Ordinary Decent Criminals

by Lionel Shriver

  The crowd bristled happily on the arrival of a Land Rover, which had connived its way to the Falls through the gates of the Peace Line; the vehicle paused at the intersection. Yet in a perfect expression of Belfast’s concept of the ordinary, with two piles of stolen property frizzling in the middle of a public road to their left, the constabulary turned right.

  As she puttered home to run before work—and the club would be chockablock tonight—Estrin tried to imagine this ghetto with purely lower-case troubles: Eddie McIlwaine’s West Belfast, the massive Republican murals—raised automatics over vanquished British soldiers—all pasted over with ads for Foster’s; where likewise down the way on Sandy Row the flaming orange edifice of King William flakes lackadaisically off the brick. Where political graffiti (SAS: You can’t walk/or fly/or drive/so swim home; Impact here, impact there! RUC can’t hide nowhere!; Stuff your census—) fades behind Frank + Molly; Rachel is a two-timing whore. Where locals die of heart disease, whose funerals drone on without gloves or berets or Armalite salutes, just sniffling aunts with hankies. A town where if you hijack a public bus and burn it up you get arrested. Eddie more or less takes over the Belfast Telegraph, until “Roundabouts I Have Known” makes the front page. Unemployment, but no outrage; an odd hand in the till, but no racketeering. Sectarianism reduced to rumor and backbiting, the snarl of ordinary ignorance you find anywhere. And no soldiers. Estrin realized she would miss them, as the locals would miss them, remembering the IRA funeral the other day when the army stayed away and the whole event went slack; gangs had dandered off side streets well before the cortege hit Milltown. She liked waving to soldiers when they weren’t used to that, and at Whitewells she liked being searched, with the suggestion she might be dangerous. She enjoyed watching Brits stalk Springfield Road like an episode of The Dirty Dozen in her own home. Sheepishly, she preferred news about one more UDA man splattered in front of his wife to reviews of the Balmoral Dahlia Show. She enjoyed bomb scares at Waterstones, the bloom in her head when they were real, the uncomprehending face of Windsor House with all the windows replaced with plywood, even if they did cost half a million pounds. Corrupt as the entertainment for which other people paid, the picture of this place simplified to a small island with bad weather and high cholesterol profoundly depressed her. She could not live in Castlecaulfield, with brambles by the door, and the real story was that the people in Castlecaulfield couldn’t live there, either. As she locked the Guzzi by 133 newly sprayed with UP THE PROVOS, Estrin reminded herself that without the Troubles she’d never have come here, and without them, like Farrell, she would leave. For worst of all, Eddie McIlwaine’s Ulster would shelter no bomb disposal, no dirty tricks, no late-night palavering with Rips, in short, no Farrell O’Phelan, and she had to admit, with a flicker of fear, that this was the one absence which more and more she could not bear.

  chapter seventeen

  The Fall of the House in Castlecaulfield

  If you go straight back to your taxis and airplanes,” she had threatened, “then I’ll know for certain that all you really want is a comfortable disease.”

  It worked.

  Farrell’s first bona fide convalescence since he was a child was one of those brief times that a Normal Relationship—which Estrin had never seen but in which she persistently believed anyway, along with the Happy Childhood and the Warm Family Christmas—would herald as the beginning of a lifetime, to which they would later hark back at the age of seventy on a porch: Remember, that’s when we knew, over oxtail soup, saying nothing. You let me plump your pillow. I held your hand while we watched The Quiet Man. You told me stories of your mother threatening to put you in an orphanage. I read you Paul Durcan. I garnished your haddock with tomato roses. I learned to make real Irish soda bread that week. You thought that was so hilarious, it made you cough.

  Oh, aye.

  Funny how everything with us started out as parody, didn’t it? The “Have a nice day, dear!” The smack goodbye.

  It took us a long time to admit we weren’t so different.

  It took us a long time to admit that wasn’t so awful, you mean … Notice how my accent has changed? Yours and mine, they’ve met in the middle.

  I have always admired the way you say gobshite.

  But had she become more Irish because they lived here? Where were they? Burma? The picture blurred.

  For instead of marking a start or a discovery, the week patinaed with preemptive nostalgia: what they had, perfectly what they would sacrifice. Because Farrell did not know what to do with women, because Estrin could not live in Castlecaulfield, they merely glanced in the window—at the rope rug by the fire, bookmarked Dostoevsky, toddies on the hearth—before tearing off again to ambushed buses and Chicken Retread. They would never know, then, if the early-evening light shafted so fulgently into the ship’s cabin, streaking the green cornice, crosshatching the wicker with the dying golds of Van Gogh, because it was beautiful of itself or simply since it would not keep. This was just September, and the sun rose later each morning, the chill sharpened another degree each night, gales blew leaves with the faintest yellow off their trees. Every tray Estrin chattered to his lap was one less meal she would deliver him ever again, and though this is always so when your time limit is closer to a week than fifty years, the passing of such dinners gleams more keenly on the edge of your cup. The very silver seemed to tarnish by the day, and Estrin could swear that by the weekend single hairs on her temples had turned gray. The convalescence took on the poignancy of a terminal illness, with the illness rather than Farrell facing a tragic demise.

  It was the morning of the seventh day that Estrin padded in with coddled eggs, fruit farls, bananas with brown sugar, and sweet, milky tea, when at last she could distinguish his cheek from the bleached pillowcase; his breathing was quiet. Farrell’s eyes trembled open, and shut with a flutter of dread. She wanted to assure him she could pretend, What, Farrell, what improvement? But when he opened his eyes again, he saw she saw and there was no chance. “I have an appointment” were his first words. He only downed the tea and gnawed a single bite of bread before putting the tray aside. “Tonight I fly to Ohio.”

  “Of course,” she said.

  They were silent while he dressed.

  She woke damp, panting. In the dream she had stripped the pelt from the Persian, as easy as pulling the skin off a chicken breast because that’s where all the fat is. The cat glistened bright red—for it was still alive, with malignant, shining eyes. A cat is a scrawny creature without its fur, she thought as it slumped against the wall. It was smearing her Laura Ashley wallpaper, so she picked it up. It scratched and bit her fingers. Spiteful thing. She twisted its slippery neck with both hands.

  This was not the first dream about dead pets. Just last week, she’d been seated in her kitchen. Underneath the table her toe crackled at plastic. She peeked, to discover a black garbage bag, twist-tied. She went back to peeling cucumbers. Of course she knew perfectly well what it was; she’d only pretended to be surprised. It was the neighbor’s bloodhound, in little pieces.

  Roisin had a feeling there were more such dreams she didn’t retain, probably worse. Some mornings she remembered nothing but woke off-form. For once, she wouldn’t tidy the room before breakfast because it made her uncomfortable to look at the bed.

  The Persian jumped up on the duvet and nagged for attention. Distractedly she stroked its long hair, until she looked down at her hands—skinny, but with long, sharp nails and flesh-pink polish, and somehow in this light cronishly wrinkled—chicken claws—God, she was getting old—and she pulled them from the pet, afraid of what they might do.

  Like most events that had menaced her for a long time, this one had been easier than she’d expected. Constance was glad to get it over with, if only that now she could think about what it had really been like, rather than concoct wee horror shows that kept her up nights.

  Reality produced several surprises. The girl was short. And American; she’d never figure Farrell for
that. He did like foreigners, but of the more exotic sort. A bit loud, like most of her people, a bit ready with an opinion.

  But most of all Constance was impressed with herself. Why, she could bear up; in fact, she loved it! How much more preferable this meetable short person with moments of awkwardness to the tall, arch paragons of her fears. (So you answer Farrell’s post, do you? Brittle silver laugh … )

  All right, loud, aye; maybe naïve; ludicrously young … edgy, high-strung … self-conscious, with gunge in her nails … Constance sighed. She could not even marshal much malevolence by herself. Sure the girl was lonely, in a foreign country on her own. And the way she talked about Farrell, Lord, the kid had it bad. You could tell by the way when Constance mentioned him she paid far, far too much attention; those dark eyes zeroed in, telephoto. And the quickening when she said his name, the way she would alternate between saying it a lot, for her pleasure, and then avoiding it and using pronouns, or changing the subject altogether out of respect or superstition. In fact, it made Constance nervous to observe anyone’s feelings as so apparent. Maybe, then, secrets are impossible. Maybe the only thing that keeps everyone from reading us like open books is they don’t bother, pure lack of interest our only protection. Well, in that case Constance figured she was safe enough.

  There was something about the decision with which the girl’s boot hit the footpath, the marcato of her sentences, the way she stood with a hand on her hip not the least bit like the wee thing she was, her brisk irritation when she shoved all that thick black hair from her face—maybe it was being American, or maybe it was the authority of younger women, born into that wider world where girls rode motorcycles; from wherever it sprang, Constance did not feel it. For all her officiousness, she could not walk down the street like that, all trussed in black leather. No doubt there was a length of stride, a directness of gaze, a tilt to the chin, a swing of a helmet at your side, and a subterranean smile tugging at your lower lip that you could only strike past wheeling internists, not because you were liberated, or American, but because you were beautiful.

  That was it! That was what she couldn’t stick! As if that weren’t the one detail that was a dead cert, sight unseen! But the slide of those narrow hips from behind was unbearable. Why was her skin so smooth, when if there was a God in heaven she’d have a few spots! And what kind of shampoo did she use to get her hair so thick, sure they didn’t flog it on this island! It wasn’t fair! And well enough if she was a dolly bird, but whether or not she was brilliant, she was no dose—och, wasn’t the torture not how-could-you-Farrell but that it made perfect sense, and wouldn’t Constance fall in love with Estrin Lancaster herself?

  She had. Constance was smitten. She had changed her blouse three times that morning and still wasn’t satisfied with the blue knit. Why, she didn’t fidget over what to wear for Farrell himself. But she was on her way to West Belfast and thought she might perchance run into his girlfriend.

  What do you do when a Loyalist throws a pin at you?”

  “Run—sure he’s a grenade in his mouth!”

  “What do you do when a Loyalist throws a grenade at you?”

  “Take the pin out and throw it back!”

  “How do you save an RUC man when he’s drowning?”

  “Take your foot off his head!”

  “What do you throw an RUC man when he’s drowning?”

  “His family!”

  “What do you call four thousand Brits at the bottom of Lough Neagh?”

  “A start!”

  “What do you call two Brits going off a cliff in a mini?”

  “A waste! You can fit four in a mini!”

  “You know, they tell exactly the same jokes on the Shankill about the IRA.”

  The Green Door’s merry recitation went quiet.

  “The Proddies pinch them from us,” said Callaghan. “And balls up the punch lines. Haven’t I had to retrieve many a cracker filched down a black hole and half mangled to death.”

  The punters were watching; Farrell strode to the bar and stood right beside Callaghan.

  “Been scarce of late, boyo,” said Callaghan. “I do believe I’ve forgotten your name.”

  Too many customers found this funny.

  “I expect if I held a gun to your head,” said Farrell affably, “you’d remember.”

  “I’m not likely to recollect, then. I’d hardly put myself in a situation where that would be possible.”

  “Och, it’s always possible,” Farrell assured him, raising his forefinger to the man’s temple and pressing his thumb. “Bang, bang.”

  “A fine way to suss out what a man’s made of.”

  “Ninety-eight percent water,” said Farrell. “Every one.”

  “I had it on good authority you don’t carry a piece.”

  “I did at one time.” Farrell’s voice was soft, informative. “I didn’t care for it. When I left it behind I lost my confidence. I didn’t mind owning a gun, but I didn’t like needing it. And the status was cheap. Why, any wet-nappied, half-bald, overweight pillock can point a pistol, right?”

  “Drink up, now!” shouted Estrin.

  “Sorry, mate,” Malcolm told Farrell from behind the bar. “Last call is twenty minutes past.”

  “We’ll see about that,” said Farrell, his eyes following Estrin as she stacked pints. They rattled. She spilled a bottle of lager, upset an ashtray, and broke a glass, all in the space of five minutes. She avoided looking at Farrell so completely, she gave away he was all she could see. Bloody hell. It was depressing.

  At last the club cleared down to Duff, who wheezed off his stool and winked at Estrin on his way out.

  Sweeping while Estrin wiped tables, Malcolm whispered, “What’s he hanging about for? Should I turf him out?”

  “No, he’s—with me,” said Estrin uncertainly, feeling she should add sort of; she no longer understood what being “with” Farrell meant. All those farls and tea and movies and Castlecaulfield hand-holding and then not so much as a phone call for two weeks. It was getting harder to take, though when she saw his face she couldn’t feel angry but only grateful.

  “You don’t fancy him, like? He’s a bleeding old man!”

  “I’m pretty ancient myself.”

  “For fuck’s sake.” He followed her to the kitchen. “Lancaster, you could pass for a fresh at Queen’s. And in your head, girlie, you’re fifteen.”

  “Going on ninety-five.”

  Out front, Malcolm collected his books to go home, and Farrell noticed the chess set on top. Studying the boy, Farrell might have recognized himself twenty-five years ago, dragging his own worn chessboard on top of Kierkegaard all over Belfast, but the book was computer science. And the kid was too handsome, too well proportioned. His hair fell in disarming curls and would never suggest electrocution. His legs were surely shapely enough on the football field, not snooker cues with toes. Malcolm was too likable, too well adjusted, and his clothes fit the fashion, those queer jeans that looked erased.

  Farrell nodded at the box. “Chess?”

  “Why not a game someday?” Malcolm proposed. “Maybe I could learn something.”

  Farrell smiled. “You being sarky?”

  “Not about the question.”

  “Catch yourself on. How old are you?”

  “Fischer won the U.S. Open at thirteen. Come on, old man. What are you afraid of?”

  The obvious answer decided him. Farrell slapped the boy on the shoulder. “Fair enough, then, knight’s odds.”

  “No, sir. Square game. Tomorrow?”

  “After hours. But next time you’ll have to pour me a drink.”

  Leaving, Malcolm turned and asked as an afterthought, “Are you good?”

  “Am I good? Now, that’s a question I don’t ask myself lately.”

  The door closed, the bar went quiet. “I rather like this club with no one here,” Farrell commented.

  “It’s my favorite moment in the day, when the last customer’s out. I love workplaces whe
n they’re all mine. That’s what you don’t understand about minions. It’s the minions have all the power, really. The ones who know where the extra champagne is hidden, stash the rare bits of roast beef for later, and between themselves crack the best jokes at your expense. Customers are minions. Customers are at the tail end, and they have to pay for every pat of butter. And boy, do you have a man by the nose when you control his drink.” Estrin held the neck of Farrell’s white wine just out of reach.

  “Please. No games. I’m tired.”

  “You’re always tired. No games? You just arranged one. And if you could wait for this bottle two weeks, what’s five more minutes?”

  “The Swallow is piqued?”

  “I don’t know if I’ve a right to be. I’ve never known what my rights are. You’ve been careful to arrange that.”

  “Your ‘rights’? I imagine you can get angry whenever you like.”

  Estrin pulled the cork. “I mean, what are you? Are you my boyfriend?”

  Farrell winced. “I’d hoped you and I were beyond these tawdry distinctions.”

  “You mean incapable of them. Farrell, are you seeing other women?”

  Farrell took a sip. “I could say: That’s none of your business.”

  “That’s what you’re saying, or not? Because if it isn’t, don’t say it.”

  “Have I ever put that question to you?”

  “Pointedly not. It’s annoying.”

  “Such a traveler. Don’t you prefer to keep your freedom?”

  She considered. “It’s not called freedom when you’ve nothing to escape.”

  “I don’t follow.”

  “I just wish once in a while you’d get jealous!”