‘It’s no great mystery. We both left this dump years ago, met on the Stranraer ferry. He ended up driving us down to London... He should have said hello properly last night.’
‘Maybe he was shy. You’re the big man in the big picture these days. Literally.’
‘Ah, don’t know about that.’
‘Of course you are. Turner Prize and all that.’
‘I haven’t won it yet, you know.’
‘Yet,’ said Alice.
‘Well, it is inevitable,’ he said, and gave her a wink.
They turned into Ashley Drive. Alix slowed down as she checked out the house numbers. ‘It’s number twelve, should be just...’
‘Sure – pull in here. We can finish our chat before I go in.’
‘Here? But...’
‘Here’s fine. I can dander the rest of the way myself.’
Alix put the car half-way up on the footpath and turned the engine off. She turned in her seat, picking up the phone she was using to record the interview to check it was still running, and then holding it in her hand as he talked on about his childhood memories, of going to Ballyholme Primary School, of his first art teacher Mrs Pow...
‘Pow?’
‘Pow. The most exotic name ever. Like something out of a Marvel comic. But that was her name. No idea of the provenance... but she was great. Really inspirational.’
‘As inspirational as Pat Handley?’
‘Oh, easily.’
His eyes flitted suddenly to Number Twelve. It was a semi- detached house, with a somewhat overgrown hedge and a small red car in the drive. The front door was just closing and Pat was walking up the drive. Richard Turner immediately slithered down in his seat until half of his body was crushed into the foot-rest.
Alix stared at him with a mixture of surprise and disbelief. ‘What’re you—?’
‘Get down!’
‘Why on earth...?’
‘Now!’
But Alix was restrained by her seat belt and the steering wheel, so the best she could do was to quickly pull down the sun visor and sit up a little straighter so that her face was mostly blocked from the view of the art teacher who’d now started walking in their direction.
She whispered, ‘I thought you wanted to talk to—’
‘Shhhhh!’
Pat’s footsteps sounded by the passenger window, his shadow briefly crossed them, and then he was away.
Richard Turner slowly eased himself back up onto the seat. Alix pushed the visor back up – and then jumped as her window was suddenly knocked. She turned to see Sean smiling in at her, his camera dangling from his neck.
‘Scare ya, did I?’ he asked through the glass.
The window came down. ‘Don’t bloody do that!’
‘Chill,’ said Sean. He crouched down a little further so he could see Turner, then gave him the thumbs-up. ‘Now, where do you want to take this pic?’
Turner got out of the car and stood for a moment watching Pat Handley as he reached the end of the road and then disappeared around the corner. Then he looked across the top of the car at Sean and said, ‘I haven’t time for a photo.’
‘But...’ Sean began.
Alix jumped out. ‘The idea was to get one of you and Pat. You said that would be fine.’
‘Well, I’ve changed my mind.’
‘But—’
‘Listen, love, we never agreed that, I said I’d have a chat if you found out where Pat lived and took me there. And here we are. So – listen, thanks for everything, and I can make my own way back.’
He gave Alix his latest wink, and then shut the car door and began to walk towards Number Twelve.
‘But...!’
He ignored her and turned into the drive.
Sean was at her shoulder. ‘I thought...’
‘So did I.’
There was nothing she could do except give an exasperated sigh and get back into the car. Once inside, she drummed her fingers on the steering wheel, cursed under her breath, and then came to a quick decision. She looked back out of the window and said to Sean, ‘You wait here. If I’m not back in five minutes, go on back to the office.’
She started the engine.
‘I don’t understand... What’re you doing?’ Sean asked.
‘I’m stirring things up,’ said Alix.
*
Michael was on the phone to the librarian, desperately trying to get something else out of her, something even remotely newsworthy or mildly controversial or even vaguely interesting, because he’d written his article and it really was as dull as dishwater. He sensed she had plenty to say about the state of the library service, but knew that as a civil servant she wasn’t free to speak out. As he chatted away, trying to soften her up but really getting nowhere, he randomly mentioned what had happened with old Mr Doyle and the librarian said that it was shocking, teenagers bullying an old man like that, before adding, purely as an afterthought, ‘and him a war hero’. And that made Michael’s ears prick up. She didn’t know much more beyond the fact that she’d seen him parading on Poppy Day with a chest full of medals. He asked for his address. The librarian said she shouldn’t really give it to him, what with the data-protection laws, but she did anyway – it was all in a good cause. Michael had explained to her his intention to write about what life was like for a war hero who loved nothing more than whiling away his days in his local library. But what he was actually after was how a war hero felt about being bullied – if he could encourage the old man into a bit of a rant about the behaviour of teenagers he was sure he could get a decent front-page story out of it, something that was generally lacking on his CV. Alix always seemed to get those stories. She was older, more experienced, but that didn’t necessarily mean that she was a better writer or a more skilful journalist – she’d just gotten the breaks. Michael was waiting for his opportunity to shine, but it felt like it had been a long time coming. To be fair, he was just frustrated – old Billy Maxwell, the editor who’d hired him only shortly before his untimely death, had favoured Alix with the better stories, and now Rob Cullen seemed to be doing the same. Michael was convinced it wasn’t only because she was senior to him; it was because she was a good- looking blonde.
Ward Park led onto Castle Park, and on the other side of Castle Park there was Church Street. Mr Doyle lived there in a small terraced house. Michael rang the doorbell and a dog barked from inside. He rang it again, and when there was still no sign of the old man he tried to peer through the window, but the venetian blinds were shut. As he returned to the door, a woman in a blue apron peered out from the next house and said, ‘If you’re looking for Joe he’s probably down the library, he lives in that place.’
‘Actually, I’ve just spoken to the librarian, he’s not there.’
‘Was it something you wanted to leave for him? I can pop it in later.’
‘No, I... It doesn’t really matter. I’ll maybe call back.’
He was starting to turn away, but then the woman was out of her house and looking rather quizzically at her neighbour’s door. ‘You can hear barking?’ Michael said he could. She said, ‘He usually keeps Patch out in the back yard if he’s not in. I wonder...’ She rubbed a finger along her bottom lip. ‘You know – he hasn’t been that well of late. Blood pressure. Do you know – he leaves me a key, so I can feed Patch if he’s not going to be back till late. Maybe if he’s not answering the door and Patch is in the house, I should just check he’s okay?’
The neighbour scurried back into her house and re-emerged half a minute later with key in hand. She quickly slotted it into the lock and opened the door. She called Mr Doyle’s name, asked if everything was okay. Patch jumped around her ankles. She called again. She was in a small hall, with the door to the living room open beside her on the right and stairs directly ahead. Every step had a column of books sitting on it.
The neighbour called up the stairs. This time there was a sound – something between a weak groan and a cry. The woman, no spring chicken her
self, immediately went thundering up the carpeted steps. Michael followed behind. She called out again and followed the sounds to a back bedroom. As Michael stepped onto a landing he could see the neighbour already crouching down beside Mr Doyle, who was lying on his back on the floor. She looked back at Michael, panic in her eyes and cried out to him to call an ambulance. Michael already had his phone out and was pressing the numbers. He stood just outside the door looking down at the old man – terribly pale and labouring for breath. The neighbour said, ‘Do you know how to do mouth-to-mouth?’ Michael shook his head. The woman said, ‘I’ve only ever seen it on Casualty.’ And then she took her top set of teeth out, slipped them into her apron pocket, and set to work.
★
Pat Handley was a fast walker. He was already almost up to Windmill Road when she finally spotted him, walking with his head down and with short but determined strides. She pulled in a little way in front of him and got out. He didn’t notice her until she said his name and his head came up and his face registered first surprise and then the first flickering of anger.
‘Are you following me?’ he spat out as he continued towards her at the same pace. ‘I told you I wasn’t bloody interested in—’
‘I’ve been talking to Richard Turner about you.’
‘Do you think I care?’
If Alix hadn’t stepped to one side she had no doubt that he would have barged straight into her. When she spoke again, she was already addressing his back.
‘Mr Handley – I think he really wants to talk to you, but he’s a bit nervous about how you might react. After last night.’ He kept going. ‘I know you think he copied your work.’
That finally stopped him. He shook his head, and then turned. ‘Is that right? Really? You know what I think, do you?’
‘No, I don’t... but I think he wants to make amends. It would be a great story if we could get you two back together, get some nice photos too. And maybe it will get you some belated recognition for what you—’
‘Do you think I need your approval? Or anyone’s fucking approval?!’
‘Please, Mr Handley, at least talk to him. He’s only around the corner.’
‘Whadyya mean, round the corner?!’ He took a step towards her.
‘He’s come to see you.’ She thumbed back towards the house. ‘I just left him there. You came out of the house and I think he got cold feet. But he’s still there. I think maybe he was just going to leave you a wee note or—’
‘Right, fuck!’ Pat exploded. ‘He’s there now? The fucking weasel! Right, let’s have this out right now! That your car?’
‘Yes, but...’
‘But nothing! Take me back this minute you can have all the fucking photographs you want!’
Alix had no idea what she had just engineered, but it was clearly going to be explosive. In the minute’s run back to Pat’s house he didn’t say another word, but the closer they got the deeper shade of puce his face turned and the harder his foot drummed on the floor.
‘The bugger!’
As they drew up, Pat had spotted Turner standing in his driveway talking to a slim middle-aged woman with short hair, wearing a denim skirt with dark leggings and a black cardigan. Alix presumed this was Pat’s wife. She pulled the car up onto the kerb, but had barely stopped before Pat had his door open and was away. Turner had his back to him and was so engrossed in the conversation that he hadn’t heard either the car arriving or the thundering footsteps of an art teacher in full charge. His wife, similarly engrossed, only noticed at the last moment. She let a shout out of ‘Pat, no!’ but it was too late. Pat barrelled into Turner’s back and his forward thrust propelled them both across the narrow lawn beside them and over a small hedge into the garden next door. The wife screamed at them to stop. By the time Alix, swiftly joined by Sean and his camera, reached the hedge and looked over, Pat Handley and Richard Turner were wrestling for supremacy in a bed of pansies. Turner was tall and wiry with an expensive-looking haircut; Pat was squat and overweight with a short crop; neither was an athlete. They were puffing and blowing and launching blows that did not hit their target. Alix didn’t know quite what to do, other than to nudge Sean to start taking photos rather than enjoy the spectacle. He gave her a stupid grin and began snapping away.
‘Please do something!’ the wife implored.
Sean shot off some more pics, before finally handing the camera to Alix and jumping over the hedge into the garden. He stood over the wrestling match for a moment, trying to decide on the best course of action. Then he grabbed Pat’s foot and began to drag him off Turner and out of the flower bed. Pat, however, had a firm hold of Turner’s shirt and wasn’t for letting go. Sean took a tighter grasp, then gave him a good yank, which loosened his grip, and then another short sharp one that finally released the artist, who quickly flopped back down into the blue-and-yellow pansies. Sean dragged Pat further across the lawn before letting go of his leg. Pat immediately went to get up to renew hostilities, but Sean pushed him back down and wagged a warning fist at him. ‘Quit it, okay?’ Pat, gasping from the unfamiliar exertion, made no further move. Sean was barely out of his teens and not particularly large, but he looked fit and had the energy of youth. Pat sat where he was, fuming and glaring across at his enemy. Turner sat up and said, ‘What the fuck was that about?’ but Pat only growled in response. There was blood coming from Turner’s nose and the knees of his expensive-looking suit trousers were muddy. His hair was all over the place. He slowly dragged himself back to his feet, puffing and blowing as much as Pat was. Pat also regained his feet, and they stood glaring at each other. Sean stood between them, shaking his head. ‘Would youse both wise up?’ he said.
The wife, rather than step over the hedge, was now coming down the neighbour’s drive. She stopped in front of her husband. ‘Pat,’ she said, ‘for goodness sake, he just came round to mend some bridges with you, and with me.’ She turned to Turner. ‘Richard, please – will you tell him once and for all... nothing happened between us.’
Turner looked incredulous. ‘Is that what this is about? Jesus Christ, Pat – of course it didn’t, that’s just ridiculous.’
But Pat wasn’t buying it. He threw up his arms in disgust and yelled: ‘Don’t give me that, you fucking sleeked bastard! Youse two were shacked up in Scotland for three days – and nights!’
Alix was transfixed. So it wasn’t about the paintings. It was... a love triangle! She suddenly felt like she was watching a soap opera and not particularly enjoying it – while still being completely incapable of switching the channel.
Turner put a hand to his chest. ‘Pat – nothing happened. Cathy – tell him.’
‘Oh I’ve told him, over and over...’
‘Listen to me Pat,’ said Turner, ‘please. She was crying the whole time. You were my best friend, I wouldn’t do something like that. Youse had a row, she ran off, it happens. I just looked after her, mate, nothing happened!’
‘Please, love,’ said Cathy. She moved closer to her husband. She took his face in her hands. ‘This has festered for thirty years. Richard was very kind to me, but I was never interested in him, it was always you, my love.’
She kissed him on the lips. She put her arms around him. He wrapped his arms around her, his muddy hands staining her shoulders. He closed his eyes. There were tears on his cheeks.
Sean slowly raised his camera.
*
It only took ten minutes for the ambulance to arrive. Mr Doyle appeared to be breathing more normally and there was a certain amount of colour back in his cheeks. His neighbour had her teeth back in. Michael asked if there was anything he could do, but there wasn’t, and he felt uncomfortable hanging around in the bedroom looking down at the sick old man, so he said he would go downstairs and let the dog out the back.
The Jack Russell scampered ahead of him as he entered the lounge; but in pushing the door open he knocked over another teetering pile of books. As he moved into the room he realized that it was but one of many such te
etering piles. There were books everywhere, covering almost every space, jammed onto shelves, on top of a sideboard, and spread across the entire floor, like a Manhattan cityscape of skyscrapers, but after an earthquake, with only the sturdiest surviving intact.
Mr Doyle – he loved his books. And he had eclectic tastes. Just at his feet there was a history of warfare in the seventeenth century, a Jamie Oliver cookbook and a hardback compendium of Agatha Christie short stories. As he began to thread his way towards the kitchen, his foot slipped on a glossy cover and he almost went over; but he righted himself, and then bent to pick up the offending tome. He saw that it was in fact a graphic novel belonging to the same series as the one dropped outside the library. When he opened the cover he saw the Carnegie logo and borrowing history stamped inside. It had last been taken out more than three years before. Michael set it down and lifted another book, a Swedish crime thriller, and opened it. It also had a library stamp inside. He checked another, and another, and then moved across the room, randomly picking up books and looking inside. They were indeed all library books. And there were probably five hundred of them in this room alone. When he entered the kitchen, it was hardly any different, books everywhere, with just a small corner left for the bowl of food that Patch was happily tucking into.
‘He’s a sneaky old bastard,’ Michael told Rob as soon as he was back in the office, ‘and a one-man bloody crime wave.’
‘So, are they going to press charges?’
‘Who knows? But probably not. Early days yet. It’s, like, if you take one sachet of tomato sauce from McDonald’s it’s allowed – if you take two hundred it’s theft, but what’s the difference?’
Rob theatrically stroked his cheek. ‘A philosophical question indeed,’ he said, just as Alix appeared in the doorway. He beckoned her in, then told Michael to finish writing his story.
‘With or without the phantom book thief?’
‘With – but minus his name and any other identifying details. He is a war hero, after all, and no doubt there’ll be some mitigating circumstances. If it gets to court, then we can run it properly. Anyway, it’s a good way into it, Michael – well done. I honestly didn’t think there was any hope of making it interesting.’
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