Nine Inches

by Colin Bateman

‘Oh . . . yes,’ he said. ‘What’s that you’re saying about . . .?’

  ‘Just trying to get your attention, Professor. Do you prefer Professor, or Mister, or Minister, or first-name terms?’

  ‘It depends on who I’m speaking to, and why. Is this government business, or Assembly, or private, or . . .?’

  ‘This time it’s personal,’ I said.

  He paused for a moment and then said, ‘You can call me Professor. Incidentally, how did you get this number?’

  ‘Ah, now,’ I said.

  He said, ‘Listen, Dan, I’m just sitting down for dinner, and I make a point of trying to protect family time, it’s rare enough. So what can I do for you?’

  ‘Well, Peter, it has to do with the Miller brothers buying influence in the Assembly, mostly through the blackmail of your wife.’

  ‘My . . .? Hold on one second.’ He must have held the phone against his chest, because the sound became muffled. I could just about make out him saying: ‘Darling, I’m just going to take this in the other room.’

  A few moments later I heard a door close, the squeak of someone sitting down in a leather chair and then a colder, harder voice, but still the Professor’s, saying: ‘Now just you listen to me. I don’t know how you got this number or what it is you’re after, but I am a government minister, I can make so much trouble for you that—’

  ‘Cut the crap, Pete.’

  Pause for intake of breath.

  ‘How dare . . .!’

  ‘Threepio, I hear you, and I say bollocks. And also I say: shut your fucking mouth and listen to me, because I can bring you both down in a fucking instant.’ Silence. ‘Now, you know exactly who I am, I wrote enough about you back in the day. I believe in your youth you even had a real actual cross burnt on my front lawn. But we’ve all grown up a lot since then. So listen to me. You may know none of this or all of this, I don’t really care, it’s how you react that matters to me. Your wife is being blackmailed by the Millers. She has a cocaine habit. She owes them a fortune. Until now she’s been paying the interest by influencing you and the rest of your cronies in the Assembly to go easy on or give a helping hand to the Millers’ many and varied business interests. But God love her, she’s trying to pay it off, that’s why she’s building that house in your back yard.’

  ‘You . . . you . . . you . . . Is this some kind of a sick joke?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘No, of course it isn’t. Professor, your wife’s a cokehead, what do you say?’

  ‘My, my, my . . . wife . . .’

  ‘Takes it up the nose, yes. Professor, I have it all documented and ready for release to the media tomorrow. People will love this.’

  There was a long pause. And then: ‘Unless, Mr Starkey?’

  ‘That’s more like it,’ I said.

  I told him what I wanted.

  He listened patiently. At the end of it he said, his voice now back to its confident best: ‘It strikes me, Mr Starkey, that if anyone is doing any blackmailing, then it is you. You are the one now seeking to control the actions and policies of not only a government minister, but the entire government itself.’

  It was a fair point. In one day I’d gone from being a private eye in denial, with no customers, to de facto brigadier general of the Ulster Volunteer Force and now the unelected leader of the Northern Ireland Assembly. You could get used to power. Power corrupts, but absolute power must be wonderful.

  I said, ‘Dress it up how you like, Professor, but at the end of the day, all I’m trying to do is save a boy’s life.’

  ‘Mr Starkey, I have worked all my life for this country, one way or another. I have always felt that the Good Lord was at my side, guiding me. When I made mistakes, He forgave me and pointed me in the right direction. I am ashamed of nothing in my past. But times change, and the concerns that most agitate a young man do not seem so pressing in middle age. I am in a better place now, and I believe that is reflected in the respect I command for the work that I do. Politics is all about compromise, but perhaps we have compromised too much. Much as I hate to say it, this may be just exactly what we’ve needed, a wake-up call. Noon tomorrow, you say? Mr Starkey?’ He cleared his throat. ‘Mr Starkey?’

  ‘Sorry, I drifted off during your speech. Yes – noon tomorrow will do nicely.’

  He let out the smallest, saddest laugh. ‘Noon,’ he repeated. ‘By God, Starkey, if he’s not even your kin, this Bobby Murray must be some special boy.’

  ‘You would think that,’ I said, ‘but actually, he’s a bit of a shit.’

  46

  Patricia was at the kitchen table, having dinner with Bobby. She said, ‘You’re late.’

  ‘I’ve been busy saving Ulster.’

  I took a seat. I nodded at the boy. ‘Good day?’ He shrugged. ‘How’s Joe?’

  ‘All right.’

  Trish got up and pushed the timer on the microwave. While she waited, she came up behind me and put her hands on my shoulders and kissed the top of my head. Then she said: ‘You’ve washed your hair.’

  ‘Yes, I have.’

  ‘I mean, very recently.’

  ‘Yes, indeed I have.’

  ‘You never do that.’

  ‘I thought I’d have a shower before I came to see you. Is that a crime?’

  Her eyes narrowed. The microwave pinged. She turned to get my food. As she set the plate down before me, Bobby said, ‘Did you speak to the Millers?’

  ‘Yes. I told Patricia. Didn’t you tell him?’

  ‘I told him,’ said Trish.

  ‘I want to hear it from you. She hardly said anything.’

  ‘I’m not she,’ said Trish.

  ‘There’s nothing to tell,’ I said. ‘We had a full and frank exchange of views. We’re working something out.’

  ‘For definite?’

  ‘I’ll know tomorrow.’

  ‘What are they like?’

  ‘You’ve never met them?’ Bobby shook his head. ‘Depressingly ordinary. But all the scarier for it.’

  ‘You were scared?’

  ‘Apprehensive.’

  ‘When can I go home?’

  ‘Bobby, I’m not sure that home home is an option. One of your relatives, maybe.’

  ‘Okay.’ He nodded to himself. ‘Uncle Sidney. He’s less of a dick than the others. I’ll maybe see him at the funeral.’

  My eyes darted to Trish, and he noticed it.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Nothing,’ I said.

  ‘It’s something. I’m going. They can’t stop me going to my own mother’s funeral. You can’t either. I don’t give a fuck who sees me. They wouldn’t dare try anything there. I’m going. I’m bloody going.’

  ‘Bobby,’ said Trish.

  ‘If I have to go in disguise or something, then I can do that. Just get me there. When is it?’

  d‘Yesterday,’ I said.

  He looked absolutely stunned.

  ‘You’re fuckin’ jokin’.’

  ‘No,’ I said.

  ‘It wasn’t safe for you to go,’ said Trish. ‘Bobby . . .’ She put her hand on his. He jerked it away and jumped up. His chair toppled backwards.

  ‘Are you fuckin’ serious?’

  ‘Bobby,’ said Trish, ‘please, calm down. I know it’s heartbreaking, but it just wasn’t an option.’

  ‘It just wasn’t an option,’ he mimicked. ‘Do you think I care about that? I shoulda fuckin’ been there!’

  ‘I know that, son, but—’

  ‘I’m not your fuckin’ son! How could you do that to me? I’m sitting here playin’ fuckin Xbox and they’re stickin’ my ma in the ground?’

  ‘Cremated,’ I said.

  ‘Jesus Christ!’

  ‘We didn’t hear till late on, Bobby,’ I said. ‘Remember, nobody knows where you are.’

  ‘I should have been there!’

  ‘Bobby,’ I said, ‘they didn’t want you there.’

  ‘What the fuck are you talking about?’
/>   He looked mad, and cornered, and distraught, all in one.

  ‘It wasn’t just about keeping you safe,’ said Patricia. ‘It was your relatives. They were concerned for their own safety.’

  His eyes squeezed up. ‘No, they . . .’

  ‘Bobby,’ I said, ‘the Millers would have had people there watching for you; if you’d shown, there could have been a bloodbath. They thought it better . . .’

  ‘It was my mum!’

  Trish reached down and righted the chair. ‘Please.’

  He stared at it. He was trying desperately hard not to cry.

  ‘I should have been there,’ he said.

  ‘Yes, you should,’ said Trish. ‘And maybe after this all dies down, you can have another service. In the meantime, we’ll get the ashes; perhaps we can go and scatter them somewhere.’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Anywhere you want, apart from the Shankill.’

  She gave me a look.

  Bobby was shaking his head. Trish tried to reach out to him again, but he brushed her away and started for the door.

  ‘Bobby, please . . . where are you going?’ Trish asked.

  ‘What the fuck do you care? You two? Youse are both just a bunch of fuckers.’

  He clumped up the stairs. A few moments later he slammed his bedroom door.

  Trish said: ‘He may have a point.’

  She got us drinks.

  She said, ‘I could only tell him what you told me, but he’s right, that wasn’t the half of it, was it? What else happened today?’

  ‘Trish, I’m not like you, I can’t remember every word of every conversation I’ve ever had. I gave you the concise version because that’s all I retain.’

  I hadn’t told her about Paddy Barr, or Derek Beattie, or DI Springer and the teeth, I hadn’t mentioned that Maxi was no longer protecting me or that I was now leader of the UVF and held sway over our government. There was no need to trouble her with such detail. It didn’t matter anyway, because she had bigger fish to fry.

  ‘Who is she?’

  ‘Who is who?’

  ‘The woman you have showers for in the afternoon.’

  ‘That would be you.’

  ‘Let me rephrase. Who is the woman you have sex with in the afternoon, so that you then have to have a shower to wash her fucking smell off you before you come to see me.’

  ‘Trish, for fucksake, take a wild leap in the dark there.’

  ‘Bobby told me there was a woman in your flat.’

  ‘Did he really? I thought he was against squealers?’

  ‘Who is she, Dan?’

  ‘She is the manager of the apartment block. She came round because someone’s been throwing pizza on to my veranda every night and I put a complaint in. Okay? All right? Am I not allowed to even talk to other women now?’

  ‘Are you sleeping with her, Dan?’

  ‘No, Jesus! How’s that ever going to win you back?’

  ‘Is that what you’re trying to do, win me back?’

  ‘Yes! Isn’t it obvious?’

  ‘Not really, no.’

  ‘Aw, Trish.’

  I moved closer. I opened my arms. She hesitated, and then stepped into them.

  Her head rested against my chest. She said, ‘This is all going to work out, with Bobby, isn’t it?’

  ‘Of course it is.’

  ‘You wouldn’t just say that to make me feel better, would you?’

  ‘Of course I would.’

  The shake of her shoulders told me she was laughing. She put a fist against my chest, right by her nose, and pushed a knuckle into me.

  ‘We keep doing this, over, and over, and over again; it’s like a roundabout we can’t get off.’

  ‘A magic roundabout,’ I said.

  Years ago we used to have what we called a magic settee, because every time we sat on it we ended up making love. It had been reupholstered several times since, and finally thrown out as a potential fire hazard.

  ‘If you say time for bed, Florence, you’re getting a friggin’ diggin’,’ she purred.

  I stroked her hair with the back of my hand. I had taken the thick bandage off before my shower. I was, effectively, rubbing a soft scab up and down her locks.

  ‘Now that you mention it . . .’

  47

  Obviously that didn’t work. It might have if Bobby – miraculously recovered from his explosive upset over missing his mother’s funeral – hadn’t come downstairs to get a snack from the fridge, causing Trish to push me away so that we weren’t caught in a compromising position. It might even have worked if she had managed to smother her suspicions about Lenny for a few moments longer, but she couldn’t resist another poke, asking Bobby as he passed between us, a doughnut in each hand, if Lenny had acted anything remotely like an apartment block manager on her visit, and he’d just smirked and that was enough to send her flying off the handle and me out of the front door shouting abuse back at her.

  A few days before, in the absence of anything as unlikely as a customer, I had been concentrating on my attempt to watch every single music video on YouTube when I came across a single by Jack Jones from the sixties called ‘Wives and Lovers’, which was so perfect for its time, and so perfectly out of step with our own. Its lyrics suggested that women should remember that just because they’re married they shouldn’t forget to wear make-up, that they should run into your arms when you come home from work, and that they should most definitely never send you off to work with their hair still in curlers, because you might never come home. For some inexplicable reason, the words came back to me as I stood screaming at her.

  She was yelling something along the lines of me being a two-faced fuck-face, and I counter-attacked with, ‘You should be fucking grateful for me coming round! And at least I wash my fucking hair!’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘Whatever you want, but at least I make the effort! I don’t remember you ever standing at the door with your make-up on and your arms open wide waiting for me! You never did that! Too much trouble! And you haven’t even the wherewithal to make me a fucking rissole!’

  I was kind of paraphrasing.

  I stormed off, leaving her at least as perplexed as I was.

  I sauntered through the dusk, quietly grateful that she’d picked the fight, because at least for a little while it shifted my focus off the Millers and what they might be up to, off Pike and whether he could be trusted, and squarely on Patricia and our marriage.

  I returned to the Bob Shaw. I supped, sitting at a table, back to the wall, watching for trouble. Lenny wasn’t working, and it was a relief. I returned to the apartment pleasantly inebriated and went on to the veranda with a Bush and a couple of slices of reheated pizza. I wasn’t hungry. I was lying in wait for my phantom attacker. He was going to get the surprise of his life. However, by two a.m., I’d eaten my ammunition. By three, I was asleep. At a quarter past, I was woken by a slice of Hawaiian frisbeeing out of the darkness to wrap itself around my face. I was on my feet instantly, but there was only hurried footsteps and laughter.

  I retired to bed, but lay awake for a long time, plotting revenge.

  In the morning, I showered first and then had a banana for breakfast. When you live by yourself, sometimes it’s whatever takes the least effort. I was dressed by eight and out the door. First open shop I came to, I purchased a coffee and a box of Jaffa Cakes. A banana will only get you so far. As I continued to the office, I called Trish.

  ‘Sorry about last night,’ I said. ‘It’s just . . . everything.’

  ‘I know. I’m sorry too. But one thing . . .?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘Where the fuck did rissoles come from?’

  ‘I honestly don’t know. I don’t even like them.’

  ‘I think you’re starting to lose the plot, Dan.’

  ‘Honey, I could do with a little less plot.’

  She said, ‘It’ll be fine.’

  ‘Can I have that in writing?’ I said. ‘Ho
w is he this morning?’

  ‘Sullen. He’s going to have to start walking to work; these early starts are killing me.’

  I came to a junction. I stopped, waiting for the green man. ‘You sound like he might be there for a while longer.’

  She sighed. ‘No, just until, you know.’

  ‘Convincing.’

  ‘He hardly says a word, and he’s as moody as hell, but . . . there’s something about him. Something in there.’

  ‘Potential.’

  ‘Aye. Maybe. He’s smart, y’know? You can see it in his eyes. Do you ever notice that in people? There’s a kind of brightness in the eyes of people who have a bit of wit about them. Does that make sense, or am I talking shite?’

  ‘No, I know what you mean. I see it in the mirror every morning.’

  ‘Yeah, you wish.’ She hesitated. ‘Sometimes I think . . . you know . . .?’

  ‘Our boy might have been like him.’

  The lights changed. I crossed over.

  ‘Is it wrong to think that?’

  ‘No, it’s natural. They’re about the same age.’

  ‘Sometimes I think they look a bit the same.’

  ‘Yeah, I can see that.’

  ‘I wonder all the time about how he would have turned out.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘He’d have been just like you.’

  ‘He had none of me in him.’

  ‘It’s nurture, Dan, not nature. He was a little you. Youse laughed together so much.’

  ‘Aye, well.’

  ‘And he sulked when he didn’t get his own way. He was inconsolable whenever you left. I went out, he never noticed. You, he cried the place down. I miss him so much.’

  ‘I know you do.’

  ‘But I don’t want to project that . . . on to Bobby.’

  ‘You’re not. You know what’s real and what’s not. There’s not a problem with him staying longer as far as I’m concerned.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Really. Anyway, his family sound like a bunch of chickens. I think he’d be miles better off with you.’

  ‘Well, it’s just a mad thought. Nothing will come of it.’

  ‘Let’s see how this all plays out.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah. You’re right. Fingers crossed for you, anyway, today. You’re very brave, my Dan, confronting bastards like that.’