Of wee sweetie mice and men

by Colin Bateman

  'That's understandable,' I said.

  'So, I've organized all that, and still have time for coffee. What've you done, honey?'

  'I've made some notes,' I said.

  'Class,' said Matchitt.

  'It's what I'm paid for, Stanley. I still haven't quite worked out what you're being paid for. Bag carrier, is it?'

  I walked on through; Matchitt's glare burnt holes in my back, but I was tough and could take it. He didn't think the glare was enough. He came after me and hauled me back by the arm. 'Every day you push me that little bit closer, Starkey.'

  'Closer to what, Stanley?'

  He let go. He stepped back. I tensed, ready for the punch. I'd slip to the floor and feign unconsciousness. It was a good way of getting sympathy. It didn't come. 'Your problem, Starkey, is you think you're God's gift. God's gift to everyone. And you know what you really are? God's unwanted gift. You're that big fluffy jumper someone gets at Christmas. You're God's outsize shoes.'

  I walked on. He turned back. We were never going to be friends.

  Bobby McMaster was sitting on the bed in Geordie McClean's room. He cradled the phone under his chin, but the call was over. McClean stood before him. They looked round as I entered.

  'Well?' I said.

  McClean stepped over and closed the door. 'You know what they say about walls?'

  'It was them, wasn't it?' I said. 'Wasn't just an excuse to get out of the ring?'

  He shook his head. 'Them. Mary too. She sends her love. That's about all she said. I shouldn't complain. At least she's still alive.'

  I looked at McClean. Grim-faced. 'What's the crack then?' I asked.

  'Simple enough. They've decided to hold on to her for a while longer.'

  'We knew that.'

  'And they have a couple more demands before they let her go.'

  'Such as?'

  McMaster finally replaced the receiver. He swung his legs up onto the bed and lay back. He folded his hands behind his head. 'You know I was asked to lead the St Patrick's Day parade through New York? They want me to make a speech on the day calling for a united Ireland and demanding that the armed struggle be taken up once more against the British oppressor.'

  'You've started down that road,' I said. 'You may as well continue. Then they let her go.'

  'No. Then I fight for the world title, and they want to call the result.'

  'So they want to make a little money as well.' I shrugged. 'What do you think? They call the round you go down in, is that it? Don't they understand it's not up to you? They would have been better kidnapping Tyson's wife, getting him to take the dive.'

  'It's not like that, Starkey. They want me to win the fight. They say it'll do wonders for their publicity. They want me to win the title or they'll kill my wife.' He snorted again, shook his head. 'Rich, isn't it? I was starting to think I might do all right against Tyson, and then I nearly get my lights punched in by some cheap wanker from New Orleans. In a couple of days I've to beat the Terminator or my wife dies.'

  I leant back against the door. 'They wouldn't settle for an honourable draw, would they?'

  'Nice thought,' said McMaster, 'but even that's a bit beyond me.'

  There was a knock on the door. I pushed off it and opened it a crack. Sissy was there. I opened it wider, ushered her in and closed it again.

  'The local police got back to me,' she said. 'Didn't get enough time on the call to trace it all the way. They're not used to this sort of thing. But they got the general area.'

  'Good!' said McClean, slapping his hands together. He bent forward and punched McMaster lightly on the leg. 'It's a start, Bobby. We'll get the bastards yet. Just a matter of narrowing it down.' He turned back to Sissy. 'Whereabouts?'

  'New York,' said Sissy.

  'Whereabouts in New York?'

  'New York.'

  'That's it?'

  'That's it.'

  'Jesus.'

  31

  McMaster said he didn't feel up to getting back into the ring with Barkley. Speaking to Mary had cast him into a gloom. A cynic could have blamed this on getting beaten up by his sparring partner, but there were no cynics around, unless you counted the three reporters scribbling and the manager biting a hole in his lip.

  I patted his shoulder and asked him what he wanted to do. He said he fancied a walk round the town. I said why not? Let's go. A bit of peace and quiet. Of course he was depressed about his wife. Who wouldn't be? And who wanted to climb into a boxing ring in that frame of mind and get beaten up for nothing, when he could hold off for a few days and get beaten up for a million dollars?

  I had thought just the two of us might go. I would be his shoulder to cry on. He could pour it all out the way one man can only do to another. I wouldn't even think about shamelessly exploiting it in my account of his title challenge, although I wouldn't be held responsible for my tape recorder inadvertently switching itself to record. But it wasn't to be. Because McMaster was going, Matchitt insisted on going along to guard him. And because Matchitt was going, Sissy decided to go as well. Geordie McClean said he was fed up arguing on the phone with dim Americans and reckoned a break would do him the world of good. And just for good measure a couple of Poodle's boys came as well. We sneaked out on Jackie Campbell, snoozing on the lounge sofa, like children running out on a gruff grandparent. We crowded into a couple of cars, the Mercedes and a smaller, blue effort, and made for town.

  It was all very pleasant. We parked in a large, mostly empty seafront car park, and at first the sharp wind off the bay took our breath away. We turned towards the slight shelter of the main street and began sauntering along, stopping here and there to admire the picturesque wooden storefronts. My attempts at companionship thwarted by the greater group, I let McMaster walk ahead. Poodle's boys, Zack and Jack they said in the car, crop hair, ever-present sunglasses, kept a little behind him, but didn't approach. I walked with Geordie McClean. Matchitt and Sissy brought up the rear. It was a dysfunctional family outing.

  Geordie seemed pleased to be in the open air. 'It's fuckin' freezin',' he growled, his hands sunk deep into the pockets of his cashmere coat.

  'Never mind,' I said, 'spring's on the way.'

  'That's a big fuckin' relief,' he said, hunching his shoulders angrily.

  'Howdya think the big man's taking it?' I asked.

  His eyes swept up to McMaster, then across to me. 'How would you take it if someone kidnapped your wife?'

  I nodded. Someone had kidnapped my wife. It was getting fashionable.

  McMaster walked into a bookshop. Our little troop gathered outside to wait for him. The shop was called Rubyfruit Books. He wasn't inside for more than thirty seconds. When he emerged his face was bright red, and it wasn't down to the sea air.

  'That,' said Matchitt, with admirable restraint, 'is a bookshop for fruits.'

  'So I discovered.' McMaster pulled the hood of his tracksuit up around his head and led the party off again.

  'Anything you want to tell us?' Matchitt called from the back, as we resumed our previous formation. He sniggered. McMaster shouted something back, but it was lost in the wind as the street bent back towards the bay.

  I pulled the collar up on my jacket. 'Do you feel safer here, Geordie, away from the city?' I asked.

  He looked up the street. At the pleasant country stores, their little dolls'-house gardens, at the white wooden town hall and library. He shook his head. 'Not a lot, no. It's like fucking Amityville. I don't know why I let Poodle talk me into this.'

  'You still want to go home?'

  He shrugged. 'We've come this far. I suppose it can't get much worse. Maybe it'll even get better. Maybe we've turned the corner.'

  'We have. Into an icy wind.'

  'Thanks. You've cheered me up no end.'

  'Stanley and Sissy seem to have hit it off well,' I said, nodding back.

  McClean tutted. 'That's what I like to see, a nice respectful period of mourning.'

  'Mourning has broken, as the song sa
ys.'

  'I suppose we must take love where we find it.'

  McMaster entered a bakery and we gathered together again in the shelter of a striped awning. Even Zack and Jack, normally so unnaturally erect, looked a little diminished in the cold. McMaster emerged clutching a paper sack.

  'Hot pastries, anyone?' he asked and held it up like a trophy.

  We crowded round. Matchitt sniggered again. 'Didn't you get any fruitcake?' he asked.

  McMaster gave him a sarky smile and passed the bag round. We got a bun each. Hot and sticky and sugary and nice. Sissy got the smallest of the lot. She looked a little disappointed. Matchitt tore his in half and offered her a share. She made a bit of a show of saying no, then accepted it with a smile. McClean turned to me and rolled his eyes. I rolled 'em back.

  McMaster wasn't finished with his surprises. 'I have seen the future,' he proclaimed, reaching into his tracksuit and pulling out . a folded leaflet, 'and the future is whale-watching.'

  'Aye, fuck,' said Matchitt.

  'Yup. Whale-watching.' He unfolded the leaflet. He winked at Matchitt. 'An afternoon on the high seas getting back to nature. Seeing the most majestic of God's creatures in their natural habitat. For only fifteen dollars each. Plus five dollars for harpoons.'

  The contender cackled. His first proper laugh in quite a while. 'Who's game?'

  'It'll be fuckin' freezin',' said McClean. 'So. Are ye a man or a mouse?'

  'Mouse. A house mouse.'

  'Starkey?'

  I shrugged. 'It's not out of season?'

  'Nah. They're there all year round. I asked in the bakery. In fact they're easier to spot. Less tourist boats to annoy them. You're game?'

  I shrugged again. 'Yeah. Sure. Why not?'

  'What about it, Stanley?'

  'Nah. Geordie's right. It'll be freezin'.'

  McMaster shook his head. 'The boat's heated. Says on the leaflet.'

  'Be warmer than this then,' said McClean.

  'Who wants to see a bloody whale anyway?' said Matchitt. 'I seen Orca.'

  'Aye,' said McMaster, 'Orca Killer Plastic Whale. See the real thing, Stanley, while you can. Marvel at the majesty. Enthuse at their intelligence.'

  'Yeah,' sneered Matchitt, 'I'd love to see them use a knife and fork.

  'I'd love to see you use a knife and fork,' I contributed. Matchitt turned quickly. Sissy put a restraining hand on his arm. 'I'd love to see a whale,' she said. His eyes softened.

  'Stanley doesn't like the sea,' I said. 'I've nothing against the sea.'

  'And he doesn't like boats.'

  'I don't mind boats.'

  'Well, why not then?' she asked. 'It'll be wonderful.'

  'I'm just not that interested in whales.' She squeezed his arm. 'It'll be fun.'

  'Hey, Stanley,' said McMaster, 'says there's a bar on the boat.' Matchitt gave a half-hearted shrug.

  'Come on,' said Sissy, tweaking his face.

  'I might just sit in the bar. I'm really not that interested in whales.'

  'That's okay.' She smiled warmly. He smiled warmly too, but he had anxious eyes. You recognize anxious eyes in my trade.

  Anxious eyes, subdued mouth, effervescent lips. Everything that goes towards giving an unhappy man a face like a Lurgan spade. McMaster nodded at Zack and Jack. 'What about you guys?

  Coming whale-watching?'

  They didn't need to look at each other. 'We go where you go,' said Zack.

  Geordie slapped McMaster on the back. 'Lead on then, Captain Ahab.'

  Sissy still had Matchitt by the arm. 'It'll be fun,' she said again. 'Sure.'

  'Looks like Snatchit Matchitt's back in business,' I said. Anxious eyes gave way to murderous eyes. 'One day I really will kill you, Starkey.'

  'You kill me now, Stanley.'

  Sissy tweaked his cheek again. 'You really are so sweet,' she said.

  Captain Frank Tilson was an old sea mongrel. He was past sixty. He'd spent twenty hard years on whalers. Now he and his son ran a whale-watcher. He sailed her, his son Junior gave a running commentary. Junior was into conservation. Frank said he was into conservation too, but he didn't sound very convincing. Their boat, the Charles W. Morgan Jnr, had seen better days.

  'They won't see nothing for a while yet,' he said, nodding forward, "less they get excited by dolphins.' ^'They'd get excited by fish,' I said. He laughed. McClean, McMaster and Sissy were up front, catching the sharp wind full in the gob, eyes peeled. McClean, caught up in the excitement of the journey, seemed to have forgotten about the cold. Junior was behind them, talking thirteen to the dozen about the life and times of the whale. I wasn't particularly interested. A whale was a whale was a whale. Matchitt wasn't much interested either. He sat behind me, cosied up to a heater and sipping miserably at a bottle of whiskey he'd found in the fridge. He offered me some. I turned it down. We'd been under way for forty-five minutes. Forty-five minutes away from Zack and Jack. We'd left them standing at the jetty. Captain Frank wouldn't let them on board. Said the boat was too small. They only used a small boat in the winter season, and our group was two too many. He was only observing standard safety procedures. It could have been racism, but who was to say? There seemed to be plenty of room, but what did I know? And he didn't object to Sissy. 'Away back up to the house,' McClean had said, 'and man the phone. You know Jackie Campbell's as deaf as a post.' They accepted it with quiet resignation. Sissy, I suspected, would have torn his head off, but she was unaware. She'd been first on board and had already bounded well up the deck in search of her first whale.

  'You do this all year round, Frank?' I asked. He nodded.

  'You think we'll get our money's worth?'

  'Most always people do. Once we hit the shallows, there'll be plenty to see. Minkes mostly.'

  'Monkeys?'

  'Minkes. Minke whales. The lesser rorqual if you want to be specific. Junior there's the specific one.'

  Junior was drawing a picture in the air. Sissy nodded. McMaster scanned the sea ahead. 'He seems greatly into saving the whale,' I said. 'What about you, poacher turned gamekeeper, aren't you?'

  By all rights he should have gotten a wistful look in his eye, the memories of daring deep-sea adventures should have raced through his mind, battling, conquering, being conquered by the master of the ocean. Instead his eyes had a cynical glint. Cynical like a man robbed of his one true career by do-gooders. 'Poacher turned cab driver.'

  'Save the whale,' I said, 'for supper.'

  'Sounds about right.'

  Matchitt jogged my elbow. 'Are we nearly fuckin' there yet?' I shrugged. 'And what's this about monkeys?'

  'Minkes,' I said.

  His voice was already slurry. Probably the arrhythmic sway of the boat wasn't helping his sobriety. 'Big fuckers, are they?'

  The language seemed not to worry Frank. The whaling fleet probably knew about cussin'. "Bout thirty foot. The females are slightly bigger.'

  'Story of my life,' Matchitt gurgled to himself and stepped out from the cabin.

  'Actually,' said Frank,'they're not that big. Just about the smallest whale there is. We didn't even used to bother with them much out on the whalers. Folks on the coast did, mind. Friendly old souls, the minkes, used to sail right up to the boats to say hello, get a harpoon for their troubles.'

  Matchitt stepped back in as the vessel banked up. He looked a little green. 'Is it getting rougher?' he asked.

  'Wind'll drop soon, son,' said Frank.

  'Aye, aye, Captain,' said Matchitt. He moved up to the wheel. He bent and examined Frank's trousers. 'Say, Captain, what's that round your belt there? Can I see it?'

  'Pizzle,' said Frank.

  'Pizzle,' said Matchitt.

  'Pizzle,' I said.

  Without looking down, Frank unclasped a whip from his belt and handed it to Matchitt, who turned it in his hand. Flexed it once. Twice. Three times. He looked impressed. 'Whatcha need a whip for?' he demanded.

  'Show,' said Frank.

  'Could do with one meself.' He cracke
d it again. I stood well back. 'Round up the usual Fenians!' he shouted and threw it out again. He cackled. 'Can I buy it off of you?'

  Frank shook his head. 'It was my father's.'

  Matchitt turned it over in his hand. 'What's it made of anyway? Cowhide? Sea cow?'

  'Whale's penis.'

  MatChitt dropped it. 'Ugh,' he said as it hit the floor.

  I pushed the handle with the toe of my shoe. 'Seriously?' I asked.

  Frank nodded. Ugh, I thought. Matchitt returned to his seat by the heater and took another pull on his bottle, then scowled back at us. 'No wonder they're endangered, people keep cutting their dicks off.'

  'Sure, Stanley,' I said.

  Frank had a smile fixed on his face. Not so wide that Matchitt could see it, but a thin, hint-of-tooth grin that slit his face like a bowie knife on an old tawny saddle. 'Tough guy,' he said.

  'He has his moments,' I said.

  32

  'Thar she blows!'

  The cry came from the most unlikely of sources. While we clustered up front, eyes narrowed against the spray, he had gone to be sick over the back security rail, hunched down as so many of his victims must once have hunched waiting for the bullet - if they were lucky - but now he stood proudly erect, one chubby hand pointing out over the waves, the other clamped tight to the rail.

  Eyes turned, feet moved, Frank cut the engines. Junior put his hand up to stop us rushing. He didn't want to capsize the boat.

  'Over there!' Matchitt shouted again. We stopped for a moment, following the direction, but whatever it was, we lost it in the chop.

  Sissy pressed against junior's outstretched hand. 'Please!' she wailed.

  He stood firm. He shouted, but it was a kindly shout bred of years of dealing with excited tourists. 'Take it easy! There'll be plenty more!'

  Frank stood in the cabin doorway. His face was a mask of steady stoicism. He too had seen it all before. Made his living by killing them. If he still got a rush from the first sighting, it didn't show. , We split up, filed down either side of the cabin. Sissy reached him first. 'What was it like?' she squealed.

  'Big.'

  'Where?'