Belfast Confidential

by Bateman, Colin

  'Thanks to you. You go there much?'

  'Not since . . .'

  'But before, you were regulars?'

  'I suppose, yes.'

  'And I hear the coke's good.'

  She hesitated, and a half-smile appeared. 'It's not a sin, Dan.'

  'Well, technically, it is a sin.'

  'You don't partake?'

  'I'm not allowed.'

  'Patricia?'

  I shrugged. She smiled. Her legs were folded under her to the left, and now she shifted them to the right. The movement allowed the bottom half of her bathrobe to slip open. For just a second. It was the kind of moment you might freeze if it was a DVD, but it was too quick, and I was too drunk, and the lights were too subdued for it to be anything other than an accidental slip in the course of preventing her legs from cramping. I think. But then her eyes flitted to one side and she said kind of dreamily, 'The best sex you can have is cocaine sex, you can go all night.' Her eyes came back onto me.

  'Ah,' I said. 'That would account for the orgasms then.' I said it without thinking. My cheeks were reddening, and my T-shirt was stuck to my back. There's something terrible about being alone with a beautiful woman who mentions sex. Funny, crushing, mortifying, enticing. 'Mouse . . . ahm, was very happy. He didn't, ahm – mention the cocaine. I'm sure it's wonderful. You should – ah, try, ahm, Harp sex. You can go for entire minutes and you get a free migraine into the bargain.'

  'Would you like some?' she asked.

  'Sex?' I began, but then cleverly covered it with, 'What?'

  'Coke. I have a little. Just to relax. After Mouse . . . it just helps. Will you join me?'

  I gave a little shrug. 'Just to, you know, keep you company.'

  She disappeared into the kitchen and came back with a small plastic bag, a steak-knife, a straw and a breadboard. She poured out the white powder and chopped it down and then took a long sniff. She squeezed her nostrils together and closed her eyes, then opened them again and smiled at me and offered me the straw. I have a strict rule about not putting things up my nose which have already been up other people's noses, but I compromised as I compromise with most things when confronted with no alternative or the opportunity. I sniffed up and she was just asking, 'How does that . . . ?' when everything went black.

  21

  It was getting on for dawn, and I was lying on the sofa with a tartan rug over me. My shoes were on and so were my trousers and T-shirt, and there was an empty basin and kitchen roll on the carpet beside me. I struggled up into a sitting position, and then bent down to pick up my head, which was made of concrete and needles, off the floor. I screwed it firmly back into place.

  Christ.

  Normally, at the newspaper, I would just phone in sick. But this was different. I was the boss, and in a few hours' time I had to send my first issue of Belfast Confidential to the printers. I still had to do what I'd been putting off for days: write an appreciation of Mouse. It was the lead article. There was a big white space waiting for it. There were twenty-six candid shots of his funeral already in place. It was kind of gross, but it was what I'd signed up for, and what the readers would expect.

  I hauled myself up and staggered to the front door. It was raining steadily outside. I looked around for an umbrella, but couldn't see one. I pulled the door softly closed behind me and started walking. I could have made coffee and taken it up to her, but I didn't want to put her in the way of temptation. I could have sat downstairs and waited for a taxi, but really I just wanted out of there. I was not only consumed by guilt and embarrassment, I was chewed up and spat out by it. Also, I had the mother of all hangovers. I stopped twice to be sick.

  I was having difficulty coping with alcohol, so I'd taken some cocaine to sort me out. There was some kind of epic madness to it which I might have appreciated if I'd been someone else. I had resolved, on setting out on this damp march, to never ever, ever drink again The cocaine went without saying. But, as ever, ever, ever, after walking for a while the rain and the cold and the exercise began to work on me. I decided I was being a little hasty in forever swearing off the drink. A few days to sort myself out, that was all I would need.

  I took out my mobile. At some point I had foolishly switched it off. I checked my text messages and saw that there were three, all from Patricia.

  The first said, 'Where are you? Dinner's getting cold.'

  The second, an hour later, said, 'Dan, give me a buzz, will you?'

  The third, somewhere around 3 a.m. said, 'You wanker, don't even bother coming home.'

  I have spent many useful hours of my life desperately concocting believable excuses for things I have or have not done, but walking towards the city centre, damp, sick and feeling very, very stupid, I couldn't think of a bloody thing. It crossed my mind that it might be better just to tell Patricia the truth, and then I couldn't help but laugh out loud, because telling the truth has never, ever been a realistic option. Since when did the truth ever make things better? Lying and lying well was the answer. Another answer was the avoidance of confrontation, and a third was the total and complete denial of responsibility. In my favour I had the fact that Patricia should be well used to it by now. Apart from the time when we were separated, I have only once really and properly strayed, and that almost destroyed us. She knows that I am inclined to get myself into situations that usually end with me falling asleep. She has forgiven me countless times. This was no different. I was guilty only of drinking and falling over. That it was in a beautiful half-naked widow-on-coke's house was neither here nor there.

  I got to the office at 7.30 a.m. Patrick and Stephen were already at their desks. I said, 'Don't you guys ever go home?'

  And they said, together, 'Don't you?' and then explained that Patricia had been on the phone already.

  I said, 'Oh. How did she sound?'

  'Well, we've never spoken to her before,' said Patrick. 'But is she always that angry?'

  'Not always,' I said, and then to change the subject quickly, followed it with, 'Are we nearly finished?'

  'Just waiting on your article.'

  I rolled my eyes.

  Stephen held up a photo. I'd been looking at a lot of photos of blonde would-be models in the past few days, and at first this one didn't seem much different. Belfast Confidential employed a lot of non-agency girls for their photo shoots because they were cheaper and people seemed to prefer the girl-next-door look to the plastic production-line version. Although we didn't go in for nudity, we were still in the grip of that fashion look which favoured the exposure of the belly button, which meant we had a large stockpile of photos of blonde girls who'd eaten too many chips. But on closer inspection, this one looked a little classier. She had proper clothes on and her hair was in a neat pony tail and she had a nice smile; she wasn't looking directly at the camera, but concentrating on a Salman Rushdie novel. And there was something vaguely familiar about her.

  'Ah,' I said. 'A bit of class at last.'

  They exchanged glances. 'That's Jacintha Ryan,' said Patrick.

  'Ryan's Jet Ryan?' They nodded. 'You're joking,' I said.

  They laughed. I laughed.

  'No, seriously,' I said. 'I saw her at a press conference the other day . . .'

  'Seriously,' said Stephen, 'that's yer woman. Although it was taken about twenty years ago. She's what . . . forty-five now?'

  Patrick nodded.

  'Jesus,' I said, admiring the photo again, 'I really have fallen in with the beautiful people. She was gorgeous. And she's not bad now.'

  'Well,' said Patrick, 'according to the people we've talked to, that beauty is only skin deep. They say she's as hard as nails. Doesn't suffer fools gladly. Will bite your head off and suck out your blood.'

  'All qualities,' Stephen pointed out helpfully, 'that would be perfectly acceptable in a businessman.'

  I gave him a steady look and asked him if he was gay. He denied it, but then didn't help his case much by saying he'd just die for an invite to her masked ball. I said, 'Well,
you're welcome to it, if you take Mary on your arm.' He didn't seem as distressed by this prospect as I would be. He kind of glowed at the thought of it. I took another look at Jacintha's photo. 'She's done well.'

  Patrick passed me a second photograph which showed a more familiar version of Jacintha Ryan, taken in New York at the press conference with Frank Galvin that I'd witnessed from Hillsborough Castle. Frozen in a black and white photo, the First Minister looked rather smug. I suppose you can afford to look that way if you have the power to okay tens of millions of pounds of loans and tax incentives to attract something like the RA auto factory to West Belfast.

  I said, 'Look at him – like butter wouldn't melt in his mouth. Didn't he pull some strings for her to get the land?'

  'Oh yes,' said Stephen.''Twas green, now 'tis brown i.e. there was this big whack of wasteland doing no one any good, but it was zoned green. Frankie boy Galvin thought it was better to have some nice American pump billions of dollars into our little economy than pay for the upkeep of three trees and a duckpond full of disused Tesco trolleys.'

  'To be strictly accurate,' said Patrick, 'three trees, a duckpond and the yellow diamond daisy.'

  'The what?' I asked.

  'The yellow diamond daisy.'

  'I heard you – just no comprendez.'

  'This particular area is one of the only places in Ireland – nay the UK – where the yellow diamond daisy grows au naturel. That's why it got green status about twenty years ago.'

  'I've never heard of the yellow diamond daisy.'

  'That's because it's rare, and they try to keep it secret. But it's common knowledge among yellow diamond daisy aficionados.'

  'Are you a yellow diamond daisy aficionado?'

  'No, but I surf the internet a lot.'

  'So what changed?'

  'Well, someone picked the yellow diamond daisy.'

  'Picked it? There was only one?'

  'No, there were about a hundred and fifty, but someone picked them, and overnight the need to keep it green disappeared. Which was remarkably good timing, seeing as how there was a rich, hard-as-nails American just looking at exactly that plot of land.'

  'You're not suggesting . . .'

  Stephen held up his hands. 'Perish the thought. Although there are yellow diamond daisy aficionados who will tell you otherwise.' I gave him a look. He said, 'No, really. There's a group of them tried to cause a stink about it, but one thousand jobs for beleaguered West Belfast seemed somehow more appealing.'

  'I see,' I said. 'Was Mouse particularly attached to the yellow diamond daisy?'

  'I think he was more attached to his Jet,' said Stephen.

  'But you never know,' added Patrick. 'He was a bit of a dark horse.'

  I had to agree.

  In fact, not only was he a bit of a dark horse, he was almost entirely unrecognisable from the man who had been my best friend. He had changed his lifestyle so completely that I was investigating the murder of a man I no longer knew, at the behest of a woman I had never known, but who had recently knocked me out with a quick view of her breasts and some top-of-the-range cocaine.

  22

  I copped out of the Mouse appreciation. I found an old photo of him from our punk days, looking wild and spiky, and ran it alongside one taken at the launch of the first issue of Belfast Confidential with his designer suit and surrounded by celebs. I just wrote: MOUSE, WE'LL MISS YOU and put it in big, bold type. It wasn't just the lingering hangover. It was awareness of my own inability to put what I felt into words, and also the fact that it was only right and proper to treat his death in a Belfast Confidential house-style. Blunt and to the point. In a black box on the same page I pasted in an appeal: Do you know who murdered Mouse? REWARD!!!!!! Contact Belfast Confidential NOW!!!!!!

  Patrick and Stephen looked down at what I'd done and agreed it was the right way to handle it. Also, I was the boss and paid their wages. I signed off on the pages, and that was it: my first issue of Belfast Confidential was away to the printers.

  It should have felt good.

  It didn't.

  Patrick and Stephen and the rest of the staff were going out for a celebratory lunch. Seemed that Mouse had treated them every week when the last pages went to press. But I didn't have the stomach for it, or the head, so instead I found a quiet pub just around the corner and sat on my lonesome, nursing a pint and staring at my mobile, trying to work up the courage to phone Trish. I only managed to work up the courage to order another pint. Fortified, I returned to the office full of resolve, eager to take the bull by the horns. I would send Patricia another text. It would be full of love and remorse and she would melt. She wasn't one for flowers or wine or extravagant gestures. She preferred to shout and curse. I was a man of words. Texting was much more appropriate.

  If you talk something up enough, you can convince yourself of anything.

  I breezed upstairs before Mary could collar me. My office door was open, and there was a strange man sitting opposite my desk. Strange as in his elaborately coiffured hair and his fake tan and his extravagant silk suit and in the way the smile he gave me could light up half of Belfast. He had a small digital video camera in one hand and as I entered he said 'Hi!' in a slightly camp South Belfast accent and extended his other hand.

  I shook it and moved behind my desk. He started to speak, but I held up a hand to shush him and pushed the button on my phone. 'Mary, I have Liam Miller in my office.'

  'I know,' she said.

  'Did I ask you to send Liam Miller up to my office?'

  'No, but he gave me a free book and complimented me on my hair.'

  'Okay,' I said. My eyes swept the walls of my office, in case he'd redecorated while he was waiting.

  'And your wife's on hold.'

  'Ah,' I said.

  'As she has been for the past sixty-five minutes.'

  I cleared my throat. 'When you put someone on hold, Mary, is there a tune that plays?'

  ' "The Entertainer". Or "The Sting" depending on your point of view.'

  If Patricia wasn't pissed off to start with, she would be by now. 'Could you tell her I'm going to be a while? I'm with someone.'

  'Of course.'

  I hit the button again. I looked at Liam Miller.

  'Liam Miller,' I said.

  'The one and only,' he grinned. 'Just give the word, I'm good to go.'

  'Excuse me?'

  He waved his camera at me. 'We use digital cameras, they won't be intrusive at all; you'll hardly know we're there.'

  'What are you talking about?'

  He smiled. In fact, it wasn't a new smile, it was a continuation of the old one. I suspected that even after a dig in the nuts and a headbutt he would still come up smiling, which would only encourage another assault. 'What am I talking about?' he repeated, like we were both in on a joke.

  My head was still sore and my wife was waiting and Liam's teeth were blinding.

  'No, really what are you talking about?'

  His eyes sort of narrowed, and he was probably trying to frown, but the Botox wouldn't allow it. 'We have a cross-promotional agreement.'

  'A what?'

  'I scratch your back, you scratch mine.'

  I took a deep breath and said, 'We seem to be getting our wires crossed, Liam. Perhaps if you could just start from the beginning?'

  'You're not winding me up? A lot of people try to wind me up.'

  I could see that, but I didn't say it. Charm and diplomacy.

  'As far as I'm concerned it's all signed and sealed.' He patted his jacket. There didn't appear to be anything in there besides some finely honed pecs. He was alluding to the fact that he had a contract for: 'A reality show. Every week we follow a local celeb through his working day, his homelife, we meet his family, have lunch with him, we get his views on life, all that sort of thing.'

  'Ah,' I said.

  'Then I pop up and give you some advice on how to sort out any inter-relationship problems you might be having, I redesign your kitchen and create a
water feature in your garden.'

  'Are you taking the piss?'

  'Well, not always a water feature. Decking, perhaps.'

  My phone rang. Mary said, 'Your wife says if you don't speak to her now she will take your CD collection and Frisbee each and every one into the Lagan.'

  I looked at Liam and said, 'Excuse me a moment,' then swivelled my chair round so that I didn't have to look at him. 'When she said this about the CDs, was it with a trace of humour?'

  'No.'

  I sighed. 'Okay, put her on.'

  There was a click and a little static, and then silence. Of the ominous calm before a storm variety.

  'Trish,' I said quietly. 'I'm with someone.'

  'I don't give a flying fuck. Where were you?'

  'I just got waylaid. It was to do with work – you know how mad it's been.'

  'And you couldn't phone.'

  'No, my battery died, and then I had something to eat and it must have been off so I ended up throwing up and I fell asleep and then I woke up in a blind panic and I've been trying to get you all morning. Is there something wrong with the phone?'

  'No, Dan. You slept where – the office?'

  'Yes, of course.'

  She was silent. Very silent. I know these silences. She knows I know these silences. I said, in a kind of half-joking, half-deadly-serious fashion, 'Unless, of course, you know better.'

  'Uhuh.'

  'Okay – all right, honest-to-God truth?'

  'I'm waiting.'

  'It was work, I did get sick, but not in the office. I talked to you, I was on my way home, then I realised I hadn't updated May Li on what's been happening at work, so I tried to phone her. The battery was dead, so I asked the taxi driver to stop by her house so I could tell her. I went inside, I told her what was what, I got sick, she let me sleep on the couch.'

  Silence.

  'I'm sorry, I should have called you. I really was sick. I know how it looks, but you can call her. She'll verify—'

  'I already spoke to her.'

  'Oh.'