Papercuts

by Colin Bateman

  *

  As Rob was getting drenched, and lurching from happiness to confused despair, Gerry was dashing from his car across to the intercom outside Janine’s apartment block. He pressed the button repeatedly until eventually she answered with a gruff, ‘What?’

  ‘Janine, it’s me, let me up.’

  ‘Me? Who?’

  She sounded half asleep.

  ‘Gerry.’

  ‘Gerry? But it’s not Tuesday night.’

  ‘Very funny. Let me in.’

  ‘But what if I’m with one of my other lovers?’

  ‘Please. This is serious.’

  ‘What is?’

  ‘Janine!’

  ‘All right – keep your hair on.’

  She pressed, and a minute later he stepped out of the lift and up to her front door, which she’d left open for him. She was standing at the kitchen counter, in her dressing gown, and pouring herself a glass of red. There was a second glass for him, but before she could start to fill it he put his hand over the brim and said, ‘Not for me.’

  ‘Christ – it must be serious. Has someone died?’

  ‘No, of course not.’

  ‘Has Rob been arrested for—’

  ‘No. Janine. I’m not going to beat around the bush here.’

  Normally she would have made a joke at this point, but Gerry was indeed looking very serious, so instead she just nodded slowly and watched as Gerry reached into his jacket and produced a small printed flyer and set it on the black granite.

  ‘Alcoholics Anonymous,’ he read. Then he nodded at her. ‘Have you anything to say?’

  ‘Only that I’m very sorry for your troubles.’

  ‘You... my troubles?!’

  ‘Well I know you like a drink but—’

  ‘I’m not talking about me! You Janine, you! We’ve been close, so incredibly close... I thought you would have said something... What?’ She was smiling at him over the rim of her glass, which was just caressing her lower lip. ‘Do you think you could just put the glass down for a moment so that we can talk about this? It’s important.’

  His hands were gripping the edge of the counter, and she could see his knuckles almost glowing white because of the pressure he was exerting. Janine set her glass down. She placed one of her hands on top of one of his. She gave it a little squeeze.

  ‘Gerry – don’t take this the wrong way, but you are such a fucking halfwit.’

  ‘I...’

  She tapped the leaflet with her other hand. ‘Where did you even get this from?’

  ‘Pete accidentally—’

  ‘Pete! I might have known. Gerry, don’t you know me at all?’

  ‘How... how do you mean?’

  ‘Don’t you know how hard I work for this paper, your paper...?’

  ‘Yes of course, but if I thought it was driving you to—’

  ‘Gerry, I don’t have a drink problem... !’

  ‘That’s what everyone—’

  ‘I’m only going to AA so I can snare some advertising.’

  ‘You what...?’

  ‘In fact I was going to surprise you with it tomorrow. You know our new shopping centre? How they’ve given us bugger-all so far and no plans to?’

  ‘Yes...’

  ‘I knew if I could get to the right guy, if I wasn’t being palmed off by their advertising agency, then I knew I could reel him in. It’s what I do. Look at a problem and then work out how to solve it. And if it meant standing up at an AA meeting and pretending to have a problem, then I was quite prepared to do it. And, actually, the amount I do drink might qualify for a problem if I wasn’t absolutely able to cope with it. In fact, enjoy it. I can drink anyone under the table, you know that, because I do it with you all the time.’

  ‘Yes, you do. You really mean this is all...?’ Janine nodded. ‘I... don’t know whether that’s incredibly wonderful or deeply, deeply disturbing. Possibly it’s both. But either way...’ He pushed his empty glass towards her. ‘Now I need a frickin’ drink.’

  ‘That’s my boy,’ said Janine, lifting the bottle.

  *

  It wasn’t only a fading seaside resort and a dormitory town for Belfast: it also sometimes felt like one vast retirement community, there were so many old folks’ homes. This one, Cruickshank Fold, was located behind a barrier of pines so huge that for all of her life Alix had either walked or been driven past without knowing that there was anything at all behind them, let alone an old mansion that five years previously had been turned into a twilight refuge for those who could no longer look after themselves. This was where Alix found Bertha’s daughter Grainne – a permanent resident for the past three years. She’d suffered half a dozen strokes and could no longer see or hear or communicate. Her nurse looked like a guard out of Prisoner: Cell Block H but was surprisingly softly spoken as she sat with Grainne and gently stroked her hand.

  ‘Poor woman,’ said the nurse, ‘it’s a terrible thing when your own daughter is more infirm than you are. Oh, Bertha was here every day without fail. Grainne’s in her seventies, so Bertha must have had her young. She was brilliant with her – Grainne can’t really do anything for herself but Bertha picked her up and turned her round and changed her clothes like she was a teenager. Then she just stopped coming a few weeks ago and I supposed she wasn’t well again. I asked the manager to make a few calls, but I’m not sure if she got anywhere.’ She lowered her voice and leaned closer to Alix. ‘You kind of get taken over by events, places like this – hardly a week goes by without one or other of them passing on.’

  ‘It must be very difficult.’

  ‘It was at the start, but now it’s like water off a duck’s back.’

  ‘What about Grainne’s daughter? Does she not lend a—?’

  ‘Tell you the truth, I wasn’t aware that she had one. She’s certainly never visited, and Bertha never mentioned her. I mean, there are always family fallouts so you never really know who’s who. But that surprises me, Bertha was always so open and chatty.’

  *

  ‘This is such a complete and utter waste of time,’ Sean was saying. They’d been sitting in the car for over an hour. He raised a hand and counted off on his fingers: ‘One, you don’t know if she’s turning up. Two, you don’t know what she looks like. Three, she might leave it until next week. Or, four, she might have heard her granny’s dead and so there’s no reason for her to come at all. And five – you’ve a perfectly good phone you can take a photo with if she does turn up, so that I don’t have to sit here all day because I’ve a hundred and one better things to be doing.’

  They were sitting in the car park outside the Mace/post office. They had coffees and doughnuts. It was a stakeout. Alix said, ‘I agree with all of the above. But I have a gut feeling she will turn up.’ Sean rolled his eyes. ‘And if she does I want to get a proper, professional, action shot of her in the act, and only you, with your consummate skills, can deliver that, not Mr Jobs and his blessed iPhone.’

  ‘Sweet-talker. I’m giving you twenty-six minutes, then I’m out of here.’

  ‘That’s very precise.’

  ‘It will take me four minutes to get where I have to be, and I’m due there in thirty minutes. Do the math.’

  ‘Do the math? Did you swallow an American?’

  ‘Not yet,’ said Sean.

  ‘Oooh, that’s gross.’

  ‘And not how I meant it to come across at all. But you get my drift. Do the math has entered the lexicon of com- mon expressions, you don’t have to be American to say, do the math.’

  ‘I’m not even sure if entered the lexicon has entered the lexicon of common expressions.’

  Sean made a face. Alix made one back. Then she said, ‘Holy shit...’ and nodded across the road to where a woman they both recognized was just entering the shop.

  ‘That’s—’ said Sean.

  ‘Bingo.’

  They hurried across. Alix saw that she was already at the counter and stood watching her get served from behind a c
arousel of greetings cards. Agnes Muirhead wasn’t on duty. The woman taking her place hardly even looked up as she handed over Bertha Malloy’s pension. As her target turned away, shuffling the cash into her purse, Alix stepped out in front of her.

  ‘Irene Bell,’ she said.

  Irene looked up, half-way to a smile that quickly faded when she saw who it was. ‘Irene Dunne – remember?’

  ‘Of course. Irene Dunne – collecting your pension?’

  ‘Maybe in another thirty years! For one of my ladies. All part of the job. Anyway, gotta run...’

  And she brushed past.

  As she stepped outside, Sean was waiting. He fired off a dozen rapid shots, one touch of a button.

  ‘What the fuck are you doing?’ Irene snapped, while upping her pace.

  Alix hurried to catch up. ‘Irene... Irene?’ Irene increased her speed again. ‘Irene – I know what you’re up to. That’s Bertha’s money. You’ve been collecting it every week while she’s been lying dead and for God knows how long before...’

  ‘That’s bollocks!’ Irene shot back, before darting out into the road. A car skidded to a halt, but she hurried on, head down, determined to escape.

  And of course she was going to – it wasn’t as if Alix was about to rugby-tackle her or make a citizen’s arrest. She was quite happy to watch Irene get into her car and speed away.

  Sean came up beside her and saw the look on her face. ‘Now, that’s what I call a smile. The satisfaction of nailing your story, in the finest traditions of crusading journalism.’

  Alix nodded. ‘All that, yes. But mostly revenge on that two-faced cow for the hell she put me through in school. What a bitch.’

  Sean nodded, too.

  ‘You or her?’ he asked.

  *

  Rob was looking at Alix through the glass as she worked feverishly to finish the news end of her story before deadline – she’d handed in the feature already – and thinking about the kiss. He knew it was just a daft peck on the lips brought on by too much drink, but there was something about it that...

  ‘Penny for them?’

  Gerry in the doorway.

  ‘Mmmm what?’

  ‘A million miles away, man.’ He came in and closed the door. ‘But have to say, that’s a fine-looking paper this week.’

  Rob nodded warily. ‘Gerry, I’ve had time to—’

  But Gerry raised a hand. ‘Before you say anything, I thought you should know – I’ve decided to turn down Navar’s offer. Janine’s come through with some decent ads that should see us through the next few months – and, to tell you the truth, I just can’t bear to sell. He seems like a good bloke, an honest bloke and he’s certainly enthusiastic. But he probably shot himself in the foot, because he made me realize what a privilege it is to run this paper, and that actually I quite like the newspaper business. So I’ve done what all good businessmen do – I’ve courted his investment and then stolen all of his best ideas and told him to get lost. I’m determined to make a go of it, Rob – now what about you? Does this change anything? Are you going to stick with us or creep back to those scoundrels in England? Is your mind made up?’

  ‘Yes, it is,’ said Rob.

  CHAPTER 8

  DOG DAY MID-AFTERNOON

  As distractions went, it was a pretty big distraction.

  Rob arrived late to the office on the Wednesday morning having taken a long weekend off to go and see his kids in England. Pete holding the fort, big decision in the air, speculation rife. When he walked through the door he kept his eyes front, but was aware of everyone and everything: Michael staring at his screen, pen in his mouth, a million miles away, Pete on the phone, Alix typing furiously, Janine at the counter talking to advertising clients, Gerry doing what he did best, watering the plants, but by the time he got to his office door he knew that all eyes were upon him. Even the plants seemed to turn in his direction. A tiny little bit of him was enjoying it, the teasing, being the focus of attention. But his head was still all over the place.

  As Rob closed the door Michael spun in his chair to Alix and said, ‘Poker face or what?’

  ‘That’s his normal face.’

  ‘He’s going, isn’t he, Gerry?’ Janine said as her short-shrifted clients left.

  Gerry poured out the final few drops from his plastic watering can before stashing it under the counter and turning to address his staff, Eisenhower on the eve of the invasion. ‘I told you,’ he said, ‘I asked him to take the weekend to think about it. It’s a big decision and, as soon as I know for sure, you’ll know. But I will say this – no matter what happens we are still a team. There is no “I” in team.’

  He nodded at them wisely.

  ‘No, but there is one in bullshit,’ said Michael, then immediately regretted it. His face reddened and he deliberately dropped his pen, then bent to hunt around for it as a way of deflecting Gerry’s glare.

  Pete said, ‘He knows fine well. They’ve clicked their fingers and he’s away back to London. He wasn’t seeing his kids, he was having his corner office repainted.’

  ‘And what would you know about it?’ Alix asked.

  ‘I’m just saying. Or maybe you have the inside track?’ He added a suggestive wink. She made a face and was about to respond but Pete’s phone began to ring and he held up a hand to stop her. Alix blew air out of her cheeks and returned to her screen. But then immediately spun back as Pete said, ‘Seriously? Christ. Okay, much appreciated.’ He cut the line, but the receiver remained cradled under his chin with his fingers poised over the buttons. They were all looking at him. ‘Someone’s tried to rob O’Connor’s post office on High Street. Shots fired. Cops all over the place. Caller seems to think Gavin O’Connor’s trapped in there with the robber.’

  ‘Like a hostage?!’ said Michael. ‘Brilliant!’

  ‘It’s not brilliant, it’s the opposite of fucking brilliant. I know the O’Connors. Bloody hell.’ As Michael held his hands up in apology, Pete nodded at Alix. ‘Do you want to find Sean and get down there...?’

  ‘Yes, me too,’ said Michael.

  ‘No – you work the phones for now... See if you can track down a photo of Gavin O’Connor, I know we had him at some function a few months back...’

  ‘I’d really rather—’

  ‘Just do it, Michael.’

  ‘Contrary to popular opinion,’ Rob said from his doorway, ‘I’m still in charge. I presume we’re talking about the robbery? Just got a call myself.’

  ‘I was only—’

  Michael was smiling.

  Rob said, ‘Alix see if you can find Sean and get down there. Michael – work the phones for now... and see if you can track down a photo of Gavin O’Connor... I think we had one a few weeks ago... Pete... keep up the good work.’ A wink and back into his office.

  Pete didn’t like being winked at by that patronizing shit. He glanced about him, hoping he hadn’t said it out loud. Alix was smirking at him, but that didn’t mean anything. She was always smirking. Just once, he’d like to slap her stupid smirking face. Michael was huffing and puffing while he looked up contacts on his phone. Alix grabbed her coat. Sean came sauntering out of the kitchen, coffee in hand, and asked what was up. ‘You. Me. Out. Now,’ said Alix and thumbed towards the door.

  Gerry said, ‘I’ll be having that, then,’ and took Sean’s coffee from him and sauntered across to Rob’s office. He pushed the door open with his foot. Rob was just settling behind his desk.

  ‘Exciting, eh?’ said Gerry. ‘This is what it’s all about, right?’

  ‘Jesus, Gerry, will you give me a chance? I’m only through the door.’

  ‘No time like the present, chum.’

  Rob waved his hand at the door. Gerry back-heeled it shut behind him and sat opposite. He took a sip of his coffee. Nodded. ‘So,’ he said.

  ‘Gerry, it’s not the paper. I love the paper – though I could probably earn more in McDonald’s, plus I’d get free chips.’

  ‘You’re like one of those ove
rcompensated footballers, always agitating for more. They should concentrate on the game they love.’

  ‘But actually I don’t mind the money so much – it’s a liv- ing wage for me, here, and I do like it here. But it’s not a living wage for my kids. Not in London. And, besides that, I miss them. I really miss them.’

  Gerry was nodding slowly. He took another sip. ‘Tell me, Rob – did I ever tell you about my mate, the Manchester United fan?’

  ‘No, Gerry, you didn’t.’

  ‘Well, he lives and breathes them. Goes to every home match.’

  ‘Gerry, what’re you—’

  ‘Hear me out. He lives just around the corner from me. He’s a teacher, wife, two kids, not a lot of spare money around. Yet somehow he still manages to go to Old Trafford for every home game. That’s every other week. You’d say to yourself, that’s not cheap, how does he manage that? And do you know how he does it?’

  ‘No, I don’t, and I’m not sure I really—’

  ‘Once a year, when the fixtures for the new season come out, he sits down and books his flights, books them so far in advance that he gets them for next to nothing. A couple of pounds, a tenner, sometimes. He loves United, but he knows he can’t live there, but he can still see them every other week with a bit of forward planning. And vice versa.’

  ‘You mean Man United come to him? Jesus, Gerry, you love your parables, don’t you?’

  ‘It’s do-able Rob. Think about it.’

  ‘I have been thinking about it. I’m still...’

  ‘Well, think harder. I need your answer by the end of the day. I’ve a business to run. When Steve Jobs died, Apple didn’t hang around. When Bill Gates died...’

  ‘Bill Gates isn’t—’

  ‘It’s not an ultimatum. I just need to know.’

  ‘It sounds like an ultimatum.’

  Rob’s phone rang. Gerry kept eye contact with him as he picked it up. Rob listened for a moment, then said, ‘For me? Are you sure?’ Listened a bit more then thanked the caller and hung up. He pushed his chair back and stood. He slipped his jacket off the back and began to pull it on. ‘It’s the police,’ he said. ‘They need to talk to me.’