So I said, 'Aye, right enough.'
'We moved eight thousand vol-au-vents tonight.'
'Well, I hope someone picks them up in the morning.'
Before he could respond, spontaneous applause broke out behind me, and I turned to see that Frank Galvin had entered. He began to work the room, starting with the Linfield players, getting royally pissed in one corner, and then briefly commiserating with the Maccabi coaching staff and players, and even posing for photographs with them, in another. When he was finished with that he started in on the rest of us, shaking hands and swapping jokes. It was an odd sort of a crowd, not the kind you would normally have associated with Linfield Football Club. There were a certain number of old fellas, mumbling incoherently into their whiskies about how it wasn't like it was in the old days, and a spattering of reformed hoods in suits pleased to be mixing with the in-crowd, but for the most part it was made up of the same faces I'd encountered at Liam Miller's wake, and had stared at every day over the past few weeks as I shuffled their pictures for inclusion in the Power List. Terry Breene, despite being an alcoholic with someone else's liver, had brought a little bit of celebrity magic to the club, and Belfast's social elite were paying him back by including Windsor Park on their social circuit.
Eventually, Galvin began to make his way along the bar, and then he was smiling at me and extending his hand. As he did, an aide whispered into his ear, clearly giving him my name.
'Dan!' he said, pumping my hand. 'Good to see you.'
'Good to see you,' I said.
'Great game, eh?'
'Magic,' I said.
'Did you see my penalty?'
'Oh, I was cheering you all the way. Although there was someone behind me shouting, "Miss, you fat fucker".'
The smile looked a little more fixed. 'Well, that's democracy for you.' Then he winked and said, 'If you give me his name, I'll have him picked up.' He let go of my hand and reached behind me to accept a glass of Bush from O'Brien. 'Cheers, Pat,' he said, then returned his attention to me. 'So, you're the new man at Belfast Confidential.'
'Aye.'
'Didn't you used to be big in newspapers?'
'I'm still big, it's the newspapers that got small. Tabloid, actually.'
He nodded and dropped the smile. 'Shame about what happened to Mouse. Nice guy.'
'Yeah,' I said.
'Police found anyone yet?'
'Not yet.'
'Well, they will. They will. And you'd a brush with danger yourself.'
'Yes, I did.'
'Dreadful. Dreadful. I thought those days were gone.'
'So did I.'
'And poor Liam. Terrible loss.' He nodded around the lounge. 'He designed this place, you know.'
I nodded with him. 'He was certainly a busy bee.' Across the room I noticed for the first time that one of the walls featured a Concrete Corcoran landscape, but it was too far away to see what exotic animal he'd managed to introduce into the local surroundings.
'Well,' said Galvin, 'I hope you won't let it stop you. You're doing a grand job. I make sure my office gets Belfast Confidential every week.'
'Good to know.'
'And I'm especially looking forward to the Power List issue. I was number one last year, do you know that?'
I nodded.
'So what about this year?'
'Too early to say.'
'Oh, come now.'
I smiled. 'What's it worth?'
He smiled back. 'A Housing Executive house in Twinbrook?' He laughed. I laughed. 'No, seriously, what are the chances?'
'Fair to middlin',' I said.
'I reckon my only competition will be Jacintha Ryan, what do you say?'
'You may have a point. You've met her?'
'Oh yes. Lovely woman, lovely – we had dinner in New York. You put her on your cover, you'll shift a few copies. And as for that car!'
'You've driven it?'
'Not yet, but I hear it handles like a dream.'
'Yeah, it does.'
'You've driven it?'
'Oh aye. I think Jacintha has her priorities just about right.'
Galvin gave a fake sigh. 'You know something – you're probably right.' He extended his hand again, and I shook it. He moved on. His aide whispered another name into his ear, and the relentless glad-handing began again.
Patrick O'Brien set me up with another drink. 'Grand man,' he said, nodding after Galvin. 'Grand man.'
'Don't tell me,' I said, 'he's a regular down at the club.'
'Well, of course he is. Where else would he go?'
I shrugged. I sipped my drink. Terry Breene sang 'My Way'.
Two hours later, and twenty minutes after the shutters had gone up on the bar, Terry called for silence. He was hoarse, both from screaming at his team from the touchline and from completing the Sinatra song-book. Also, coughing as if he lived in the trenches didn't help matters. 'Ladies and gentlemen,' he said into the microphone, 'please, please . . .'
'Please release me!' some wag shouted.
'Thank you, Engelbert. Ladies and gentlemen,' silence was slowly falling, 'I think you have to agree – it's been a fantastic night!'
There were roars and cheers from all around Liam Miller's pastel-flavoured corporate lounge.
'And the good news is – it's not over yet!' Another cheer went up. 'Our kind sponsors at Ryan Auto,' and he nodded at Matthew Rye, standing beside him, 'have decided that the party must continue – and to that end there are three coaches waiting outside to ferry you all back to Past Masters, where my friend Pat O'Brien assures me we can all drink and dance through to the early hours. And it's all on Ryan Auto!'
A fresh roar went up. Terry gave Matthew Rye a hug. Rye, in the same grey suit and red tie as I'd seen him in the other day, looked sober and embarrassed.
'Oh . . .' Terry raised the mike again. 'And if you're driving, don't forget to take the car!'
The partygoers, including me, were soon ushered downstairs and out into the players' car park where three Ulster Bus luxury coaches were waiting. The Linfield and Maccabi Tel Aviv players and staff were led onto the first, the rest of us crammed onto the other two. Most of the people around me had brought their drinks with them. I had a bottle of Bud in either pocket and one in my hand. Past Masters was only a mile away, but the lights could easily be against us.
There weren't enough seats, so I stood in the aisle examining Belfast's social elite as we pulled away from the ground. They hadn't made many concessions to the fact that they'd been at a football match. In fact, I was willing to risk a wild guess that 90 per cent of them hadn't actually bothered watching the game. I decided to test this theory by asking a pretty young lady to explain the offside rule to me, but before she could address this important question the bus lurched to a sudden halt and she spilled her glass of red wine down her dress. 'Oh fucking fuck,' she hissed, wiping at her bosom. Sensing that she probably wouldn't appreciate an offer of help, I ducked down to peer out of the rain-speckled window. We'd only been moving for three or four minutes, and had made it as far as the bottom of the Lisburn Road. We appeared to be stuck at the traffic lights at the junction with Sandy Row. This was fortunate, because instead of having to look at luxury apartments and chic coffee-houses we got to appreciate exciting wall murals celebrating the UVF. Most of the surrounding streets had been gentrified in recent years, but when they came knocking on the Sandy Row doors the gentrifiers had been gently told to fuck off.
The girl beside me was still complaining about her dress. Everyone else was contentedly drinking and jabbering away. After a couple of minutes, and still no sign of any forward progress, I pushed towards the driver. I could see the rear lights of the bus ahead of us, also stopped.
'What's up?' I asked.
'Lights are stuck on red.'
'Well, if they're stuck, can't you just ignore them? It's one o'clock in the morning – you're hardly going to disrupt the traffic.'
'More'n me job's worth, mate,' he responded.
I was about to give him a drunken mouthful when movement to my left, outside, caught my eye, and I ducked down for a closer look. There were figures hurrying out from the shadows of Sandy Row, and I thought at first that they might be Linfield fans rushing to applaud their stalled heroes, but then I saw one streak past the front of the bus carrying a baseball bat.
It was a little bit late for team sports. Despite the din around me I heard breaking glass from up ahead.
I said, 'Open the door.'
The driver, who appeared to be the only one on the bus who'd heard the glass break as well, said, 'Not on your fucking life.'
'Open it!'
He gave me a wide-eyed look, then pushed a button. The doors hissed open and I jumped down. A moment later they hissed closed again. Ahead, there was a crowd standing round the front of the first bus, the team bus. The door had been smashed in, and at least a dozen boys, either in balaclavas or with Linfield scarves tied around their faces, were pulling people off. As I drew closer I could see from their distinctive green tracksuits now emerging into the rain that it was the Maccabi players who were being forced off. The bus driver was sitting on a kerb, cradling the side of his head. Then Terry Breene was off as well, and he was pushing and prodding the lad who seemed to be in charge, a skinhead with a pierced eyebrow.
'What are youse doing! You can't do this!'
'We'll do what the fuck we like,' the boy snapped. 'Now get out of my fucking face!'
'No! For Christ sake, man, do you know who I am?'
'Yeah, you're the chief Fenian, now fuck off, old man, or you'll get fucking brained too.'
But Terry wasn't for moving. The Maccabi players were now lined up along the side of the bus. Above them I could see the pale faces of the Linfield players, staring aghast out of the rain-speckled glass, although not aghast enough to get out and help. I tried to move up closer, but another kid who apparently couldn't afford a baseball bat stopped me in my tracks with the pointed end of a rusted railing spike, and a growled, 'Where the fuck do you think you're going?'
'Taking a piss, mate,' I said.
I often add the word 'mate' when I'm talking to tough guys. It's like we're brothers. Arguing ones, in this case, as he gave me a quick jab with his makeshift spear and said, 'You fucken piss off over there then,' and he nodded in the opposite direction. I gave him the thumbs-up sign with my bottle and backed away. I went round the back, then hurried down the blind side, along the length of three buses, before crossing the front of the team bus. I stood behind the crowd of hoods, unnoticed.
The Maccabi players were plainly terrified. Maybe coming from Israel made it harder; they knew about casual violence and weren't naïve enough to think that this was just an elaborate way of being asked for autographs.
The lead hood was walking up and down in front of them, swinging a baseball bat. In the few moments it had taken me to move around the back of the buses Terry Breene had been laid out flat. He lay motionless on the cracked tarmac. The Maccabi manager was trying to get off the bus. He was shouting loudly, but he didn't seem to know any English. Even if he had, it wouldn't have made much difference. One of the lads poked him in the groin with his bat and he stumbled backwards. A few moments later he tried to get off again, but this time he was dragged back by several of the Linfield players.
Further up the road, the excited chatter from the other buses had not dulled one iota. If they were aware, they didn't care. Party on.
The lead hood was doing what hoods do best, threatening and slabbering. 'You bring your fucking Jew noses over here, contaminating our air, you're going to fucking pay for it. We beat you to a fucking pulp on the pitch, and now we're gonna do it right here, just to make sure you get the message.'
One of the players tried to reason with him. 'It is football,' he began, then struggled to find the correct English. 'Beautiful game . . . we all . . . brothers.'
'Brothers fuck,' snapped the hood, and whacked him across the knees with his bat. The player let out a groan and collapsed to the ground. The hood stood over him and hit him five more times.
Sickening.
As he raised it for a sixth, I stepped forward.
I'm not brave, but I am stupid. There are many who will testify to this.
I said, 'Lads, lads, for fuck sake.' The hood paused; two others came forward and grabbed me. But like Chamberlain, I persevered. 'Lads, you gotta look at the bigger picture.'
'What the fuck are you talking about?' the lead hood snarled.
'The bigger picture, lads. I'm sure youse have your reasons like, but if you do this, then Linfield are gonna be kicked out of the competition – and that means no Bayern Münich or Barcelona, no magical nights at the Bernabau, no Real Madrid galacticos playing at Windsor Park, no European Cup glory . . . Lads, youse'll talk about those nights for ever, youse'll tell your kids, lads! You can't do this!'
'Can't we fuck,' said the hood, and whacked me with his bat.
It didn't knock me out, but it knocked me down. I lay on the damp tarmac with blood oozing down my scalp and into my eyes, and it blinded me, but it didn't deafen me. I could hear the Maccabi players screaming in pain as the hoods bore down on them.
33
I was given the all-clear to leave the City Hospital at nine the next morning. I'd four stitches just above my hairline, but the delay in my release was more to do with the overcrowding in Casualty than the seriousness of my injury. The medical staff were all busy dealing with the Maccabi Tel Aviv players – nine of whom were suffering from broken legs. There were also smashed knees, fractured arms, and vicious, gaping head wounds. They looked suitably miserable, but still only half as forlorn as Terry Breene, who had little more than a mild concussion. He lay on his bed staring at the ceiling, totally lost. I tried talking to him, but he wasn't interested. Just. Stared. At. The. Ceiling.
Patricia had arrived at four, with Alec Large in tow. Her initial concern gradually gave way to her usual pissed-off demeanour over me getting involved in the first place. Why didn't you just get a taxi home? Why do you have to drink on and on? Why didn't you stay on the bus? What sort of a wanker are you? I told her to fuck off and leave me alone, and she told me to fuck up. It went back and forward like that for a while until the nurses told us to shut up, and then Alec Large tried to broker a peace deal by explaining how he would have dealt with the situation. For a start he would have provided armed security for each bus, and he certainly wouldn't have allowed anyone to get off. If by some remarkable chance the hoods had managed to board the team bus, Alec would have tackled the ringleader first. 'Cut off the head and the body will die,' he said. It was easy for him to be wise after the fact. He went on and on about it, how he would do this, how he would have done that. Patricia and I gradually forgot our differences and instead formed an alliance against Alec. As he yittered on, I closed my eyes and she rubbed my arm and whispered that she'd have me home soon.
When we left the hospital there were reporters waiting outside. They were anxious to interview anyone who'd been involved. I knew most of them, but I kept my mouth shut and my eyes averted. Alec Large walked ahead of us, clearing the way. I'm not normally so shy, but my head hurt and I wanted to lie down with Patricia. We'd already watched the Power Listers who'd been on the buses with me give their views on a TV in the Casualty waiting room, despite the fact that they'd been too busy drinking to even realise what was going on outside until long after it was over. But they weren't wrong in what they said, almost uniformly, that this would be damaging not only to Linfield Football Club, but to the Province in general. UEFA, European soccer's governing body, had already announced a full enquiry and both the news and sports media were saying that any hopes the local team had of taking further part in European competitions were hanging by a thread. Tourist chiefs were saying that this kind of incident would scare tourists away. Frank Galvin condemned it. The police said it was too early to say who was responsible, but they suspected Loyalist paramilitaries or a far right group or the Arabs who ra
n the kebab shop down the road and around the corner. Well, not quite, but they didn't seem to have much of a clue. I continued to listen to all of this informed commentary as we drove home, the undamaged part of my head leaning against the window in the back. Patricia drove. Alec watched out for trouble.
'I'll make us all a nice fry when we get home, then you can go to bed and sleep it off,' she said.
Patricia and Alec chatted easily. It was never an effort to talk to Trish, but there and then it was a relief to have Alec as a distraction for her. She'd picked me up from too many hospitals. She'd rescued me too many times. And I'd put her in the way of danger so often that a certain part of her almost expected it. But it didn't mean she liked it, or could ever get used to it. She'd given me a hard time already, although it was laced with love and sympathy, but sooner or later her patience was going to run out. That, or one of us would die. The chances were that it would be me, but my luck was also such that it could just as easily be her.
I couldn't imagine a life without her.
I was nodding gently against the window, nestling into that almost-asleep state from which novelists and painters and sleuths and inventors sometimes grab their best ideas. I was none of these things, but eternally hopeful that the images that were cascading through my brain might somehow assume a pattern or suggest an answer. I'd just left Terry Breene staring at a ceiling in the hospital, his dreams all but shattered by a pack of hooligans. The attack on the footballers' bus hadn't been a random one, that was for sure. They hadn't just noticed the bus, they'd stopped it deliberately and come ready for violence. The question was, was it just an unfortunate but isolated attack motived by race or religion, or could it in any way be connected to everything else that was going down? I'd spent every day since joining Belfast Confidential looking for those connections. They didn't have to be there, and if they were, they wouldn't connect everything to everything else, but I felt certain that they were there, somewhere. They had to be.
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