Shooting Sean

by Colin Bateman

  He raised an eyebrow. I held his gaze, and then he shrugged and said, 'No matter. You'll be wondering who I am and what I want.'

  'Yes,' I said.

  'Michael O'Ryan,' he said, and for a moment it didn't register because he was nothing like I had imagined. He was more slightly upset football manager than psycho gangster.

  I said, 'Ahm, I don't wish to be rude, but can you prove it? I mean, do you have any ID? A driving licence or something?'

  'I was told,' he hissed, 'that you fancied yourself as a funny fucker. Well, perhaps these will wipe the smile off your face.'

  He reached into his jacket and produced a series of six Polaroids. He spread them out before him on the table, face down, like he was dealing cards, and in a way I suppose he was. It crossed my mind for a moment that he had contrived to snap Alice and me in action and was intent on some kind of blackmail, but it seemed a little petty for a man of his pedigree.

  He nodded down at the photographs and said, 'Go on, take your pick.'

  I hesitated. 'I'm not writing the book any more, if that's your problem.'

  'It's not my problem. Pick a picture.'

  'I'm going home today. Sean chucked me off the project. It doesn't concern me.'

  'It doesn't concern me either. Take a peek.'

  There was nothing else for it. I turned over the first Polaroid.

  It was Patricia.

  She was sitting in a chair; there was a white wall behind her with some sort of graffiti on it. One eye was partially closed, like she'd been thumped, and her hair was all over the place. She was wearing the white vest and green army fatigues she used to doss about the house in when she was sure nobody would visit.

  My heart was pumping hard. There was a vacuum cleaner working in the corridor. Outside there was a plane dipping down towards Dublin Airport. Inside there was a smile of relish slowly making its way across Michael O'Ryan's face.

  I took a deep breath and turned over pictures two and three.

  They were variations of the same.

  In the fourth her nose was bleeding, and in the fifth she seemed to be unconscious and somebody was holding her head up by the hair for the camera's benefit. I swallowed and turned over the sixth.

  It was Little Stevie. He was being held down on a table; his mouth was open wide and I didn't need to hear it to know he was screaming at the man looming above him and brandishing a hammer over his outstretched little hand.

  23

  I had him on the ground with the gun in his mouth. I was screaming, 'You tell me where they are, you cunt, or I'll blow your fucking head off!'

  He couldn't, of course, with the gun in his mouth.

  My wife, my son.

  This man in the cream suit, not fazed at all.

  'An understandable reaction,' Michael O'Ryan said as he got back to his feet and patted his suit down. I slumped back on the bed. He took his seat again and ran his fingers over the Polaroids. 'I don't like doing things like this, believe me, but you know, a means to an end and all that.'

  The gun lay on the bed beside me. He knew, and I knew, that there was no point in threatening him. His people had my wife and child and would kill them if I did not do what he wanted. I could threaten Michael O'Ryan until the cows came home. I could shoot him in the head. I could dangle him from the hotel window until he revealed where they were. None of these things would stop his people from killing my family, because that is what they did best, that was what they enjoyed most.

  I said, 'Why me?'

  'Because,' he said.

  I lifted the photographs off the table and examined them again.

  'She's a remarkable woman,' O'Ryan said. 'Stands up well under torture.'

  'Why the fuck would you need to torture her?'

  'Because,' he said again.

  'Why the baby?'

  'Wouldn't you? If you were me? Look at the reaction it gets. By the way, I read your last book, thought it was wonderful. I thought that libel action was a terrible shame.'

  'I don't give a fuck what you think, just tell me what you want.'

  'What do you think I want?'

  'I'm not in the mood to play fucking games.'

  'It doesn't really matter what mood you're in, Dan, now does it?'

  He had a point. I sighed. 'I don't know what you want. If it's about the book, consider it done.'

  'Dan, now, if I didn't want you to write the book I would have broken your fingers. And your toes as well. I've seen My Left Foot. Didn't he do well now for a fucking crip? And that Daniel Day-Lewis, now isn't he a fine young fella? Last of the Mohicans – wasn't that a great wee movie as well? Now there's a man could have played me, don't you think?'

  I nodded. He was as much like Daniel Day-Lewis as Van Morrison, and that's still an insult to Van. His hat had come off in our little set-to and he had not replaced it. He had hair, but it was Bobby Charlton hair, a few dying strands desperately combed across the top of his chrome dome in an invaliant effort to make it look like he still had some. Sean was playing him with a full head of hair. Perhaps baldness wasn't big at the box office. Perhaps it had only recently fallen out. I was thinking too much about hair. My wife and child were being held hostage.

  'What do you want me to do?'

  'I want you to take that gun and shoot Sean O'Toole. Kill him.'

  'I can't do that.'

  'Yes, you can.'

  'I can't just kill him.'

  'Yes, you can. You point the gun and you squeeze the trigger. It's easy.'

  I took a deep breath. I looked at the gun. I picked it up again. I set it down. There is something magnetic about holding a gun in your hands. It's why policemen always look so fulfilled.

  'Y'know,' I said, 'if you kill him . . . if I kill him, somebody else will only come along and make the film. Daniel Day-Lewis, maybe. There'll be dozens of books, there'll be journalists, you'll be hounded to death.'

  'No, you'll be hounded to death. It'll have nothing to do with me.'

  'They're not going to believe I killed him.'

  'After getting thrown out of his house? Sleeping with his wife? Stealing a large quantity of drugs from him?'

  'You've been paying close attention.'

  'Well, of course I have, Dan. Now think about it. There's three motives. And you will have murdered your wife and child first, so deranged were you. Dan, I'm quite good at planning these things. It's all in the detail. It's why they call me the Colonel. I'm not exactly Action Man, y'know?'

  I shook my head. I lifted the photo of Stevie. My hands were shaking. The terror in his face was . . . I put it down. Face down. I couldn't look. I sighed. 'This is all about a fucking movie?'

  O'Ryan gave a little laugh. 'Is that what you think?'

  'Well, I presumed . . .'

  'Or is that what he told you? Well, yes, of course it was.'

  'I . . . well, I heard you read the script, didn't like it.'

  'On the contrary, I think it's a wonderful script.'

  'So what's the problem?'

  'Sean's the problem.' He took out a packet of cigarettes. He offered me one. I declined. He lit up. He inhaled. I reached an ashtray across from the bedside table. He smiled a thank you. He exhaled. 'Do you know he came to me a year ago and told me about the movie he was going to make? He didn't have to do that. I admired him for doing it; it isn't everyone would walk into Michael O'Ryan's den and tell him he was going to make a movie about his life and didn't really give a fuck what he thought about it. He had balls. He said he was going to make it as factually correct as he could, but he wasn't going to pull any punches. He said there'd be a certain artistic licence, but that you had to expect that with Hollywood movies.'

  'Will you get to the point?'

  'Hold on to your horses, Danny boy, you're working on my time now. It's not Greenwich mean, it's just plain old-fashioned mean. So where was I? Oh, aye. I was happy enough to let Seanie go ahead with the movie. To tell you the truth, Dan, I like movies, and I understand the requirements. I
mean, look at me, I've a face like a bucket of shite, then look at Sean. We're not exactly peas in a pod, are we?'

  'No, you're not.'

  'But we hit it off, hit it off well, y'know? Before he even wrote the script, he came and stayed with me. Six weeks in all. He interviewed me. He hung about with the gang. Do you know, he even came on a bank job with us.'

  'He robbed a bank?'

  'Not quite. We had a back-up car, in case our getaway one broke down – planning, y'see – and he sat in that. We didn't need it as it happens, but he was there. I suppose he could be charged if anyone ever found out. An accessory. Y'see he's desperate to win this Oscar – he's told you that?'

  'Not in so many words. Others have.'

  'Well, he is, so he's giving everything to this film. He told me that when he makes films he just turns up on set, rehearses the day before, just goes through the motions. But for this he was going the whole hog. Method acting, like Brando, like Hoffman. He wanted to become me.'

  'And did he?'

  'Well, it seems that he did. Y'see, Dan, like I say, I'm a bit of a movie buff. And to tell you the truth I was a little bit in awe of this big movie star when he arrived. But he was so open and down to earth, we became good chums. In amidst all our chats about me, we got chatting about him. About how the roles have been drying up for him, how he's not earning what he used to, how this movie is really going to put him back on top.'

  'So?'

  'So as the weeks went by, people started to see him change. My people – even though he looks nothing like me – they started to see the mannerisms, the talk, but, more importantly, the mind.'

  'You mean he became a psychotic.'

  The Colonel smiled weakly. 'Please. Remember that I have your son.'

  I nodded. 'Sorry.'

  'So he went off then to write the script. Back to LA, Los Angeles. Sent me a postcard. A few months later he comes back, shows me the script. I was not entirely happy with it, I suggested certain changes, he promised to consider them. In fact, he made those changes, he showed me those changes, though I now understand they were for my benefit alone and he's been shooting from the original. However, the script isn't the fucking problem. Two weeks before shooting was due to begin he came to me, and he was distraught. He was in tears. The financiers had pulled the plug. For reasons not associated with the film. Currency, I think; the dollar dropped in value, something like that. He was putting some of his own money in, but it wasn't enough, the whole project was going to collapse. So he . . .'

  'He asked you to invest?'

  O'Ryan nodded. 'I have certain financial reserves. And there's only so much you can spend it on. Why not invest in a little immortality?'

  'So you bankrolled a film about yourself?'

  O'Ryan nodded. 'The ultimate vanity, is it not?'

  'But if it got out . . .'

  'He'd be ruined, yes, of course. But it wasn't a case of handing over bags of cash, Dan, you know it doesn't work like that. I operate through various companies, most of them outside of Ireland. The money could never be traced back to me. Not one penny. Three million, in all.'

  'That's a lot of pennies.'

  'It is. Particularly when you discover that none of it has ended up in the film. Y'see, as it turns out, the financiers never did pull out. It was all baloney. I taught Sean O'Toole everything about my profession, and he learnt well, 'cause he turns round and screws me out of three million.'

  'Jesus.'

  'He knows I'm not going to go running to the cops complaining.'

  'Jesus.'

  'And to make it worse, he uses that three million to finance a fucking drugs deal. He meets my connections, the wise guys I introduced him to, and strikes a fucking deal with them using my money. Can you believe the man?'

  'Jesus,' I said again. I shook my head. 'Now that's what I call method acting.'

  'Call it what you want, all I know is he's got three million worth of heroin stashed somewhere. Is it any wonder you were able to walk out of his place with enough horse to run in the fucking Derby and he hardly even fucking noticed? Is it any wonder I want him dead?'

  I nodded. I swallowed. 'Would you not settle for just getting the money back?'

  'It's beyond the money, Dan. I don't subscribe to that honour amongst thieves shite. I don't believe in respect and all that Mafia bullshit. He fucked me, good and simple, and now I'm going to fuck him. Or rather you are.'

  He stood up. He lifted his hat and placed it firmly back on his head. He smoothed a crease in his trousers. 'You know what you have to do.'

  'What if I bring him to you, you can kill him.'

  'No, Dan, that's not how it works.'

  'But why me?'

  'Because.'

  He gave a little nod, then walked out of the room.

  I lay back on the bed.

  I screamed, but it was a silent scream.

  24

  I had a gun, six bullets and a decision to make.

  Kill Sean O'Toole or search for my wife and child.

  Sean O'Toole was locked in a bedroom at his country retreat. There were security guards. They claimed to be ex-SAS. One of them had kissed me. There was a hidden access gate I'd already successfully used. Once through that I could probably get into the house. Sean would not be expecting me. He would be in another, vomit-filled world. I'd be doing him a favour. It would be like shooting fish in a barrel, whatever that was like. Sure, I'd get arrested for it, probably do some time, but people would understand.

  Or I could go hunting for Patricia and Stevie.

  I could go from house to house, calling their names.

  They were somewhere in Ireland, north or south. Rumour had it that the Colonel had retired to rural Wicklow, but he still pulled strings up north. Sure, I could track him down, given time; I could track down the members of his gang, given time; I could probably even make an heroic Taxi Driver style entrance, given time and some courage, but nobody was giving time, and courage would always be in short supply.

  It was a choice that was no choice.

  Sorry, Sean, but it's for the best.

  I packed my bag. I had a decision to make about the talc. Dump it, hide it, take it with me. I'd be doing the world a favour by dumping it; hiding it didn't seem very practical – third tree from the left, then dig – and taking it with me had its own dangers, but at least it might come in handy as a bargaining tool. I had no idea of its street value, but it seemed reasonable to assume that it was worth more than all my worldly possessions cubed. Take it. You never know. I tried packing it in several different positions, trying to make it look as if it had been haphazardly thrown into my washbag like it was just talc and not a Class A narcotic. Eventually I just closed my eyes and chucked it into the bag, then zipped it up without looking.

  I pulled on my bomber jacket and slipped the gun into the side pocket. I picked up the Polaroids from the table. I looked through them again. I winced at the pain in Patricia's eyes, and the horror in Little Stevie's. I went to the mini-bar and opened the door. I knelt beside it, thought for a moment, then took out a Diet Coke. Then I closed the door and lifted the phone. I dialled Belfast, and Mouse.

  Mouse, my oldest friend, who I rarely saw. He was married, but he had no children, and there is an invisible line that comes down between men who do and men who do not have children. Not so much an iron curtain as a crocheted one. There are lots of holes in it, through which to see other people having a social life. A man who has a child can stand and talk for hours about how wonderful he or she is, and providing the other man has a child too, he can quite happily listen, and respond accordingly. Talk to a man who doesn't have a child about what it's like, you might as well be talking to a post. Except a post can't walk off, or yawn. Mouse and I would always be the best of friends, but talking about kids pissed him off. 'He's not even yours,' he would say.

  Mouse answered on the third ring. He was at work. Sub-editing at the paper. Direct line. I said, 'Hi,' and he was surprised that it wasn't someth
ing stupid.

  He asked me what was wrong, and I said nothing was wrong.

  He asked me what was wrong again, and I said nothing was wrong again.

  He said, 'HOW'S TRISH?' He had a problem with volume.

  'Kidnapped.'

  'AND LITTLE STEVIE?'

  'Likewise.'

  There was a pause. And then, because he'd been through things with me before, he said: 'ARE YOU SERIOUS?'

  I told him what had happened. When I'd finished he said FUCK seven times in a row, then added: 'WHAT CAN I DO?'

  'Turn down the volume, for a start.'

  'OKAY.'

  'Lower.'

  'Okay.'

  'Okay. Mouse, I'm going downstairs now to check out. Then I'm going up to Sean O'Toole's place.'

  'Are you going to kill him?'

  'I don't know.'

  'If he's got you into all of this because of fucking method acting, he deserves it.'

  'I'm not convinced he has. He told me a while back about a guy called Danny Murphy, some childhood friend the Colonel topped for no particular reason. He made the film because of him. It crossed my mind he might have ripped O'Ryan off for revenge. I don't know. Maybe it's a mixture of the two. Anyway, that's not your problem, your problem is finding Trish and Stevie.'

  'Dan, I'm not Sherlock fucking Holmes.'

  'I know, you'd be dead, and English, although it's a pleasant combination. I'm going to fax you up these Polaroids. Take a look at the background. There's some graffiti on the wall. All I can make out is the word ANGER. It's a long shot, but it might mean something to someone.'

  'I'll do what I can.'

  It was worse than a long shot, but it was better than no shot at all. I wished Mouse good luck, and he wished me good luck. There wasn't anywhere else for the conversation to go. Downstairs the nice receptionist faxed through the Polaroids for me. They were face down the whole time, and she didn't take a peek. She printed me out a nice long list of items that had been charged to my room, I signed and told her to put a couple of drinks on there for herself. It was the condemned man being generous with other people's money.

  The security gates were lying open. Both sets. I was just going to drive past for a quick look, then park half a mile away and walk back to the not-so-secret entrance, but the fact that the gates were open made me stop. I sat in the car for five minutes, just watching, but there were no signs of life. I knew how security-conscious Sean had become since O'Ryan's people had tried to drown Alice down at the docks, so it was more than suspicious.