Of wee sweetie mice and men

by Colin Bateman

  Then close in to Mary McMaster rising unsteadily from her table at the back of the bar and shuffling forward.

  To Bobby McMaster, suddenly looking up from tending Stanley Matchitt, seeing his wife, seeing the pale apparition that was his wife moving unsteadily through the confusion. He rose quickly, but then stood mesmerized. Her eyes, unfocused still, were nevertheless drawn hypnotically to him. He stepped over Matchitt, stepped over McLiam, and she fell into his arms. He let out a little moan and tears jumbled down his face.

  I flicked to Marcus McLiam, flat on his back, eyes open, blinking, his shirt blood red, a paramedic talking to him, reassuring him. McLiam's eyes swivelled back until all I could see were the whites and I feared for a moment that he had died, but all he was doing was looking at his sister in a safe embrace with her husband.

  To Stanley Matchitt, head cradled in Sissy's lap, blood burbling from his swollen lips, a priest bending over him, giving him the last rites, the Catholic death passage that was anathema to him but which he was incapable now of resisting.

  To Sissy, her large fingers easing through his, about to lose another man.

  Untended, flat on his back, eyes wide and lifeless, the assassin from New Jersey.

  Geordie McClean sat at the end of the bar, eight empty seats up from me, shaking his head.

  And I looked at myself, alone in the eye of the hurricane, unharmed but not untouched, unloved but not unloving. I found myself shaking my head in time with McClean. Maybe he was thinking the same thing. This wasn't real. None of it was. Not the Sons of Muhammad. Not the Brothers of Muhammad. Not Irish freedom fighters. Not the deaths, none of the deaths were real. Not this carnage. Certainly not the whales. It was all television. All fiction. Meant to be enjoyed by someone else. Real life was about being married and having children and going shopping and betting on the Grand National and carving the Christmas turkey and losing your keys down the back of the chair; it was about trousers that no longer fitted and toilets that wouldn't flush and songs by embarrassing relatives who thought they were Johnny Cash. We were living an elaborate fantasy and we would wake to a bowl of Frosties and a glowing electricity bill. We'd go, 'Jesus, that was a bit lifelike,' and give our wives a hug. Except I didn't have a wife, and Stanley Matchitt, King of the High Seas, had just died in front of me.

  I got my old room back at the Mirage. It wasn't exactly like going home, but I was content with it. I bought a lot of beer and watched a lot of television. Bobby McMaster figured heavily. Duvet coverage.

  It was quite a story. Kidnap. Murder. Scary black men. Drugs. Rescues. Whales. Noraid raided by the FBI, but still fighting the good fight. Geordie McClean was trying to sell the film rights almost before they'd taken Stanley Matchitt to the mortuary. But to sell the film rights there had to be an end to the story, and the end wasn't the reunion of Bobby McMaster and his beautiful wife, it was the union of Bobby McMaster and Mike Tyson in the ring.

  There was some talk about cancelling the fight. Out of respect for the dead. But as with all sporting tragedies, the potential for money making proved too great; they wouldn't cancel it, they would postpone it for five days to give everyone time to recover, and then stage it as a tribute to the heroism of those who had died and those who had been injured. Sport would be the winner. And if everyone made a little extra money then, well, hell, there you go.

  McMaster hosted a press conference the day after Matchitt died. He stood with his arm round Mary, her face beaming, his face beaming too. He called for peace and reconciliation in Ireland. An end to terrorism. The restoration of democracy. From being the racist, gay-bashing, terror fan, he was now the hero, the lone voice of sanity in a world gone mad. I didn't begrudge him it, I was happy that everything was working out. I just didn't feel a part of it. I sat in my room and I drank my beers and I watched the television.

  He looked straight out of the screen at me, but he spoke to Ireland. 'Try to see it my way,' he said, voice earnest but warm. 'Do I have to keep on talking till I can't go on? We can work it out, y'know. Life's kinda short and there's no time, like, for fussing and fighting, friends.'

  I threw a can at the screen. 'You're turning into an old hippy, Bobby,' I shouted.

  'Were you ill treated by your captors?' a reporter asked Mary. She squeezed her husband. 'I can't remember. They kept me drugged. I'm just glad it's all over.'

  'Has this put you off New York?' called another.

  'It's put me off being kidnapped,' said Mary. Everyone laughed. I thought back to Paula, the stripper. She'd said something similar. Does this put you off men? Only the type that would come to a place like this. Was she at work at this very moment, fulfilling a fantasy for a fistful of dollars? I should go and see her. Say goodbye to her. Because it was time to go. Time to go home and pick up the pieces. Forget about the book. Think about putting my life in order. Quitting the booze once I'd said farewell to the temptations of New York. Enjoy the bright nights of the summer sober for a change. Win back Patricia.

  'What about Mike Tyson, Bobby, has he spoken to you about all of this?'

  McMaster shook his head. 'Not directly, no, but he sent me a nice note.'

  'What'd it say?'

  'I'm not sure. The crayon was all over the place.'

  And I blinked, and I blinked again, and I could hear five hundred people in the press conference blinking, and everyone at home blinking and I could hear the cash registers jangling again as Bobby McMaster told the world once more that he was only joking and that he had the highest regard for Mike and he was looking forward to fighting for the heavyweight championship of the world.

  42

  The TV threw its dancing shadows across the room. I watched the boxers, I sipped. The phone rang. Cameron calling me from home.

  Three hundred years before, he had asked me to write a book about a fighter.

  'How's it goin'?' he asked cheerfully, like he didn't know about all the people who'd died.

  'As well as can be expected.'

  'Sorry I haven't been in touch, but I'm sure you've been busy.

  You realize the demand for this is now going to be phenomenal, Dan?'

  'I'm sure it will be.'

  'Just a matter of writing it now, eh?'

  'Yeah.'

  'The quicker you deliver, the better. There'll be a bonus if it's within the month.'

  'Great.'

  'You'll be ringside later?'

  'Not quite.'

  'They promised ringside.'

  'Yeah, well.'

  'I'll phone Geordie McClean. Remind him.'

  'It doesn't matter. Don't worry about it. I'm closer than ringside.'

  'Good. Great then. How's Bobby looking?'

  'He's looking good.'

  'Sparring well?'

  'Yeah. I suppose so.'

  'You reckon he'll sneak it?'

  'No.'

  'Are you okay, son? You sound a bit tired.'

  'I am a bit tired.'

  'You've had some excitement then?'

  'Some.'

  His voice slowed, dropped a pitch. 'Trauma, Dan?'

  'Yeah. Trauma. You could say that.'

  'They say the best thing is just to get back on the bike, Dan.'

  'I've no stabilizers.'

  'You don't need them, Dan. You're a hardy perennial, son, you've come through worse.'

  'You think?'

  'I know.'

  Forty-five minutes before the fight, Bobby McMaster called. 'Where the hell are you, mate?' he growled. Distantly I could hear the songs of drunken Irishmen.

  'How the hell did you track me down here?'

  'Dan, it really didn't take Sherlock Holmes. How come you haven't been around?'

  'I've been busy.'

  'Doing what?'

  'This and that.'

  'You were supposed to be doing press for me. Public relations.'

  'My contract ran out on the seventeenth. The St Patrick's Day Massacre.'

  He was quiet for a moment. They were on to 'Danny
Boy'. 'Hit you hard, did it?' he said softly.

  'Didn't hit me at all. That's what worries me.'

  'Affects us all in different ways, Dan. You should have come around.'

  'Like I say, I was busy.'

  'I needed your confidence-building wisecracks.'

  'Sure.'

  'C'mon, Dan, lighten up.'

  'Shouldn't you be psyching yourself up or something, Bobby?

  You're getting in the ring with Tyson in a wee while. You shouldn't be wasting your time talking to me.'

  'Ach, sure, it's only a fight.'

  'Aye.'

  'It is, Dan. The real fight's over. I got my wife back, and I didn't have to lift a finger. You did the real fighting. You and Stanley and Sissy and her husband and Marcus.'

  'And a whale.'

  'Yes, and a whale.'

  'We'd probably all be dead, but for the whale.'

  'But we're not. We're alive. We've got the rest of our lives.'

  He sniggered. 'Well, you have. I'm about to get duffed up by Tyson.'

  'Good crack about the crayon.'

  'Yeah, thought that would go down well. I didn't want anyone to think I was getting soft.'

  'And "We can work it out."'

  'Yeah. Lennon can't sue. I doubt if McCartney can be bothered.'

  'Are you really not that fussed about the fight?'

  'I'll go in and give it my best. What more can I do?'

  'It seems stupid to have gone through all of this shit, only for you to get killed in the ring.'

  'That's the old Starkey confidence booster I was missing.'

  'Yeah. Well.'

  'Will you not come down?'

  'A bit late now.'

  'Starkey, it's only down the road. You know it's only down the road. Now get your arse down here. Jesus, Dan, I've got Jackie Campbell nodding off on one side of me and Geordie McClean tearing his hair out on the other. Even Sissy's moping about, one hand out for her reward, the other drying her eyes. I need someone with both feet on the ground.'

  'I'm half pissed.'

  'So am I’

  'You serious?'

  'Come and find out.'

  'Liar.'

  'Come on down.'

  'If I'm not there, Bobby, I'll be watching. And the best of luck. Give a good show.'

  'I'll see you in a minute, Starkey.'

  I had a shower and a shave. The supporting bouts were coming to a conclusion. Between rounds the cameras cut to the dressing rooms. Tyson's exuded quiet confidence tinged with menace, McMaster's fidgety nervousness. McClean in a monkey suit. Jackie Campbell, in a faded blue sweatshirt and mangy-looking bobble cap, silently taped McMaster's hands. I put on a shirt. Buttoned the top button. Toothpaste. Mouthwash. I sat on the bed and stared at the screen. Ten minutes to go. I closed my eyes.

  ... Jesus Christ! McMaster staggered back ... fifteen seconds left of the third ... weaved from left to right ... bounced back from the rope ... Tyson was there ... ducking down ... bringing up the right ... Jesus Christi ... the sickening crack ... the tearing of flesh and bone ... McMaster's head snapped clean off at the neck ... it bounced twice across the ring ... screams erupted ... his torso remained erect, pumping blood ... fists swinging out at a stunned Tyson ... his head came to a rest ... his eyes stared ... tongue hanging out ... mouth open ... screaming silently ... Jesus Christ!

  I shuddered, opened my eyes. Someone was knocking at the door. The national anthems were just finishing. McMaster had chosen 'God Save the Queen'. As much for Matchitt, I thought, as for himself.

  I stepped backwards, my eyes still stuck to the screen. I opened the door.

  'Mmmmmm?'

  'Hello, Dan.'

  I stared for a second. Then I reached across and touched her arm. Made sure that she was real. 'Patricia,' I said.

  'Surprised to see me?'

  'Surprised. Pleased. Jesus Christ. Come in.'

  I guided her in.

  She nodded at the screen. 'I thought you'd be at the fight.'

  I shook my head. I pushed some old clothes off the bed and sat her down. 'I couldn't,' I said.

  She nodded, slightly, smiled. Jesus, that smile. I hadn't forgotten it. But dreams and life are so different. I nearly reached up and touched it.

  'But. ..' I started. I looked at the screen. The first bell.

  'I got your letter.'

  'But. ..' I looked at her face. Blooming ... but with love or baby or both?

  'I know, love, it was stolen. The man that stole it from you read it. He wrote me a note. Said it reduced him to tears. Said it changed his whole outlook on life. Said he only had fifty cents and a pair of shoes to his name, but he was going to spend what he had making sure the letter got to me. Said he was going to forsake a life of crime and join a Christian commune.'

  'Jesus Christ,' I said.

  A roar went up from the crowd. McMaster had staggered Tyson. He took two unsteady steps back, then lumbered forward, attacking again.

  Patricia looked back from the screen. 'And I read it too, and it moved me to tears.'

  I gave a little shrug, and a boy's smile. 'Maybe it was meant to,' I said.

  'You were always a brilliant writer.'

  'But not a brilliant person.'

  'Dan, we're all different. None of us is perfect.'

  'Are perfect.'

  We smiled. A great smile.

  The bell for round two. McMaster was slow off his stool. Tyson was three-quarters of the way across the ring. The referee held him back until Jackie Campbell was out under the ropes. And the war began again.

  'So you came to see me.'

  'I thought you'd have been back before this. That's why I didn't come immediately.'

  'I got delayed.'

  'I know. I didn't know whether to come.'

  'I'm glad you did. At least I think I'm glad you did. Are you the bearer of tidings of great joy, or am I about to get kicked in the balls?'

  Patricia put a hand on my knee. 'I wouldn't travel three thousand miles for that, Dan,' she said. 'I've been stupid.'

  'We've both been stupid.'

  'I've stopped seeing Tony.'

  'He wouldn't leave his wife.'

  'No. He would have left his wife. I decided to stop seeing him. I didn't love him.'

  'And what about the baby?'

  She patted her stomach. 'He's there. She's there. Waiting.'

  'I'm glad you're keeping her. Him.'

  'I'm glad you're glad.'

  The bell for round three. The Irish contingent sang their heads off. The noise was phenomenal. Tyson and McMaster met in the centre of the ring, arms flailing. A left hook from the champion just caught McMaster as he slipped sideways and knocked him well off balance. He staggered across the ring, Tyson followed him quickly, another two, three blows. McMaster bounced off the ropes, threw a left of his own, Tyson ducked, threw in another left, then a right, McMaster ducked down, then pushed Tyson back, threw out a straight right, connected. The Irish roared.

  I put my arm round her and we kissed. A soft kiss. A first kiss. I pushed the hair out of her eyes. She held my chin in her hand. Kissed the end of my nose.

  'I've been so stupid,' she said.

  'You believe anything in that letter?' I asked.

  She shook her head. 'Of course not.'

  Round four. Tyson had him in the corner. Lefts and rights to the body, one to the head, lefts and rights to the body, one to the head. McMaster's head sagged ... the referee took a close look over Tyson's shoulder ... McMaster shot a left hook up through Tyson's fists that rocked the champion's head back ... he followed up with a left to the ribs ... roar of the crowd ... Tyson bunched down ... McMaster encouraged ... stepped forward ... dropped his defence ... let go with a head cleaver ... Tyson moved sideways ... fired over a left,. . . connected perfectly ... and McMaster went down.

  'Jesus!' I said.

  'Is it over?' said Patricia, gripping my arm.

  'I don't. . .'

  The referee was standing ov
er him, counting off on his rubbergloved fingers ... then he raised his arms and crossed them quickly and Tyson threw up his arms in triumph and the ring was invaded.

  I lay back on the bed. My shirt was sticking to me. I let out a sigh.

  'I'm sorry,' said Patricia.

  'Not your fault.'

  'Did he do well?'

  'He did well.'

  I pushed myself up on my elbow. They had McMaster on his feet. Mary was in there with him. She had her arms round him. He was crying over her shoulder.

  'Very well,' I said.

  She lay down on the bed beside me and we watched the screen for a while. Tyson and McMaster embraced in the centre of the ring. Then Tyson went to the ropes and waved at the crowd and a cheer went up. Then McMaster joined him and the cheer became a roar and there was a lump in my throat and I didn't know whether it was for Bobby McMaster or for Patricia. In fact, I did know. It was for both of them.

  'You know,' she said, 'we were always chalk and cheese.'

  I stroked her hair. 'Weren't we just.'

  'I never liked boxing.'

  'You liked tennis.'

  'I liked tennis and swimming and golf.'

  'Yeah, golf. I could never understand why you liked golf. So slow.'

  'Relaxing. So relaxing. That's why I liked classical music.'

  'I liked some of it. Mozart. Beethoven. Couldn't stand Dvorzhak.'

  'I liked beans on toast.'

  'I liked beans with toast. I liked the mopping up operation.'

  'I hated that. And I hated the way you burnt the steaks.'

  'They were well done. Yours were still alive.'

  'They were rare, as they should be.'

  'You insisted on tea with everything.'

  'You drank Coke till your stomach rusted.'

  'Coke adds life.'

  I shook my head slowly. She turned slightly and looked up at me.

  'Why did we ever get together?' I asked.

  'Because I fell absolutely and completely in love with you. And

  I still absolutely and completely love you.' And that set me off.