'I'll bear it in mind.'
'Have you ever heard of Tourette's Syndrome?'
'Yes, I have.'
'It has many and varied symptoms, but amongst the best known are excessive swearing and pronounced facial tics and jerks.'
'Okay'
'Do you see where I'm going?'
'Not yet, but keep talking.'
'Your contract prohibits you from swearing on film, and imposes severe financial penalties on you personally and the magazine itself for breaching those clauses. So, if you were to swear frequently and cause filming to be halted, you would probably be adjudged to be in breach of contract and therefore liable to those selfsame financial penalties. However, if you were medically certified as suffering from Tourette's Syndrome, then you would be deemed incapable of acting in any other way and therefore not in breach of contract.'
'Only problem is, I don't suffer from Tourette's Syndrome.'
'How do you know?'
'Well, I don't know. Can you catch it?'
'I have no idea. But who's to say you can't? Or that you can't develop it? Or that you've always had it and it's lain dormant until the stress of running Belfast Confidential – or indeed dealing with Liam Miller – has brought it to the surface. We can certainly hire enough expert medical opinion to ensure a long and costly trial, and I doubt his people will have the stomach for that. You may have to continue with the bad language for several years afterwards just to keep up the charade.'
'So that's your advice. To curse my way out of it.'
'No, that's an option for you to consider, and bear in mind that if you leave your employment at any time in the near future, and Liam Miller decides to pursue a case against Belfast Confidential, our primary clients, then Belfast Confidential can countersue you for breach of contract, irrespective of whatever advice we gave you.'
'It's not advice, it's an option.'
'That's what I said, or if I didn't, I should have; it's late and I'm tired. I mean, can't you just go along with it? How bad can it be?'
'You've seen him on TV, and you're asking how bad it can be? That's one hour you see, with commercial breaks. I'm talking twenty-four hours with no relief.'
'Okay,' he said. 'Fair point. My wife wants to bear his children.'
'She's aware he's as bent as a threepenny bit?'
'I think that's the attraction.'
When I cut the line, I poked my head down out of the hatch, to find Patricia looking up.
'Who were you talking to?' she asked.
'Mind your own beeswax,' I said.
'Liam's ready for you now.'
'What do you mean, he's ready for me?'
'He's just setting up in the kitchen. He wants to talk about our relationship. I've done my bit.'
'You've done your bit?'
'Yes. Dan, come on, put the ladders down.'
I had drawn them up into the roofspace as a safety precaution. But I didn't move. I said again, 'You've done your bit. What exactly did you do?'
'Dan, for god sake, it's nothing to be afraid of. I said you were a big kid and a pain in the neck, but that I love you.'
'You told him that and he's going to show it all over the country'
'Yes. And he says the lawn's been planted all wrong – he's going to come back and dig it up. And he's going to help me design a memorial garden for Little Stevie.'
'You talked to him about Stevie?'
'Yes, I did.'
'And you think a memorial garden will sort things out?'
'It would be nice to have somewhere to go and sit in the sun and remember him.'
'I can't believe I'm hearing this.'
'Well, believe it. It's interesting, Dan. And it's important. To me, at any rate. Please do it, Dan – do it for me, eh?'
'Jesus Christ,' I said.
But I lowered the ladders, because she was my wife, and I cared about how she felt, and also because she ruled me with a rod of iron, because I needed it. She steadied the ladders as I climbed down. She gave me a hug and told me it would be fine.
Liam had placed his camera on a tripod and brought in an extra set of lights. He'd positioned them so that I was properly illuminated, but the background was dark. It made it look like I was being interviewed in a police cell, or on the set of Mastermind.
He said, 'This is, if you like, the serious part of the show.'
'As opposed to running my garden down.'
'Well, it's all over the place, Dan. It's supposed to be smooth, but there's lumps all over it.'
'Those will be the bodies.'
He looked at me. 'Shall we get started?'
'Shoot,' I said.
The first questions were about how I'd met Trish, and how did I think she'd changed over the years we'd been together. I answered as truthfully as I could.
On the third question, I began to blink.
He said, 'I think we'll try that one again.'
He asked the question again and I replied in a satisfactory fashion, at least until my head jerked suddenly to one side and I said, 'Fuckin' fuck.'
He held his hand up and said, 'Once more.'
'Sorry,' I said.
He asked the question again. It was about how I was coping with my newfound celebrity.
'Well,' I began, and my head jerked to one side, 'I think it's important to keep your feet . . .' and my head jerked to the opposite side, 'firmly on the ground.' My head moved slowly back to the middle. 'This is quite a small city, it's not like it's—' my head jerked left, then right, then left again, 'London or New York or . . . FUCKING CUNT HEAD!'
Liam jumped in his seat. He stopped the camera.
'Sorry!' I barked. 'I don't know what happened just then.'
He took a deep breath. 'That's okay. I just . . . The contract – there's no swearing allowed.'
'I understand that.'
'So if we could just . . . take our time. Deep breath, that's it. Now another . . . Okay, Dan, tell me, how are you coping with your newfound celebrity?'
'I think it's . . . fuck titwank . . . important to . . . bastard fuckshit . . . to keep your feet firmly on the . . . CUNTING ground.' My head jerked backward, then forwards. 'It's not like it's FUCKING LONDON!'
Liam angrily paused the camera again. He glared across at me. 'What are you playing at?'
'Nothing – swear to FUCKING God! Sorry, I just – FUCK OFF! I'm not trying to do . . . YOU FUCKING FRUIT . . . Sorry, I'm . . . maybe it's just too FUCKING late. I'm sorry, I need a drink.'
I pushed the chair back, and went to the fridge. I took out a can of beer, snapped it open, took a long drink, then held the cold can to my forehead. I turned, standing like that, towards him. 'Look, I know you're only trying to do your job, but perhaps we could try A-FUCKING-GAIN tomorrow. Sorry.'
He gave me a long, cool look. 'You know,' he said, 'swearing isn't big, and it isn't funny.'
'I FUCKING agree. CUNT. Sorry.'
He stood up. He took a deep breath. 'I know you don't want to do this, but I should remind you that you are contractually obliged to complete this programme in a satisfactory manner. Now, I appreciate that it's late, and we're all tired, but I want you to think about this . . . I want you to sleep on it, and then perhaps you'll realise that this isn't the best way to deal with what you perceive to be a negative situation. I'm going to leave this equipment here, and we'll finish off in the morning before you go to work. Shall we say 7.30 a.m.?'
I nodded.
'Very well.' He moved towards the kitchen door. As he opened it, he stopped and turned and said, 'If you are sleeping on it, I find that if you sleep on your side, with your legs drawn up, one hand on your hip and the other under the pillow, that's the best position for optimum rest. And also a cotton pyjama is nice and cool; silk's lovely to the touch but it's not good for sleeping in.'
I nodded again, mutely.
'Nighty-night, then,' he said.
'Nighty-FUCKING-night,' I responded. 'Sorry, I—'
As he moved along the hall, th
e front door bell rang.
'I'll get it!' Liam called back, remarkably cheerfully given the way the evening had ended up. It was now after 1 a.m., and my first thought was that it must be someone who had come to pick him up, but he hadn't called anyone and we were still supposed to be working, so it had to be for me or for Trish. Then I thought that nobody ever came calling so late, unless they were the bearer of bad tidings. Or, given the anarchy that has been a fixture of our lives, the bearer of something worse.
I stepped out into the hall after him. 'Liam, hold on a—'
He already had the door half-open, but before he could get it any further there was a sudden, deafening crack, the glass in the door shattered and Liam tumbled backwards, his arms flailing up, his legs completely out of control. I threw myself back into the kitchen just as a second bullet whacked into the doorframe beside me.
Upstairs Patricia screamed 'Dannnnnn!'
But I was fine.
It was Liam Miller who was dead.
25
The world is but a stage, and we are merely players on it. Or upon it. Or something. Sometimes old Shakey really hits the nail on the head. Another Shakey had once written about it being better to burn out than to fade away, and I suppose this was apt for Liam Miller. No declining audience figures for him. No piles of mouldering books in car boot sales. No fading hipster he, but a martyred icon, a James Dean of the thro wover rug, a Kurt Cobain of the designer sofa. Live fast, die young, and leave a good-looking apartment, with just a hint of pastel. In the process, be the star attraction at the social event of the year, your own funeral.
On this particular stage, a West Belfast cemetery, Liam Miller was transported to the grave in a surprisingly plain coffin. It was the only area of life – death – to which he had given no consideration, possibly because he thought he would live for ever, and so it fell to his mum to pick out his coffin and choose the hymns for the service. The church was small and musty and not at all used to the crush of celebrity, the flash of the bulb or the screaming of three hundred teenagers as the singer Kieren Kitt arrived to pay his respects to the man who had given him a radical make-over after his departure from the boy band, West Bell. The kids darted and sprinted and crouched between and behind the gravestones, trying to catch a glimpse of their idol as the funeral party inched along while playing serious tag with a security team employed to handle crowd control.
Kieren was a diminutive figure in a long black coat and a wide-brimmed hat, and even when the solemn words around the open grave were drowned out by his screaming fans he kept his head down. Others didn't look so happy. Van Morrison stood with his hands thrust into his pockets, perhaps devastated because not one single teenage girl had ever screamed for him; Liam Neeson read a poem by Yeats, but it was drowned out first by the screaming, and then by the clatter of a press helicopter far above. The chopper was a ridiculous and insensitive intrusion. And I'd hired it. The ex-Formula One driver Eddie Irvine had pleaded to drive the hearse, but had been rebuffed, and now stood chatting to Matthew Rye, possibly on the off-chance that he had the clout to get him back into Formula One. Somehow I doubted it. He had more chance of getting a hard hat and a day's work on a muck-shifter.
May Li was there. Black suited her, like every other colour in the world. Wendy turned up, but was kept out of the VIP enclosure by the bouncers and stood forlornly amongst the civilian onlookers, alternately straining to hear what was being said and snapping at Kieren Kitt's teen fans to be quiet. Terry Breene stood on a slight rise, flanked by the two accountants I'd seen with him in Past Masters. He took several sneaky sips from a hip flask. Patrick O'Brien, owner of Past Masters, came up and shook his hand, then continued on, working the crowd. Most of them were members of his club already, and many had also appeared on the Power List. Those that weren't, or hadn't, but fancied one or the other or both tried to catch his eye, and he was there, eager to throw it. If he could have given out membership forms, I think he would have.
I stood drinking it all in on an incline on the opposite side, within spitting distance of the Republican Plot, although I resisted the temptation. Immediately in front of me, with his back to me and scanning the mourners with his eagle eyes, was Alec Large. I wasn't sure if Large was his real name or a name he'd adopted to help him strike fear into, well, everyone, but I was glad of his presence nevertheless. He was, according to May Li, the best personal security specialist money could buy. He had worked in Iraq, he had guarded the Beckhams, and he swore blind he was supposed to be driving Princess Diana on the night she died but had suddenly had his shift changed, which he thought pointed to evidence of a conspiracy. I didn't care about his conspiracy theories. I cared about my own, and the fact that remnants of Liam Miller's brain were still splattered over my hall, playing untold havoc with both the Feng Shui of the house and my wife's mental health. Someone had tried to kill me, that was abundantly clear. I thought so, my wife thought so, May Li thought so. The cops who took me to Castlereagh station and questioned me thought so. Even good-cop bad-cop came in and gave me the I-told-you-so treatment and advised me to shut the magazine down and flee the country.
And I thought about it.
Seriously.
I don't like being shot at. I don't handle pain well. There's nothing like blood spurting out of a dying man to bring a little focus to your life.
If there is a dark corner to hide in, or a lie to get me out of trouble, then that is my perennial choice, but this was different. This was my home. I didn't want to run, I didn't want to hide. Besides, I'd been abroad, and people had tried to kill me there as well. The difference with this was the very nothingness of what I was trying to do – make a little money, compile a vacuous Power List for a fluffy celeb mag – and this insane over-reaction to it perplexed me no end. I hadn't killed anyone by accident or delivered some personal slight to some notorious gangster. Since Mouse's murder I had chatted to the owner of a private club, a car manufacturer's local rep and an ex-professional footballer. My worst crime was getting drunk and falling over. As far as I was aware, I'd offended nobody but my wife, the Belle of Belfast City and the bra of an astonishingly good-looking Thai widow. But now Liam Miller had taken a bullet intended for me, and the only response I'd yet come up with was to bring in a team of freelance photographers to capture every moment of his funeral for the next issue of Belfast Confidential. My first issue, featuring Mouse's death, was already on the streets, and was virtually sold out. For the next issue, featuring Liam's funeral, we would probably double the print run. I just hoped I'd be around to benefit from it.
May Li had offered us a safe house, but we'd turned it down.
I urged Patricia to take it, just to keep her out of harm's way. But she said, 'No, we don't run.'
'I do,' I protested.
'No, you don't Dan. Not for the important things.'
'And this is that important?'
'Yes, it is. It's Mouse. And it's our new house. We've moved all over the place, Dan, this is the first time I've really, really felt like it's our home for ever. They're not chasing us out.'
I think the neighbours might have preferred it. George and Georgina, not to forget Topper, glared at us over the fence; they glared at the cops and the ambulance and the Scenes of Crime tape and the forensics experts in their white overalls. They never offered us a cup of tea or a word of support. To make it worse, Topper never waved his paw at us, not even once.
So we got Alec Large instead. He was tall, but not as broad as you might expect. His black suit was Armani, and looked like one of Concrete Corcoran's better efforts. His eyes were dark and his eyebrows arched and he watched everyone like a hawk. I saw him stiffen as an overweight man in a rumpled trench-coat came towards me; I recognised him, but not his million-dollar smile. I said, 'That's okay,' to Alec, but he still insisted on frisking him.
'So, Toothless,' I said. 'What're you looking so happy about?'
'To see you alive, of course.'
I would have smiled, but I felt ash
amed of my dentalwork. 'So what do you hear, what do you say?'
'Is it okay to talk?' He cast a wary eye across Alec Large's back.
'Sure,' I said.
Toothless nodded warily, then dropped his voice. 'I hear you're as lucky as fuck. I hear the bullet's untraceable and nobody saw nothing. I hear shares in DIY companies took a tumble and garden centres have run up the black flag.'
'Aye,' I said. 'Did you get a look at that CCTV footage yet?'
'No, working on it.'
'The hookers come up with anything yet?'
'Nah.'
'A definite suspect?'
'Nah.'
'Anyone brought in for questioning?'
'No one important.'
'I'm sure there's a reason I pay you a retainer.'
'Show a little faith, Dan. You know, it's like buses.'
'You mean they never show up on time and they're always vandalised.'
'No, you wait ages for one, and then . . .'
'I take your point.'
He stood beside me and gazed out across the gathered mourners. He smiled again and said, 'Give the public what they want.'
I nodded, but there was something about the smile that was bothering me – or in fact, not the smile, the eyes, and the way he grimaced slightly when he spoke.
'You okay?' I asked.
He nodded. But then after a moment he said, 'Fucking teeth are killing me. I don't know, I think they're too fucking big or I've an infection or something. It's all that fucker's fault.' He nodded down towards Liam's coffin, which was now being gently eased into its resting place. 'Wife saw his fucking show about cosmetic surgery, he said "Life's too short to go around with crazy teeth, get 'em fixed". So I did, and they're fucking killing me. They're already calling me Smiler round work. I liked being Toothless, you know what I mean? You spend a long time building a character, and it's all basically fucked overnight. The fucker.'
'Well, maybe you killed him then.'
He smiled, without really meaning to. 'Nah,' he said. 'Shooting him would have been too fucking quick. Roast him on a fucking spit, and baste him with aromatic spices. Fuckin' eat him then, with a bag of chips.'
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