Of wee sweetie mice and men

by Colin Bateman

  Smith pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and stuffed it into Savant's mouth. It quickly turned red.

  Then he started squeezing the handles together.

  I turned away. I walked to the kitchen. I ran the cold water. I washed my face. There was a muffled scream and then silence. I opened the fridge door. I took a carton of orange juice from behind the CDs. I checked the date, then drank. Voices came from the lounge again: Smith's aggressive questioning, murmured replies from Savant I couldn't pick up.

  I leant back against the sink and closed my eyes. My head throbbed. I needed air. Presently Smith appeared at the kitchen door, shaking his head.

  'That was a bit out of hand,' I said. Under lighter circumstances I would have been proud of the pun. But I felt sick.

  Smith crossed the tiled floor and stepped on the pedal of a small bin. He dropped Savant's little finger into it. 'Well,' he said, 'horses for courses.'

  'Meaning?'

  'Meaning I'm paid to do a job and it's in my interests to do it to the best of my ability. In the great scheme of things, a small finger doesn't amount to very much.'

  'That's easy to say when it isn't your finger.'

  He shrugged. I passed him the juice. He took a long drink. 'Was it worth it?'

  Smith returned the carton to me, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He shook his head. 'He's either very brave, or he knows nothing.'

  'Which do you think?'

  'At this stage I really don't know. There are still seven fingers and two thumbs to go.'

  Smith went back to work.

  I opened the fridge to replace the remains of the juice. Then I had a thought. They don't come very often so I decided I'd better exploit it to the maximum.

  I went back to the lounge. Smith stood over Savant, rose pruners in hand. Savant was ashen-faced, but his eyes burnt courageously.

  'Smith,' I said, simply.

  He looked round, annoyed. I was beginning to think he might be enjoying it. 'What?'

  'Stop for a minute.'

  'Starkey, butt out.' No. Seriously. Stop.'

  'Starkey . . .'

  'Let me speak to him. Let me ask him.'

  'Starkey, take notes, you're the reporter. Let me do my job.'

  'That isn't anyone's job. It's torture.'

  'You catch on quick.'

  'Yeah.' I walked towards him. 'I'll make you a deal. Give me ten minutes with him. If I don't get the information we need, then you can have him back and pluck the rest of his fuckin' fingers.

  Ten minutes isn't much.'

  Smith stepped back. He wiped the pruners on Savant's shirt.

  'Okay. Ten minutes. I'll see if I can find something to eat.' He looked at Savant, then shook his head. 'Jesus, he'll probably bleed to death before I get back.'

  He went to the kitchen. I stood in front of Savant. He was in a real mess. There was a bloody stump, tiny, like a twig snap. Blood oozed from it steadily.

  'How're ya doin', Marcus?' I asked.

  Savant looked me up and down disdainfully. 'How the fuck do you think I'm doin'? What're you, the good guy?'

  I shook my head. 'I just want you to answer some questions.' He held up his complete hand, wiggled the little finger he had left. 'Ask away.'

  'I couldn't help but notice that you have a good record collection.'

  Savant nodded hesitantly.

  'But hardly one you would expect a black fella like yourself to have. I mean, there are a few concessions there, some rap, some Motown, but I couldn't help but notice. ..'

  'I have wide and varied tastes. I'm not a prisoner of my race.'

  'Quite. But I couldn't help but notice that you have an affinity for one particular artiste.'

  'That's my progative.'

  'I heard him this afternoon, out on the porch. I found him in your record collection. In your CD stack. I found concert ticket stubs in your wallet. Then I found him in your fridge. You're a devoted fan.'

  'Barry Manilow is the greatest entertainer of the modern era.'

  'Mmmm.'

  'He's the greatest singer of popular ballads in history.'

  'Mmmmm.'

  'And he's a lovely, lovely man.'

  'And you've met him.'

  Savant nodded again, warily, something dawning on him. For the first time he looked a little shaken.

  'Where did you meet him, Marcus?'

  'Back stage at Madison. I won a competition with the fan club.

  He was so gracious.'

  'And he signed this for you, didn't he?' I produced a CD from the fridge. Barry Manilow Live at the Cocacobana. It felt creepy holding it. "'To Marcus, my number one fan, love Barry."' 'Yeah.' He drawled it out. Still awestruck. 'How much is it worth, Marcus?'

  'It ain't worth money.'

  We looked at each other for a moment. He knew what I was thinking.

  'Don't do this, man.'

  'You leave me no choice, Marcus.' `Please, man.'

  I lifted Smith's lighter from the sofa. I held the CD box up to the naked flame. Barry smiled at me. 'Mankind will thank me in later years, Marcus.'

  'Don't do it, man, do anything else. Here, take another finger.

  Have a thumb. Have two. Leave him be. Leave me that, man.'

  'I take your thumbs, Marcus, you won't be able to pick it up.'

  'Doesn't matter.'

  I held the flame a little closer. 'Please.'

  I sang softly to him. "'Her name was Lola 'Please.'

  'How important is it to you, Marcus?'

  'Please.'

  'More important than the Shabazz?'

  'Please.'

  'More important than Muhammad?'

  'Please.'

  'You're a Son of Muhammad, aren't you, Marcus?' He nodded.

  We left him tied to the chair with the bloody rag in his mouth, blood dripping from his finger and Barry Manilow in his lap. It was a cruel way to leave him but it was better than killing him.

  Three flights down, Smith said: 'Shit! Forgot my lighter.' He turned back. He tossed me the car keys. 'Only be a second,' he called after him. I hurried on down the stairs and crossed the road. I sat in the car. Smith appeared again after a couple of minutes. He opened the driver's door and squeezed in.

  'Here,' he said, 'a souvenir.'

  He tossed Barry into my lap and started the car.

  I examined the box. There was the faintest of scorch marks on Barry's lips. It didn't matter much.

  'You killed him, didn't you?'

  He grunted and pulled out into the traffic.

  20

  We tracked the Three Amigos down to an art house cinema in Greenwich Village. Smith hesitated; I paid. An old trick I should have been wise to. The show had yet to begin and the lights were still up. There were only around a dozen people in the theatre. Bobby McMaster and Geordie McClean sat together about halfway down; Stanley Matchitt was three rows behind them in splendid isolation. He looked round as we pushed through the doors and watched as we came down the aisle. He nodded. We ignored him.

  Geordie McClean looked up, then tutted. 'It used to be,' he said quietly as we took seats in the row behind him, 'that the cinema was my escape.'

  'Sorry,' I said.

  'In Belfast, when I want to be alone, this is where I go. No one phones you at the cinema. No one talks to you. I thought I might get away with the same here.' He tutted again. 'First Bobby insists on coming, which means Stanley trails along, which means Poodle's boys are about somewhere and now you two come after me. I won't be surprised if the Sons of Muhammad appear before the first reel and start bombarding me with popcorn.'

  Bobby turned. 'Any word?'

  'Not specifically,' said Smith.

  Stanley joined us. 'Hopeless,' he said, easing in beside me and pushing my elbow off the arm of the seat.

  'Not specifically,' Smith repeated, 'but I've a fair idea where she might be.'

  'Brill,' beamed Bobby.

  'A fair idea,' repeated McClean, staring at the blank screen. 'Tel
l me more.'

  'You want the whole place to know, or should I tell you in private?'

  'We're all friends here.'

  Smith shrugged and leant forward. 'According to my source,' he began, catching my eye and holding it for a second, 'the Sons of Muhammad have got something curious going on at their headquarters.'

  'Something curious,' said McClean.

  Smith nodded. 'Yeah. The Brothers and Sons of Muhammad both have their headquarters in a mosque called the Shabazz. It's a big place. Dominates the Harlem skyline. It's popular too, a lot of people go through it every day, for prayer and that, but there's also a part of it which is strictly off limits to the public. Okay, understandable. But within that private section there's an isolated room which has become strictly off limits over the last few days. Only the highest ranking Sons are allowed access - and none of the Brothers. Guarded twenty-four hours a day. I reckon if she's anywhere, she's in there.'

  'But has anyone seen her?' asked Bobby.

  Smith shook his head. 'My source hasn't seen anything.'

  'Can he not find out?'

  'He's done as much as he can.'

  'I could persuade him,' said Stanley. 'I doubt it,' said Smith.

  'Well, if she's in there,' said Bobby, 'let's get on to the police, get them in, get her out.'

  Smith shook his head. 'It doesn't work like that, Bobby. They need good evidence before they go into somewhere like the Shabazz. A mysterious room isn't good evidence. And if they tried to storm it, the likelihood is things would get messy, people would get hurt, then they'd have a race riot on their hands. And this is election year, so the Mayor's hardly likely to sanction it.'

  'Okay,' said Geordie, still not turning, 'so the police are out. What about sending a crew of Poodle Clay's boys in? They look like they can handle themselves.'

  'That,' said Smith, 'wouldn't help much either.'

  'Poodle's been seen at the mosque three or four times in the past week,' I said.

  This time Geordie looked round. 'You say what?'

  'Poodle's been rubbing noses at the Shabazz.'

  'You're positive?'

  'Our source is positive.'

  Geordie blew out some air and shook his head. 'The jigsaw thickens,' he said.

  McMaster fixed his eyes on Smith. 'I don't understand.'

  'What's there to understand?' snarled Stanley. 'Those cunts have Mary poked up in a room, and this cunt Poodle is involved.'

  'Charmingly put, Stanley,' I said. 'On the other hand we could be barking completely up the wrong tree. They might just have a secret room. Some places do. And why shouldn't Poodle visit? He might be religious himself. He might be trying to track her down himself. Negotiate for her himself. Or just trying to get the threat against Bobby lifted.'

  McClean shook his head. 'I don't think he even knows she's gone, Starkey. She's still technically just missing. The police are hardly bothering. We five are the only ones convinced that she's been kidnapped.'

  'We six. Jackie Campbell knows.'

  'Aye, Jackie knows now. You told him.'

  'I thought. . .'

  'You know what thought did.'

  'Sorry.'

  'Never worry. As far as I'm aware the story's still in-house.' The cinema began to darken. We sat back. The trailers came on. 'So what next?' asked McClean.

  Smith leant further forward, until his arm rested on the back of McClean's seat. 'We go in and look for her.'

  'Isn't that dangerous?'

  'Yes.'

  I bent towards Smith. 'When you say, we go in, who exactly do you mean?'

  'Anyone who cares to volunteer.'

  'I'll go,' said McMaster quickly.

  'You'll stay where you are,' snapped McClean. 'I bloody...'

  'You'll bloody stay where you are, I haven't invested millions in this to. . .'

  'She's my wife...'

  'You'll serve no purpose being there, Bobby. You concentrate on the boxing. Let Smith handle it. He can take Stanley and Starkey with him for back-up.'

  'Class,' said Stanley.

  'Shite,' I said.

  'Starkey . . .'

  'You're not getting me in there.'

  'Starkey, we need your help.'

  'What the hell could I do?'

  'Safety in numbers,' said Smith. He clapped his hand on my leg. I removed it. Not my leg. His hand. 'You did well today, Starkey. Build on that.'

  'I'm a reporter.'

  'Hey,' said McClean, 'Wilfred Owen didn't chicken out.'

  'Who the fuck's Wilfred Owen?' asked Stanley. 'War poet,' said McMaster.

  , "Dulce et decorum est . . . " whatever,' said McClean.

  'It is good to die for one's country,' translated McMaster. 'But not very smart to get shot on the last day of the war,'

  I said. 'No, thanks.'

  'He only got shot because he didn't duck,' said McMaster. 'Very comforting, Bobby. No, thanks for the flattery, lads, but I don't think this quite equates with Wilfred Bloody Owen. He was a soldier for one thing. I'm not. For another he would have been shot for desertion if he'd tried to run away.'

  'And you think you won't?' asked Stanley. 'Oh, you scare me, Stanley.'

  An irritated voice called from the back of the cinema. 'Could you guys keep it down, please? The movie's starting.' I looked up at the screen. A motorbike was racing along an English country lane. Peter O'Toole was barely recognizable behind an old-fashioned helmet.

  'Derek of Arabia,' said Stanley. 'Class.'

  'Lawrence,' McMaster corrected.

  'Could you guys keep it down up there?' came the voice again, a little higher pitched. 'The movie's started.'

  Stanley reared up in his seat. 'Ah, keep your hair on, wouldja?' he shouted back. 'Sure hasn't it been on TV a hundred million times? And he dies at the start, doesn't he? So you bloody well know he's dead by the end, don't you?'

  'I haven't seen it before!'

  'Well, shut the fuck up and watch it then!'

  Stanley sat back in his seat. 'Stupid cunt,' he said.

  McMaster whispered something in McClean's ear. McClean nodded and turned back to Smith. 'Should we be wasting time here?' he asked quietly.

  'No point in rushing it. I'll need to get a ground plan of the Shabazz so that we know where we're going, and I can't get that until City Hall opens. Sit back and enjoy the movie, boys. I'll go and get some hot dogs. Let's relax while we can.'

  He raised himself with some effort and headed back up the aisle.

  'You know,' said McClean, 'I saw this for the first time way back in '69 when I was at Queen's University. It had been around for a good few years then, like, but we had this cinema club, a real fleabag joint. A brilliant film, brilliant, I was really enjoying it, but I couldn't for the life of me understand why David Lean had this little black bush in the bottom corner of every frame. It intrigued me for the whole of the - what was it - three hours? This was the late sixties, like, the age of experimental film. I had dreams of being a film maker myself.'

  'A bit different from insurance, eh?' said McMaster.

  'Yeah, well, boyhood dreams. But I thought Lean was such a master. I mean, there he was with this epic picture, millions and millions of dollars to make, looked like heaven, yet he has the balls to put a little black bush in the corner of every frame. I spent ages trying to work it out, the symbolism, the hidden meaning.

  It was a real enigma. Then it was over, the lights went up, and there was this bastard with a huge Afro sitting in the front row.' He shook his head. 'I should have killed him.'

  'PHILISTINESI'

  It came from the back row. Stanley turned quickly, his hand diving into his inside pocket, but all he saw was a rotund figure exiting quickly through the doors at the back of the theatre.

  I turned back to the screen. I felt a tap on my leg. Bobby McMaster, thin-lipped but giant-faced scary in the flickering light, whispered plaintively, 'You'll help get her back, won't you, Starkey? I love her.'

  'Of course,' I said.

>   It got to the torture scene and I left. I had been involved in torture and murder only a few hours before. Torture and murder. Then I was sitting in a cinema munching on a hot dog. And it tasted like a hot dog. It tasted good. But it was meant to taste like wood; torture and death were meant to have removed my appetite, left me hollow.

  Smith had carried out the murder with a nonchalance which was chilling. I had asked for details. He had just grunted some more and said Mary's life was more important than pricks like Savant. I didn't know. Who was to say what made one life important, another not? Who was to say that the wife and lover of a man about to fight for the heavyweight title was more important than a man with a Barry Manilow fixation? You couldn't weigh up lives like that. Murder was murder was murder.

  And now I was being asked to take part in a raid on the headquarters of the Sons of Muhammad. Me. Dan Starkey. Ace fucker upper. Now was the time to stop a taxi, go to the airport, fly home, start sorting out my life, start sorting out the things which were important. What was a book? What was someone else's missing wife? What were the Sons of Muhammad? What were any of them compared to my wife? If I'd stopped to ask those questions years ago when I first lost her, then my life would have been so different, so much better. Not the shell it was now.

  Then I thought: but I had stopped to ask those questions back then; I'd known the answers and accepted the repercussions, and gone ahead with my foolish actions because I was so sure of myself that I believed everything would work out for the best; and even when I saw things weren't working out for the best I'd pressed ahead because I was a glutton for punishment and I couldn't suppress my own desires. So, tough.

  The rain, cold, spat in my face. Taxis splashed past. Across the road young folk spoke animatedly over drinks in a rock bar. What I would have given to be amongst them, talking nonsense and not giving a damn. An old woman shuffled past me, head down, pulled along by a pink poodle on a long lead.

  'Can I give you a ride?'

  I turned. Smith. Buttoning his coat. I shook my head. 'Are you okay?'

  I nodded.

  'You're thinking about Savant, aren't you?' I nodded.

  'About cutting his finger off, and then shooting him.' I nodded.

  'What would you have done if it had been your wife being held captive?'

  'I'd have pushed him off the balcony of a block of flats.'