'Dan,' Alice said through the door.
'What?'
'Can you come out here for a moment?'
'I haven't had my shower yet.'
'Could you please come out?'
And then I realised I would have to sign for the drinks, so I pulled the towel up again and tied it. I looked up just in time to see my wedding ring disappear down the plughole.
'Fuck!' I yelled. I made a dive for the sink. I jammed my fingers down the hole. It had one of those three-pronged bases which ordinarily should have been enough to have stopped anything like jewellery getting past, but evidently my wedding ring was thin enough and cheap enough to have failed quality control. It was gone. 'Fuck!' I yelled again.
'Dan!'
'I'll be there in a fucking minute!' I yelled. 'Fuck. Shit. Fuck.' I felt the pipes below, trying to work out if it could possibly have got stuck further down, but there was no easy way of checking. It would need a plumber or, failing that, a deep-sea diver.
I was still cursing when I opened the bathroom door. Alice was standing there, looking a little pale, a little perplexed.
Beside her, looking very pale, very perplexed, and very angry, stood Patricia.
13
I have noted before that Patricia is not one of those women who look more attractive when consumed by anger. Her eyes widen and turn bloodshot. Her eyebrows knit, usually a funeral veil. Her nose pales, accentuating whatever blackheads she has sought to hide with rouge so that they seem to quiver like poisoned porcupine spines, ready to shoot off angrily in my direction, not as a defence mechanism, but as an attack mechanism.
'Hi,' I said weakly, 'this is a surprise.'
'I'll bet it fucking is.'
I opened my mouth, but nothing further would come out. This rarely happens, and it only made her madder. The fact that I was totally and completely in the right did not seem to matter; I do not react well to being in the right. I go red and I lose the power of speech. I have a built-in guilt complex. I look guilty. If there is a police line-up, I will be picked. If there is a roadblock, I will be stopped. If there is an international war crimes tribunal, I will go to the electric chair.
'This isn't what it looks,' Alice said.
Patricia looked at her with disdain. 'What are you, girlfriend or hooker?'
'I'm Sean O'Toole's wife.'
'And I am Dan Starkey's wife. So why are you slumming it with wank features?'
'That's not . . .' I started, but she cut in with: 'Shut the fuck up.'
'Somebody tried to kill us,' Alice said.
'I swear to God,' I added. 'Look – look at our clothes.'
'You're not wearing any clothes, that's the fucking problem.'
'Patricia, I can explain.'
It was time to take the moral high ground. The problem with high ground, of course, is that it leaves you open to sniper fire. And Patricia was a professional. We raged at each other for twenty minutes, Alice contributing the odd barbed rejoinder, until finally we achieved some sort of understanding.
Alice and I had been in the back of a car, and nearly drowned. There was nothing going on. Patricia had come down to surprise me because I sounded forlorn, but had been surprised herself. She had been waiting for me in the bar, presuming that I would stop there on the way to my room. Little Stevie was with her parents. She had work in the morning. She had driven down on a wild crazy whim and found me half naked with a beautiful woman, although it wouldn't have made the slightest difference if Alice had been a pig in a wig.
Patricia sat on the bed, legs crossed, chin on palm, elbow on knee, smoking. I gave her a shot of my vodka and three of my ice cubes. She looked from me to Alice to me and said: 'It's happened before.'
'We've both been bad. But this time I've been good.'
'Swear to God?'
'Swear to Strummer. Trish, you know me. I wouldn't.'
'Not so much as a kiss?'
'Not so much as a kiss. Alice, tell her.'
Without blinking, Alice said softly: 'I'm just married, Patricia. I know it looks . . .' Then her voice hardened. 'Somebody's trying to kill me, for godsake.'
I had told Patricia back home about somebody being after Sean O'Toole, which was a good start. We presented our balled-up clothes as evidence. Patricia examined them with the rigour of a forensic pathologist. Even to her suspicious mind, destroying our clothes seemed a little far to go to hide a clandestine affair. I put my arm round her and said: 'I'm really pleased to see you.'
She softened a little. She took my hand. She looked into my eyes. And then her expression hardened again and she said: 'Where's your wedding ring?'
I rolled my eyes. 'Trish, please . . .'
'Please nothing, where the fuck is your wedding ring?'
I pulled my hand away. I closed my eyes. 'You're not going to believe me.'
'Try me.'
When I opened my eyes she was looking daggers at Alice. Alice was drinking one of the beers and staring out of the window, pretending that she wasn't listening.
'What's the point?'
'The point is I nearly believed you. You would never take that ring off, not unless you were screwing around. I know you, Dan. You get weighed down by guilt. You take the ring off, you're as free as a rabbit. You've been screwing that bitch.'
'He never fucking touched me!' Alice spat from the window.
'Shut your bake, you fucking bitch!' Patricia screamed.
'You fucking make me!'
Alice turned from the window and squared up with the bottle. 'If I wanted to fucking screw him I could, just like that!' She clicked her fingers. 'But as it happens, it's your lucky day, because I wouldn't fucking touch him if he was the last man on earth! Okay? I'm married to Sean O'Toole, I don't need to fuck around with the hired help, okay?!'
Thanks, I said, mentally.
Patricia spun on me. 'Yeah, sure. Well, where's your fucking wedding ring, then? Those guys that tried to kill you, insist on you taking it off, did they?'
'No,' I said. I sighed. 'If you must know . . .'
'Yes, I must know. Sadly. Because I care. Unlike you, you two-faced . . .'
'Listen! I took it off in the bathroom, my nails were thick with that fucking scum from the river. I ran the tap. You came to the door. The water overflowed. I pulled the plug. By the time I got back to it the ring had washed down the plughole. I swear to God.' She was looking at me. Alice was looking at me. 'I swear to God!'
Perhaps they would laugh at it in retrospect.
'That really is the weakest yet,' Patricia said.
'I swear on the Bible.'
'You don't believe in the Bible.'
'I swear on my mother's life.'
'She's dead.'
'I'm telling the fucking truth. I think it's stuck in the pipe. I swear, Trish.'
She gave the slightest shake of her head. 'Okay,' she said. 'Call maintenance. Get a plumber up here. Let's check it out.'
'It's nearly two o'clock, Trish.'
'Don't I know it. Call. Or I'm walking out of here and you won't see me again.'
'Jesus.' I walked across to the phone. I rolled my eyes at Alice. She didn't respond, couldn't really, with Patricia glaring at her. I lifted the phone. I asked for a maintenance man. I explained my predicament. It sounded like the same unflappable girl. She giggled.
'I'm sorry, Mr Starkey . . .'
'Please . . .'
She hesitated, then said, 'I'll have a word with the night manager. I'll see what I can do.'
'Thanks, you're a life saver.'
I put the phone down. 'They're sending someone up,' I said. There was no way of knowing if the ring really was in the pipe. Even if it was, it didn't prove anything. Alice slumped down into a chair beside the TV. Patricia sat on the bed, her back against the headboard. I took another bottle of Harp and paced.
Alice, with the gentle touch of a bomb disposal expert, looked at Patricia and said: 'I'm sorry. It must look . . .' She trailed off.
Patricia looked at me and
said: 'I thought you'd be happy to see me.'
'I am happy.'
'Then why bring her back here?'
'Because it was closest,' Alice said. 'And safest.'
'I thought I was being romantic' Patricia said.
'You were being romantic' I said.
'A two-and-a-half-hour drive, and then you weren't even in.'
'It was a nice thought. I'm sorry. I didn't plan on somebody trying to kill me.'
She looked at Alice. She was showing more leg than was decent. She quickly flicked the towelling robe back across. Patricia sighed and looked at me. 'I should have stayed in bed. What you don't know doesn't hurt you.'
'There's nothing to know! For Christ . . .'
There was a slight tap on the bedroom door. I turned, but Patricia snapped: 'Stay where you are!'
I froze.
'I don't want you tipping him off. I don't want you slipping him a tenner. I want the truth. Sit down. Shut up.' Alice started to get up out of her seat. 'You too . . . !'
'Don't you talk to . . .' Alice began.
'Please,' I said, making calming gestures with my hands, 'just sit down.'
She hesitated, then sat back. 'This is one stupid fucking night,' Alice said. I nodded. Patricia walked up the short corridor to the door and opened it.
I turned to the drinks tray and poured a vodka. I asked Alice if she wanted one. She shook her head. She sat back and closed her eyes.
I took a long sip, then looked up towards the bathroom. Patricia had led the guy straight in and was talking to him in clipped schoolmistressy tones. She was saying, 'Where are your tools?'
'I don't have any tools.'
'What sort of a plumber are you?'
'I'm not a plumber.'
'Well, how are you going to get the ring out?'
'What ring?'
'His wedding ring. It's stuck down the drain, allegedly.'
'Oh. Right. I see. Do you have a magnet?'
'What?'
'If you had a magnet you could . . .'
'Who the hell carries a magnet about with them?'
'I was only trying to help.'
'What sort of a fucking plumber are you?'
'I told you, I'm not a plumber.'
I walked up the hall. Alice joined me, grinning. We stopped in the bathroom doorway. Patricia's face was red and she looked like she was about to slap him.
'Patricia . . .' I said.
'Keep out of it,' she snapped.
'This is Sean O'Toole.'
'Oh,' she said. Her legs seemed to go a little shaky. One hand gripped the sink. Her voice rose an octave. 'I've seen all your films,' she said.
14
We were driving home. I had a sorehead hangover and the munchies. We couldn't wait for breakfast in the hotel. She had to get to work. A two-hour drive to Belfast. Sean had closed the set down for a couple of days. He was rethinking security. He was going to have to reach into his own pocket to cover the shutdown. It would cost tens of thousands. He said what did money matter as long as his wife was safe.
We weren't speaking, Patricia and I.
Because we had made love. It had been some of the most frenetic and enjoyable lovemaking of our entire married life, and that worried me. It wasn't that old standby, the best part of breaking up is when you're making up. It wasn't the fact that she had me back after my near-death experience. It came to me when we were lying there, no longer breathless but caked in sweat and starting to feel a little cold but still too sticky to pull up the sheets, when we should have been cuddling for warmth. I said, 'You were thinking about him, weren't you?'
'What?'
'When we were making love you were thinking about Sean O'Toole.'
'Don't be ridiculous.'
'You shouted his name out.'
'I did not!'
'No, you didn't. But you might as well have.'
'Dan, don't be silly. I was making love to you.'
'Your body was. Your mind was elsewhere.'
'Uhuh. And you're inside my mind.'
'Yes, I am. It was different, it was new. You were thinking about Sean O'Toole.'
'Dan, you are the most insecure, paranoid man I have ever met. We make fantastic love. I should give you a medal. Bronze, at least. And all you can do after it is lie back and fret. I love you. I made love to you.' She turned to me and kissed my chest. She moved her head up and kissed me on the lips. She was a beautiful woman, especially in the dark.
'You went all wobbly when you met him.'
'He's a film star. I love his films. He has charisma.'
'You tried to get him to unblock the drain. He can't have that much fucking charisma.'
'I didn't look at him, I was that angry.'
'You recovered quickly enough. It's a pity he wasn't a plumber, he could have done something about all that drooling you were doing.'
'I wasn't drooling . . .'
'Yes, you were. It was embarrassing. Alice didn't know where to look.'
'Alice. Yes. Now there's another strand. If I was thinking about Sean, then you must have been thinking about her.'
'You mean you were?'
'No, I mean she is a stunningly beautiful woman. I am a dog who has been beaten with a mallet compared to her. She didn't stray across your thoughts while you were making love to me?'
'Don't be ridiculous.'
'Why's it ridiculous for you and not for me?'
'Because I wasn't drooling.'
'Yes, you were; every time you looked at her your eyes went all soft and charmy.'
'Your head's cut. I was pissed.'
'All the more reason.'
'At least my nipples weren't erect.'
'What!?'
'When he gave you that hug on the way out, you turned away and your nipples were erect.'
'You were watching my nipples?'
'I couldn't miss them. They were up like thimbles.'
'I was cold.'
'Aye.'
We lay in the dark. We could hear traffic distantly, the hum of the elevator and somewhere, not next door, but maybe a few rooms along, the sound of a couple larking about in a bath. Patricia stroked my chest.
'Anyway,' she said, 'is it wrong?'
'What are we talking about, fantasies or thimbles?'
'Fantasies. Where exactly is the problem if Sean O'Toole enters my thoughts when we're making love. Are you trying to say you don't fantasise?'
'Yes. No. I mean, the problem is, Sean O'Toole isn't a fantasy. He was in this room an hour ago. That isn't a fantasy, that's being unfaithful.'
'What?'
'Everyone is entitled to their fantasies. Sure, occasionally I might have one. I'm sure half the world fantasises about getting a movie star into bed. But that's precisely what it is, a fantasy. But Sean O'Toole isn't a fantasy. He was in our room. He hugged you. Thimbles. You weren't fantasising about something unobtainable, you were fantasising about something that has suddenly become possible. If unlikely.'
'Did I ever tell you that you were crackers?'
'Often.'
'Dan?'
'What?'
'I'm going to sleep now.'
'That's right. Run away from our problems.'
'What problems!'
'If you don't know I'm not going to tell you.'
'Oh, for Jesus sake!' She reached down and roughly pulled up the sheets. She turned her back to me. She huffed and puffed.
I lay with my hands clasped behind my head. I waited until her breath calmed down, began to steady out into that mellow marshmallow land that precedes sleep, then said: 'I bet he's crap in bed anyway.'
'For fuck sake!'
'To busy looking at himself in the mirror to . . .'
'Dan, will you shut up!'
'It's probably a wig. They all wear wigs. Charlton Heston.'
'Dan, I'm trying to get to fucking sleep!'
'Sean Connery.'
'Dan!' She sat up in bed. She gripped her head and shook it. 'Sometimes you drive me so fucki
ng crazy!'
'Sorry,' I said.
'Just go . . . to . . . sleep . . .'
She slumped back down on the bed. I leant across and kissed her. After a moment's hesitation she responded. I lay back and said, 'Good night.'
'Good night.'
'Sleep tight.'
'Right.'
'Don't let the bedbugs bite.'
'Dan!'
'Sorry.'
I turned away from her. I closed my eyes. I thought about Alice.
We arrived in Belfast just after rush hour. I dropped Patricia off at the tax office. She was on one of those ridiculous civil servicey things called flexitime and could pretty much start when she wanted. We hadn't talked for the best part of a hundred miles. She was getting out of the car, then leant back in and said: 'Sorry.'
'What for?'
'I have no idea.'
I nodded. We kissed. She left. I drove round to her mum's house to pick Little Stevie up. Her mother looked pleased to be rid of him. He could be a handful. He was advanced for his years and already adept at sarcasm. I asked him what he wanted for breakfast and he said: 'Sweets.'
I asked him if he liked his granny, he said no. 'She puts me in my cot.'
'Were you naughty?'
'No,' Like butter wouldn't melt in his mouth.
We drove in silence. I was going to take him to McDonald's for breakfast. Halfway there he said: 'Dad?'
'Mmmm?'
'Where's Tony?'
'What?'
'Mummy's friend.'
My heart began to speed up. I looked at him in the mirror. I said, 'I don't know.'
He nodded. 'I like him.'
'Good. When did you last see him, son?'
'Don't know.'
'Think.'
'Last night. He brings me presents. Did you bring me a present?'
'No, son, I didn't.'
'You're not my friend any more.'
I tried to concentrate on the traffic. Tony. The bastard with the ginger hair.
'Daddy, are we going to McDonald's?'
'No,' I said.
15
Little Stevie was in a playgroup called Toddlers Are Us, the only one we could get him into. He had an affinity for Lego. They took him three afternoons a week and thought the sun shone out of his bottom, and they saw his bottom more than most. If you're such a friggin' great wee fella and really advanced, I'd say to him when roused, how come you're still in nappies? At which point he'd cry and enquire about fostering. Kids get you that way. You can have a perfectly grown-up conversation with them for five minutes, then they poke you in the eye.
Shooting Sean Page 7
