Of wee sweetie mice and men

by Colin Bateman

  'How is junior?' I asked.

  'I don't know. Alive.'

  Sissy went to sit with Junior. Frank started the engine and turned the boat round.

  'Now what?' said Geordie McClean.

  'Maybe we should have a chat with our friends here,' I said, 'see if we can get this mess sorted out.'

  'I thought we had sorted it out,' said McClean.

  McMaster shook his head. 'If they're prepared to do something as dumb as this, there's no telling what else they might try. Maybe we should talk to them one on one? It can't do any harm.'

  I'm always wary of things which can't do any harm, but he had a point. We hadn't tried any direct negotiations with the Sons of Muhammad. We'd left that up to Poodle Clay and it was patently obvious that he wasn't getting anywhere.

  King sat on the bench beside the comatose Stanley Matchitt. He was bent forward, his hands pushed between his legs massaging his groin. McMaster shook him lightly by the shoulder, then hunched down in front of him. 'Still sore?' he asked.

  'What do you think?'

  'Yeah. Well. I thought we should have a chat.'

  'About what?'

  'About the mess we've got ourselves in.' King shrugged.

  'We got off on the wrong foot,' said McMaster. 'You attacked my people.'

  'I didn't. Or if I did, I didn't mean to. What I said, what I said wasn't meant to offend anyone. All I said was I'd never seen so many black people before. I was just making an honest observation.'

  'Yeah. Sure. And we all look like Al Jolson.'

  'I shouldn't have said that. I'm sorry. It was said in the heat of the moment. There really aren't any black people in Ireland. It hasn't anything to do with racism. It's just the way things worked out. I mean, if you went to China, what would you say? You'd say, I never seen so many Chinamen before.'

  'I don't judge a man by the colour of his skin.'

  McMaster tutted. 'I'm not saying ... look, I'm really not a racist. Back home in Ireland we've just come through a religious war, you know? I'm a Protestant, but I'm married to a Catholic.

  Do you know what I'm saying? I don't care about religion, I don't care about race. Everyone should be left alone to live their own lives. That's what I believe in.'

  'Like the people you had murdered in the Shabazz.'

  'That shouldn't have happened. I know that. We're all very sorry. My wife has been kidnapped. We presumed youse had her.

  We were wrong to presume.'

  'That don't bring those people back.'

  'I know that. I'm sorry. If I could go back in time and change things, I would. I really would.'

  'So what you expect me to do now? Tell my people the Irish snake is sorry, and just forget about it? No way, man. No way.

  I'm sorry about your wife, but that ain't our problem.'

  'So this is just going to go on and on until you eventually find some way of killing me, is that it?'

  'That's it.'

  'There's no room for negotiation?'

  'No.'

  McMaster shook his head. He turned to the other Son, shivering in his sodden fatigues. 'What about you, treading the same line?' He nodded. 'We all true believers.'

  'So you think Muhammad is guiding you?'

  'Yeah. Of course.'

  'He led you to Princetown. He got you a speedboat.'

  'Yeah. Of course.'

  'He led you out over the sea to exactly the spot we were at.'

  'He sees everything.'

  'And then he ordered a whale to capsize your boat.'

  The Son looked quickly at King. King remained impassive.'That was just bad luck.'

  'You really think that?'

  'Course I do.'

  'You know what the chances of a whale capsizing a boat are? You know what the chances of a whale capsizing a boat while an act of piracy is going on are? We're talking millions, billions and trillions to one here. You don't think maybe Muhammad was trying to tell you something?'

  'Man, it just happened.'

  McMaster turned back to King. 'Is there nothing I can say that will change your mind?'

  King shook his head.

  'I don't understand you at all. You're the one accusing me of being racist, and yet it's you, with your every word, is the racist one. You just won't listen to reason, will you? You have it in your head that I'm some kind of devil and I must be killed.' They regarded each other for a moment, unblinking. 'Or do I have it wrong,' McMaster continued, 'you realize that there's nothing wrong with me at all, but you've made your mind up and you'd lose face if you back down. That's it, isn't it?'

  A cocky smile slipped onto King's face. 'You're scared, man.'

  'Of course I'm scared. It's not much fun living in fear of your life.'

  'You're scared even though you're calling all, the shots. You got the guns, man, yet you scared to death of us. May as well just kill yourself now, 'cause we'll get you eventually.'

  'Can't you just accept an honest-to-God apology? Look, I'm sorry any of this ever happened, I spoke out of turn, I want to forget about it. I'm sorry about the attack on the Shabazz. If you want I'll organize a fund for the families of those that died. That would help, wouldn't it?'

  King slowly shook his head. 'You're dead, man.'

  McMaster matched him. 'I've done everything I can to appease you.'

  'It's easy for you to be gracious, you got the gun, man.'

  McMaster looked round at me. 'Gimme the gun,' he said.

  I gave him the gun. He reached it handle first to King. King took it warily.

  'If you don't believe that I'm being honest about all this then go ahead, shoot me. You're going to get me eventually. May as well do it now.'

  'Are you sure you wanted to do that?' I asked.

  'They should trust me,' he said.

  They looked at each other for several moments. King broke off the stare, glanced at me, then back at McMaster. He clasped the gun in his hand. His finger slipped onto the trigger. His brows furrowed. He looked at his comrade, who looked extremely confused. Then he nodded slowly. Maybe he had misjudged the Irish snake. Maybe he had been careless with his words. Maybe the attack on the Shabazz had been a ghastly mistake. Maybe he really was willing to make amends. Or maybe not. He raised the gun and shot McMaster between the eyes.

  Or he would have if I hadn't removed the bullets.

  My inspired moments are few and far between. Once I'd lobbed the keeper from thirty yards in a school football match. I'd never heard of Dr Feelgood, but I bought Stupidity entirely on spec and it is still one of the finest albums ever made. And even if I had later thrown it all away, I had once been inspired enough by love to propose to Patricia. Removing the bullets was my fourth moment of inspiration. I'd seen too much violence, I'd seen too many tables turned.

  King pulled the trigger three times. McMaster blinked three times.

  King dropped the gun. 'Can't even commit suicide honestly,' he sneered.

  'I didn't know.'

  'You knew.'

  McMaster picked up the gun. 'You would have been perfectly happy to splatter my brains all over this boat,' he said.

  King nodded. 'It would have given me no pleasure. But I would have done it.'

  'No matter what happened to you as a result?'

  'I would have taken the consequences. Just as you clearly were not prepared to take the consequences of giving me the gun.'

  The contender handed me the weapon. I handed it to Frank, who, if he was aware of any of the drama being played out behind him, didn't give any indication. He accepted the weapon wordlessly and stuck it into his waistband. His eyes flitted from sea to son, son to sea.

  'And now what do you expect the consequences to be of trying to shoot me?' McMaster was asking.

  'It doesn't matter. I tried. I failed. I'll try again. If not me, someone else.'

  'I don't like you zealots. You're never wrong.'

  'I would disagree.'

  McMaster turned to me. 'See what I mean?'

 
I nodded. 'You can thank me later,' I said, 'for the bullets.' McMaster stood again. He pulled King up by the hair and led him out of the cabin. Then he threw him overboard. As he went, King looked a little surprised.

  'Do you want to go for a swim?' McMaster asked.

  The remaining Son shook his head. 'Do you think I'm a racist?' The remaining Son shook-his head.

  'Are you just saying that because you don't want to go over board or are you genuinely convinced that there was no racism involved in any of my comments?'

  The remaining Son nodded. Then he shook his head. He was a little scared and a little confused. 'Martin was our leader. He was always the most committed. Without him, I don't know what will happen. I just wanna go home, man. I wasn't cut out for this.' McMaster nodded. Who of us are? Which of us is? 'Are you a man of honour?' The Son nodded.

  'What're you going to say about the death of your leader?'

  'He drowned.'

  'Accidentally.'

  'Accidentally.'

  'You won't change your mind once you're back with the rest of the Sons?'

  'Man, there ain't that many of us left. Just don't throw me in the water again. I never liked the water. I won't breathe a word.

  Honest.'

  Matchitt began to blink back into reality. He heaved himself up off his back with a woozy groan. His eyes slowly focused in on the Son. He rubbed the point on his chin where McMaster had whacked him. I left the cabin. McMaster could explain how we came to have an extra man on board. Once I started talking about the intervention of the whale Matchitt would think I was winding him up.

  Sissy was sitting beside Junior. He had a coat round him now. He was unconscious and very, very pale. Sissy dabbed at his forehead with a tissue, then looked back out over the waves. 'How long do you think he'll survive back there?'

  I shrugged. There was no sign of him. 'Depends. On whether he can swim. On the water temperature. Whether the whales are peckish.'

  'They don't eat humans.'

  'No, but they'll have a bloody good suck at you.'

  'Don't, Starkey. It isn't funny.'

  'Of course it's funny.' And it was. Looked at from afar. 'What a way to go, eh? We defeat a terror group and discover Bobby McMaster's killer instinct all in one go. It's magic. These chapters just get better and better.'

  'You're going to write about this?'

  'Of course.'

  'But he'll be charged with murder!'

  'Not if he's dead, Sissy.'

  'You think the Sons of Muhammad will get him in the end?'

  'No. But Tyson will.'

  I was being pessimistic, of course. I was tired. We were all tired. Two people had died. One was seriously injured. We'd been saved by a whale. I needed to lie down somewhere, contemplate the craziness of the situation. The meaning of it all. If there was a meaning. I needed a drink. Just a beer. Instead, Matchitt joined me.

  'Sore head?' I asked.

  He nodded vaguely. 'Seems like I missed the fun.'

  'Yeah.'

  'Saved by a whale and all.'

  'Yeah. After you tried to shoot them.'

  'I didn't really. I was only raking. I wouldn't shoot a whale.'

  'You gave a good impression of it.'

  'That's half the secret of this business, Starkey, giving a good impression. Or a bad one.'

  'I'm sure the whale could tell the difference.'

  'Obviously he could. He came and helped.'

  'At least he was around to help. Not out cold.'

  'I can't be blamed for what happens when I'm unconscious.'

  'Of course you can, Stanley. You can be blamed for everything. I imagine even Sissy blames you.'

  Matchitt looked up the deck to where she sat with Junior. Sat with Junior, but with her eyes on Matchitt. For a second they held each other's gaze, hers stern, his myopic. Then she smiled. He squinted. Maybe he thought he was seeing another whale. 'She's smiling at you, Stan,' I said.

  'Gosh,' he said. It was a most unexpected word for Matchitt to come off with. Fuck, yes. Cunt, yes. Gosh, no. His face, at least beyond the bruisy blotch McMaster had inflicted, was red. He forgot I was there. 'Isn't she lovely?' he said quietly, unintention ally, to the air. He nodded in response to his own question and then suddenly shook his head. 'See you later,' he said and moved on up the deck.

  Darkness was falling when we finally cruised back into Princetown harbour. The sprinkly lights of the town were welcoming, the flashing neon of the police cars not quite so. An ambulance was there too. Junior was unloaded. He was still unconscious. We tied the boat up for Frank while he went with his son to the nearest hospital. We didn't ask where that was. We were too tired. The 'cops wanted to question us there and then but Sissy was able to persuade them to follow us back up to the house. The Son was handed into their custody. He didn't say anything, but he looked relieved to be back on dry land.

  McMaster stared morosely out of the window as we drove back to Poodle's house. His wife's abduction seemed to hit him hardest in the dark. She was hundreds of miles away. A prisoner. Injured. Dying. Maybe just crying. It wouldn't have taken much to push McMaster towards tears. A word, maybe. Some sympathy. I left him alone. I fell in and out of sleep. I dreamt about snuggling up in bed with Patricia. About us both wearing pyjamas. We never wore jimjams. Pink jimjams. With little whale motifs on the front. Those were exactly the type we never wore. And it was lovely. And warm. And then she got out of bed and they weren't jimjams but maternity smocks and I was confused because I wasn't pregnant and I tried asking her but she told me to be quiet because Tony was in the next room and ...

  BANG!

  'Whaaaa?' I reared up in the back seat. Dark. We were pressing slowly through a forest, a loud, windy, branch-shaking forest ... that wasn't ... The trees were people and as the lights from the house and camera lights penetrated my sleepiness I realized that they weren't just people, but protesters with placards clattering against the car and journalists thrusting at it and screaming questions.

  'What the fuck is this?' McMaster said, irritated more than angry.

  'Looks like the Sons or Brothers or whatever the fuck they are are still keen on lynching you,' said Geordie McClean. 'Maybe they haven't heard about the whales yet. Or maybe they have.'

  BANG!

  Another hardboard clatter. I jumped away from it. The window stayed intact. A twisty-ugly face pressed against the glass, screaming, then pulled away. Others clustered in around the car. Flat hands drummed down on the roof. The noise was deafening. I leant forward, peered through the windscreen. I took a closer look. There was one crucial difference.

  'Bobby,' I said, 'they're all white.'

  'It's not snowing.'

  'No, I mean, their skin. They're not Sons or Brothers. Look at the placards ... they're. . .'

  'Gay,' said Zack, pulling open the passenger door and then standing guard on it with his gun drawn. 'They been here the last hour looking to lynch you, Mr McMaster, sir.'

  McMaster jumped quickly from the car. A roar went up from the crowd . There looked to be about a hundred of them. Jack opened the back door and me and McClean jumped out. Matchitt and Sissy pulled in behind in a taxi. It got clattered with placards as well. Matchitt jumped out and shielded Sissy while she got out, then shadowed her to the house; McClean followed.. McMaster stood in the porch shaking his head as two police cars pulled into the yard.

  'Fascist!' someone called

  The call was taken up. 'FASCIST! FASCIST! FASCIST!'

  A woman tried to push past Zack. He held her back with one massive hand. She stuck a microphone between his arm and chest. 'Bobby!' she called. 'Any reason for making those comments?'

  McMaster shook his head and entered the house as camera flashes zapped around his head.

  I stood on the steps for a moment while the crowd started their fascist chant again. Six of the eight police went to help Zack and Jack slowly push the protesters off Poodle's property while the other two entered the house. I followed the thin blue li
ne up the yard, then got Zack to bring the woman who'd shouted the question at McMaster back into the yard.

  'Hi,' she said, chirpy pleased that she'd been picked out of the throng. 'Colette Chisolm, KWIJ.' She pushed the mike into my face.

  'Dan Starkey, wit and raconteur. Please don't record anything for the moment. Tell me what this is all about and then I'll see about a quote.'

  Her face was red and puffy from the wind, but she had an innate prettiness that reminded me of someone. Patricia maybe. Auburn hair, pushed untidily under a scarf, the way hair hadn't been untidily pushed under a scarf since the fifties. She nodded and withdrew the microphone.

  'They're protesting . . .'

  'They being ... ?'

  'The local gay community. I don't believe there's any specific gay organization involved, it's a spontaneous protest against Bobby McMaster's presence here in Princetown ...'

  'But they're not, like, gay followers of Muhammad...'

  'No. Of course not. They're just upset at the comments made by Mr McMaster...'

  'About black people?'

  'You know what I mean...'

  'I don't. Honestly.'

  'About the gay community...'

  'But he hasn't said anything.'

  'I'm afraid he has. We picked up the story from NBC in New York. They picked it up from ... who was it ... ?' She pulled a notebook out of a pocket, and flicked back a couple of pages. 'Yeah. The Daily Mirror in London. He, uh, described Princetown as ... let me see ... Pooftown by the sea ... I never seen so many poofs in one place ... it makes me sick ... not a man amongst them ... they should all be taken out and shot ... or have their dicks cut off.'

  'And that upset them? Bit sensitive, aren't they?'

  'Can I quote you on that?'

  I'd forgotten she was American. I shook my head. 'I'm sorry. I didn't mean it like that. I can tell you for a fact that Bobby McMaster did not say anything like that, nor would he. Neither has he spoken to a reporter from the Daily Mirror.'

  'But the Daily Mirror despatch, according to NBC, was from Princetown. Said he was the first reporter to catch up with the McMaster camp.'

  'Yes. There was a Daily Mirror reporter here. But he didn't speak to Bobby. You have my word on that. I don't know who he spoke to, but it wasn't Bobby McMaster. For the record.. .' She raised her mike with the polished speed of an ageing gunman. 'Bobby McMaster has made no comments about Princetown to any member of the press. He has been made perfectly welcome here in the run-up to his world title fight, and has received support from both the gay and straight people of the town, and hopes that he will continue to receive that support. He acknowledges the Daily Mirror in London has a right to go after a story, but believes that it has been badly misled by someone outside the McMaster camp. Bobby will be happy to meet with representatives of the local gay community so that he can get this sorted out and he can concentrate fully on the fight. It's only a couple of days away, y'know?'