Beneath the Earth

by John Boyne

  ‘We’ve had some great business with the Russian states ever since the USSR broke up,’ said Mary-Lou, taking a sip from her WCC. ‘Sure the Master-At-Arms did great business with some of those oli-whatsits.’

  ‘Oligarchs,’ I said.

  ‘Yeah, them. Did you never do a job for him out there?’

  ‘Once,’ I said. ‘A long time ago now. The visa restrictions were a fuckin’ nightmare. I was in and out of the embassy on Orwell Road for weeks trying to get myself sorted. I swore I’d never do it again.’

  ‘I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important,’ said Mary-Lou. ‘And this will be a nice little earner.’

  ‘How nice?’ I asked.

  She told me and I whistled. ‘That’s the makings of a good Christmas right there,’ I said.

  ‘That’s why I thought of you,’ said Mary-Lou. ‘It’s a very good payday and with your Charlie getting older—’

  I threw her a look and she stopped herself from going any further. This was out of line and she knew it. In fairness to her she went a little red and shook her head. ‘Sorry, Toastie,’ she said. ‘I shouldn’t have said that.’

  ‘No bother, no bother.’ I looked at the picture of the sour-faced trout again. ‘Is she any good, do you think?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Herself,’ I said, pointing at the screen.

  ‘Good in what sense?’

  ‘Good for her people. Is she a good politician or a bad one?’

  She frowned and took a look at her nails. They were in need of a trim. ‘Does that really matter, Toastie?’ she asked. ‘I’m surprised at you asking such a question.’

  I nodded. She was right. I never asked things like this. It was unprofessional.

  ‘When do they want it done?’ I asked.

  ‘Ten days’ time. There’s a conference in some place, I can’t remember where. I have it written down on a Post-it note on my fridge but I forgot to bring it with me. I can send you the details later if you’re up for it.’

  ‘Will she not have great security with her?’ I asked.

  ‘She will. But they’re all in on it. They’ve been paid off by the government. They’ll give you a clear run at her.’

  ‘And they won’t shoot me afterwards?’

  ‘Of course not. I have an ongoing relationship with these people. There’ll be no nonsense at all.’

  ‘And the visa?’

  ‘You won’t have to worry about any of that. I’ll get that sorted. You can just pick up your plane ticket from me and be on your way. Or check-in online, that’s usually quicker.’

  ‘It’s not shaggin’ RyanAir, is it?’

  ‘No, I took your notes on board about them,’ she said. ‘To be honest, I’d heard it from a few of the other lads too recently, so we won’t be using them any more. National airlines only.’

  I sighed and ordered a pint. ‘All right so,’ I said.

  ‘You’re in?’

  ‘I’m in.’

  ‘Good man,’ she said, breaking into a smile. ‘You’ve made my day. And the client will be thrilled. Here, let me get that now,’ she said when the young lad brought over the drink. She handed him a five for the pint and a one for himself. She’s a generous ol’ skin, it has to be said. ‘Cheers.’

  ‘Cheers,’ I said as we clinked glasses.

  ‘Do you know, I’ve never been to Russia myself,’ she said. ‘I’d like to go. I remember my father bringing me back a snow-globe once from St Petersburg. It had the Winter Palace at the centre of it and I kept it on my windowsill for years.’

  ‘Is this a gun job or what?’ I asked. ‘Or something more melodramatic?’

  ‘Gun,’ she said. ‘Apparently they’re shutting down the poisoning and dismemberment routines these days. Too flash. You can’t go wrong with a gun.’

  ‘It is a bit more civilized,’ I agreed. ‘Do you remember the time that fella asked about using a samurai sword?’

  She spluttered out her WCC as she laughed. ‘Jesus, what was he on?’ she said. ‘Who did he think we were anyway?’

  ‘I’d probably slice me mickey off if I started waving a samurai sword around,’ I said, laughing.

  We could hardly contain ourselves then so ordered another round of drinks – she had a vodka and white lemonade this time – and told stories from the past about the Master-At-Arms. He was a great man. An absolute monster, of course, pure evil ran through that fella’s veins, but he was a gentleman at the same time and I still miss him. He died too young, there’s no doubt about it. But at least he died a natural death. When the good Lord called him instead of under the orders of some oligarch in one of those -stan places.

  My supervisor, Trevor, called me in for a meeting about my coursework. He’s ten years younger than me and looks like one of them Calvin Klein models. He wears one of the fanciest pairs of glasses I’ve ever seen and he puts them on and takes them off all the time during lectures and tutorials because he knows that it makes the girls crazy for him. Once, when I was alone in his office, I picked them up off his desk and tried them on in front of the mirror to see if they’d do anything for me. They were pure glass. No prescription at all. What kind of knobhead wears a pair of glasses that he doesn’t need to wear? I tell you, I lost some respect for him that day.

  ‘Toastie,’ he said, laying out three of my essays on his desk. The first day I was in there I told him to call me Toastie and he started laughing and now he says it whenever he can. I think he likes the sound of it on his tongue. He asked me how I’d got the nickname and I told him the God’s honest truth and he went a little pale and stared at me like I was joking. I let it go; I wasn’t going to be repeating myself over and over. ‘I think we have a problem with some of your coursework.’

  ‘What sort of a problem?’ I asked him.

  ‘The important thing about a third-level education,’ he said, leaning back and making a temple of his hands – he looked as if he expected me to be taking notes for his biography – ‘is that the student learns to think for himself. Forms his or her own opinions. Values creative thought.’

  ‘Sounds about right,’ I said.

  ‘These are the things that are lacking in your coursework,’ he told me. ‘If I’m honest, Toastie, I can see that a lot of what you say in here is second-hand information. It’s been copied from the Internet. There’s a fair bit of cut and paste, don’t you think?’

  ‘A fair bit of what?’ I asked.

  ‘You’re transposing articles from online sources and passing them off as your own work.’

  ‘But sure I give them credit at the end,’ I said. ‘In the footnotes.’ I was fierce proud of my footnotes. I’d found a way on the computer to put little ones, twos and threes after sentences and then put anything I wanted at the end of the essay.fn1 I thought it was fierce classy altogether.

  ‘Be that as it may,’ he began, and I felt a rage build inside me at the words. I don’t know why but I’ve always felt a great antagonism towards people who start sentences with the phrase be that as it may. It’s completely irrational, I know, but there we are. It takes all sorts. I’m also not a fan of the word albeit. ‘Be that as it may, we can’t accept this from you. You’re talking here about Dorothea from Middlemarch and you say that she is “an intelligent and wealthy young woman who aspires to do great work. Spurning signs of wealth in the form of jewels or fancy clothes, she embarks upon projects such as redesigning cottages for the tenants of her miserly and embarrassingly neglectful uncle.” And so on.’

  ‘But she is all those things,’ I said. ‘I’ve read the book.fn2 She’s a nice young one.’

  ‘I know she is,’ said Trevor. ‘And so does Wikipedia, where those words were originally written. You’ve passed off the opinions of some online timewaster as your own.’

  ‘I’ve done no such thing,’ I said, reaching for the pile of papers. ‘Look. Look here.’ I pointed at my beloved footnotes. ‘Wikipedia,’ it says. ‘The Internet. 2014.’

  ‘No, Toastie, no,’ he said, shaking
his head and taking his glasses off before using his thumb and forefinger to massage the tip of his nose. This was another one of his tricks to get a ride off the girls. I think he thought it made him look intellectual. ‘What we need to do is have a conversation about the proper way to write an essay. We’ll schedule that for next week perhaps. The other issue is the amount of classes you’ve been missing.’

  ‘I have to work,’ I told him.

  ‘I know you do, Toastie. I know you do. We all have to work. But you knew when you signed up for this course that there was an attendance requirement and you ticked the box that said that you would not allow your work commitments to interfere with that. What is it that you do anyway, if you don’t mind my asking?’

  ‘I’m a contract killer,’ I said.

  He laughed and shook his head. ‘No, seriously,’ he said.

  ‘I work for an agency,’ I replied. ‘I take on industrial contracts that occasionally require me to travel abroad for short periods of time.’

  ‘And could you not ask your agency to let you work more at home for the time being?’

  ‘They prefer to send us to different places, do you see. There’s a lad from the Isle of Man who usually does the jobs in Ireland. I’m more mainland Europe, myself. Although once I did a job in Kuwait. Never again, let me tell you. And I recently got back from one of those Russian places with the -stan at the end of it. For some reason, I can’t get the name of the place straight in my head. I wrote this piece on Yeats while I was there, actually,’ I added, pointing at the third essay on his desk.

  ‘This one is actually quite good,’ said Trevor. ‘It displays a lot of original thought.’

  ‘Well the Wi-Fi wasn’t working in my hotel room when I wrote it,’ I told him. ‘Don’t you hate it when that happens? It drives me around the feckin’ twist. If I hadn’t been in one of the -stans, I would have kicked up a right fuss but you never know the trouble you might get into over there, so I left it alone. Anyway, I had to make it all up myself since the Internet wasn’t working.’

  ‘But don’t you see, Toastie?’ he asked, leaning forward and smiling at me. He picked up his glasses, took a quick glance at the Yeats paper, then took the glasses off again and put them back down before looking back at me. You big feckin’ knob, I thought. They’re pure glass! ‘When you don’t copy and paste, when you rely on your own analytical skills, you have the ability. You have lots of ability, Toastie.’

  He looked so pleased with himself that I thought he was going to cream his pants. I didn’t know what to say to him. What was the Internet for if not for gaining knowledge and applying it in appropriate situations? Most of my hits were helped enormously by the use of online resources to discover the best escape routes, the smartest hiding places, not to mention reporting on new advances in gun technology and surveillance equipment. Was he telling me that this was wrong in some way? It’s great for the old porn too. There’s some fantastic stuff on there. Caters to all tastes. No discrimination whatsoever.

  ‘Are you having any troubles at home, Toastie?’ he asked me, and I laughed.

  ‘Ah don’t be starting that old shite on me, Calvin,’ I said.

  ‘Trevor.’

  ‘Sorry, yes. Trevor. Look, I have to try harder, is that what you’re telling me?’

  He shook his head. ‘Not so much try harder, Toastie. You try very hard as it is, I know that. I just want you to use your brain more, that’s all. Not to rely on other people’s work so much.’

  ‘Right so,’ I said standing up. ‘I’ll bear it in mind.’

  In the corridor outside I saw one of the girls from my class, younger than me, around the same age as Trevor. A good-looking piece and I knew that Trevor fancied the pants off her because he was always calling on her in class and grinning away like a mad thing, the old specs coming on and off, whenever she looked up at him. She was done up to the nines and I knew that he’d be slobbering all over her the minute she went inside.

  ‘Are you in trouble too?’ I asked, and she looked up at me as if she didn’t know me from Adam. She knew me well enough. We’d been sitting in the same room twice a week for the last seven months. But of course she’s a young good-looking girl and I’m a fat middle-aged man and God forbid she should extend any courtesy my way.

  ‘Excuse me?’ she said.

  ‘With himself,’ I said, nodding at Trevor’s door. ‘I got called in for six of the best. I have to use more original thought, he tells me.’

  ‘Right,’ she said, smiling like I was an idiot child that she had to humour. ‘I mean, like, OK.’

  ‘You mean like OK?’ I asked. ‘You wouldn’t get a line like that in George Eliot.’

  She sneered at me and took her phone out. I thought she was going to make a call right in front of me but no, she had some type of mirror application on it and she used it to check her teeth and lipstick. She was definitely going in for a ride.

  ‘When you get in there, you should ask to try on Trevor’s glasses,’ I said, walking away.

  ‘Why on earth would I do that?’ she asked me.

  ‘Trust me,’ I told her. ‘You’ll see him in a whole new light if you do.’

  Gloria wore me down in the end and I took her for a long weekend in Venice. Aer fuckin’ Lingus! None better. But I insisted on taking the young lad with us and not leaving him with his granny. He was delighted, of course. Gloria not so much, but she put a brave face on it. And in the end there was some other young lad in the hotel who he palled around with every minute of the day. The two of them were inseparable, hitting the swimming pool and the snooker hall together, so we didn’t see sight nor sound of him most of the time. They even asked could they have a sleepover together in the other lad’s room, which was grand with me ’cos it gave the wife and me a bit of space. I’d never seen him so happy.

  ‘I’m thinking of jacking in the course,’ I told Gloria over two glasses of Prosecco in Harry’s Bar. She’d insisted on going there. She said it was where all the celebs went and, right enough, there was your man Matt Damon over in the corner with a baseball cap pulled down over his head, reading a script and making notes all over it with a red pen, but looking up every so often to make sure that everyone knew it was him.

  ‘The literature course?’ she asked.

  ‘Am I doing another one?’

  ‘Don’t be sarcastic, Toastie. It’s an obnoxious trait.’

  ‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘But yeah, the literature course.’

  ‘Why would you do that? I thought you loved it.’

  ‘I love the novels,’ I said. ‘I love the reading. I don’t love the writing so much. I don’t know why they can’t just let us read the books and have an old conversation about them without making us write essays all the time. Is the world going to be any better for three thousand words from me on David Copperfield? Chances are that everything that can be said about that lad has already been said. He was born, he grew up, he met a bird, she wasn’t having any of it, he met another bird, she died. Some oul’ one in a big house went mad ’cos her fella binned her on her wedding day.’

  ‘Still and all,’ said Gloria, keeping one eye roving the bar in case anyone else came in. She was hoping for a Clooney, I’d say. Or a Cate Blanchett. Someone of that calibre. ‘It’s a great release for you.’

  My phone pinged and I looked at it. It was Mary-Lou. Call me, it said. I made my apologies, as they say, and went out on to the canals. Pigeons everywhere. A couple asked me to take their picture. ‘Away and shite,’ I told them. I called Mary-Lou, who said was it right what she’d heard, that I was in Rome for a dirty weekend with the Mrs.

  ‘It’s Venice,’ I told her. ‘And I’m getting precious little of anything at the moment, I don’t mind telling you.’

  ‘Venice then,’ she replied. ‘It’s well for some. I was there once with one of my fellas. Gorgeous, it was. You don’t fancy a little trip to Florence while you’re in Italy, do you?’

  ‘We’ve only got one day left,’ I said.
r />   ‘I’ll make it worth your while. And Gloria’d love an extra couple of days, I’d say.’

  ‘What’s the job?’ I asked.

  It turned out to be a banker. Someone involved with the European bailout fund and the IMF. ‘No problem at all,’ I told her. ‘I’ll do that for you for free.’ She was delighted. Said she knew there was a reason that I was her number one guy. I went back inside and there was Gloria making a show of herself with Matt Damon.

  ‘Come on, you,’ I said, dragging her back to our seat and apologizing to the poor fella, who took it in great form all the same. Did you ever see those Bourne movies? Great fun but the lad has no idea how to handle a gun, that’s all I’m saying. You’d think someone who understands them would have shown him how. It’s embarrassing to watch.

  ‘Ah Toastie,’ said Gloria, as we sat down and ordered another round. ‘You ruined my fun. Who was that on the phone anyway?’

  ‘Mary-Lou,’ I said.

  ‘Oh.’ She went fierce quiet then. She’s never had any problem with my job all these years, sure doesn’t it keep her in the style to which she’s become accustomed, but she had some queer resentment over the fact that Mary-Lou had taken over from the Master-At-Arms. She thought it was weird. ‘She’s all tits and fake eyelashes, that one,’ she always said, and I said, ‘You wouldn’t say that to her face’, and she’d stuck her tongue out and told me that if I ever had a go with Mary-Lou she’d find out about it and castrate me.

  ‘I wouldn’t go anywhere near her,’ I told her. ‘Sure she wouldn’t look at me twice anyway. She’s well out of my league.’

  ‘And what the fuck does that make me?’

  ‘Someone who got lucky,’ I said, giving her a wink.