Him being in playgroup left me free. Free to worry.
I do that. I know. I have to get to grips with it.
Of course Tony had visited last night. He had every right to. He was Daddy. He had visited before, when I was there, and you could cut the atmosphere with a blunt knife. Of course it made sense to visit when I wasn't there. A little visit. Bring a present for your son. Buying Little Stevie's love. What had he bought him? Whatever it was, my first instinct was to go home and smash it. Or just leave it switched on so that the batteries would run down – it was bound to have batteries. Batteries represented a two-pronged attack on my marriage. One: presents with batteries tend to cost more, they're brighter and flashier than the lump of coal he gets from me, and so he worms his way into Little Stevie's affections. Two: batteries die. Thus, to keep my son happy, I have to go out and buy more batteries, thereby creating a financial drain on my resources at a time when money is not plentiful, leading to rows with my wife, the breakdown of a beautiful relationship and bitter arguments in the divorce court.
I'm convinced he was thinking of all this as he bought Marty the Flashing Robot.
I drove. It was a way of not drinking. There were roadworks on Botanic Avenue, so I turned into the Holy Land and all these memories of Trish and me in our courting days came back. I paused outside our old house. It had seen a party or two in its time and was still standing. Bitten by the nostalgia bug, I drove across town to my old school, and then on a whim sought out the twenty-foot, barbed-wire-topped wall they called the peace line, where we'd gathered as kids to throw petrol bombs at the Fenians on the other side. But it was gone. It had not long been removed. The foundations were still in place in case it had to be hurriedly restored. I parked the car and walked across it. Into no Protestant man's land. I kept walking. After about ten minutes I came to St Bernard's Secondary School. There were hundreds of kids in the playground. I found the secretary's office and knocked on the door. The door remained closed but a smoked-glass panel in the wall beside it slid back and a middle-aged woman with short grey hair smiled out.
'Can I help you?' she said.
I told her who I was and what I was doing and her smile remained in place, but her eyes seemed to harden a little. She said I'd need to talk to the headmaster. She pulled the glass panel back across. A couple of minutes later I was shown into a small, cluttered office. The headmaster was called Malachy Corrigan. He had jet-black hair and an eager smile. He didn't look more than about forty-three, but as we exchanged pleasantries I picked out a framed certificate on the wall which showed he'd passed teacher training back in the early sixties, which would put him in his sixties.
'Sean O'Toole, you say?' His voice was soft and lilty and his eyes sharp and I could see how girls might once have fallen at his feet, which would have been a bit dangerous in his line. 'Yes, of course he was a student here. Now hasn't the big fella done well for himself?'
I asked about old photographs of him, school reports, what the young Sean was like. Corrigan said Sean had been a good student, no trouble, hadn't really stood out until he discovered acting, and then he'd just blossomed. He promised to have a root round, see what paperwork he could find. Then he fell silent for several moments. He clasped his hands before him, almost in prayer, then gave a little nod and asked, 'What sort of a book is it that you're writing?'
'A biography.'
'With his approval?'
'He's cooperating with it, yes.'
'So it won't be . . . how should I put this . . . ahm, warts and all?'
'It will be an honest account. If there are warts, I'd like to see them. Hear them, that is.'
'I hesitate to . . .' The prayer-struck hands collapsed a little, from the church steeple to the bunched double fist. 'May we . . . ahm . . . speak off the record?'
'Reluctantly.'
He smiled. 'What's that old John Ford saying, when you have the truth and you have the legend, what do you do?'
'You print the legend. I can't say I subscribe to that particular school of journalism.'
'No, I suppose it belongs to another era. Nevertheless, I would like to keep this off the record. Is that okay?'
I nodded. It was a lying nod. I didn't have to attribute whatever was coming to him, and, besides, if it was juicy enough I was certain I could get somebody else to talk about it.
'You know,' Corrigan said, 'Sean O'Toole isn't the most popular around here.'
'Yeah, I know, some of his films leave a little to be desired.'
'No, I don't mean that.'
'You mean, because of his current project?'
'No. What would that be now? More sex and gratuitous violence, I'll warrant. Or is it the other way round?'
'Nah, it's just a gangster movie. So what's the problem?'
'I don't wish to speak ill of any man . . . particularly one who has made such a success of himself, and we're very proud to have educated him here at . . . Well, anyway . . . we had a, ahm, misunderstanding with him, ahm, last year.'
He paused, unsure whether to continue.
'What sort of a . . .?' I prompted.
He sighed. 'The thing is, Mr Starkey, we've been trying to raise some money for a new computer suite. We've been down all the usual routes, you know, had the bring-and-buy sales, sponsored coffee mornings, a few bank robberies . . . that's a joke . . .' I smiled politely. 'We contacted as many old boys as we could, looking for support, and of course Sean is the most high profile of them all, although we do have several writers and an MP amongst them . . . Ahm, what we had in mind was a gala concert. So we wrote to Sean and he agreed to come along and present prizes at the end of it. He couldn't have been more helpful. We sold hundreds of tickets on the strength of his appearance.'
'But he didn't turn up.'
'Oh God, no – excuse me, I wasn't taking Him in vain, it was just a little prayer – Sean turned up okay. He came in a white stretch limousine. It was quite a sight. He signed hundreds of autographs, had time for everybody. He gave a lovely speech, had the place in stitches. Then he gave us a grand big cheque. We could have given the tickets away for nothing! He paid for the whole blessed computer suite. After the show he was cheered from bar to bar, and I was with him every step of the way.' He chuckled softly. 'A fantastic, fantastic evening it was.'
'So?'
'Well, y'see, the problem was, the cheque bounced.'
'Bounced?'
'Like a rubber ball. We thought perhaps that there had been a mistake, you know, these stars probably have dozens of accounts, probably don't know where their money is half the time. So we tried to contact Sean, but we couldn't get hold of him, we tried and we tried and we got blocked everywhere we turned. His agent, his manager, his accountant, his production company, even his friggin' – excuse me – hairdresser. Every one of them made some lame excuse, promised to sort it out or passed the buck. And then it emerged that he hadn't paid for his hotel either, or for the stretch limo. Bought a load of drinks for everyone, mind you, can't say the man didn't buy his round, but all the same . . . movie star and all that, and his home town, his old school. You shouldn't mess with people like that.'
'Nothing happened to, y'know, make him change his mind? To cancel the cheque.'
'God, no – oops there's another wee prayer, I'll be a popular man up above – he had the time of his life. It wasn't cancelled, it was bounced.'
'So what do you think the problem was?'
'Is. I think the problem is he hasn't got any money.'
'He gets ten million dollars a film.'
'Well, I don't know what the hell he's doing with it, but he shouldn't go making promises he can't keep. Oh hell – sorry – we'll get over it, we'll get the computers. We haven't even gone running to the press. We're just . . . well, we're just disappointed. He shouldn't . . . well, y'know. It's a sore point.'
I nodded sympathetically, then as unsucky as possible said: 'You're still willing to help me with all the old stuff for the book, though?'
Corrigan
nodded slowly. 'I don't see why not. That was then, this is now.'
'S.E. Hinton.'
'Excuse me?'
'Nothing, sorry. I appreciate your help.'
He smiled. 'It's just such a pity, he seemed such a wonderful, warm human being. Maybe there's a reason, I don't know. I suppose in the grand scheme of things it doesn't amount to much. It just would have been nice.'
I thanked him for his time and he promised to look out what the school held in its records and talk to the teachers to see if any of them would have a word. We shook hands. On the way out I paused. He remained behind his desk. He was just removing a packet of cigarettes from his desk and checking under files for a lighter. He found it and lit up. 'Do you still have the cheque?' I asked.
The headmaster nodded. He leant back in his chair and pointed up with his cigarette. There was the cheque, framed, screwed to the wall behind him.
'That'll be worth something, one day,' I said.
'I know,' said Corrigan.
16
I said, 'Is there anything you want to tell me?'
Patricia paused between feeding spoonfuls of Yoplait Toffee Yoghurt to ginger boy and said: 'Like what?'
'Oh, I don't know, undying love . . .'
'I hate it when you get sarcastic.'
'You must hate me all the time then.'
'Dan . . . what's the problem?'
'There's an informer in the ranks.'
'What?'
I nodded down at Little Stevie, yoghurt down his front, mouth open, waiting. Patricia recommenced feeding. 'In the old days we would have taken him out and tarred and feathered him. Kneecapped him probably. Maybe he's a bit young for it. Maybe we could leave his nappy on for days or reinfeçt him with head-lice . . .'
'Dan!'
I stopped, I cleared my throat. 'I hear you had a visitor.'
Her brow crinkled a little, and there was the slightest flush. She concentrated on feeding Little Stevie. 'What do you mean?' she said casually.
'I mean, gingersnap spilled the beans. Tony was here while I was away.' It sat in the air for a moment. 'I thought we had an agreement.'
'No,' Patricia said, coolly, 'you laid down the law, and I chose to ignore it.'
'Right.'
She sighed. 'Dan, for godsake. He called round, unannounced, what do you want me to do, shut the door in his face?'
'Yes.'
'Dan, he was in a bad way.'
'Nothing too triv—'
'Dan . . .'
'Did you sleep with him?'
'No, I didn't sleep . . .'
'Because it would be pretty sick to sleep with him and then drive all the way down to Dublin to sleep with me . . .'
'I didn't friggin' sleep with him, I . . .' She paused. She'd finished the yoghurt. She wiped Little Stevie's face on some kitchen roll and then lifted him out of his chair. 'You go in and watch some cartoons, darlin',' she said and patted his head. He toddled off. She said, 'Tout,' quietly after him.
She took my hand and sat me down at the kitchen table. She held onto it as she slipped in opposite me. She looked into my eyes. 'On average,' she said – kindly, I think – 'how often would you say that when it comes to reasons for us fighting, you get hold of the wrong end of the stick?'
I shrugged.
'Would you say, like, seventy-five per cent of the time might be about right?'
I shrugged.
'Okay. Listen to me then.' She squeezed my hand. 'You know that Tony comes round from time to time to see Little Stevie. He is Little Stevie's father, like it or not.'
'Not.'
'And that ninety-nine per cent of the time he pre-arranges it and you're here and you just glare at each other the whole time.'
'Right.'
'But you also know that he has not told his wife that he has a son by another woman.'
'Chickenshit bastard.'
'Well, not any longer. He told her. A few weeks ago. Naturally she was devastated. They went through a very difficult time.'
'I'm finding it very difficult to feel any sympathy.'
'But they've come through it. They're going to stay together.'
'And what, pray tell, has this got to do with you or me or the price of fish?'
'They want to play a bigger part in Stevie's upbringing.'
'What?'
'They don't have any kids of their own.'
'I don't give a flying fuck.'
'Dan, he has certain rights.'
'He has fuck all squared in a box! He hardly wanted to know before!'
'Dan, you know he has certain rights. If it goes to court, he will be granted certain things. You know he will.' She had let go of my hand. She was sitting with her chin in her palm and her elbow on the table. 'I don't want it to go to court, Dan,' she said.
'So what are you saying?'
'They want to take Stevie away on holiday with them, so that they can get to know him.'
'No fucking way . . .'
'Just for a couple of weeks.'
'No fucking way.'
'Disneyland. Florida.'
'No fucking way.'
'Dan. He's Stevie's father.'
'No, he's not. I am.'
'Dan . . .'
'I'm his father and that two-timing bastard isn't going to take him anywhere, especially Florida. Have you thought about this at all?'
'Yes, of course I have. Dan, I don't want this to go to court. Dan, it's an absolute certainty that they'd get access. But what if they got custody?'
'How on earth would they get custody?'
'I'm not saying they would. I'm saying that if we insist on going to court there's a remote possibility that they might. They might take a very close look at our lives, turn up every stone, and let's face it, Dan, between you and me we haven't exactly been God's little angels. They have a nice settled family life, he made one mistake and now he wants to make amends. He has a good job. They have lots of money. They will be able to afford a shit-hot barrister to handle their case, and thanks to Sam Cameron we will only be able to afford some fluffy-faced kid who doesn't even remember Crown Court. Think about it, Dan.'
'I am. I'm thinking about all the newspaper stories I've read about fathers borrowing their kids for holidays like that and never coming back. They go to America, we might never see Little Stevie again.'
'Don't be ridiculous.'
'I'm not being ridiculous. It happens all the time. Can you guarantee that it won't?'
'Yes.'
'How? Are you going to make them promise?'
'Dan, you're being unreasonable.'
'I'm being sensible. What I don't understand is how you could even contemplate letting him go. For Jesus sake, Trish, you're his mother.'
'I know what I am, Dan.'
'Do you? I'm telling you this now, darlin', he's going nowhere. Or if he is, it's over my dead body. And probably yours.'
'Are you threatening me?'
'Yes.'
I got up. As I walked out of the kitchen Patricia was wiping a tear from her eye. I went into the lounge. Little Stevie was watching The Magic Roundabout on the Cartoon Network.
I sat down heavily beside him and he clambered up onto my knee. I ruffled his hair. He pushed my hand away.
'I used to watch this when I was a kid,' I said, nodding at Florence and Dougal.
'Why?' said Little Stevie.
'Because it was good.'
'Why?'
'Because it made me laugh. It still does.'
'Why?'
'Because although it is a nice happy puppet show, there are a lot of barely concealed druggy references in the script for adults to appreciate.'
'Why?'
'Because it was kind of a rebellious thing to do in the sixties, and the grown-ups never caught on. Everyone does it these days. We have a thing about elevating ancient kitsch kids' programmes into iconic intergenerational talismans.'
'Why, Daddy?'
'I have no idea, but I think I might be heading towards a nervous br
eakdown.'
'Why?'
I lifted Little Stevie off my knee. Florence was just telling Dougal it was time for bed. 'Don't ask,' I said. 'Go and see Mummy, she's in the kitchen.'
Little Stevie motored off. I sat back on the settee and closed my eyes. The fairground music at the end of The Magic Roundabout seemed more annoying than usual, sinister almost. Who the hell did Tony think he was, wanting to take my child to Florida? Patricia didn't understand. It was something that would have to be sorted out between me and him and a crowbar.
I groaned. Who was I kidding? I could barely lift a crowbar.
I sighed. Northern Ireland had come a long way since I'd started my journalistic career. Ancient enemies sat at the same table and discussed arms decommissioning. There were no longer soldiers on the streets and there hadn't been a bomb in months. Tony was a reasonable man, and so was I. Patricia was partially right. He should have access, and we would work out a compromise. Just as long as he understood there was no way that my son was leaving the country for two weeks, or indeed our house for anything more than a few carefully chaperoned hours.
There was a tiny hand on my knee. I opened my eyes and smiled at Little Stevie, back already from the kitchen.
'Dad,' he said, 'what's a wanker?'
17
We spent the weekend shouting at each other. By the time I left for the drive back to Dublin on Monday morning nothing had been sorted, although I remained in the right. Little Stevie gave me a kiss and a hug goodbye and out of Patricia's earshot I warned him about getting into cars or airplanes with strange men.
I listened to three tapes on the way down. The Clash, for old times' sake. The Geoff Love Orchestra's Big Western Movie Themes because it was classical music with horseshoes and the closest I could get to old culture without falling asleep. And a free CD from Q magazine of the best songs of '98, a last desperate attempt to familiarise myself with music outside of the punk era so that I could sit in bars again and tap my foot along to something I recognised and which was only three years out of date.
Shooting Sean Page 8
