Balls

by Tommy Dakar

  ‘Thanks Paul, you are very kind, but really, don't you worry about us, we're fine, honest.’

  Jill may have been unflustered, but Paul had turned white.

  ‘Who could have done it? Why? What's the point? Why him, why Mr. Swan? Of all the people. Maybe it has nothing to do with anything at all, maybe it's just... just... madness.’

  She said nothing as she watched him suddenly squat on the floor, she was getting used to it by now. Best leave him to it and get the kids some supper.

  Paul was still in the same position when Rani returned half an hour later. He knew better than to interrupt, to try to speak to him now would only make him angry. His master was often 'difficult' and had to be handled with tact, especially if he were meditating or having a vision. Or hungry. Patience was the key. After all, Paul was paying the bills. He sat cross legged on the floor and watched the tele with the kids while he waited, much to their amusement.

  Daphne and Carlton had dropped off a rather perky Ronald at party HQ on their way to Quigley's office. He seemed to be well on the road to recovery, and had even expressed a touch of regret for having resigned from so many commissions and committees. Daphne was not sure if that was good news or not. She held on tightly to her handbag as if at an international airport. Be that as it may, she was now in charge, and by golly she was going to get to the bottom of all this one way or another. Once inside Carlton gestured to a seat. No thank you.

  Quigley and Woo were partners, fifty fifty, and their waiting room reflected this agreement. It was an unsuccessful blend of the prudent ostentation of a nineteenth century gentleman's club, and the apologetic minimalist white and grey lines of a modern Japanese apartment. An ornate, exquisitely carved writing desk, complete with old fashioned ledgers and a quill pen, was pushed up against a sheet glass dividing wall, whilst the centre piece was a dark grey, low slung coffee table of sorts adorned with a white, square dish full of red stones. Paper blinds of oriental influence hung at the windows, but the bookcases were built of dark, solid wood and enclosed leather bound tomes which contained the wit and wisdom of a thousand learned gentlemen.

  Just for the record, and for the likes of Mrs. Jill Kavanagh, Miss Woo, Amanda, Brighton University, was a thin woman in her late forties, unmarried, childless, very fit and health conscious and with a mind like a super computer. Luckily for the partners their business relationship worked far better than their sense of decoration. Quigley had the connections, Woo had the brains. Not that Dennis was not intelligent, or diligent, far from it, he was as sharp as a knife, but Miss Amanda Woo was in a league of her own. Quigley had soon heard all about her and rushed to join forces. He had tradition to offer as well as a lucrative buffet, his family was a roster of barristers and judges, solicitors and Justices of the Peace. She was the pick of the crop – together they would rake it in. And they did.

  Dennis had done his homework as usual. He had brainstormed with Amanda and between them they had managed to come up with a pretty impressive dossier on the life of Sam Kavanagh. They had started with the bare bones, his curriculum vitae, his place of birth, his schooling, his working life. From there they had moved on to facts and figures; social security number, passport, driving licence, list of arrests and offences. Then on to the flesh. They had contacted the local church, and managed to find an elderly priest who had many a yarn to spin about Sam. He in turn had suggested they try the independent missing persons organisation which had done such a good job before it had run out of funds and energy. Unfortunately Sandra Welks, the ex president, had now passed on, but her second in command, Mrs. Gainsborough, should be able to fill them in. Little by little a picture had emerged.

  ‘Mrs. Kavanagh, so nice to see you, please, please, do sit down.’

  Mr. Wallace half pushed her inside and closed the door, he would stay outside, private affair, no business of mine, discretion, best stay on guard out here. Take your time.

  ‘I'll be with you in a minute.’

  This was a trick of the trade. He would pick up folders and place them in other piles, make a few clicks on the computer, put a scrap of paper in a drawer. Busy, so busy, nearly ready, just a second. There! Now you have my entire attention.

  Daphne waited politely, which was unnerving.

  ‘Right, now let me see.’

  He made a clucking noise with his tongue as he gingerly opened the dossier.

  ‘Date of birth, place of birth, school years, hmm, hmm, social security number, driving license, cluck cluck, a cv of sorts, not too clear.’

  He drew in his breath and shook his head.

  ‘And some more personal detail, too, that we have managed to put together for you.’

  He turned the file round so that she could read it.

  ‘If you'll just excuse me for a moment.’

  And he left her to it.

  It certainly was not what Daphne had expected. Her husband had always given the impression that the accusations made against his father were outrageous, based on malicious gossip and envy. She had an image in her mind of an innocent man wrongly accused, very much like Kenneth, a poor man misunderstood by society, falsely maligned. But this report bore no resemblance to such a person. She read on in surprise.

  Sam was a product of his generation, his tradition, his Church, his sex. This was something he had apparently never questioned. When he saw his reflection in the morning all he saw was a face that needed shaving. He had never stood before a mirror and asked himself questions like 'who am I?' or 'how did I get here?'. He just was. Full stop.

  Like his forbears and peers, he drank to get drunk. That was the whole idea. So he drank till he dropped. Unfortunately for his fellow wallowers, he was a large man able to ingest incalculable amounts of beer before falling to the floor in a drunken stupor. If he was in a foul mood, something not too infrequent, he would make sure two or three others went down with him.

  He was a father, a bread winner, and he demanded obedience and respect. From all of them; Jean, Ronald, Kenneth, even young Paul. His wife knew and acknowledge this, and ran the home front accordingly. He would not need a heavy hand, appearances would be kept up. She would bear the brunt so the children would not suffer.

  Like many catholic males he often had trouble disentangling the concepts of whore and virgin. Sex as vice, sex as pleasure, woman as mother, woman as lover, Mother Mary and Mary Magdalene. It was far too complex for him to understand, so he didn't bother trying. He preferred to just blunder on and see what happened.

  Conclusion: Sam was a violent, heavy drinking, wife beating, sexually confused Molotov cocktail.

  Last seen: Just before midnight on the 12th of October at a well known gentleman's club. Turned away by security for drunken behaviour.

  Dennis returned.

  ‘Now I must make it clear that this is all very subjective stuff. We have no idea if these impressions have any resemblance to the truth, though one is rather inclined to give an ageing priest the benefit of the doubt. As for Mrs. Gainsborough, well she has an incredible memory and seemed to us to be mentally lithe despite her age. Her records are a work of art, of immense value, quite remarkable. But, as I say, there is nothing here that would stand up in court, and I relay it to you as such.’

  Daphne was slow to react, still digesting the news. The seeds of a doubt had been sown.

  ‘And the rape?’

  He ran over the basics again. The milkman, Mercury Carriers, the Kingsley road. Miss Catherine Prior. Case unclosed.

  ‘Where is she now? This Prior woman? Do we have an address? Could we talk to her?’

  This was treacherous ground. There was this poor woman's intimacy to bear in mind. It was not advisable. Daphne stared back at him from under her lacquered fringe. Still, her whereabouts should not be that difficult to uncover, her address could be considered to be, shall we say, in the public domain. As long as the source of said information..? Very well then, this afternoon, after three. No, not by phone, in person please. Not at all. Regard
s to Ronald.

  As we have said earlier Miss Catherine Prior was an intelligent woman with eyes in her head, so it did not take her long to realise something was afoot. She always knew when her sister Trudy was lying, because she became too nonchalant, too busy, and made a point of not making eye contact. So the keys she was handing over to Chris were not for a friend at all. Why would he be interested in flats and garages all of a sudden? And those hushed and angry dialogues with Danny, or his now regular family reunions to which she was not invited? There was also a troupe of zombie like teenagers who visited more frequently than ever; slouching, long-faced, miserable creatures who appeared to be pissed off that they'd ever been born. There were some boxes in the garage, too, wine boxes that didn't contain wine, carefully sealed and stacked up under the workbench. She was not too sure what her protectors had in mind, but she was convinced it had something to do with her past, her past which had decided to come back and haunt her after all these years, as if she had not already had enough. Would she ever be free of it, or was she marked for life?

  Then the visits had begun. First some strange man, a doctor of some sort, Dr. Flint or something. He gave everyone the creeps with his toupee and his fishy eyes. He worked for some organisation or other, the Society for the Eradication of Pain, or the Ban Cruelty Association, she couldn't remember now. He was some big shot, or so he reckoned, but Trudy had soon sent him packing. She gave him what for. How dare you come round here dragging up the past? I don't give a damn who you are or what you represent. No, she is not available, not now, not tomorrow, not never, so good day to you, if you don't mind. He was lucky Chris was not at home or he'd have been kicked out and thrown over next door's fence. He'd left with his tail between his legs. Serves him right.

  The Sunday paper was to blame, it had stirred it all up again just as it was beginning to die down. At least that's what she had thought. Until the doorbell went again. A security guard? What on earth did he want? He said nothing but handed over a letter, addressed to Catherine, from none other than Mr. and Mrs. Kavanagh! Yes, the very same Kavanaghs, one of the sons of … It was a conspiracy. Something terrible was brewing, no good could come of it. Trudy had refused to accept the missive at first, fearing an injunction or official notification, but Carlton had pointed out that no signature was required. He would just leave it on the doorstep, so, and if she picked it up or not nobody would ever know. It was safe. Trudy had waited until he was out of sight then scooped it up.

  Chris had read the letter. It was a stilted request for an appointment, a meeting, to deal with a matter which may be of great interest, at your convenience, notwithstanding. Daphne, who in this case preferred to operate alone, had used one of Ronald's correspondence templates, and he was a great lover of terminology like hereinafter, or part thereof. Chris had torn it to pieces and thrown it in the bin, a dynamic gesture by which he intended show that he had put an end to that once and for all. There would be no liaising with the enemy.

  Still, he was more than a little worried by the recent turn of events. Up to that moment they had managed to lie low and stay off the radar. He wasn't too sure why, but now there was an increased interest in Catherine once more. Catherine and, logically, her close family. And according to the papers the Kenneth Kavanagh trial could take place by the end of May. He had to move fast.

  He caught Danny just as he was about to leave.

  ‘This week.’

  Danny looked puzzled.

  ‘We've got no choice. It has to be now. We're going for Paul.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The freak. The other one's got a fucking bodyguard.’

  ‘The one who cut his balls off?’

  ‘I'll cut more than his balls off when I get my hands on him. And tell Bobby I want to see him.’

  ‘Bobby Hornsby?’

  ‘You heard me.’

  Despite the dossiers and the hearsay we don't know exactly what happened, and we know we don't know. But one of the redeeming features of humanity is our ability to turn a problem into an opportunity. If there is no irrefutable evidence, no universally accepted version, then the past can be manipulated or rewritten to our convenience and used as a pretext; for the massacre of innocents, for the glorification of leaders, for the justification of the invasion of our enemies' lands. Without the Rosetta stone of hard fact one interpretation is as valid as the next, and history slides dangerously back into the realms of faith.

  A crime is committed, or imagined, or fabricated, it doesn't matter much. You can't find your ball. Somebody must have stolen it. It was the (underline the appropriate) foreign/ black/ muslim/ straight/ yankee/ crippled/ gay/ stupid kid. He should be reported to the authorities/ beaten up/ publicly humiliated/ imprisoned for life/ tortured/ executed. We identify the culprits, we decide the punishment. Is it any wonder history repeats itself?

  Tommy Morton sharpened his knife on a wet stone. It was not a flick knife, as he hadn't been able to get his hands on one, and it wasn't a family heirloom, but it would do. It had been honed down on both sides so it was as lethal as possible. He would show it to Bobby that afternoon.

  Like most adolescents he was an impressionable lad, and although Bobby Hornsby was reportedly mad, Tommy nonetheless held him in awe. He had knifed Mr. Swan! Just like that. One swift thrust, to the heart, deadly, professional. His brother Danny had told him. It was a secret, and as Danny had sworn not to tell anyone at all, it was even more of a secret for Tommy, who swore the same. Because a secret is a secret and can only be shared with someone special, like a brother, or a sister, or a close friend.....

  They had arranged to meet Bobby in the garage at seven. Unfortunately it had started to rain, and Chris had had to put the car back under cover – he had just polished it and was not prepared to let the rain spoil his hard work. So now there was no room left and they would have to sit inside the red Ford Focus and have the meeting there. Chris and Danny in the front, Bobby and Tommy in the back. Laura had been kept out of this, officially because she was too young, but in reality because she was a girl. Trudy would be kept up to date, but would not be seen with Bobby. She would stay away from the front line and take care of logistics. Logistics meant keeping an eye on Catherine and Laura, minding the mobile phone and keeping the troops well nourished.

  The car smelt of pinewood air freshener and the plastic seat covers Chris had placed over the original green upholstery. He turned squeakily in his seat.

  ‘Tommy, put that away and pay attention. And be careful with it.’

  He scrutinised Bobby. It was a risk, a calculated risk, to bring him on board. Danny had thought his dad had lost it when he had stopped him in the hall that afternoon and told him to get Bobby. Get Bobby Hornsby?This man was dangerous, out of control, unpredictable. Surely it would be wiser to keep him at arm's length, hide from him, put him off, ask him to go away? He was trouble; big, stupid, murderous trouble. And trouble breeds trouble.

  But Chris had decided that the risk was worth it. More than that, the whole plan revolved around this hairy nutter. He had seen Danny's fear, had noticed Tommy's fascination, but he needed someone like Bobby, someone who would do anything for a word of praise, someone who did not belong, someone who could be jettisoned if necessary.

  ‘Right, now, the first thing we need to do is work out PK's routine so we know when best to attack, ok?’

  They knew now that PK was Paul Kavanagh, the weird one, the one who had cut off his own balls. They had all agreed to economise and use the term PK because it sounded like some kind of code, made it all more military. They all nodded. Mr. Morton was the leader, he would unveil the plan, they would just do their part as best as possible. That's how these things work.

  ‘So we will have to tail him, follow him, and see if there's a pattern, some time or place where we know he's always going to be. And somewhere that isn't his HQ where he's surrounded by hundreds of fans, ok? This is detective work.’

  He added that to raise morale. Hanging around in the s
treet and following someone like Paul Kavanagh is not a pleasant task. He has meetings with different people on different days at different times. Sometimes he walks, others he's in the van, or a taxi, or a bus. He is usually to be found in the middle of a flock of followers and hangers on. It is often cold and windy, with isolated showers. A thankless task indeed, unless you are convinced of its difficulty and its worth.