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by Colin Bateman


  ‘Well, they didn’t just magically appear! Then they start shooting!’

  ‘You had a gun, you were waving it about...’

  ‘Well I wasn’t going to rob you with a fucking pea-shooter, was I?’

  He turned back, his face inflamed, sweat dripping. His clothes were sticking to him, big damp patches, his hands were slippery with it; he’d one finger curled around the trigger in case of a surprise attack. Rob didn’t know much about guns – he didn’t know anything about guns – but he knew that sweaty fingers and an expectation of attack wasn’t a good combination.

  Patrick paced about, muttering to himself. Rob screwed the top back on the bottle and said, ‘Let’s just try and keep things calm.’ Patrick stopped and glared. ‘Come on, I’m just trying to help. And remember – you asked for me.’

  Patrick snorted. ‘You didn’t know your arse from your elbow, when you started with us. I pulled you out of a few close ones.’

  ‘Yes, you did. And I pulled you out of a few, too. They were good times. Scary, but good.’

  ‘Aye, well, try pulling me out of this one.’

  ‘I’m not sure how I can...’

  ‘You put me on the front of your paper.’

  ‘Well, I’d take that as a given.’

  ‘I mean – you tell everyone that I didn’t shoot him. Tell everyone how they trapped me, how they’re always after me, will never leave me alone, that they set me up for this...’

  ‘I can certainly put your side of—’

  ‘No! I tell you what to say, you print it. They don’t get a fucking look-in.’

  ‘Patrick – it doesn’t really work like that. You know that. Everyone gets to have their—’

  ‘No. They’ve had it their way long enough. This time I’m calling the shots.’ For emphasis he waved the gun in Rob’s direction. ‘All I want you to do is tell the truth, what’s so fucking hard about that?!’

  ‘Nothing, Patrick, nothing at all...’

  Except that truth, like beauty, is in the eye of the beholder.

  *

  Pete was a dick of the highest order, but he knew his stuff. Before Alix got anywhere finding out exactly who Patrick Casey was, Pete was on the phone with an address off the High Donaghadee Road. It was a two-up, two-down terrace that was considered working-class in Bangor but would have passed for middle- twelve miles up the road in Belfast. Pete didn’t say where he’d gotten it from – he rarely did – but she knew it wasn’t the police, otherwise they would surely have been there already. But as soon as she rang the doorbell and saw the smiling wife, Stephanie, it was clear that she remained in blissful ignorance. She’d a baby in her arms, and was shepherding back two toddlers with her feet as she gave Alix a breezy hello. When she said she was from the paper and asked about the police, she hardly blinked. She said. ‘What’s he done now?’

  Alix asked if she could come in. Stephanie knew it was serious then and ushered her in. She led her down a hall and through the kitchen and out into a small, paved garden surrounded by a high wooden fence. There was a plastic slide and various toys littered about. They sat on slightly wonky bench seats on either side of a weather-beaten picnic table. As she lit up, Stephanie offered Alix a cigarette. Alix refused. There was no sign of an ashtray, and the ground was littered with discarded butts. As Alix described what was happening at the post office, Stephanie sat with her eyes closed, nodding slowly, while furiously inhaling and streaming smoke out through her nose. She swore several times. Eventually she said, ‘I knew something like this was coming. Yesterday, yesterday I found out he got made redundant three weeks ago. He was working at a meatpacking place in Balloo. Hated it. He’s a printer by trade but those jobs have gone to pot. Anyway, he was getting up every morning and pretending to go to work, only he was hitting the boozer instead. Like I say, found out yesterday and I told him to get out, ’cos it’s not the first time.’ There were tears in her eyes. ‘Look, I don’t want to sound like some hard cow who doesn’t care, but I have these ’uns to be thinking about...’ She nodded at her kids, two of them playing with the cigarette butts on the ground and one still on her lap, enjoying the benefits of her habit, ‘and he’s broken so many promises, been fired from so many... it’s really just been a relief to get him out. He’s got a heart of gold, love, but no common sense.’

  When the moment seemed right, Alix asked if there was a photo of Patrick she could borrow for the paper. At this point she was usually either chased out or presented with hundreds of alternatives. Stephanie asked for a moment and then disappeared inside – she was gone for about five minutes. Alix busied herself picking up as many of the cigarette butts as she could and putting them in the bin. There were hundreds of them. Her hands stank. She was cleaning them with a handy wipe as Stephanie returned, but she didn’t comment. She didn’t appear to notice the clean-up. She was studying the photo in her hand and looking wistful. ‘He was so handsome in his day...’ she said, ‘and he’s still got it...’ He did not, at least to Alix, look the slightest bit handsome, but horses for courses. Stephanie held out a small plastic medicine bottle. ‘I don’t know if there’s any point in getting these to him? He has some disorder – doesn’t like to talk about it – something that’s close to schizophrenia but not as bad, but affects his concentration and moods – Jesus, he can flare up... you may take these. They don’t work like headache pills, two and you’re right as rain in half an hour, but can’t do any harm. I don’t think he’s been taking them and maybe that’s...?’

  ‘Why don’t you bring them, maybe you can coax him into—?’

  ‘No – I’m not going.’

  ‘But he’s your—’

  ‘I know what he is. And I told him, if anything else happened I wouldn’t go and sort it out, ’cos I’m always doing that. So I’m not going to. I don’t need it. The kids don’t need it. Christ, if he has a gun – where would he even get one?’ Alix nodded, but she knew they weren’t that hard to come by, not in an area like this. ‘And anyway, what difference will it make? Do you think they’re just going to pat him on the head and send him on his way? Armed robbery, Alix, someone’s been shot from the sounds of it... me being there’s just going to make matters worse.’

  ‘But you might persuade him to let his hostages go.’

  ‘Hostages? I thought you said there was one...?’

  ‘There was, the post-office guy – but my boss has gone in there too to try and talk to him. And last I heard he hadn’t come out, so it looks like he’s one too. Please... you should do what you can to—’

  But she shook her head. ‘I can’t,’ she said, ‘not this time...’

  *

  Gerry and Janine arrived together, flustered because they’d very recently been on the verge of having sex, and it not even a Tuesday, when news filtered back about what Rob had done. The boss immediately said, ‘What the fuck was he thinking of, going in there?’

  ‘Didn’t consult us,’ said Pete.

  ‘He has no fucking right to... How long has he been in there now?’

  ‘’Bout an hour.’

  ‘Jesus Christ. That’s not good, that’s not good at all. Someone should tell his next of... you know, his wife.’

  Pete was looking at him. Janine put a hand on his arm. ‘Love, that’s your job.’

  ‘Bloody hell.’ Gerry took his phone out. ‘I’ve no idea how to get in—’

  ‘I’ll text you her number,’ said Pete.

  Gerry stared at him. ‘How the hell do you... Doesn’t matter. Send it.’ He shook his head at Janine. ‘What sort of a bloody idiot walks into a place like—?’

  ‘Would you not do it for me, love, if I was being held hostage?’

  ‘Who would dare take you hostage?’

  He stalked away. Pete sent the contact and smiled up at Janine. ‘I think we both know what Gerry would do,’ he said.

  Janine would have responded with something snarky but her eyes were suddenly drawn towards the post office. The front door was opening. As people b
egan to notice, a hush descended. Gavin O’Connor came staggering out. The door shut behind him. He made it about ten yards before collapsing. After a brief hesitation, while they sought the all-clear from Clifford, two policemen hurried forward, grabbed him by the shoulders and dragged him back behind the cover of the parked vehicles.

  Inside the post office, Rob turned to Patrick and said, ‘Thanks for that.’

  ‘Your call, mate, though I don’t know why you done it. You don’t even know him.’

  ‘I know him a wee bit. And he was bleeding and... anyway, it’s done.’

  ‘And now for your half of the bargain.’

  ‘Patrick – I said there were no guarantees.’

  ‘You’ll find a way.’ He nodded down at the counter. He’d foraged a laptop from an office out the back. It was up and running and they’d a Wi-Fi signal. ‘Write what you said you’d write. And write it like your life depended on it.’

  *

  Pete watched as Gavin O’Connor was loaded into the back of an ambulance. Police and paramedics were doing their best to shield him from view, but they could see he had an oxygen mask clamped over his face, and as the watching crowd broke into spontaneous applause he had enough strength to raise his hand and give them the thumbs-up. Pete watched approvingly as Sean fired off a number of shots. He raised his phone and said to a waiting Michael, ‘Doesn’t seem to be anyone around here getting in a state about what’s happened or getting into the ambulance with him, so maybe he has no family. Have you found the house?’

  Michael was three miles away, in the smart car that had once been Janine’s, which had then been passed on to Rob and was now increasingly becoming his only choice of transport. As the paper’s fortunes had ever so slightly improved – or, at least, Gerry’s credit rating was marginally less bad – they’d been able to lease a couple of contract vehicles for the senior staff. That meant that Michael was lumbered with the embarrassing smart car with the Express logo plastered all over it that nobody had ever wanted to be seen dead in. John Travolta had pimped up his car into a ‘real pussy wagon’ in Grease. The Express smart car was the exact opposite of whatever the Grease vehicle was. It was a repellent. Pete told Michael he should count his blessings, getting the run of a company car at his tender age. And that actually worked for about an hour, or until he drove it home and his mum and dad came out for a look. They weren’t the types to beat around the bush. His dad said it looked like something that Benny Hill used to drive around in. ‘That’s you,’ his mum said, ‘you’re Ernie, the fastest milkman in Bangor West.’ Michael had no idea who Benny Hill or Ernie were, but he knew what a milk float was. One had overtaken him on the way home.

  Now his pride and joy was humming slowly along past the big houses on Maxwell Road, looking for Gavin O’Connor’s house. Pete had given him the number. He found it about half-way along what was commonly known as the most exclusive street in town, three doors up from Navar’s, and let out a low whistle. ‘Bloody hell,’ he said, ‘there’s money in stamps. Between this and frickin’ car washes I’m definitely in the wrong business.’

  Pete laughed and said he’d heard there was family money and the house had been inherited. All he wanted Michael to do was fire off a few photographs on his phone, knock on the door and, if there was no reply, call with the neighbours and get a few shocked quotes from them.

  ‘I’ll give it a go, though I don’t see too many signs of life in any of the houses. They’re too busy coining it in. Up the workers, I say... speaking of which...’ A man in tattered blue dungarees guiding an electric lawnmower had just appeared in the front garden of the house directly opposite O’Connor’s. ‘I’ll give you a buzz back if I get anything interesting, and fingers crossed nothing happens with Rob, at least until I get back down there. I mean—’

  ‘I know what you mean, you heartless—’

  Michael hung up before Pete could finish. Then he got out of his embarrassing car and hurried across the road. One good thing about the car was that he never really had to prove to anyone who he was. It was taken as read that nobody would volunteer to drive round in a car like that. Its yellow and red livery made it look like something that had been rejected by The Wizard of Oz for being too garish.

  Michael had to say ‘Excuse me?’ twice before the guy with the lawnmower realized he was there and switched off. His eyes immediately flitted to the smart car. Michael stood on one side of a low wall and said, ‘Sorry to bother you – do you happen to know Mr O’Connor across the road or are you just working here?’

  ‘Do you mean, am I the gardener? Or don’t you think I would condescend to cut my own grass?’

  ‘I—’

  ‘Gavin’s my neighbour, but he’s not here today, you’ll more than likely find him—’

  ‘I know exactly where he is.’

  Michael quickly told him about the robbery and the hostage situation.

  ‘That’s... terrible.’ He stared across the road. He bit on his lower lip. ‘I wonder if I should nip across and do their grass, too. Like a gesture of solidarity.’

  Michael ignored that. ‘Could you tell me what he’s like, and how you feel about what—?’

  ‘Oh no – I mean, but I really don’t want to be talking to the local rag. No offence.’

  Michael’s cheeks were reddening. ‘Have you actually read it recently? The local rag.’

  ‘No, but I—’

  ‘Well, you should give it a go. Might surprise you.’

  He turned away – then right back. ‘Sorry – you said, you might pop across and do their grass too... is that just a turn of phrase? I was told Mr O’Connor has no family...?’

  ‘Well, yes and no – his wife was Canadian, she passed away five or six years ago now – as I understand it she had a daughter from a previous marriage. She’d be in her twenties now, but she’s been back these past couple of months. Think maybe she’s been doing something at the university – but I do know she was helping Gavin out in the shop some days. I see them leaving every morning. She wasn’t caught up in...?’

  Michael got back to the car as quickly as he could. He called Pete and said, ‘There may be another hostage.’

  And then he was zipping back to the crime scene as fast as his comedy car could take him. First person he saw when he parked up was Sean, standing a fair bit away from the action, talking to another photographer. As Michael jogged up, the other guy nodded and moved off. Michael excitedly told him about the possible second hostage. Sean didn’t seem quite as excited. A bit more dour than usual.

  ‘What’s up?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Out with it.’

  ‘Seriously, nothing. Nothing much.’

  ‘Sean...’

  ‘That guy I was talking to, works for a photo agency up in town.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘Says my work’s been noticed.’

  ‘I’m sure it has, it’s hard to get photos so out of focus, particularly with the technology we have these days.’

  ‘Funny.’

  ‘So what’d he say?’

  ‘He said they’ve seen my work and think it’s good. I should think about joining an agency as a freelance – staff jobs are going the way of the dinosaur...’

  ‘You can say that again...’

  ‘And with an agency, big story like this comes along, you syndicate your stuff and you’re rolling in it.’

  ‘The man has a point.’

  ‘’Cos no matter what I take here, I’m getting my pay and that’s it.’

  ‘Likewise. And did he offer to cut you in on any brilliant pics you get and can slip to him on the QT?’

  Sean cleared his throat. ‘Maybe.’

  ‘I had the same from a guy from a news agency. Bunch of sharks, the lot of them.’

  ‘Aye,’ said Sean. ‘I suppose.’

  ‘Mate, the grass is always greener.’

  ‘Aye, and sometimes it actually is.’

  *

  There was a hole in the shutters, no
t much more than a pinprick, but enough for Patrick Casey to keep an eye on the activity outside. It was getting into the gloom of early evening now; there were more police, more media. Somewhere in the background Rob could hear the jingle of an ice-cream van. There had been intermittent chats with Chief Inspector Clifford, but Patrick refused to let Rob speak to him directly, instead making him shout across the width of the post office that he was okay. And he was: apart from his racing heart and his banging head and his realization that he was the biggest fool on the planet, walking into a situation like this. He had kids. He had his whole life. And here he was banged up with a nutcase holding a homemade gun.

  Homemade. That’s what he said. Some old stage gun his dad had owned, his dad who’d worked as a prop guy at the Lyric in Belfast, but Patrick had adapted it in his workshop. Nothing better to be doing with his time. And it clearly worked. Rob wasn’t buying for one moment that the police had shot Gavin O’Connor; Patrick had done it, it was written all over him. Yes, he’d pulled Rob out of more than a few scrapes when they’d been young and stupid, but it came to him now that most of the pulling-out had been achieved by acting madder than the next guy. His colleagues had always said that Patrick was a bit of a headless chicken, you just wound him up and he set blindly off, knocking over whatever or whoever got in his path. And now Patrick was standing over him, home-made gun perilously close, watching while Rob typed out his manifesto, his life story, his raison d’être, knowing all the while that no one, least of all his own paper, was ever going to publish it, not in this form, and that while he had done the noble thing by bargaining for Gavin O’Connor’s release, it left only him as the hostage and victim. Once that would have meant something for about half an hour, but the Internet meant that the stupidity of his death would live for ever.

  Patrick was stomping around saying, ‘This is nuts! I was only in for fucking stamps!’

  ‘With a gun...’

  ‘Only for insurance... they were fucking waiting for me... let me see...’

  Rob moved to one side, one eye on the door, as Patrick began to read the story. He could make a bolt for it. And get shot in the back. He could just jump him. Punch his lights out. His last fight? Primary seven. And he got hammered. Rob was no man of action. Man of inaction. But the pen was mightier than the sword.

 

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