I sat, I seethed. I gripped the wheel like it was her throat. I sat and watched and after five minutes he left, and I sat and watched as he drove off, and I sat and watched as she went in, and then I sat and watched some more: the midnight traffic, the cats skulking in the streetlight shadows, my breath on the window. I tried to quell the shaking in my hand. It wasn't the cold.
I thought of the way hope can rush out of a body, a dam-breach of the soul. Hopes of the trip to America bringing us back together. Hopes of living together again. Hopes of sex. Sucked out in the seconds it takes to park a car, to reach into the back seat to pick up the chocolates and the flowers, to turn and confront your private hell.
I took ten minutes to compose myself, then locked up the car and knocked at the door to her apartment.
'Yes?' A short word, but short enough to reveal a tremor in her voice.
I lifted the letter box and peered in. She was in her pink dressing gown; it was loosely tied in the middle, which was about all I could see. She took a step back.
'Tony?'
'No,' I said sharply, and let the box fall.
The door opened quickly. Patricia looked pale-faced and damp about the eyes.
'Hello, Spaghetti Legs,' I said.
'Hello, you.'
'Sorry to call round so late.'
She shook her head. 'Doesn't matter.'
'Just I got the tickets for America. Just earlier there. Thought we could maybe chat about the holiday.'
She held my eyes for a moment, then her face started to crease up and tears began to run. I stepped into the hall and she threw her arms round me and held me tight. I put my arms round her and patted her back. 'It's okay,' I said, but it wasn't; I knew it, she knew it, Tony probably knew it.
After a couple of minutes she slowly extricated herself. She stood back and put a hand to my face and patted it softly. 'I'm sorry,' she said. 'Come on up.'
She turned and led me up the stairs into the apartment proper. Not much had changed. It was as tidy as ever, save the damp tissues littered about the lounge.
She sat me down on the settee, let her hand linger on mine for a moment and then set herself down carefully in an armchair. Patricia wasn't one of those women who bloomed in adversity. Her eyes were puffy, her hair dank, her skin blotchy.
'Stop looking at me,' she said abruptly.
'Sorry,' I said, but there was really nowhere else. I reached out to her, but she was too far away for me to touch her leg, and my hand just kind of flopped helplessly a few inches short before I retrieved it. 'Have I come at a bad time?'
'That's a stupid bloody question.'
'I'm just trying to be diplomatic.'
'Well, there's a first.'
'Sorry for trying to be nice.'
'Ach, Dan, stop it, be yourself.'
The anger - no, the hurt - was welling up. 'Really?' I snapped. 'No sympathy? No caring enquiry? No shoulder to cry on?' She shook her head. The tears were still falling. I shrugged. 'Get dropped again, did you?'
She bit at a finger. There were no nails to chew on. She shook her head again. Her eyes were set on the far wall, on a colour photograph of a tusky walrus. It was a new one on me.
I let it flow. The breach was made. 'I didn't think so. I saw you outside. You didn't look like youse had come to the end of the road. I didn't think youse had got much beyond the start of the road, seeing as how he was only meant to be a work colleague. He didn't seem like a bad sort that night I met him and tried to punch his lights out, but I knew there was something going on. He was just a bit too protective of you - so was I, of course, but that's my prerogative as I'm the husband - but when you agreed on a holiday with me to the States I thought there might be the chance of us getting back together on a permanent basis ... then I saw you slobbering over him out there ... I don't know, maybe my office is different, but I don't often say good night to my colleagues like that. Maybe you have a more open approach to. ..'
'Dan, will you shut up?'
'Of course.'
She reached down to the carpet and picked another tissue out of a half-empty box of Kleenex. She stood with it and wiped at her face, then walked out of the lounge to the kitchen.
'Do you want a drink?' she called.
'Sure.'
'What's your poison?'
'You should know that.'
'People change.'
'Don't they just?'
'Dan...'
'Sorry.'
'What'll you have?'
'Whatever's easy.'
'Dan, they're all easy.'
'It doesn't matter. Whatever's handy.'
'Dan, they're all handy.' She appeared in the doorway. 'Dan,
I've had you nice, I've had you horrid, and now you're back to being nice. Can you be yourself ?'
'Of course.'
She gave me a half-smile. 'Good. Now what's your poison?'
'I'll have a Harp. And fix a Paraquat for yourself.'
Her smile widened. She turned for the kitchen. 'That's more like it,' she said. A moment later she returned with two tins of beer and handed me one; we popped them together. For a minute we sipped and watched each other. The tears had stopped, for the moment anyway.
Eventually I let my can creep as low as my lap. 'Forgetting for the moment that I am the cruelly spurned husband and you the deceitful, disloyal wife, what's got you into such a state?'
'I'm pregnant,' she said.
'Fuck,' I said.
I stood by the window. It had started to rain. Most of the city was laid out before me, but the little rivulets on the glass made it look all distorted, like I was looking at it through English eyes. We'd had three cans of silence each.
I could see Patricia's reflection in the window. She watched me. Occasionally she dabbed at an eye. No TV. No CD. Not even the occasional car outside. The people of Belfast were sleeping, or plotting quietly. The only noise was the slight tap of the rain and the occasional sniffle from behind.
Finally she said, 'Aren't you going to say anything?'
'My silence speaks volumes.'
'Jesus. Dan. Say something.'
'Congratulations.'
'Really?'
'What do you think?' I turned to her. She shook her head. 'I take it, seeing as we haven't been to bed together in months, that it isn't mine.'
'Maybe it was delayed reaction.'
'I think not.'
'No.'
'Tony? Tony from work?'
She nodded.
'I'm very happy for you two.'
'Don't, Dan.'
I shrugged. 'Is he happy for you two?' She shook her head. 'He's married.' I gave an involuntary snort.
'It's not funny.'
'Of course it is. He just had to be married. It stands to reason. You knew he was married, of course?'
'Of course. It was only meant to be a bit of fun. It just got out of hand.'
'Out of hand and into the womb.'
'There's no need to be crude.'
'The only crudeness is you fucking around.'
'Don't be like that, Dan.'
'What do you expect, sympathy?'
She gave me a slight nod. Her eyes narrowed. Tears again. I started towards her. She put her hand out to stop me. 'You can stick your sympathy up your hole,' she said. But there was no stopping me.
We ended up lying in the bed in her neat bedroom. Arms around each other, touching, but not sexually. I couldn't.
She didn't say much. We kissed a bit. She cried some more. I asked her why she didn't take precautions; she always had with me, even if it was just locking her bedroom door in her parents' house. She didn't know. She'd gotten careless. She'd gotten horny, but not for me. She said she was two months gone. Hadn't decided whether to keep it. I suggested a bottle of brandy and a hot bath. She said that's what had got her into trouble in the first place. Ha-ha.
'We have a habit of getting ourselves into situations like this, haven't we?'
'It's me, Dan, not you. You're on the outsi
de, looking in.'
'I'm on the outside wanting in. You've kept me there.'
'I know.'
'Because you couldn't make up your mind whether you wanted me back.' Her head nodded gently against my chest. 'Then you slept with someone while you were making your mind up.'
'I know. I'm sorry.'
'Is it a sex thing?'
'Is what a sex thing?'
'Tony.'
'It involves sex. It has to.'
'I mean, is it because he's something sensational in bed? And I'm not.'
'No. Of course not.'
'I mean, he hasn't got some ginormous walrus cock or anything, has he?'
'Dan, what size is a walrus cock?'
'I've no idea. I'm sure I could find out.'
'What, like, in a book or something? The Penguin Book of .
Walrus Cocks?'
'I think there's one like that. Or was it the Walrus Book of Penguin Cocks?'
She snorted.
I plucked up the courage. 'Do you love him?'
Pause. A long pause. My heart tom-tomming away, scared to death of the answer, scared to death of asking whether she loved me.
'I don't know,' came eventually, murmured, not convincing either way.
I stroked her hair, massaged her temples with one hand. 'You know,' I said, 'we were always chalk and cheese.'
A little rush of air from her nose. 'Weren't we just?'
'You never liked the pictures.'
'I liked soap operas.'
'You never liked The Clash.'
'I liked the Beatles.'
'I liked walking in the forest.'
'I liked lying on the beach. I liked big fat blockbusters.'
'I liked the classics. Dickens. Hardy. Dalglish.'
'I hated football.'
'I loved boxing.'
'The Grand National was cruel.'
'It was brilliant. I couldn't stand tennis. All those lesbians.'
'You never danced with me.'
'At the wedding I did.'
'You were forced to. The only time.'
'It wasn't the dancing. It was the music.'
'You never liked my friends.'
'They never liked me.'
'You never gave them a chance. I gave your friends a chance.'
'They gave you a chance. I like kissing with tongues.'
'I prefer it with lips.'
'I like the missionary position.'
'I like to be on top. Dan?'
'Mmmmmm?'
'Why did we ever get together?'
'Because I fell absolutely and completely in love with you. And
I still absolutely and completely love you.' And that set her off again.
9
I was drunk for three days. I spoke to no one. I ate nothing. I neither washed nor shaved. I listened to my music. When my eyes could focus, I read my books. I listened, I read, I thought, all of it suffused by images of Patricia. Images of her making love with another man. Images of her having a baby, another man's baby.
I thought about Tony From Work. I thought about following him home, stalking him to his lair ... setting fire to his car ... setting fire to his house ... setting fire to his wife ... thought about being able to say: see how you like it now, Tony. I wondered about him, what was he playing at - what was Patricia to him, a bit of extra-marital sex, or was it the real thing, the discovery of true love while trapped in a sterile marriage? If it was true love, who was I to intervene, besides the husband? Would I have let that get in my way? No. What excuse did I have? None. I had true love, and let it slip away.
Twice the police called to get me to turn the music down. The record that seemed to set them off was 'Flying Saucer Attack' by the Rezillos. They were quite pleasant really. Didn't threaten me at all.
On the fourth morning I got up, showered, shaved and burnt a twelve-inch hole in one of my favourite shirts.
I phoned Patricia at work, but she was off; I phoned her at home, but there was no reply. Then I set off for Aldergrove International with a rucksack, a hangover and a broken heart.
I spotted Geordie McClean and Mary McMaster in the bar, standing, ordering drinks. I walked up and set my rucksack down behind them.
'Mine's a pint,' I said. They looked round. Mary smiled, McClean nodded.
'You look rough,' McClean said.
'I'm fine. Where's Bobby?'
'He's in Eason's looking through the Economist. Or the Beano.' McClean leant over the bar and called for an extra pint.
'I'm sorry to hear your wife isn't coming,' said Mary. She rested her hand briefly on my arm. 'I was looking forward to some female company. Boxing's very much a man's game.'
'Couldn't be helped. She's not well.'
'Nothing too serious I hope.'
'Nah. Just picked up a bug. Just takes a while to run its course.' About nine months.
'Pity.'
'Yeah.'
McClean handed me a pint of Harp I didn't need. 'Get that down ya,' he said. 'Might put some colour back in your cheeks.'
'Thanks.' I took a slurp and set it on the bar. 'I'm sorry about the wife's ticket. It couldn't be avoided.'
'Never worry. It wasn't wasted.'
A shadow fell over the bar, and its name was Bobby McMaster. He was taller than I remembered, bulkier. He wore a sleek black tracksuit, Ray-Bans, black trainers, his face looked tanned, his haircut short, eyes keen, lips mercifully normal, open enough to reveal a full set of teeth; you'd only have noticed a very slight difference in colour in the false one if you were really searching or it. He looked impressive.
'You clean up well,' I said.
McMaster nodded. 'Orange juice,' he said. 'I must try some. It works wonders.'
'From the bar. Orange juice.'
'Ah.'
'I'll get it, Bobby,' said McClean. 'Sit yourself down there.' McMaster moved and unnatural light once again lit the bar and revealed not only a lot of curious punters looking the big man up and down - and wondering no doubt who he was - but also another familiar figure standing just a couple of feet in front of me. Stanley Matchitt, King of the High Seas.
He gave me what should by all rights have been a weaselly little smile, but to be honest it was quite normal. 'Hello, Starkey. I heard you'd be here,' he said warmly.
McClean stepped forward and put his hand out to Stanley. 'Glad you could make it, son,' he said. They shook. I shook my head, but held my tongue, which is difficult to do at the same time. It was hardly good PR to be seen off by a notorious killer, but it was none of my business.
I lifted my pint and joined McMaster and his wife at their table. 'Nice of him to come and see you off,' I said.
'He's not seeing me off.'
'What's he up to then, jetting off to a high-powered business meeting?'
McMaster turned to his wife. 'You know, Mary, even in a country famed for its sarcasm, I don't think I've ever heard anyone as sarky as Starkey here.'
Mary took a drink. 'It does grate after a while,' she said quietly.
'Sorry.'
'There he goes again.'
'Aw, c'mon,' I said.
McClean and Stanley joined us with their drinks. 'Starkey,' began McClean, 'you should know that Stanley here will be travelling with us. He's part of the team.'
'What're you planning to do, cut Tyson's throat before he gets in the ring? It's hardly Marquess of Queensberry.'
'No need for that, Starkey,' said McClean. 'Stanley here's a reformed character these days. Aren't you, Stanley?' Stanley nodded. 'But still a force to be reckoned with. After what happened the other day I think it's in all our interests to have a bit of muscle around.'
'I thought there were a few muscles on Bobby.'
'You know what I mean, Starkey. We need to keep the shit away from Bobby.'
'Isn't it a bit like asking the wolf to guard the sheep?'
'I'm no fucking sheep,' McMaster growled.
'Sorry. No offence. But you know what I mean.'
'Starkey,
why don't you get your pencil out and write some thing down?' said Stanley. 'That's what you're here for.' I shrugged.
'It's not like I need your approval,' he continued, 'it's not like you matter in the slightest.'
'Stanley's a friend from way back, Starkey,' said McMaster, 'and I'd trust him with my life. And with my wife's.'
I shrugged. 'Fair enough. I just hope he flies better than he sails.'
'I don't know, Starkey,' said Stanley, 'I've never flown before. But if I get sick you'll be the first to find out; I'm sitting beside you.'
Five minutes before we were due to go through security to our gate, Jackie Campbell arrived. He looked tired and hassled. He puffed across to the check-in desk, riffled through his wallet for his ticket and then turned to scan for us. Mary waved across to him. He didn't see her, though he was looking right at her. I walked across to him. It was a relief to get away, even for a moment, from our little ensemble. Things were a little frosty.
'Hi, Jackie,' I said. His small blue eyes homed in on me. He didn't know me from Adam. 'Starkey. Dan. I'm doing the book on Bobby.'
He nodded. 'I can't stop. I've a plane to catch. Bastards took my car apart on the way in. I mean, do I look like I'm the sort to carry a fuckin' bomb?'
I shook my head. 'You're okay, Jackie. The others are just over there. We're just about to board. And your boy's looking good.'
'If looks could kill,' he croaked, 'they probably will.'
I laughed. 'Deep, man. That's a Peter Gabriel song. You don't look the type, Jackie.'
He shook his head. 'I'm not the fucking type. My fucking son's forty and he's still listening to shite like that. Plays it all fucking day. At least I grew out of Glenn Miller.'
'Now there's a name to conjure with just as you're about to get on a plane.'
'Yeah, whatever.' Campbell lifted his bags, two over-the shoulder holdalls, and puffed off towards the rest of the team.
McClean clapped him on the shoulder. 'Thought you weren't going to make it there, Jackie.'
'You know what thought did.'
McClean smiled weakly. 'Take the bags there,' he said to Stanley.
'I'm no fucking bag man.'
'I'll carry my own bags, thank you. I'm not that decrepit yet.'
'Don't you want to check them in, Jackie?' asked Mary.
'They stay with me. Last time I flew out to a fight I went to London and my bags went to Paris. Anyone tries to take them off me, they get flattened.'
Of wee sweetie mice and men Page 6
