could go after Hepburn and leave it at that, no one would care. But you can’t. You can’t get Hepburn without pulling other people into the picture. And they won’t let you do that. There’s too much at stake. Don’t ask me any more because you don’t want to know.’
He shook his head and shucked himself into his jacket. He made a fist and knocked it against my bicep.
‘You be good now, fella. Take care. It was nice working with you.’
His chair scraped as he stood to go.
‘So that’s it?’
‘What else do you want?’
‘You’re sure about this?’
He laughed: ‘Oh yeah.’
‘OK. Fine.’ I thanked him for all he’d done. I told him the paper would pay him anyway. He paused at the door.
‘And, Gerry?’
‘What?’
‘Your story. It’s going nowhere, right?’
‘Well, it’s going to be harder now, if that’s what you mean. I could have used your local knowledge and all that. But fuck it, you know?’
He let the door swing to and walked back. His hands were light as they rested on my shoulders.
‘Trust me, Gerry.’ His eyes looked into each of mine in turn. ‘It’s going nowhere.’
He double-clapped my shoulders and turned on his heel. The fat man opened one eye and reached for his glass of wine.
Chapter Thirteen
I found the mural and parked beneath it. A British Tommy in tin hat and puttees, tramping into the foreground with a rifle clamped to his chest. His frame had the ominous angularity, the spidery slouch, of a cartoon skeleton; something from a heavy-metal album cover. But the face was rubicund, cheery – the smutty, rum-flushed phiz of a squaddy in a Great War postcard. Behind him were vague muddy battlefield scenes and a hopeful sunset, with a lot more yellow than pink. In the bottom corner, in white lettering on the dark battlefield: ‘THE SOMME’. And in a ribbon arching above the lot, the old Laurence Binyon line about when we would remember them.
All the Colours of the Town Page 14
