'So?'
I shrugged. 'I know. It was for the best. It doesn't mean I have to be happy about it.'
'Who of us are? Which of us is?'
He nodded and moved up the street towards his car. I watched him get in and pull out into the traffic with a screech of tyres. I crossed the road to the bar.
21
Some time after midnight there was a light rap on the door. I was just starting to drift, propped up on a pillow, Deep Space Nine casting alien shadows across the room. I rolled off the bed, stretched, then moved to the door. I hesitated for a moment. It had been a night of death. Maybe it wasn't the done thing to answer the door in the wee small hours. Then I thought that if a terrorist was standing outside with a bazooka, he wasn't going to be dissuaded by impoliteness. It takes thirty years of Belfast life to understand terrorist etiquette.
Bobby McMaster stood there, once nobody's idea of a terrorist but now starting to shape up in the ring, even if only in response to near tragedy. He had a mini-can from his mini-bar in each of his giant hands. They looked ridiculously small.
'Join me in a drink?' he asked. Doleful eyes. The lonely big eejit.
It was hardly straight from the training manual, but I nodded and ushered him in. 'You're welcome. My mini-bar has unaccountably run dry.'
He handed me a can as he passed. He didn't seem to notice the mess of the room. He crossed to the window. I joined him. We flipped cans together and slurped as we looked out over the lights of New York.
'She's out there somewhere,' he said. 'Alcohol is a depressant,' I said.
'No, having your wife stolen from you and not knowing whether she's alive or dead is a depressant. Alcohol is a drink.'
'I won't argue with that.'
He nodded.
'Can't you sleep?' I asked.
He shook his head.
'You're worried about tomorrow night, aren't you?' I touched his arm with my can. It was a sympathetic touch, but done in an all-men-together way that wouldn't make him, or me, feel like a softie. 'Of course you are. You think you should be going along. You think something might go wrong, that she might get hurt, that you should be there to protect her. It's natural, Bobby. I'd be the same. Jesus, I am the same, and I'm going on the fuckin' raid. But don't worry. It'll be okay. I've seen Smith in action, he's very thorough, very efficient, he'll get the job done. And I'm sure Stanley's the same, providing he doesn't have to get on a boat. We'll be fine. She'll be fine.'
He looked me in the eye. His mouth opened, he started to say something, but then it closed again and he shook his head slightly and returned his gaze to the neon city. He took another drink. 'Do you think much about Irish politics, Starkey?'
I took a drink. 'As little as possible.'
'What would you describe yourself as, British?'
I shrugged. One of my better ones, the kind of thoroughbred shrug I reserved for genuinely perplexing situations. 'On hijacked aeroplanes they always shoot the British third, just after the Americans and the Jews. No, not British.'
'But not Irish?'
'No. Not unless I'm in trouble abroad. I have an Irish passport, but I wouldn't produce it in public at home.'
'So would you say you were mostly ambivalent about the whole British/Irish thing?'
'Ambivalent? No. I'm from Northern Ireland, Bobby, same as you, not England, not Ireland, it's home, I couldn't much be bothered fighting to make it one thing or the other, but if someone walked in and forced me into one thing or another, then I might get more protective about it. And by the way, you haven't been taking any mind-altering drugs lately, have you?'
He laughed. 'No, Starkey.'
'Then why the sudden interest in politics?'
'Nothing. Just thinking.'
'I would have marked you down as a staunch Loyalist, anyway. Didn't you used to beat up Catholics with Stanley?'
'Used to, yeah.'
'I know you've changed. Obviously you've changed. But a man's politics don't change that easily, do they? You grew out of senseless violence, but you're still from the Protestant ghetto in Crossmaheart, aren't you? You're still for God and Ulster, whether you're married to a Catholic or not.'
McMaster shrugged. 'I thought I was. I got to thinking that maybe none of it mattered much. Religion. Politics. As long as you're happy with your lot and your family, it's not that important who you pray to or who you pay your taxes to. I was thinking that.'
'And worthy thoughts they are too, Bobby. We'll get you into the Peace People at this rate. My, you're getting profound in your old age.'
'Yeah. Keeps my mind off other things.'
'I can understand that. But don't worry. It'll go okay.'
'I don't think we should even attempt it. This raid.' He put his hand up against the window, rubbed it slowly round. 'It's too dangerous. If we know anything from home, it's how volatile religious types can be. We should leave it up to the police or the FBI.'
'Aye, they did well at Waco.'
'I'd just hate to see anyone get hurt for no good reason.'
'Mary isn't a good reason?'
He shook his head wistfully. 'Of course she is.'
The alcohol was gone. I lay back on the bed, sipping my way through the soft drinks. The TV flickered silently. I meandered through the radio dial. It was like politics at home. Fifty-seven different stations, all playing the same record.
Until ... until I heard The Clash. The saving grace. 'London Calling.' The DJ, slow, cool, asked, 'Whatever did happen to The Clash?'
I listened for a while, heard what station it was, traced them in the phone book. A squawky girl on the switchboard.
"I want to talk to the DJ.'
'On air?'
'On air.'
'What about?'
'The Clash.'
'Hold the line, sir.' She put me on hold for thirty seconds. 'Putting you through, sir. I should remind you that when speaking on air no bad language is permitted, no advertising without prior written consent from the station, no comments calculated to stir up racial tension, no appeals for money, no espousing of political causes. The station takes no responsibility for anything you may say, do or incite while on air ... you accept all of the conditions I have outlined, sir?'
'I do.'
'Enjoy your airtime, sir.'
'Thank you.'
The Cure: 'Love Cats.' Just starting to fade. The DJ. 'Hi there. We go on air in ten seconds. And don't pay any attention to anything Sandra says, our air is your air.'
'Cheers,' I said.
'Welcome back,' he said. 'We have a guy on the line wants to talk about The Clash. Where you from, sir?'
'Belfast. I'm calling from the Mirage Hotel. I'm sorry, that's advertising, isn't it?'
'Never mind. We play The Clash, we sell some more Clash records, that's advertising too, you see?'
'I suppose. You asked whatever happened to The Clash.'
'Great English band. Great English band. Whatever happened to The Clash?'
'Joe Strummer still sings. He had a solo album out. Didn't do much. He's done some singing with the Pogues.'
'The Pogues. Great band. Great Irish band.'
'Mick Jones. He's in Big Audio Dynamite. They've had five or six albums out. Excellent albums. Haven't done much. Paul Simonon, he had Havana 3am. Had an album out. Not bad. Didn't do much.'
'What about that drummer? Great roll at the start of "I Fought the Law".' He beat it out with what sounded like a couple of pencils.
'Topper Headon. Had a drug problem. Been in prison. I think he drives a taxi now.'
'Shame, shame. What a talent. What a wasted talent.'
'Yeah. Yeah.'
I held the phone to my ear and looked out over the city again. I wondered how many people were listening. I wondered how many had heard of The Clash. Patricia always hated The Clash. Had heard more melodic cement mixers. Chalk and cheese.
'So what are you doing here ... uh, Gary, is it?'
'Dan. Daniel. I'm on vacation. Here to see a
fight actually. Mike Tyson and...'
'That racist guy from Ireland. . .'
'He's not racist. Not racist at all. One of the nicest guys you could hope to meet.'
'Really? Word on the street. . .'
'The word on the street is wrong. He's a nice guy, a nice guy who's gonna give Tyson a run for his money.'
'And you travelled all the way from Ireland to see him?'
'Sure did.'
'Well, Gary, a pleasure talking to you. Enjoy New York. I just know it'll enjoy you. Anyone you want to say hello to on this cold and frosty March morning?'
'No. Yeah. Just to say hi to Mary if she's listening out there, and we're all thinking of you.'
'This one's for you, Mary, the sound of the Cars. ..'
The city that never sleeps. Yeah, well, it was doing a bloody good impression.
There had been a frost. As the starry black of night soothed into the grey of dawn I walked along Broadway, deserted but for the occasional cab, the occasional destitute slumped in a doorway, the occasional burger box floating amiably along in the slightest of breezes. A Vietnam vet lay unconscious beside his begging card and cup in the entrance to the theatre which housed Miss Saigon. Maybe in his more lucid moments he laughed at the irony. His skin was blue. A couple of Times Square cops chatted over steaming coffee beside him, unconcerned.
I was cold to the bone. I had my leather jacket on, my black jeans, my new trainers. I'd money in my pocket and love in my heart, but no one to waste it on. I had three women in my life: Patricia at home with someone else; Paula, with Chinese Elvis or at least a whole load of willies; and Mary, missing. Later in the day I would attempt to liberate Mary. Storm the stronghold like the hero I wasn't. Maybe die in the effort. What for? For someone else's love.
Earlier I had made a list of my possessions, the personal stuff I wanted someone to have in the event of my death, not the married stuff we'd always argue over.
In no particular order:
The photo album of all the gang when we were young, teens and twenties, discovering alcohol. I looked at our faces, spotty, fresh, bright-eyed or drink-dulled. God, we had consumed some booze between us. The devil's vomit, my dad had warned us, told us where it would lead us. What harm had it done? None at all. Three of those faces were now in prison, two started supporting Celtic and one ended up in a hippie drug train to Nepal, but it had nothing to do with alcohol.
The signed photo of Mark Brinn, shortest reigning Northern Irish prime minister of all time. I'd had dinner with him and chatted about capital punishment, and then he'd exploded.
The bootleg cassette of The Clash live at the Ulster Hall. My first exposure to live music. An eye-opener.
My first love letter (never sent to Patricia, what would she make of it now?).
My first love letter (from Patricia, Jesus, how wonderful she thought I was in those early days).
Casablanca.
My first novel (unrecognized classic, never published). Beer mats from 727 different pubs.
A photo of Patricia in Paris.
A naked photo of Patricia in Paris.
It didn't amount to much. No one would race into the street and thank God for being remembered in my will. Maybe if I was lucky they would shed a tear and think about old times and say what a good guy I was.
Joke. Who would 'they' be? Patricia, of course, there was no one else.
I phoned her.
'Dan, that's a pathetic little list.'
'But it's all I've got.'
'God, you're pathetic.'
'But I'm lost without you.'
'You're lost with me. Get a life, Dan. Do something worthwhile.'
'I'm writing a book.'
'You're running away.'
'I'm doing the only thing I know how to do. I'm writing.'
'You haven't written a word.'
'But I know what I'm writing.'
'You haven't a clue, Dan. Grand ideas. Little substance. Such a waste.'
'I may not survive tonight.'
'Of course you will.'
'I have this chill sense of foreboding.'
'What a line. You're scared.'
'Of course I'm scared.'
'But you rescued me once before.'
'But I couldn't keep you.'
'No. You won the battle, lost the war.'
'Is there no hope for me?'
'There's always hope, Dan. Make me proud.'
'I'll do my best.'
'No, Dan, not your best. Just do it. No excuses.'
'Okay. Love.'
'Love.'
There was no reply.
22
Smith led us by shuddery elevator to the third floor. Black lettering on a frosted-glass door halfway along a dusty corridor read: PETER SMITH, INVESTIGATIONS. He unlocked the door and let us into the outer office. A large black woman sat behind a desk. She wore a big flowery shirt, pink-rimmed spectacles. She looked up and nodded. Smith smiled. 'Coffee and doughnuts, Sissy, please.'
Sissy pushed her seat back and stood. She was as wide as her desk. Her face was all crinkly laughter lines and bright eyes. She was probably locked in for her own protection. Smith's office appeared to be located in the Crack World Trade Center. 'I'll go and see Duncan,' she said.
'Any messages?'
She gave Smith a look that said, are you joking?
Smith led us on through to his office, which was virtually the same as Sissy's: big untidy desk, old-fashioned heavy black phone and a pile of out-of-date directories, green filing cabinets, an assortment of calendars.
Sissy cloyed the outside door. Matchitt was still nodding appreciatively. 'She's a big girl,' he said.
'She's my wife,' said Smith, sitting himself behind his desk. He indicated two chairs at the back of the office. I lifted them over.
'She's a beautiful big girl,' adjusted Matchitt.
'I think so,' said Smith laconically. He lifted the directories off his desk and set them on the floor beside him, tidied together the cluttered papers before him and put them on the floor also. Then he pulled open a drawer and produced a rolled-up document. He spread it on the desk. Matchitt and I craned forward.
'The floor plan of the Shabazz,' he said, 'courtesy of City Hall.'
We gave it a couple of minutes of studied silence. I suppose it looked like a mosque, insofar as anything one-dimensional can, but as it hadn't been that long since I'd mastered left from right I wasn't about to go promoting any ambitious plans for the taking of the headquarters of the Sons of Muhammad. I nodded a couple of times and said, 'Hmmmm.'
Matchitt was the first to sit back. 'I don't know about you, but I get lost in Woolworth's,' he said with refreshing honesty, while failing miserably to stifle a yawn. 'I'll just follow you two.'
'It's not that complicated,' Smith said, flattening the rolled-up edges of the plan with his elbows, then pointing down with his index fingers. 'You can see the dome of the mosque, right?' We nodded. 'The main entrance, the rooms here, here and here, that are used by the flock. Then across here is the private block, with its separate entrance, here. It's a fairly straight route to the top of the building, here.'
'And that's the secret room,' I said.
'Well, no, not there exactly. A little beyond, a little above. The value of having a secret room is not having it on floor plans like this.'
I nodded.
Matchitt leant forward. 'So all we have to do is get from here, to here, then get her out, then get us out.'
Smith nodded.
'Using only our charm,' I contributed.
'I think not,' said Smith. He pulled open another drawer.
The gas masks I recognized. They're hard to mistake. The other things I wasn't so sure about. He set them on the desk. Matchitt's hands darted to them greedily.
'Class,' he said, 'absolute class.'
'Would you care to explain?' I asked.
Smith picked up a small, black, rounded thing, like a headache pill for a giant. 'Stun grenade,' he said.
> 'For?'
'Stunning,' said Matchitt.
'The guards on the door,' said Smith.
I nodded. 'The rest?'
'Tear gas.'
I nodded.
'Class,' said Matchitt, 'fucking class.'
An anxious sigh came unbidden. I covered up, badly, by having a go at Matchitt. 'You're in your element, aren't you, Stanley?'
'Absolute class. Can't get these at home, I'll tell ya.'
'This is like Disneyland to you, isn't it, Stanley?'
'Too right.' He pulled his gas mask on, then started juggling with the stun grenades.
I shook my head. Tutted. 'It begs the question, of course, is this a Mickey Mouse operation?'
Matchitt shook his alien head. 'Llllnn uh Sahy.'
'I beg your pardon?'
He pulled the mask up. 'I said, lighten up, Starkey. We'll need this stuff.'
Smith picked up one of the tear gas canisters and turned it lightly in his hand. 'Disney,' he said, 'is actually one of the most efficiently run organizations in the world. If I could run a Mickey Mouse operation like theirs, well, I wouldn't be stuck here.'
'Are you saying then that you're inefficient?'
'No, I'm complimenting Disney on their efficiency.'
'Are you saying that Disney have the capacity to storm the Shabazz using stun grenades and tear gas and God knows what else?'
'No, of course not. I was only making a point.'
Matchitt, set the gas mask back on the desk. 'You know what I think? I think you're scared, Starkey.'
I tutted again. Rolled my eyes. 'Of course I'm scared. It's not what I do, this, this nonsense. This is more up your street than mine, Stanley.'
Matchitt nodded at Smith. 'What do you think, Smithy, would it be more efficient to have three or two people involved in this raid? What would Walt Disney do?'
'I think we're overplaying this Walt Disney thing. I think Starkey will be fine. He just needs a kick in the ass.'
'I can do that,' said Matchitt.
'You keep your fucking feet to yourself, Stanley.'
'Oh, please, no threats, Starkey.'
'Yeah,' I said.
Smith lifted a pencil and pointed at the entrance to the private block. 'What I'm suggesting,' he said, 'is that we enter here. From what I've observed things get pretty quiet around the Shabazz from about 10.30 pm on. There are between two and four guards on duty through the night, but there's not much activity, which suggests that they won't be that alert. The door's always open so they can keep an eye on the street.'
Of wee sweetie mice and men Page 15
