Divorcing Jack

by Colin Bateman

  While she was gone I walked back into Red Hall. I went through the kitchen and into the entrance hall. There was no one about. I found a phone and looked up a number, then dialled.

  It was answered third ring.

  'Hi, is that the American Consulate?'

  'Yes, sir, how may I help you?'

  'It's okay. It doesn't matter.'

  I put the phone down. The man in the black uniform beside me indicated that it might be better if I terminated the conversation by pressing a revolver to my scalp. I agreed.

  'Sorry,' I said.

  'Don't worry about it. Away out and entertain the missus again, why don't you? I was enjoying the conversation.'

  'Okay,' I said.

  31

  I don't remember much about the journey itself. I know we didn't talk much. There really wasn't anything to say. My role was clear cut. I was the courier delivering the goods. Brinn was the goods, but he was also the courier, delivering the money. I drove. We listened to some music on the radio. Brinn stared resolutely ahead. He looked better in the dark, his long nose cut down to size by shadow, his white eyes sharp, predatory, his thin lips fixed impassively, politically.

  I remember more clearly leaving Red Hall in the full blackness of night, a damp lough breeze easing around our legs like a hunched cat. Agnes in the doorway in a white nightdress, her hair jaggedly wild, her eyes damp, her face grey, stale alcohol on her breath. Brinn, his hands in his wife's hair, kissing her goodbye, promising her everything would be different once he was elected. Alfie, upset that he had to stay behind, handing over the case of money to Brinn and watching us drive off with the feisty petulance of a retriever on a lead.

  Percy French, the popular but dead songwriter, wrote movingly about the Mourne Mountains sweeping down to the sea. Some of them do. Others have at their mossy feet Tollymore Forest, a thick expanse of National Trust pine that exudes charm and welcome in the bright heat of summer but broods under cloud and mist for most of the rest of the time. It was a forty-minute journey from Bangor, a fair distance away too from Coogan's headquarters in Crossmaheart. There was no obvious Coogan connection with Tollymore, other than providing a suitably intimidating background. And it would be easy for him to disappear off into the trees if something went wrong.

  There were no security checkpoints and blessed few cars on the road. Dawn was just beginning to break, the mountains peaking through the light mist like hazelnuts in a decaying blancmange. When we stopped at the gates to Tollymore. They were closed. I looked over at Brinn. He looked back. I shrugged and got out. I pushed at the gates, but they were firmly locked. I looked back at Brinn and shrugged again. Then someone said: 'Ah, the man with the money.'

  A bulky figure stepped out of the gloom. He had a pistol in his hand and a balaclava on his head, but what little there was of his face was unmistakable.

  'Mad Dog,' I said, quietly.

  'Just Mad, to my friends.'

  He pushed the barrel of the gun into my stomach and checked me over with his free hand. When he was finished he took a little torch from his pocket and shone it through the passenger window. Brinn stared straight ahead. Mad Dog gave a little whistle and said, 'The man himself,' with a little inflection of mock awe. He rapped on the window. 'Okay, chuckles, out you come,' he said and pulled the door open. Brinn climbed out of the car and stood to attention with the case of money on the ground in front of him. Mad Dog searched him, then shone the torch round the inside of the car, checking under the seats and in the glove compartment. He turned to the case, opened it up, then turned his half-masked face up to me. 'Few quid in here,' he purred, then snapped it shut. Abruptly he stood up and said: 'Change of plan, mates, just in case you're thinking of something. Get back in the car and continue along here for about a mile. Coogan'll be waiting for you along there. He'll make himself known.' We got back into the car. 'Goodbye,' said Mad Dog, closing the passenger door behind Brinn, 'and may your God go with you.'

  'Thanks’ I said. 'Don't mention it.'

  Brinn hadn't opened his mouth. He rested the case on his knees.

  'Well’ I said, starting the engine again and reversing back, 'it keeps life exciting, doesn't it?' Mad Dog had already disappeared into the gloom. Brinn didn't move his head, but his eyes swivelled briefly towards me and then hit front centre again. 'Drive,' he said.

  We moved off.

  A couple of hundred yards further on car lights flashed on and off. I slowed the car. A green and white Land-Rover was wedged up against one of the lichen-scored dry-stone walls that ran up either side of the road. About fifty yards short I stopped the car.

  'Well' I said, 'this must be it.' It was more to break the eerie silence of the early morning than anything. Brinn nodded his head slowly.

  'You ready?'

  He nodded again. I moved to open my door, but he put a hand on my arm. 'I'm sorry about all this' he said quickly, giving my arm a little squeeze.

  'Yeah’ I said. He was a couple of decades late. His hand lingered on my jacket for a moment, then he let go. He looped his arm through the case handle and pushed the passenger door open. Up ahead the Land-Rover's doors swung open. Coogan, wearing a khaki combat jacket and bottle-green trousers, climbed out from behind the wheel. On the other side, the neanderthal Seanie emerged. From the rear his companion, the relatively erudite Malachy Burns, appeared. Seanie was carrying a shotgun. Burns what looked like a machine pistol; Coogan carried himself, with ease, flanked on either side by his gunmen.

  We met about halfway. Brinn set the case down and positioned his legs protectively on either side of it. It was a bit silly really. He didn't have much to bargain with. I had even less. Coogan had a little smirk on his face.

  'Nice to see you again,' he said.

  'Likewise’ I said.

  'I'm not talking to you, Starkey.'

  'It's been a long time’ said Brinn.

  'Yeah, things have changed a bit, eh?' He put his hand out and Brinn grasped it. They held each other's gaze for a long moment. Brinn let go first, then Coogan asked: 'Where did all that revolutionary zeal ever go, eh?'

  Brinn snorted. 'We both grew up. In different ways, of course.'

  'You into the wonderful world of politics.'

  'And you into gangsterism.'

  'Ach, sure that was always in the blood, you knew that. My growing up was turning professional at it.'

  'You've done well.'

  'And you even better.'

  'Maybe. It got me this far. To a lonely country road with a couple of gunmen and a dipso reporter. Yeah, I've surely arrived now.'

  'But by tonight, all this will be yours. All this country. That must be a pleasant thought.'

  'Pleasant if I get to enjoy it, Coogan. I presume you don't intend to let me do that, do you?'

  Coogan spread his hands, palms up, before Brinn. 'Aw, come on now, what's a few pounds to an old mate, eh? You can spare that, can't ye?'

  Brinn stepped back and pushed the case towards Coogan. 'This you can have with my compliments, Coogan. Enjoy it. It's all you'll be getting. Once I'm installed - I hear a word from you, you're a dead man. You know that, I know that. I'll be bigger than you.' It was a playground threat, that simple, that real, and, somehow, even scarier than adults at war.

  'Of course you will.' Coogan bent to lift the case. He weighed it, dropping it from one hand to the other. 'Feels about right,' he said.

  'Is there any point in me asking for the tape?' Brinn asked. 'You'll have others.'

  Coogan's smirk slipped into a grin. 'Don't you trust me, mate?'

  Brinn just looked at him. Coogan turned to Burns. He held his hand out towards him. Burns undid the zip on his black Harrington jacket and removed a Walkman. He handed it to Coogan. 'As a symbol of my largesse you not only get your tape, but something to listen to it on as well. How about that for two hundred and fifty thousand?'

  Brinn reached out and took the cassette player. He slipped it into the left-hand pocket of his jacket without comment.


  'Do ye not want to take a wee listen, make sure it's authentic? There's powerful good sound through those headphones. Top of the range, I'm told.'

  Brinn shook his head slightly. 'It's the little cruelties you enjoy most, Coogan, isn't it?'

  Coogan shook his own head. 'Oh, I think you'll find I enjoy the big ones as well.' Seanie sniggered.

  Brinn nodded to me. 'You staying here then?'

  I looked at Coogan. 'Ball's in your court.'

  Coogan turned to Burns. 'What do you think? Keep him for a while or let him ride home with the boss here?'

  Burns regarded me silently for a moment, his head moving almost imperceptibly from side to side, as if he was tossing a very fragile salad of conflicting argument. 'He writes well,' he concluded with a little smile to match Coogan's. They were nothing if not happy gangsters.

  'But he's been a pain in the hole,' Seanie contributed, uninvited.

  'There's that,' said Coogan. 'A pain on the whole, and in the hole, Mr Starkey. But all things considered, I think we'll hold on to you for just a little while longer, eh?'

  There wasn't much I could say, nothing I could do. The pen, again, was not mightier than the sword.

  Brinn turned away without a word and walked to the car. He stopped by the driver's door.

  ‘I better give him the keys,' I said. Coogan nodded and I jogged down after him. 'You'll be wanting these,' I said.

  He turned to me. It was a bit of a shock. His face, for so long a fixed wooden mask, had brightened, his eyes looked alive, Parker keen.

  'Jesus,' I whispered.

  'It ain't over, till it's over, Starkey,' he said quietly. He opened the door. 'Sure you don't want to come with me?'

  I looked back up at Coogan and his crew, their ghostly figures shrouded in mist. I shook my head. 'He has my wife,' I said.

  'Pity,' said Brinn. He got into the car and slammed the door. He crunched the car into first gear and moved off.

  As he drew away Mad Dog hopped over the opposite dry-stone wall. He watched the car's progress for a second or two. 'Well, that's that,' he said, to no one in particular, and began walking back up towards Coogan, who remained standing in the middle of the road with Seanie and Burns. I fell into step behind Mad Dog. As he reached his companions he said: 'He accepted our gift then?'

  Coogan nodded. Seanie nodded. Burns nodded. They kept their eyes on the car.

  Mad Dog turned to watch it as well. 'You think he'll listen to it soon?' He asked.

  ‘I’ll be very disappointed if he doesn't,' Coogan replied.

  'You think the batteries in the Walkman are strong enough?'

  ‘I should think so.'

  Scanie tapped me on the shoulder. I was watching the car as well. 'There's no tape player in the car, is there?'

  'There's a radio. That's all.'

  'That's okay.'

  It was a long, straight road, curving away eventually to the right and the holiday town of Newcastle. Brinn was nearing the curve when his car disintegrated in a ball of fire.

  I watched, mesmerized, as the flames were rapidly enveloped by thick black smoke until it looked like an old angry thunder cloud had descended to earth to wreak havoc on one particular individual. Seanie clapped his hands and let go a triumphant whoop. Coogan was biting absentmindedly at a thumbnail, his eyes trained on the war cloud. 'They do say it's dangerous to listen to a Walkman while driving,' he said quietly.

  I shook my head free of the destruction and turned abruptly towards him.

  'You are one complete cunt, Coogan,' I shouted and aimed another of my famous punches at him. He leant back expertly and I flailed past him and attacked Seanie's gun butt with my face. I sank to my knees. My nose filled with blood.

  Coogan stood over me. He tutted. 'You should have learnt by now, Starkey, that a cunt's a useful thing.'

  Above the ringing in my ears I heard a metallic click and felt something cold and hard against the back of my head. Seanie asked: 'Finish him?'

  I looked up into Coogan's face. Only he had two faces and I didn't know which set of eyes to look into. I remember that time now as the longest ten seconds of my life: longer than school, than first love, than standing on a balcony waiting to be pushed, than finding a girl dead in her bed. I remember the sounds more clearly than The Clash, more refined than digital tape: the slight swish of the pines against the morning breeze off the sea; the crackle of flame from way down the road; the slight nasal whistle as Seanie snorted up air excitedly above me; the extended t of another tut from Coogan. 'No,' he said.

  A click, and Seanie said disappointedly: 'Ach, boss.'

  'Sure he has a story to write.'

  Burns's voice then: 'He won't be writing about this, Pat. No way.'

  A chuckle from Coogan: 'Not now, no. One day. When it doesn't matter any more to us. Then he can write it. Maybe he'll understand a bit better the way things are.'

  They turned away from me then and I sat back on the grass verge and as my eyes slipped back into focusing I watched them move up the sloping road back to their Land-Rover, Coogan marching purposefully ahead, his companions moving at a more leisurely pace, almost crab-like as they kept an eye on the burning wreck far down the road behind them. Coogan climbed behind the wheel. Seanie and Mad Dog hauled themselves into the back and Burns took the passenger seat. Coogan put the jeep into gear and executed a perfect two-point turn. As it began to pull away up the hill Mad Dog leant out the back and gave me the V-sign. I wiped blood from my nose and gave him the fingers back. He lifted his gun and trained it on me, kept it on me for half a minute then let it drop. I thought he gave me a little smile.

  As the Land-Rover reached the top of the hill, it exploded.

  32

  ‘Starkey.'

  I opened my eyes. A local accent, but neither here nor here, imprecise. A plump man in a half-ironed shirt. A faint whiff of tobacco. Neville Maxwell. Central Office of information. A century before he had asked me to guide a foreign journalist around Belfast. He stood a couple of feet jack from my bed. The sunlight streaming through the window split behind his head, making him look very slightly angelic. I squinted at him and he moved out of the light. My head was sore and my nose was blocked with dried blood. I had on a pair of stripy pyjamas. The dying fizz from a half-drunk can of Coke on the bedside locker was too loud. The crumbs from a Twix bar moved like freelance freckles in the little v-shape at the top of my tunic when I shifted position.

  'Does this mean I've lost the job?' I asked.

  He folded his arms across the jacket of his pinstripe. Without replying he turned slightly and spoke to the soldier standing against the door. 'You can leave us, corporal,' he said. He'd been there as long as I'd been more or less awake. Every thirty minutes or so another soldier had opened the door and given him three or four puffs on a fag and then taken it back. The soldier nodded, changed his rifle from left to right hand and pulled the door open. He joined his colleague on the other side of the frosted glass.

  'Are they looking after you, Starkey?'

  I nodded.

  'Nothing you need?'

  'You are joking, I take it?'

  'No. Not at all.'

  I pulled myself up into a sitting position. I still had a touch of the dizzies, but I'd stopped being sick. He had a pained expression on his face, but it looked as if it had more to do with gastronomic over-indulgence than any exasperation with me. Which was a nice change. 'Maxwell -Neville, whatever,' I said. 'I've been given a free helicopter ride, medical treatment, good food, a nice bed. All of these things I appreciate. But perhaps you can tell me how all the people who have dealt with me have been struck dumb?'

  Maxwell found himself a seat, a red plastic effort sporting a series of burn marks that allowed the yellow foam rubber within to poke out. It looked like an Edam cheese with legs. He took out a packet of cigarettes and offered me one. I declined. He lit up and took a long drag. 'You're not normally supposed to smoke in hospitals,' he said, 'but the military wing's a bit behind t
he times.'

  I nodded and waited. He blew smoke out of his nose in one long stream. It hung around like an indoor haze.

  'You'll be pleased to know,' he said, leaning forward, 'that your wife is okay. She has been in our care for a while actually.'

  'She's not hurt?'

  'She's fine. There was a little, ahm, unpleasantness for a while until certain facts were made clear to her captor. He is currently recovering in another part of this hospital.'

  'What are you going to do with her? She wasn't involved in anything. You must know that.'

  'Yes, we know that. She will perhaps need a little time to recover. Then she is free to go home.'

  'The girl that was with her?'

  'Oh, yes, fine too.'

  'And Brinn?'

  'Good news and bad news. He was elected prime minister with a landslide at 2 a.m. this morning. Unfortunately he vas declared officially dead at the scene of that explosion it 9 a.m. yesterday morning. He had of course been dead or quite a while by that stage. And we kept the news back until after the polls closed.'

  'The others?'

  'Patrick Coogan. Michael Angus. Seanie Murphy. Malachy Burns.'

  'Yeah.'

  'Dead.'

  I nodded. I sat back. I thought about the coolness of he grass verge, lying back and watching the smoke from infernos at either end of the road rise and mingle high up in the blue. I remembered trying to pick out shapes in it. I thought I saw my mother's face. A vague horse and trap. I know I saw a map of America and watched helplessly as it ell apart as helicopters clattered through it. So much death. So much death around that I was laughing as the soldiers in black-face gathered around me. I sniggered at the cavalry come too late.

  I was aware of Maxwell's intense gaze, but I was thinking if Agnes. I was thinking of Lee, and Margaret, and Patricia. [ was thinking of mass peace rallies and sudden death. And then I was thinking of me. I could see them all, all their faces, as if they were at different points on a spider's web, some on the periphery, some close to the centre. What was I, the fly caught in the web or the spider that connected everything?