by Ian Sansom
“Really?”
“Aye.”
“It doesn’t sound like curry, actually,” said Israel.
“Does it not?”
“No,” said Israel. “That sounds more like shepherd’s pie.”
“And then I add some curry powder,” said Ted.
“Ah.”
“Curry,” said Ted decisively, turning off the heat and putting a lid over the saucepan.
Before his recent listlessness Israel’s repertoire had been slowly expanding. He had perfected a number of simple recipes: sautéed mushroom on toast, tomatoes on toast, cheese on toast, cream cheese on toast, beans on toast. He was particularly fond of toast flavored lightly with salt and pepper. It was, admittedly, a largely toast-based repertoire, but it served its purpose. It was all going well until the toaster broke: it was a blow to him. There was a burning smell, and the toaster stopped working. He’d changed the fuse. No good. It must have been the element. He didn’t know how to fix the element.
Thinking about his recipes and smelling the curry, his appetite was now well and truly whetted: he felt like Winnie the Pooh faced with a honeypot. He found himself helplessly eyeing up the breakfast things set on the kitchen table.
“So,” Ted was saying, “I take it you’ve sorted this trouble with the Morris girl, then?”
“Not exactly,” said Israel distractedly.
“No?” said Ted. “It was on the news earlier.”
“Was it?”
“Aye. A twenty-nine-year-old man is helping police with their inquiries, apparently.”
“That’d be me,” said Israel, wrenching his thoughts and his gaze away from breakfast. “Do they have to tell people your age?”
“And how are the police inquiries going?” said Ted.
“I have no idea,” said Israel. “I’m sort of working on the case myself now.”
“Working on the case yourself?”
“Yeah.”
“Aye, right, Columbo,” said Ted. “That woman put you up to it, did she?”
“What woman?”
“Flashy Annie, yer journalist?”
“No,” said Israel.
“I’ll bet she did,” said Ted. “Sticking her…bits in where they don’t belong. No good’ll come of it, if you ask me.”
“Ah, well, funnily enough,” said Israel, “I was going to ask you, actually.”
“No!” said Ted.
“Hold on, I haven’t-”
“The answer’s no,” said Ted.
“I haven’t asked you yet!”
“Well, whatever you’re asking, the answer’s no,” said Ted.
“What, you’re not going to help me out?”
“Correct.”
“Why not?”
“You want a list of reasons?”
“Well, no, but-”
“First of all, it’s not my problem. Second of all, it’s not yours. And third of all-”
“Yeah, all right,” said Israel. “That’s plenty of reasons, thanks.”
“-the girl’ll turn up soon enough anyway. She’ll be raking about with her mates somewhere.”
“Right. Well,” said Israel. “I’ll just go it alone then.”
“With yer fancy woman.”
“She is not my fancy woman.”
“Well, if she’s not, ye’ve a funny way of showin’ it. Anyway,” said Ted conclusively, “if ye just tidy up my breakfast things there and I’ll-”
“Actually, Ted,” said Israel, nodding coyly toward the breakfast things.
“What now?”
“I wonder if I might perhaps prevail upon you for a slice of bread?”
“What?”
“A slice of bread?”
“My bread?”
“Erm. Yes.”
“From my table?” said Ted.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Well, it’s just-”
“Have ye not had any breakfast?”
“No, actually.”
“Ye should always have breakfast.”
“My toaster’s broken.”
“And you can’t fix your own toaster?”
“No.”
“What sort of an idiot can’t fix his own toaster?”
“Erm…”
“Aye, well, answered me own question there, didn’t I. All right, ye help yerself to a slice.”
“Really?”
“Aye. But ye’ll not be making a habit of this, mind.”
“What?”
“Eating your breakfast at another man’s table.”
“No.”
“It’s not natural. You’ll have to give that plate a wee rench in the sink there.”
“Sorry?”
“The plate, a wee rench in the sink?”
Israel gave the plate a wee rench in the sink, while Ted ceremoniously removed his apron and put on his black leather car coat and his cap, and sat down at the kitchen table waiting for Israel to eat.
It was good bread.
“Mmm,” said Israel, midmouthful. “Ted?”
“What?”
“Do you happen to know the man who owns the Venice Fish Bar?”
“Ach, big Gerry Blair? Surely. You know him.”
“No,” said Israel. “I don’t think so.”
“Yes, you do. He’d the franchise on a load of fish and chip places. Sold ’em up, so he did, and he has just the Venice Fish Bar now. He’s retired.”
“What sort of car does he drive?”
“What sort of car does he drive?”
“Yes.”
“I have no idea.”
“Mercedes?”
“I wouldn’t be surprised.”
“And how old is he?”
“I don’t know. Fifty?”
“What does he look like?”
“You’d know him if ye saw him. He’s a couple of bay pacers he trains down at the beach sometimes. Has a tan. Looks a wee bit like yer man…what’s he called?”
“I don’t know.”
“Actor.”
“Who?”
“He’s in all sorts.”
“Brad Pitt?”
“No!” said Ted. “Dark hair.”
“Johnny Depp?”
“No! Does coffee adverts.”
“George Clooney?”
“That’s him,” said Ted. “With a wonky nose, but. Few pounds heavier. Big Gerry Blair. You know him.”
“No, I don’t think so. What’s he like?”
“He’s all right. A bit full of the smell of himself.”
“How do you know him?”
“I’ve played golf with him a couple of times.”
“I didn’t have you down as a golfing man,” said Israel, polishing off the slice of bread.
“Well,” said Ted. “You know what they say. When in-”
“Rome?” said Israel.
“Portstewart,” said Ted.
Israel reached for another slice of Ted’s wheaten bread. Ted scowled.
“May I?” said Israel.
“Ach, right,” said Ted. “Don’t ye stint yerself, eh? Ye want to be eating a proper breakfast, mind.”
“Yes,” said Israel. “You said.” It was delicious bread. “The Venice Fish Bar man, is he married?”
“Gerry? That he is.”
“I see.”
“Why? What are ye fishing around for?” said Ted.
“Nothing.”
“You’re finagling around for something.”
“Just,” said Israel. “The Morris girl works at the Venice Fish Bar at weekends, and one of the people she works with kind of implied that she and the boss were…close.”
“Right. And what did they mean by ‘close’?”
“Close,” said Israel.
“Aye, well, there’s close and then there’s close. What did they mean by ‘close’?”
“Intimate.”
“Intumate?” said Ted.
“Intimate,” corrected Israel.
“Exactly,�
�� said Ted. “And how old’s the Morris girl?”
“Fourteen.”
“For goodness’ sake! They’re implicating that Gerry’d…”
“I don’t know,” said Israel. “It’s not…impossible, is it.”
“Who was it telling you about this?”
“It was a Romanian girl who works in the Venice Fish Bar.”
“Ah, well, there you are, then.”
“What do you mean, ‘there you are’?”
“Romanians. They’re like the Poles, aren’t they?”
“What?”
“Shifty bunch. Trying to cause trouble.”
“I don’t think they were trying to cause trouble.”
“What, accusing a well-respected member of the community, and a member of the golf club, of some kind of…relationship with this young girl? You want to ask yourself why they’re telling you that.”
“I think they were just trying to be helpful.”
“Aye, right. Helpful! Ye need yer brains tested, boy! This is Tumdrum! It’s not Sodom and blinkin’ Gomorrah! I’ll tell ye what’d be helpful: what’d be helpful would be if ye talked to her actual boyfriend, rather than listening to tittle-tattle about some imaginary intumacy-”
“Intimacy,” said Israel.
“Exactly, with some imaginary boyfriend.”
“Why? Who’s her actual boyfriend?”
“Colin.”
“Colin who?”
“Colin Wilson? Sammy Wilson’s boy.”
“No, sorry, I don’t-”
“Ach, Israel. He’s one of these computer nerds. Always at that place on High Street.”
“How do you know he’s her boyfriend?”
“Well, if ye listened to the young ones on the library for a change, ye’d get to know quite a few things. They split up, though, I think.”
“Do you think the police will have talked to him?”
“Mebbe. If they’ve got the inside information.” Ted tapped the side of his nose.
“Why didn’t you mention this before?”
“You didn’t ask. I doubt he’s anything to do with it, mind. He’s a wee squirt. No hair on his balls.”
“And where was it you said he hangs around?”
“At the game place on High Street.”
“Game On!?”
“That’s it.”
By which point Israel had got up and was by the kitchen door.
“Come on, then!” he said.
“Come on where?” said Ted.
“Let’s go.”
“Ye’ve not finished your piece of wheaten,” said Ted. “Ye’re not going to waste it, are ye?”
“We haven’t any time to lose,” said Israel.
“We?”
“Yes!”
“To do what.”
“To get to the bottom of this mystery-”
“The only thing ye could get to the bottom of is a packet of crisps, ye eejit. Leave it to the police.”
“But if I leave it to the police my name’ll end up in all the papers and-”
“The reek’ll go up the chimney just the same.”
“Which means?”
“It’s just a sayin’,” said Ted. “She’s blackmailing you, then, is she, your wee friend, the journalist, to help her out?”
“No, we’ve come to an arrangement.”
“Well, if that’s what you call an arrangement you need your brains tested as well as your balls. I’m not getting involved.”
“You’re not going to help me?”
“No.” Ted crossed his arms implacably.
“Would you be able to drop me off on the way through town, and you can go on to the day’s run?”
“By myself?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“So I could have a quick word with this boy Colin.”
“For why?”
“So I can start to get to the-”
“Don’t make me laugh,” said Ted.
“Please!” said Israel.
“Ach. Only because it’s a wee girl involved,” said Ted. “I wouldn’t be helping you otherwise.”
“Fine. No. Of course not.”
“So don’t ask me again.”
“Never.”
“Promise?”
“Absolutely.”
They drove into town. Ted dropped Israel at Game On!
“Just remember,” said Ted as he drove away. “A bird in the hand can’t see the wood for the trees.”
“Right,” said Israel. “Thank you, Dalai Lama.”
18
Game On! was located above Crumbz! and not far from Cutz!, just off the main square, on Market Street, which was that street in every town that attracts the slightly off-the-wall and off-kilter. Market Street was Tumdrum’s Bay Area: Market Street was out-there. Crumbz!, for example, was a little bakery-half the size of the Trusty Crusty-that did just a few regular sodas and wheatens but mostly a range of its own gluten-free breads and cakes: in Ireland, where wheat intolerance and celiac disease were becoming almost as commonplace as Guinness and potatoes, Crumbz! was onto a winner. Their lemon drizzle cake-using quinoa as a wheat substitute-literally had to be tasted to be believed. Cutz! was doing pretty well also: it was one of those hairdressers in which all the staff have multiple piercings and are wise beyond their years. Cutz! attracted mostly the younger crowd in Tumdrum, although Mrs. Onions had booked herself in for a shampoo and set a few months ago and had unwisely agreed to try henna and straighteners; she’d worn a head scarf ever since. And Tatz!, next door to Cutz!, was Tumdrum’s tattoo parlor with a difference: it was run by born-again Christian ex-Hells Angel Little Stevie, who specialized in full-body biblical scenes and themes. When he’d converted some years ago, Little Stevie had taken as his inspiration Robert De Niro’s character in the film Cape Fear, and he’d had the scales of Justice and Mercy done on his back, plus Moses with the Ten Commandments across his chest. Little Stevie was an arm-wrestling, chain-smoking, shotgun-toting (for the purposes of legal hunting) man-mountain who was yet somehow deeply in touch if not with his feminine then certainly with his spiritual and creative side, and he’d done a big wall painting inside the shop of the vision of Christ in the Book of Revelation: the white horse, eyes flaming like fire, head crowned with many crowns, and the clothes dipped in blood, and the words “And he hath on his vesture and on his thigh a name written, KING OF KINGS AND LORD OF LORDS” in Gothic lettering scrolling all around the top. It didn’t seem to put people off. In fact, people came not just from all over the island of Ireland, but also from the UK and farther afield, to have Little Stevie do seraphim and cherubim on their forearms and ankles, and Celtic crosses on their shoulders: one man had been traveling over regularly from Germany for the past five years to have Stevie work on an illustrated Bible, in full color, with (abridged) text; so far they’d reached the minor prophets and were heading fast down his waist. At this rate they were going to reach the Acts of the Apostles at an unfortunate physical juncture.
Managing to resist the temptation to get his hair cut, have a biblical tattoo, or buy a gluten-free loaf of bread, Israel walked boldly-or as boldly as any vaguely bearded man wearing a duffle coat and brogues was able-up the stairs to Game On!
There was a brightly lit booth at the top of the stairs with a thick scratched, stained Plexiglas screen, which looked as if it had been used as a very large chopping board in a very dirty kitchen; in places you could barely see the scratches for the dreck. Crammed inside the booth, and just visible, was a portable TV, a kettle, mugs, boxes and boxes of Mars bars, and Red Bull, and packets of Tayto cheese and onion crisps, an old cash register, an armchair, and a middle-aged man, his graying hair cut short except for a ponytail sprouting from the back from his head, which gave him the appearance of an extra in the film of The Lord of the Rings. He sat, gaunt, the man, on the armchair, with a can of Red Bull in one hand, staring blankly into the distance. He looked like someone who might enjoy listening to a Kate Bush a
lbum. And then eat you. He certainly belonged on Market Street.
“Hello,” said Israel. “I wonder if you could help me…I’m looking for a Colin Wilson, who I think is a member here?”
The ponytailed man snapped out of his middle-distance reverie and focused on Israel with narrowed eyes.
“Annual membership is forty pounds,” he said. “OK?”
“Yes,” said Israel. “I mean, no. I just want to-”
“One day entry without membership is twenty pounds.”
“But I just want to talk to-”
The ponytailed man tapped a sign stuck up on the Plexiglas which stated the terms and conditions he’d just explained.
“But I just want to-”
“The rules are the rules. OK? If you don’t want to pay you can wait outside. There’s a big free street out there.”
“Right. Could you not make an exception, on this one…”
The ponytailed man could not make an exception.
Israel reluctantly dug out his money. He went for the day membership. The annual membership was obviously the better deal, but he couldn’t imagine he’d be coming back anytime soon.
The money rung into the till, the ponytailed man pressed a buzzer and said, “Through the door,” and Israel pushed against the door next to the booth and entered a dark room.
There were blinds drawn at the windows, and young men-all men, as far as Israel could tell in the gloom-were ranged around all four walls at computer monitors, frantically tapping away. Those who weren’t wearing headphones or earpieces were able to enjoy the kind of splintering, yelling, thrashing music that might have been the theme tune to Dante’s Inferno being blasted out from vibrating speakers set high up on the walls. There was cracked linoleum on the floor, and a smell of damp and adolescent deodorant. Even though it was on the first floor, it felt like a dungeon. It was horrible. Gustave Doré might just have done it justice.
No one looked up as Israel entered. He wasn’t quite sure how he was going to make an impact in the room: to be sure of getting anyone’s attention he’d have had to switch off the main power supply. Instead, he did the next best thing and went and tapped one of the young men on the shoulder. The young man’s computer screen showed a chariot racing around the rim of a canyon filled with flames, and unfortunately, as Israel tapped him on the shoulder, the chariot skidded and went hurtling over the edge into the fiery pits below. The young man turned round furiously and pulled an earpiece from one ear.
