Papercuts

by Colin Bateman

  She remembered.

  Once he had his own headache pills on board, Rob brought them all into his office for their morning editorial meeting. There was a strong smell of stale alcohol in the air. Alix looked a little red-eyed. The first thing Rob did was tell Michael he was sending him to the local library to do a feature.

  ‘A feature on what?’

  ‘The local library.’

  ‘Yes, but what aspect of the local library? Are they launching a campaign or amnesty or something?’

  ‘No. Just an ordinary feature. A day-in-the-life kind of thing.’

  Michael sighed and said, ‘It’s hardly cutting edge.’

  Peter said, ‘You have to learn to walk before you can run.’

  ‘At least I can walk, you’re never out of the office.’

  ‘Michael, it’s not my job to go out and get the stories. And don’t be so bloody ch—’

  ‘Okay – all right,’ said Rob. ‘Michael – it’s a challenge, of course it is, but you should embrace that. Make it interesting.’

  Michael nodded, resigned. Rob smiled at him. Then he picked up one of Sean’s photos from the gallery opening. He had once again shown his talent for being in the right place at the right time – it showed the drunk guy, Pat, in the act of throwing the wine; you could actually see the wine leaving the glass.

  ‘Brilliant pic,’ said Rob.

  ‘I know,’ said Sean.

  ‘So you’ll know his name, then?’

  ‘Name? No, I—’

  ‘Always get a name. It’s worthless without a name.’

  ‘But I thought you—’

  ‘Did you check?’

  ‘Uhm, no. But—’

  ‘Just keep it in mind for next time. You can’t always rely on someone else having the info you need. Peter...?’ Rob handed the photo over. ‘You seem to know everyone in this neck of the woods. First name is Pat...?’

  ‘Pat Handley.’

  ‘See? That’s brilliant. Now, who’s Pat Handley?’

  ‘Don’t know know him. One of those faces you see around. Bit of a dope-head from what I recall, but that’s years ago. I think he teaches at the college. Art.’

  ‘That would make sense. Any idea why he’d want to have a go at Richard Turner?’

  ‘None at all. But I don’t blame him.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Ah, the likes of Richard Turner – once they get a wee bit of success, they forget where they come from. I’d be surprised if he’s been back here once in the last decade.’

  ‘Could you blame him,’ said Alix, ‘if that’s the way people talk about him?’

  ‘He seemed popular enough last night,’ said Rob.

  ‘Sure about that?’ Peter asked. ‘I’ve been to a hundred of those events over the years. I’m sure they were all smiling and clapping, but under their breath, they were sticking the knife in. I’ll bet most of them were artists cursing his good fortune. It’s the same with poetry launches, they all hate each other with a passion.’

  ‘You are a very cynical man, Peter.’ Peter shrugged, cynically. Rob nodded at Alix. ‘Why don’t you see if you can have a word with this Pat Handley, then. See what his problem is?’

  ‘Would I not be better seeing Richard Turner and talking to him about being home and the Turner Prize rather than giving publicity to some drunk?’

  ‘Do both.’

  ‘I’ll do the drunk, if you want,’ said Michael.

  ‘It’s fine,’ said Alix. ‘Besides, you’ll be having way too much fun in the library.’

  Michael made a face.

  Rob finished handing out the assignments and they began to file out of the office. Alix was at the back; she allowed the others to continue on out and then stepped back in. She said, without making proper eye contact, ‘You okay? My head’s still banging.’

  ‘I was a bit rough earlier, but getting there. It was good fun.’

  ‘Yes it was. You disappeared at the end.’

  ‘No, you disappeared.’

  ‘I what? No, I... I was talking to Richard Turner, and when I turned round you were gone.’

  ‘Ah – right. No – I saw you talking to him and popped in to use the toilet. I was only gone a minute, but when I came out you were gone.’

  ‘Oh. Right. I thought... and so I jumped in a taxi.’

  ‘I see. Right. Well. Confusion all round, then.’

  ‘Exactly. But yes, good fun. Too much wine, probably.’

  ‘Ah, it’s good to let your hair down.’

  ‘Yes. Well. Exactly.’

  ‘We were both pretty pissed.’

  ‘Yes we were.’

  ‘Anyway.’

  ‘Yes.’ She thumbed behind her. ‘No rest for the wicked.’

  ‘None at all. Paper to edit.’

  They smiled awkwardly at each other. Alix returned to her desk. Rob wiped at the thin veil of sweat on his brow. It was probably the alcohol.

  *

  Michael was struggling to find anything remotely interesting. A library was a library. A big building with books. Bangor’s Carnegie Library was housed in a large red-brick building that had been extended and modernised fairly recently, and was located on the edge of Ward Park, with a pond full of ducks immediately behind it. Michael would have been happier interviewing the ducks. He was talking to Maeve, a tedious woman, grey-haired, large glasses, quietly spoken, just as a librarian was supposed to look, who was telling him about the amnesty they held every year for people to return overdue books without being fined. He was trying to jazz it up. He said, ‘It is just basically theft though, isn’t it? If you borrow a book and don’t bring it back, you’re stealing it.’

  ‘Well, we’re trying to encourage people to come back, not brand them as thieves.’

  ‘But if you keep losing books at the rate you say you are, couldn’t you go out of business?’

  ‘But it’s not a business, that’s the point, it’s a public service. A certain amount of... wastage is built into the, uhm, business model.’

  ‘And do you never pursue them through the courts. Make an example?’

  ‘No...’

  ‘It seems like a huge waste of taxpayer’s money.’

  ‘Is that the angle you’re going to take with this? Because it’s not really what we discussed...’

  ‘No, no... not necessarily...’

  Michael had some bold thoughts about doing exactly that. It was, he thought, ridiculous that the library could lose thousands of books a year, do nothing about it, and then complain about underfunding.

  ‘What we’re hoping for is a nice article about what we offer – a lot of people still tend to think of us as just somewhere to go and borrow a book. But we’re so much more than that – we’re a community service, we’re an after-schools club, a computer club, a crèche, we’re really at the centre of everything.’ She turned and indicated a long desk immediately behind her. There was half a dozen surly-looking teenagers gathered around a computer, and an elderly man studying a large atlas. ‘I mean, I think people would be lost without us. Ask Mr Doyle here...’ She nodded at the old man. ‘Mr Doyle, he’s here every day. Aren’t you, Mr Doyle?’

  ‘What’s that?’

  She raised her voice. ‘You’re here every day, aren’t you? This is Michael, he’s from the local paper. You’re one of our regulars, aren’t you?’

  ‘Yes. I’m a regular.’

  ‘You’d be lost without us, wouldn’t you, Mr Doyle?’

  ‘Yes! Lost.’

  ‘And why do you come here every day?’ Michael asked.

  ‘Nothing else to do,’ said Mr Doyle.

  ‘And what do you most enjoy about the library?’

  ‘Oh – the books.’ He nodded at Michael, and then returned his attention to the atlas.

  Hold the front page, Michael thought.

  *

  Alix, still being given the runaround by Richard Turner, found it much easier to track Pat Handley down. He was at a desk in a classroom on the
third floor of the College of Further Education at Castle Park, pushing papers into a briefcase; his students were just filing out. There was a classroom assistant, a white-coated woman who looked to be in her fifties, washing brushes in a sink at the back. Handley looked up as Alix stepped into the room, nodded and said, ‘You can leave it over there.’

  ‘Leave what?’

  ‘Your folder,’ he said, with a slight note of irritation.

  ‘Sorry – I’m not a student. Though I’m gratified you think I’m young enough to be mistaken for one.’

  He looked up, shook his head and said, ‘We’re a college, our students go from sixteen to ninety-one. It’s not really a compliment.’

  ‘Oh, well, I...’

  ‘Yes? I’m just leaving.’

  Pat Handley was grey in the face. He looked angry already. Or still. Alix told him quickly who she was and asked if he’d like to comment or explain what happened at Easel the previous evening.

  ‘I was pissed, it was nothing. So, no, not really.’

  He lifted his briefcase and began to move towards the door.

  ‘You said he was a thief. What did you mean?’

  ‘What difference does it make? You’re not going to say anything against him. So what’s the point?’

  He disappeared through the door. Alix stood where she was and blew air out of her cheeks. If she’d been the foot-in-the-door kind of journalist she occasionally dreamed of she would have been after him, demanding answers, but she couldn’t bring herself to do it.

  There was a bit of a laugh from behind. Alix turned to see the classroom assistant grinning at her. ‘Don’t take it personally,’ she said, ‘he’s just got a bit of a gruff manner. I don’t think he’s even aware he does it. So what’d the silly sod get up to this time?’

  ‘Ah, nothing much. Heckled Richard Turner. You know, the artist?’

  ‘Of course I do. Ha! Fair play to him.’

  ‘Are you another one thinks he’s too big for his boots?’

  ‘Richard? Nah, I don’t mind him, I remember him when he was a student here under Pat.’

  ‘Really? I didn’t realize he—’

  ‘Oh yes. He was an older student – there’s not actually many years between them. But I know Pat’s been dying to do something like that for years.’

  ‘Really? How come?’

  The classroom assistant stood deliberating for several moments, then gave a little shrug and said, ‘Well, I can’t see what harm it can do, as long as you don’t write anything about me. Scout’s honour?’

  ‘Scout’s honour.’

  She led Alix to the back of the class, where there were several shelves filled with art books. She ran a finger along a dozen disparate spines before she stopped and pulled out a large volume with a garish cover.

  ‘How much do you know about Richard Turner?’

  ‘Well, I’ve a couple of his books in the house, a print on the wall.’

  The classroom assistant began to flick through the book and then stopped on a double-page spread.

  ‘Do you recognize this one?’

  There were a lot of intersecting circles with what appeared to be different-coloured sperm trapped within. It was very bright and definitely grabbed your attention.

  ‘I recognize the style,’ said Alix, ‘but I don’t think I’ve ever...’

  ‘It’s one of Pat’s actually. This is from the early nineties; back then it was Pat who had the growing reputation and Richard Turner was the eager student. Obviously I haven’t been here that long, but you hear things from people who have, and the way it was told to me, when Turner’s work started to get noticed Pat was quite proud of his successful student, but then people started to say to him that Turner was ripping off his style. Pat didn’t really see it at first, but the more people said it the more he began to take it seriously. Eventually he confronted him about it, but Turner just laughed it off. He moved to the bright lights not long after, but I think it’s been festering with Pat ever since. So maybe he got it out of his system last night.’

  ‘Well, he got something out. It was quite a mouthful.’

  ‘That’s Pat – quick to anger. But actually, really? He’s a lovely man at heart. Would do anything for you.’

  ‘Good to know,’ said Alix. She nodded down at the book. ‘I don’t know much about art, but on the face of it, it is quite similar to Turner’s early work, wouldn’t you say? I mean, do you think he stole Pat’s style? Can you even do that?’

  ‘Well, no, that’s the point, and Pat should know that, and probably deep down he does. It’s art – people nick things all the time, change them around, make them their own. Maybe he’s too close to it. Or sometimes I think – well, it’s more personal than that. I think because Turner was his student, and then when he got big he just forgot about him. I keep an eye on Turner myself, just interviews and stuff, awards and the like, and I’ve never once seen him thank his teacher, you know the way big shots usually do? Maybe Pat’s more miffed about that. Anyway – work to do.’

  Alix thanked her for her help and began to make her way out of the college. What she’d learned about Pat Handley was interesting enough, but at the end of the day it was little more than gossip. Pat was still just a drunk who’d abused a celebrity. Richard Turner being back on home turf was the real story. Now she just had to pin him down for an interview.

  ★

  Michael thought it would be a good idea to try and interview some of the library’s customers before they entered the building so that they wouldn’t feel obliged to give a positive spin. He wanted someone to say something that wasn’t worthy, he wanted someone to stir the pot and say, actually the place was badly run, or a waste of space or they should just admit it was a community centre and get rid of those boring books that took up so much space.

  But he wasn’t having much luck.

  He said to one largish woman, returning an armload of books, and who said she was studying for a history A level: ‘Would it not be easier to just Google everything?’

  She said, ‘I don’t believe in the Internet.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘It’s full of nothing but pornography and blasphemy.’

  ‘You say that like it’s a bad thing.’

  He gave her a smile with it, but her face turned to thunder and she pushed on past him without another word.

  Michael had more than enough information from the librarian anyway. It would just translate into one of the world’s most boring articles. But at least he’d tried for something different. He started back to the office, choosing to walk through the park rather than along the more direct Hamilton Road. The gang of kids he’d seen in the library earlier was just in front of him, and they were right behind old Mr Doyle. A couple of them were mimicking the way he was shuffling along while the rest were laughing. As he watched, Mr Doyle turned suddenly and waved a black briar walking stick at them. Instead of being intimidated the kids moved even closer, daring the old man to strike out at them, which he duly did; they easily evaded his flailing stick while letting out wild whoops and cackles. As Michael drew closer he could hear them taunting and swearing at him. Mr Doyle was coming out with some choice language as well. Michael had hoped that his approach might have caused the gang to ease off on the old man, but they just kept at it.

  Michael said, ‘Hey, guys, come on...’

  One of the kids snapped back, ‘What the fuck’s it got to do with you?’

  The kid, Michael realized, was bigger than he was.

  ‘Just... leave him alone, okay?’

  ‘Oh fuck off.’

  But, actually, they did move on. They were just being teenagers, annoying, bolshie, provocative, but not necessarily evil. Michael knew all about it. He had been one just a few months ago. The gang was veering off to the left while Mr Doyle had already started towards the small bridge over the duck pond.

  Michael called after him: ‘Mr Doyle? You okay?’

  Mr Doyle just kept walking. Michael w
as going in the same direction as the kids, but not wishing to push his luck, he paused to give them a bit more of a head start. In so doing he saw a book lying on the ground. He picked it up – a graphic novel with a half-naked super-heroine on the front. Michael briefly debated what to do. Then he hurried after the gang. He said, ‘Hey...’ and the fella who’d told him to fuck off spun back to him. Michael held up the book and said, ‘I think you dropped this.’

  The boy looked at it and shook his head. ‘Not mine, mate.’

  ‘Any of you...?’

  They ignored him and started walking again.

  Michael thought: Well, what’s the worst that could happen?

  And then he thought: Well, a severe beating, but nothing ventured...

  He drew level with them again. ‘Look...’ he said, ‘I’m doing a piece for the local paper about the library. If I don’t use your names, could you tell me why you feel the need to steal books?’

  The same guy: ‘We didn’t fucking take it, okay?’

  Michael held the book up and said, ‘It didn’t just fall from the sky.’

  A girl who didn’t look more than twelve, jabbed a cigarette in the direction of Mr Doyle. ‘Why don’t you ask that old bastard? Why do youse always think it’s us?’

  Michael showed her the cover, and raised an eyebrow. ‘Really?’

  ‘Ah fuck off.’

  And off they went.

  Michael decided to take the other way back to the office.

  *

  Gerry was pissed off. Janine was pissed off. Together, they were pissed off. It had taken a while but Bobby McCartney’s promise to cut off their advertising was now starting to bite. He was a local councillor, and a leading businessman, but he was also ex-paramilitary with a fearsome reputation and you crossed him at your peril. Gerry was just back from the bank.