Belfast Confidential

by Bateman, Colin

  We walked down a long hall and into a large kitchen. At the back of the kitchen there was a padlocked door. He opened this and reached inside to turn on the lights. Then as they flickered into fluorescent life he led me down a flight of steps into a huge underground cellar which was filled from one side to the other with stacked rows of large cardboard boxes. As we passed through them I noted that many bore Japanese or Chinese or some kind of Oriental inscriptions.

  I said, 'So how's business?'

  'Fair to middlin',' he responded.

  'Are we in Northern Ireland now, or the Republic?'

  Concrete stopped and examined his surroundings. Then he took another three steps forward, and waved me over. 'Now we're in the Republic. Famous for little green men and not taking an active part in any world wars. Their police officers are not armed.'

  Behind me the driver snorted.

  At the far end of the cellar, there was another door which required a security code to gain access. Concrete punched it in, while the driver stood at my shoulder, rubbing his hands together. 'Christ,' he said, 'have we run out of oil?'

  And then they both burst into laughter.

  I managed a grin. It was, after all, part of what they did for a living, smuggling oil. I didn't give them a whole grin because I was too busy worrying about what was behind the door, or what they would do to me once they had me in there. They say that in space, no one can hear you scream, but I was willing to bet that they couldn't hear you underneath Concrete Corcoran's house either.

  My only hope was that Mary had had a sudden brainstorm and somehow understood what I'd been trying to tip her off to.

  It wasn't much of a hope.

  Concrete opened the door, reached inside, and flicked the lights on. 'Voilà!' he exclaimed, then waved me forward.

  I stepped hesitantly through the opening, expecting at any moment to be cracked across the back of the head, or hurled forward into a stinking underground cell. But instead there were clean white tiles and brightly painted walls and clear, precise lighting, all of which provided perfect conditions for the dozen or so oil paintings on display in what was quite clearly Concrete Corcoran's private art gallery.

  Concrete took me gently by the arm and guided me forward. 'Well, what do you think?'

  'I'm . . . not sure. This is most . . . ahm . . . unexpected.'

  He was smiling widely. The driver nodded appreciatively as he trailed along behind us.

  'It's temperature controlled. I had the best in the business in to sort that out. The walls are three feet thick – there's not a drop of moisture will get through them. They'll last for ever.'

  'I'd . . . no idea you were a collector.'

  'Collector? Pish! They're mine – I painted them.'

  'You?'

  'Yes.'

  'All of them?'

  'Every single one – and this is only the half of them. Oh, you've no idea!' He squeezed my arm hard, but not in a threatening way. He was buzzing with excitement. 'It's like the floodgates just opened! Once Liam gave me a few lessons it was just like I'd been doing it for ever. He thought they were fantastic! He wasn't only my friend and mentor, Dan, he was my agent as well. They've been selling like hot cakes!'

  Almost all of them were landscapes, and as we made a circuit of the room I realised that I'd seen their like before, decorating the walls of Past Masters.

  'Well,' I said, 'I'm very impressed.'

  'Are you really? Honestly?'

  I nodded. I was, kind of. I had no idea if the paintings were any good. The trees looked like trees and the bushes looked like bushes. I recognised Scrabo Tower and the Carrick-A-Rede ropebridge and Wrathlin Island. And there was no reason why a thug, a bandit and a killer couldn't have another string to his crossbow. I said, 'I know nothing about art, but I know what I like.'

  'Brilliant,' Concrete enthused, giving my arm another squeeze. 'I'm really chuffed. It's not going to be a problem then, is it?'

  'Is what?'

  'Dan – what I brought you here for. I knew I could convince you, once you saw them. You see, I'm a different man now, I've seen the light. Half of us, when we get out of all the shootin' and killin', we go and get born again, but I've never been into God. I'm into Art, Dan, I'm a born-again painter!'

  I nodded.

  'And that's what I need from you, Dan – your support, your commitment.'

  'Well . . .' I said.

  'That means the Power List, Dan. It'll do me the world of good.'

  'I'm not sure if I—'

  'They say the past is another country, don't they, Dan? We have to move on, to forget it, don't we? Well, this is what I want you to do. My entry in the Power List, it has to be about my art, about how important it is, about the critical acclaim it's getting. Nothing to do with the old stuff, okay? Nothing at all. Not one reference to it, you understand? I want a complete break. Christopher Corcoran, Landscape Artist. That's it. Straight into your Top Ten. Is that all right?'

  'That's all right,' I said.

  27

  Concrete buzzed his wife on the intercom. Then he buzzed her again. She answered just as he was trying it for the third time. 'Delores,' he said, 'you can bring the wine and cheese now.'

  There was a pause, and then: 'I'm watching Holby City.'

  'It's on the same channel as EastEnders, it's still taping.'

  'But I'm halfway through it now.'

  'Will you just bring the fucking wine and the fucking cheese?'

  There was no response. He drummed his fingers on the wall. 'Delores?' He glanced back at me, looked at his watch, and drummed his fingers again. 'Delores?'

  'All right! I'm coming!'

  Satisfied, he turned away from the speaker. 'Now then,' he said, 'where were we?'

  'I was trying to explain that I can't just ignore your past. If I put you in the Power List and don't even mention that you're . . . who you are, then it would look very strange. The List would lose all credibility.'

  'Do I give a fuck about that?'

  'A true artist would. Your background is surely part of who you are as . . . an artist.'

  He thought about that for a moment. 'Right. I see your point.'

  I was feeling a little braver now, which was probably a mistake, given my surroundings, but I have always been one to open my mouth before my brain's in gear and I was suddenly and inexplicably feeling quite protective of Belfast Confidential and its reputation. 'You see,' I pointed out, 'if it reads like advertising, it probably is advertising, and people won't take it seriously. But if it's written objectively, with complete artistic freedom, in the same way that you create your landscapes, then the results will be a much more accurate ahm barometer of your place in . . . society.'

  'But what if it's a hatchet job?'

  'Well, that's a risk you take in a democratic society.'

  'You'll be writing it, though.'

  'I probably will. Yes.'

  'So you'll make it fair.'

  'It will be accurate.'

  He thought about that some more. Then he nodded. 'And sure I already have the advert to back it up.'

  'You have an advert? In Belfast Confidential?'

  'Double page centrefold spread, next week's issue. Signed sealed and delivered. We're having a big exhibition at the Orchard Gallery – we'll shift some paintings that night. Then the crowning glory will be our place on the Power List. We will truly have arrived.'

  'When you say we, you mean you?'

  'No, I mean we. The whole school.'

  'School?'

  'I'm not the only one, my friend. There's a whole new generation coming through, and I'm right at the heart of it. It's so exciting. We have our own workshop in Belfast an' all.'

  'I hadn't heard.'

  'Oh aye, though we've changed our name. Used to be called Paint Brush, but that led to too many misunderstandings, of which I was the winner, but eventually I decided to rename it Easel. Sounds good, doesn't it? Painting fans get it, at any rate.' I nodded. He turned back to the buz
zer and pressed. 'Where is that fucking witch?' There was no response.

  'She'll be in the kitchen, Boss,' said the driver, 'and the speaker's bust in there.'

  'This house is too fucking big,' Concrete snapped. 'Go and give her a hand.'

  The driver nodded, and hurried out of the gallery. I took advantage of the distraction to examine the closest landscape to me in a little more detail. There was a white card taped to the wall beside it. 'Fields, Trees and Bushes Outside Lisburn ' by Christopher Corcoran. £10,000.

  I glanced back at him. 'You get ten grand for these?'

  Concrete came up on my shoulder. 'At least. Depends how the bidding goes. I have slides I gave to your advertising guys, but you can use them in your article as well, if you like.'

  'Okay,' I said. I nodded around the walls. 'I'm surprised you have the time. What with all your . . . commitments.'

  'Ah, sure the business runs itself these days.'

  'It must be very lucrative – imports and exports.'

  'Oh, aye. It's the paperwork gets you down.'

  'You do paperwork?'

  Concrete nodded. 'Of course I do. Will I let you into a little secret, Dan? You're not stupid, you know who I am, what I've done, but the fact of the matter is that sometimes in business it's good to have that reputation: it helps with the old negotiatin', you know what I mean? But the truth is, the business is now almost entirely legit.'

  'Almost,' I said.

  'Absolutely. I'd say, seventy-three per cent legit. And growing every day. It's like The Godfather, Dan, the way they were always going legit.'

  'Didn't every Godfather movie end with a massacre?'

  'Ah, Dan, for fuck sake, don't be so cynical, that's the movies.'

  'Of course,' I said.

  I looked a little closer at Fields, Trees and Bushes Outside Lisburn. There was a zebra in the bottom left-hand corner. I pointed this out to him. He smiled and said, 'Let me tell you a story, Dan. When I first started off with this lark, with Liam's guidance, I entered one of my landscapes in a little art competition in Belfast – didn't say who I was, you know, kept it all anonymous.' He smiled. 'Sure haven't I been doin' things anonymously for years? Anyway, I entered it and this guy from the Irish News writes this review which comments favourably on my picture in particular but says there's not enough happening in it, and suggests the addition of animals to, and I quote "help add perspective". So I'm really made up with this, my first review, it's a real cracker, but I want to know more about what he means, about not enough happening in the picture, so I go and see him at his house. It's three o'clock in the morning, because that's when I do my thinking, and I'm wearing the old balaclava, 'cos I don't want him to know who I am, in case it colours his judgment, you know what I mean?'

  I nodded.

  'So I'm sitting on the end of his bed, discussing art with him in his pyjamas, three o'clock in the fucking morning, and it was fucking fascinating. Surreal, but fascinating. Not that I've any time for that shit. The Surrealists. Won't have it in my school. Pile of shite, I say. Anyway, I says to him would it help if I put some animals in my landscapes, and he thought it was a good idea. I asked him for a list of animals which might find favour with the art critics, and he said it wasn't a good idea to try and please critics in this way. But I thought, like, that you have to have the courage of your convictions, so he agreed to discuss the possible animals I might include. He favoured the more traditional approach – you know, pigs or cows or sheep or a goat or something. But to tell you the truth, even as he was talking, I was thinking, It's too tame, fucking goats. What about something exotic, like a giraffe or a water buffalo, you know?'

  I nodded.

  'You see, if people look at one of my paintings and they see a zebra, they're going to say, "Hey, what's that zebra doing in a field outside Lisburn? Did it escape from a zoo?" There's no doubt about it – great art makes you think.'

  I was starting to get a crick in my neck from all the nodding.

  'But I mean, the thing is, Dan, most artists, you know they're shy and retiring and all that, but to get anywhere these days you have to go out there and sell yourself. Take this very same painting: after I'd gone home and stuck the zebra in it, the fucking Newsletter of all papers prints a review and the critic says, basically, "Forget about the zebra, the rest of the painting is . . ." and it cut me to the fucking bone . . . "drab". Drab! Does this look drab to you?'

  'No,' I said.

  'So, I goes to his house one night and climb in through his kid's bedroom window and get him up against the wall and say, "Drab, who're you calling fucking drab, in your crap wee house?" Sometimes you gotta take the bull by the horns, you know? So I sat him down and explained to him that although on the surface I was only painting hills and trees and bushes and it might look a bit quiet, like, even with the zebra – I mean, it's fucking tiny, you'd hardly notice it – if he was to look beyond the hills, out of sight, he'd see the Long Kesh prison camp where I served seven years for attempted murder. He agreed that this completely altered his views on the painting. You see, Dan, the meaning was in the subtext. Do you get it?'

  'I get it.'

  'Good. Now where's that fucking wine and cheese?!' He stormed back across to the buzzer again and kept his finger jammed on it for three minutes, without response.

  I said, 'You explained all this about your art to Mouse, didn't you?'

  'Oh aye. I'm always spreading the word.'

  'And what did he say?'

  'He seemed to take it all on board.'

  'And did he agree to put you in the Power List?'

  'I think it went without saying.'

  'Without referring to your back story?'

  'He said he'd see what he could do, but he didn't bother explaining it to me the way you did, Dan. I appreciate that. You know, I'm a fair man, I can see both sides. So, the best I can say is, like, leave it to your conscience. Penalise me for my past sins, or celebrate my new life. You decide.'

  'All right,'I said.

  'C'mon – for fuck sake, we'll go and get our own fucking wine and cheese.'

  I'm really not that—'

  'C'mon!'

  He jerked his head towards the door, and started walking. I followed. He was a big man with a notoriously mean temper, and if I didn't do what he said, he might kill me – or lock me in for the night with his landscapes. He was clearly as mad as a bag of spiders.

  As he realigned the temperature control and then punched in the security code, I took a last look at his gallery. 'Ten grand, eh?' I said out loud, without really meaning to.

  Concrete was leading me back through the cellar when he stopped suddenly and yanked open one of the cardboard boxes. As he reached inside he said, 'Have you seen the new Spielberg?'

  I shook my head.

  He produced a DVD. 'I know you haven't – neither has anyone else!' He pushed it into my hands. 'Plenty more where that came from. Howse about a suit?'

  'Don't wear them,' I said.

  'Ah, an artist, just like me.'

  'Just like you,' I agreed.

  He offered me half a dozen other counterfeit items as we crossed the cellar floor. I rejected them all, because I can't be bought, but held onto the Spielberg as it was supposed to be a real return to form. He began to shout as we moved up the stairs. 'Delores! For fuck sake!' He put one hand on the door to pull it open. 'How many fucking hours does it take to—' and then he stopped so quickly that my head banged into his rear end just above me on the stairs.

  From the kitchen someone snapped: 'Put your hands on your fucking head!'

  Concrete slowly raised them. I couldn't see around him, couldn't identify the source.

  'Slowly – come out fucking slowly!'

  Concrete took a step forward. 'Now boys,' he said calmly, 'sure you could have just knocked the door and I would have let youse in and made youse a cup of tea.'

  'Shut your fucking mouth, Concrete – now where is he?!'

  'Who?'

  'You know! Whe
re the fuck is he?'

  'Fraid you've lost me, boys.'

  'Where's Starkey? What have you done with him?'

  Concrete, his hands still raised, glanced back at me. 'Dan, mate – someone's looking for you.' He moved a little to the side, so that I could see: a cop with a gun.

  The cop shouted: 'Whoever you are, come out with your hands up!'

  I moved forward into the light, with my hands raised. There were four cops in body armour and flak jackets, each with their guns drawn and pointed at Concrete, and now covering me as well. Two more cops were on the other side of the kitchen, with their weapons trained on Delores and the driver, who lay on the floor with their hands clasped behind their heads.

  'What's going on?' I asked.

  'We ask the fucking questions!' They were nervous. Nervous and angry. 'Who the fuck are you?'

  'I'm Starkey.'

  'Dan Starkey?'

  'Last time I checked.'

  'ID, show me some fucking ID!'

  I made a move for my back pocket and my wallet but one of the other cops rushed forward, screaming, 'Leave it!' I left it. He fished the wallet out of my pocket and flipped it open. My press card was there. It wasn't a great picture, but it was me. He nodded back at his comrades. 'It's him.'

  'Are you all right?'

  'Yes.'

  'You're being held against your will?'

  'No.'

  'You were kidnapped earlier this evening in Belfast?'

  'No.'

  'No . . . really.'

  'Then what are you doing here with Concrete Corcoran?'

  'He was showing me his etchings.'

  'What's going on?'

  'I'm telling you the truth.'

  'Do you wish to press charges?'

  'No.'

  'You're not being held against your will?'

  'No.'

  'Nor any of your family?'

  'No!'

  The cops exchanged glances. Then they slowly lowered their weapons. 'Fuck,' said one.

  'Are you happy now, boys?' Concrete asked.