Shooting Sean

by Colin Bateman

  'Give me the fucking thing,' came a voice from his background, and then there was a burst of static and then: 'Dan? Is that you?'

  'Mouse?'

  'Listen, we're getting there as fast as we can.'

  I looked from Sean to Maurice, I said: 'Where?'

  'Ormeau Baths.'

  'I don't under—'

  'It's an art gallery now. The Colonel says there's a basement below, that's where they are.'

  'Does he know if they're . . .?'

  'No, all he gave us was the loca—'

  I lost the signal. I looked up desperately. Maurice took the phone back and punched a number. I said to Sean, 'You look well.'

  He smiled warmly. 'Considering you shot me six times, I suppose I do. But then blanks don't generally do you much harm, although you'll agree those blood squibs are quite effective. Give you a bit of a sore tummy if you swallow too much . . .'

  'Have you got it?' I snapped. Maurice shook his head.

  'Once it was explained to me,' Sean continued, 'I had to go along. Well, I'd no choice really, they caught me with a carload of stuff . . . but I would have done it anyway. Put you in a terrible position . . . if it's any help, I would have done exactly the same, I'd have shot me. Of course I wouldn't have done it over that bitch, she got what she deserved, been going through my bank account like . . . well y'know. . . too romantic, that's me, cost me a fucking fortune . . .'

  'Got it!' Maurice said.

  I took the phone back from him. I looked him in the eye and said, 'Thanks,' and he knew it was for more than just getting me the line. 'Mouse?' I said.

  'Dan, welcome back. We're there. We're going in now. In through the door, lots of pretty pictures, the staff have just seen us, look at their faces, we must look like the 7th Cavalry coming through . . .'

  'You are, Mouse.'

  'No, you are, Dan. Where's the basement? Where's the fucking basement? This is where most people would say it's going to be okay, but I'm not going to lie to you, son. Do you want me to stop this now? See what the score is, phone you back?'

  'No, I want to stay with it.'

  'Okay, mate.'

  There were footsteps, dozens of them. Heavy breathing, a door being hammered.

  'What's happening, Mouse? Mouse, what's happening?'

  'Sorry . . . sorry, they're just trying to get in . . . okay, okay, there's boys with axes going to break it down . . . sorry, stand back . . .'

  There was the sound of sharp metal on dank wood. Then metal on metal, then a loud crash and more footsteps.

  Then voices – but not Mouse's: 'Where are those torches?'

  'That fucking smell . . .'

  'Get it up here for Jesus . . .'

  I sighed. Sean looked away. Maurice put an arm round me and I shrugged it off.

  'Okay, Dan, we're going in . . . Jesus, dark and . . . where? Okay . . . must be . . . watch where you're fucking walking . . .'

  There was a muffled, distant, 'Over here!' Then answering shouts and a flurry of footsteps and Mouse's laboured breathing . . .

  'Mouse?'

  There was no direct response, just urgent removed voices. 'Doctor! Where the fuck . . .'

  'Mouse?'

  'I need space, I need fucking space!'

  'The boy! Check the boy!'

  'Mouse!'

  'Dan, I think she's alive. I think she's alive.'

  'Mouse!'

  Just heavy breathing.

  'Mouse!'

  'She's alive, oh God, she's alive.'

  'Mouse . . .'

  'Dan . .

  'My son . .

  A pause. 'What can I say, Dan?'

  Little Stevie had been dead for two days. My wife had clasped him to her for all of that time, aware that he was dead, but unable to let go. It wasn't the hunger, it was the cold. Hypothermia. He was only a toddler. He was just learning to talk in sentences and he loved Winnie the Pooh.

  40

  The festival had been over for a week.

  Sean had been tipped to pick up the top awards, but his fake assassination and the perception of it as a tawdry publicity stunt to boost The Brigadier's chances persuaded Martin Scorsese and the rest of the judges to bestow their favours on a Latvian soccer drama and a Taiwanese adaptation of an obscure Finnish love poem instead. But the press loved it, especially the French film critics; they were already hailing him as a postmodernist genius.

  Sean was on top of the world. Fox had made a lucrative offer not only to distribute his black-and-white art film in the States, but also to throw their weight and money behind an Oscar campaign. Nor was he particularly tearful over Alice's death; he wasn't even sure if they had been married at all; no certificate had surfaced and he had no memory of the actual event, just her word for it. There was a photograph of them in a Las Vegas chapel with a priest dressed as Groucho Marx, but what did that prove but that they were just heroin addicts deeply in lust?

  By the end of his stay there was another girl on his arm, and they were already talking about marriage, although not until after the Oscars. If he was still addicted, there was no indication, but then there never really had been. An orgy at a party and a needle in his arm. So what? You take your kicks where you can, I've just never had any inclination to try either, apart from the former.

  Sean paid for an apartment for me, told me to stay as long as I wanted. He didn't have to. Maurice disappeared and never really told me anything, beyond the fact that he'd exerted a little pressure on Sean to cooperate; once convinced, Sean had gone for it in a big way, suggesting the fake blood squibs himself. He'd spotted me at the Hotel du Cap, but hadn't let on. It had been an exhilarating experience for him and he was already talking about making a film based on it. A film about a film about a film.

  I ate in hotel cafés, facing the beach. The prices had come down now that the film junkies had departed for their next festival, this time in Venice; there was a preordained annual circuit, like Formula One, only faster.

  One day, walking along the beach, I saw a familiar figure coming towards me.

  'Bonjour,' I said.

  'Bon appetit,' said Mouse.

  'Funny bumping into you here.'

  He nodded. He was wearing a Hawaiian shirt and flip-flops.

  'Walking?' I asked.

  He nodded again, and we began to stroll across the sand. The sea was rough. There was a storm a-comin'.

  'When are you coming home, Dan?'

  I shrugged.

  'Patricia needs you.'

  'How is she?'

  'Still in hospital. She's getting better. But one phone call, Dan, it's not enough.'

  'I know.'

  I kicked at the sand. 'You hear that about people who haven't eaten for a long time, they gobble everything down, then they're as sick as dogs. Was she like that?'

  'Dan.'

  'It's what I hear.'

  'Come home now. She won't let them bury Little Stevie until you come home.'

  'Why?'

  'Because he's your son, Dan.'

  I shook my head. 'No, he's not.'

  'Dan.'

  'She had an affair. He wasn't mine.'

  'Dan.'

  'He had ginger hair. Did you ever look at him? He looked nothing like me.'

  'Dan, don't do this.'

  'I like it here. It's sunny. Let Tony do it. He's the dad. He can hold the coffin. Little white ones, aren't they? They're always little white ones. Like shoe boxes. I bought him shoes. Do you know that? I bought him shoes once, and they had Winnie the Pooh on the side. He said, "I love these so much," and he wouldn't wear them. They're too small for him now, Mouse. They're too small.'

  I looked at Mouse, and there were tears rolling down his cheeks. It might just have been the sand, blowing up. There was a lot of sand.

 

 

 
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