Papercuts

by Colin Bateman

  Janine said, ‘Not good?’

  ‘Not good. I mean, they’re a frickin’ international bank, but I could swear McCartney’s gotten to them as well. They basically said that the only differences between us and bloody falling-apart Greece, is that Greece has better cash-flow. And weather. Nothing at your end?’

  Janine shook her head. ‘Nope. They’re finding all kinds of excuses, but it’s him behind it, I can smell him a mile off.’

  Gerry was at the office window, looking out at the car park. He was well behind on payments for his Jag. He knew it would be next to go. He said, ‘Maybe I should sit down and talk with him, see if we can come to some sort of compromise. Extend the olive branch.’

  ‘He would take that olive branch and stick it up your arse, Gerry. You know what he’s like.’

  ‘Well, what else can I do?! He’s bleeding us dry, Janine!’

  She came up beside him. ‘You shouldn’t meet him. But maybe I should.’

  ‘And what difference would that make? It’s the paper he hates and what he thinks we did to his boy.’

  ‘Well, let’s put it this way – I have some leverage. We’ve... broken bread together in the past.’

  ‘Broken... you mean you’ve...?’

  ‘Oh yes.’

  ‘But hasn’t he been married to what’s-her-name for years...?’

  Janine raised an eyebrow. ‘Well, it didn’t stop us, Gerry, did it?’

  ‘Well that was different.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘We were in love.’

  ‘Really, Gerry? I thought we were in lust.’

  ‘Yes, well, that too.’ Gerry took a deep breath. ‘Would you really do that? I mean, youse can’t have finished well if he’s doing this to us?’

  ‘No, it was messy. But what harm can it do?’

  Gerry gave his chin a theatrical rub. ‘Well, if you really think. And you can be a bit of a charmer.’

  ‘Look who’s talking. Right, well, I’ll give him a call.’

  Janine gave him a wink and returned to her office. Gerry turned back to the window. He drummed his fingers on the sill. It was good to have Janine back and fighting for the paper, and that in some way suggested she hadn’t been complicit in stealing money from him, that she really had been a victim of a protection racket. But he wasn’t particularly comfortable with her going to meet Bobby McCartney, who was the sort of man who might have been behind the protection racket in the first place. However, it wasn’t just that. It wasn’t because McCartney was fearsome, and a bully, and had a history of violence. It was because they had once... broken bread. Gerry didn’t like the thought of that at all. He couldn’t help picturing them together. He was jealous, of course, even if he wouldn’t quite admit it to himself.

  *

  There were only a few hotels in the area. Alix phoned the Culloden first, because it was five-star, and the most expensive, but they denied any knowledge. She tried the Marine Court next, but same again. She tried the Salty Dog, which maybe wasn’t quite a hotel, more of a pub-restaurant with some rooms above the bar. She asked if Richard Turner was staying there by any chance and the guy at the other end said no he wasn’t, but he was currently having a pint at the bar. It was just about a small enough town for that kind of coincidence to happen. Alix said, ‘Don’t let him leave.’

  The guy said, ‘How am I supposed to...?’

  She shot back with, ‘I’ll be there in five. Buy him one on me.’

  She was there in less than five, it being just a very fast walk away from the office, even in heels. As she hurried along the side of the premises she could see him through the window, sitting on a stool at the bar, just finishing a Guinness. She was flushed with adrenaline both from the fast walk and the prospect of cornering Richard Turner, which resulted in her propelling herself through the revolving doors with just a little too much enthusiasm. She practically flew out of them; as she stepped onto the homely rug on the other side, her left heel dug into the shag of it and stuck, just for a moment, but enough to throw her off balance and cause her to stagger drunkenly forward towards the renowned artist. She stopped, she straightened and prepared to introduce herself again, but Turner cut her off with a big smile and a ‘Jesus, you’re always throwing yourself around the place’.

  ‘Sorry, I...’ She was all out of breath. ‘I just wanted to catch you before... I’m...’

  ‘I know who you are, love.’ Turner, in designer tweed and brown brogues, set his now-empty glass down and rubbed the back of his hand across his lips. ‘And thanks for the pint, but I really have to be...’

  ‘I was talking to your old teacher. Pat Handley.’

  ‘Oh, for cryin’, what’s that old soak been saying now?’

  He hadn’t actually said anything. But Alix just gave a little shrug and said, ‘I thought maybe you’d want to talk about it.’

  ‘Not particularly, no.’

  ‘He thinks you ripped off his work, back in the early days.’

  ‘Does he now?’

  ‘He did call you a thief the other night.’

  Turner stood nodding at her. He bit on his lower lip. Eventually he said, ‘Look, love, I don’t really do interviews – kind of ruins the mystique, don’t you know?’

  ‘It would only take five...’

  ‘No. But tell you what. Pat is actually an old friend and I’m just a bit rubbish about keeping in touch. It’s been years, actually. So I don’t even know where he lives. If you would be good enough to find that out for me, then maybe we can have a wee chat about me being back in town, the exhibition, that kind of thing. You don’t want to get into all that theft business, that’s just the drink talking, Pat knows fine well his work hardly influenced me at all. He was a fine teacher, but that’s about it. My style, that comes from right in here.’ Turner tapped his heart. And then his head. ‘And in here. So do we have a deal?’

  *

  Bobby McCartney was already seated at a window table of the Hong Kong Palace as Janine approached. She waved at him and he raised his glass of wine in response. He stood as she was shown to the table and they kissed somewhat awkwardly, one on each cheek.

  ‘Janine darling,’ he said, ‘it’s so good to see you. Although I should warn you – the only thing I’m buying today is lunch.’

  ‘Bobby – relax. I don’t even want to talk business. How’s Marie?’

  McCartney looked at her over the top of his menu.

  ‘Marie is fine, thank you.’

  They exchanged small talk and gossip about mutual business acquaintances. They ordered food and before long a second bottle of wine. The food arrived and they began to eat, but very shortly Bobby put down his knife and fork.

  ‘Okay, look Janine, I can’t enjoy this until I know what you have up your sleeve.’

  ‘Can’t a girl invite an old friend to lunch without an ulterior motive?’

  ‘No. Not you.’

  Janine smiled. She put her own cutlery down and dabbed at her lips with a napkin. ‘Okay, Bobby,’ she said, ‘I was going to wait for dessert, but have it your way. You’ve put the word out against us, just like you said you would. And I don’t mind admitting that it’s killing us.’

  Bobby raised his hands in a helpless gesture. ‘Janine – you put a photo of my son on the front page.

  ‘He was caught in an armed robbery. We’re a newspaper, Bobby. A community newspaper. Look – you love it here, don’t you? This town. It’s your... ​what would you say... power base?’

  ‘If you insist.’

  ‘And that’s fine. Our power base is our readers. They have to be able to trust us. They have to know that we treat everyone equally. If they think we bury stuff just because it isn’t convenient or it might embarrass someone, then we’re sunk. If I do something wrong, it goes in the paper. If Gerry, if any of our reporters... it all goes in, okay? We can’t treat your boy any different. It was armed robbery. We can’t ignore that. If you’re worried about your own reputation – well, it was your boy that damag
ed it, not us. Not us.’

  ‘Nice speech,’ said Bobby, ‘did you get someone to write it for you?’

  ‘No, I made it up on the fly.’

  ‘Well, my answer is this – no fucking way. Youse have gone out of your way to embarrass me. I know what my boy did was wrong, but at the end of the day he stole a few quid from a shop and yes he should be punished for it. That’s what the courts are for. And I don’t have a problem with you reporting it. But you go above and beyond. Big photo on the front page for everyone to see. There were other stories inside, other court cases, where people did things that were twice as bad as anything my Robbie did but you had to stick it on the front. Why?’

  ‘Bobby – I’m not the editor, I don’t make those decisions, but I’m expected to stand by them.’

  ‘And so you are.’

  ‘Yes, I am. And I’ll tell you why. Because what goes on the front of the paper is always the biggest news story of the week. It can be anything, but in this particular case our photographer captured an armed robbery taking place. That doesn’t happen every day, or month or year. Those other cases you’re talking about, we only know about them because they’ve turned up in court. We weren’t there. What Robbie did may not have been the biggest case of the week, but it was the most dramatic, and it was captured for all to see. We could not have not used it, Bobby. We’re in the business of selling newspapers.’

  ‘Not for long,’ he said. He raised his glass to her, and took a sip, with what she would later describe to Gerry as a triumphantly smug look on his face.

  Janine remained frustratingly unruffled. She slowly reached down and lifted her handbag. For a moment he thought she was going to walk out on him, but instead she took out a plain A4 manila envelope and passed it across to him. He saw then that it was not in fact plain, but that there was a date written in very small and neat handwriting on the front: 14 September 2006. His eyes flitted up to Janine; now she was looking rather smug, and he didn’t like it.

  ‘Are you not going to open it?’

  ‘What is it?’ Bobby asked as he turned the envelope over in his hands.

  ‘What do you think it is?’

  His eyes narrowed suspiciously. ‘That date. That’s roundabout when we were...’

  ‘Yes, we were. And frequently, as I recall.’

  ‘And this is...?’

  ‘You’re the one that was keen on the photographs. I don’t think they flatter either of us.’

  His throat had gone dry. ‘You promised me you’d destroyed those.’

  ‘Mmmmm,’ said Janine.

  His smug look had become a scowl. ‘You sleeked bitch,’ he murmured.

  ‘Now Bobby, you weren’t saying that at the time.’

  ‘Well, that was before I got to know you.’

  Janine raised an eyebrow. ‘Is that really what you want to be saying, right now?’

  Bobby sighed. He pushed the envelope back across the table to her, unopened, and rubbed at his brow.

  ‘This is fucking blackmail,’ he said.

  ‘Yes,’ said Janine.

  He wagged a warning finger at her across the table. ‘Have you any idea what I could have done to you? One call and you’re—’

  ‘But you’re not going to make that call, are you, Bobby?’

  He took a deep breath. His fingers drummed on the table. Then he spat out: ‘No, dammit, Janine, I’m not.’

  ‘I understand your pain, Bobby, but it’s your son you should be sorting out, not us. So, these are my terms.’

  ‘Your terms?!’

  ‘Absolutely. I want every single advertiser you’ve scared away back by tomorrow. And I want ten more.’

  ‘Ten more what?’

  ‘Advertisers, Bobby. I want you to deliver to me ten full pages worth of advertising from new customers spread over the next couple of months.’

  ‘Janine, Jesus Christ... that’s, that’s, that’s...’

  ‘Fair. And I want them paid for in cash.’

  ‘Cash! Nobody pays in—’

  Janine drummed her perfectly manicured nails on the envelope. ‘Cash. And we’ll each take 10 per cent off the top for all the effort we’ve gone to. How does that suit?’

  ‘That’s... Janine... you mean you’re ripping off your own—’

  ‘Deal, Bobby?’

  ‘It’s fucking... mental...’

  ‘It’s business. Mental is what your wife will be when she sees you kissing my nipples on Facebook.’

  Bobby’s mouth dropped open. His eyes darted around the restaurant before settling back on his former lover. All he could think to say was, ‘They don’t allow nipples on Facebook.’

  ‘Well, they haven’t dealt with me yet. Now – deal or no deal?’

  His head felt like it was going to explode, so about all he could manage was a short nod. But it was enough for Janine. She picked up the envelope and stood up. She gave him her smile, which he had always loved. ‘Thanks for lunch, Bobby.’

  As she turned to go he said, quickly, ‘Janine?’

  She stopped and looked down at him. He was in his fifties, but right there and then he felt like a fourteen-year-old schoolboy.

  ‘Janine, I loved our time together. I don’t suppose...?’

  She laughed suddenly. ‘Bobby, that shit has sailed.’

  ‘Shit? You mean...’

  ‘I know exactly what I mean.’

  And with that she was away, striding purposefully across the restaurant, out the door and past the window, not glancing in at him once. Bobby watched her every inch of the way until she disappeared round the corner. Then he pushed his unfinished plate away and swore. Loudly.

  Back at her car, her ridiculous smart car, Janine paused before getting in. She looked around, spotted a wheelie bin parked outside someone’s house ready for collection and crossed to it. She took the envelope out of her bag, lifted the lid and dropped it in. If Bobby had followed her, if he’d retrieved the envelope and let out a whoop of triumph, it would quickly have died as soon as he pulled the photographs out. He would have found four pictures, all of them slightly out of focus, and all of them of a badger being petted by an old woman in a garden.

  *

  Negotiations of a different sort had also concluded on the other side of town. Alix was to find out Pat Handley’s address and then she would drive Richard Turner there via a circuitous route that would allow them time to chat about the town he knew growing up. She would be part chauffeur, part interrogator.

  The college wouldn’t give out Pat Handley’s address, and he was ex-directory, but there was a source of local knowledge even greater than a directory, or indeed, the Internet, and that was office-bound Pete. She had to go back and pick the car up anyway, so she left Turner with another pint and clip-clopped up the road again. Janine and Gerry were high-fiving each other in Gerry’s office, Rob appeared to be reading a children’s book in his, while Michael was at his desk, deeply immersed in a salacious-looking graphic novel. Pete was up to his oxters in his sub-editing and growled and groaned about being disturbed, but eventually he opened a drawer and took out a Filofax from a previous century and flicked through it until he found Pat Handley’s home address. He quickly jotted it down on a sheet of A4, handed it to Alix and said, ‘No charge.’

  She gave him an odd look and said, ‘Why would there be a charge?’

  ‘It’s from a song.’

  ‘What song?’

  ‘“No Charge”. By Melba Montgomery. A big hit in the seventies. It’s about...’

  ‘Gotta fly,’ said Alix, grabbing her keys and heading for the door.

  Richard Turner was waiting outside the bar when she drove up. As he got in she apologized for taking so long and said he should have waited inside.

  ‘Three pints before lunch? You’ll be turning me into an alcoholic. Or back into one.’ She glanced across and he said quickly, ‘Oh yes.’

  ‘Can I write that?’

  ‘You can and will write whatever you want. But it’s not a state s
ecret. And it adds a little spice to an otherwise very boring life. I get up and I paint pictures, there’s not much more than that to it.’

  Alix laughed. She said, ‘Sure you’ve been in and out of the tabloids for years.’

  Turner laughed dismissively. ‘Oh, it’s all very managed. You’ll notice, all the stories appear just about the time I’m having a big exhibition or there’s an auction. It’s all about building brand recognition.’

  ‘That’s, uhm, very mercenary, if you don’t mind me saying.’

  ‘No, I don’t. You say mercenary, I say necessary. ’Tis the way of the world, unfortunately.’

  He directed her out of the centre of town, up the High Donaghadee Road, and into Chippendale, and then Wellington Park, where he’d spent his first eleven years. He talked about how idyllic it was. He talked about the fields that used to surround the area, fields that had long since given way to suburban sprawl. He talked about staging mock Olympic Games in the summer, of marching with the bands, of building a bonfire on the Eleventh Night, of walking his pet Jack Russell for miles and Hallowe’en rhyming from the beginning of September. He passed a Mace shop on the corner of Windmill Road and let out a little cry of recognition. ‘That used to be Rankin’s shop. These two spinster sisters used to own it. Real old-fashioned grocery shop. Gosh, I can just picture them now.’

  He actually looks a bit misty-eyed, Alix thought, though she realized that it might equally have been the three pints of Guinness.

  As they headed back out along the High Donaghadee Road he said, ‘So, your boyfriend? He looked kind of familiar.’

  ‘Boy... no... not my boyfriend at all! He’s my boss!’

  ‘Really? Well you certainly looked...’

  ‘Not a bit of it. We were just messing. Too much wine, maybe.’

  ‘Aye, well, been there. What do you call him?’

  ‘Rob. Rob Cullen.’

  ‘Rob Cullen! That’s his name. I knew I recognized him!’

  ‘Really? He sort of hinted he might have met you before, but didn’t think you’d remember.’

  ‘Aye, well it was a long time ago.’

  ‘So how do youse know each other?’