Shooting Sean

by Colin Bateman

  She lay back on the bed and removed her bikini top. She made a kissy face and asked me where I was from. I said Dublin. Generally the English can't tell the difference, and it's better to get Dubs a bad name than innocent little Ulstermen. She took her knickers off and spread her legs. I asked her if she happened to have a pair of binoculars. Her mouth fell open slightly and she said, 'Your eyesight must be fucking appalling.'

  I told her what I was about and she closed her legs. 'You a cop?' she asked.

  I shrugged. I told her I was a spy in the house of love and we spent five minutes trying to work out what song that line came from while we looked at the house across the road. She was quite content to join me in my observation, although she pointed out it would cost me fifty guilder for every fifteen minutes. It was going to get expensive, what with the hooker and the meter still running on Maurice's cab, although at least he could give me a receipt.

  There was nothing to see. The door and the curtains across the way remained resolutely closed. She pulled a kettle out from beneath the bed and made me a cup of tea. She said on a good day she got through about thirty customers. The temptation was to say, ooh, you must have a really sore crack, but I'd already left secondary school. She didn't have a pimp, she was a member of the Amsterdam Prostitutes' Union, and she wasn't working in the red light district to finance her education or set up her own business or even to support her children. She was doing it because it was a job and she enjoyed it. Also, she didn't believe for one minute that I really was watching the house across the road. She thought it was just me playing out my little fantasy. I could tell by the way she agreed with everything I said, and I've never come across that in a woman yet.

  I asked her if she knew the girls working in the windows across the road. She shrugged noncommittally. I said, 'Will you go across and ask them what they know about the people upstairs? Please?'

  Her eyebrows rose a little. I opened my wallet and took out 100 guilder. She shook her head; I was about to add another fifty when she raised her hand to stop me. 'You just want me to leave you alone, then you'll have a wank in my bed when I've gone. I know the score, mister.'

  'I swear to God, I won't.'

  'You can swear to whoever the fuck you want, I know your type.'

  I folded my wallet closed and threw it on her bed. There was a lot of money in there, and none of it mine. 'Look,' I said, 'I'm serious, I need to know about the people across the way. I swear to God. Take the wallet with you; if I do anything when you're gone, keep it. There's stacks of cash in there. There's a credit card. There's a kidney donor card if you fancy trying a different organ for a change.'

  She looked to the window, and across the road. 'Straight up?'

  'Straight up.'

  She let out a sigh, then packed everything of value she had into a handbag and pulled on a black knee-length leather coat over her bikini. She pushed my wallet into a side pocket in the coat. She went to the glass door and opened it a fraction, then looked back. 'If you're going to have a wank, use one of the condoms. And I'll check the place out when I come back, inch by inch. No wanking in my shoes. Or between the last two pages of my book. Okay?'

  'Okay. I'm not a wanker.' Though, of course, it was common knowledge in Belfast that I was.

  She nodded once and slipped out. She locked the glass door behind her. I stood and watched as she went down the steps and along the path to the bridge. She paused on it for several moments, just long enough to check out the contents of my wallet. Her fingers flicked over the notes, then she extracted a photograph. It was one of Patricia and Little Stevie. As she replaced it, she glanced back up at me. I nodded. She continued on across the bridge and then along the cobbled pathway to the house opposite. One of the two red-lit windows was curtained now, but the other was still open for business. A black girl in a red wig smiled as she approached, then hopped off her stool. The glass door opened. A moment later, with my girl inside, it closed over and the curtain was pulled.

  The temptation, of course, was just to have the wank. For badness. And to do it somewhere she wouldn't think of looking. But I didn't. It would be breaking my word. It would be disgusting. And married men don't. I looked at her books instead. She was reading the latest Michael Crichton. The three on the floor were a biography of George Michael, Salman Rushdie's Midnight's Children and The Little Book of Panic. Her taste was in her arse, as I'm sure a lot of people had found out.

  She was back in ten minutes. I smiled at her as she came through the door. She glowered suspiciously back and took it as a challenge. When she'd searched high and low she breathed a sigh of relief and refilled the kettle. She asked me if I wanted another cup, I said no. When it had boiled again and she was stirring, I said, 'Well?'

  She took her first sip, hummed appreciatively, then sat on the bed. 'They're Irish,' she said. 'Three of them. Arrived about a week ago. There's some woman upstairs with them now, don't know where she's from. Says they keep themselves to themselves, but look heavy duty. She thinks it's drugs, but she doesn't really know.'

  'Much coming and going?'

  She shook her head.

  'I mean,' I said, 'if somebody famous, say a movie star, was in there, she'd know, right?'

  'Guess so.'

  'But she hasn't seen anything unusual.'

  'No.'

  'Okay, thank you. I appreciate it.'

  'No trouble.'

  There was movement across the road. The door was open and Alice was standing on the top step. She was talking to somebody, but I couldn't see who.

  'Gotta go,' I said.

  'Okay.'

  I hurried to the door. Alice was halfway down the steps. I paused. 'Oh,' I said, 'my wallet.'

  'Shit – sorry,' she said, not very convincingly. She reached into her coat pocket and extracted it. She reached it across.

  It felt a lot lighter. I flipped it open. More than half of the notes were gone. I raised an eyebrow.

  'I had to pay the girl for her time,' she said, then added, 'There's nothing free round here.'

  She took another sip of her tea. 'Fair enough,' I said, and pulled the door open. Alice was already twenty yards up the street, heading in the direction of her waiting taxi. I paused in the doorway. 'Oh,' I said, 'that wank? You should have checked the kettle. See ya.'

  I closed the glass door and hurried down the steps in pursuit of Alice O'Toole.

  29

  I tagged Alice just as she was reaching for the taxi door handle. She twirled, holding her bag protectively against her. For a moment she didn't realise who it was, then she let out a surprised 'Jesus, Mary and Joseph.'

  'And I thought you were a good Protestant girl,' I said.

  'Dan . . . what're you . . .?'

  'Tulips,' I said. I took her by the arm. 'Come for a ride, Alice,' I suggested, then added, 'in my taxi.'

  Maurice was out of the car and had opened the back door for my benefit. We were becoming quite a team, although he may have just been angling for a tip.

  'But my . . .'

  'Send him on.'

  Alice opened her bag, removed her purse, then settled up with her driver. She got into the back of Maurice's cab and snapped an address. She gave me a long, appraising look, then said, 'This isn't going to turn into one of those Fatal Attraction things, is it?'

  I shook my head.

  'Good.' She reached across and kissed me. Her tongue pressed against my closed teeth. She sat back. I caught Maurice watching in the mirror. She said, 'What's wrong?'

  'You tell me. You left without calling.'

  She shrugged. 'This is going to turn into Fatal Attraction.'

  'Except instead of a boiled rabbit there's a drowned doctor. What about Fruitcake, Alice?'

  She sighed. 'Dan, c'mon. I told you about him. He was a bad guy. I sent him away. He came back high as a kite and drowned. Sean saw it all from his bedroom. He panicked. He called me. I panicked. We ran away. End of story.'

  Maurice pulled out into the traffic. He caught my eye
in the mirror again. I gave a little shrug. I looked back to Alice. She was watching me.

  'Except you can't see the pool from his bedroom,' I said.

  She tutted. 'Don't be so fucking pernickety, Dan. That's what happened. We didn't do anything wrong.'

  'So why Amsterdam?'

  'Sean's a drug addict and he's high profile. He's not stupid enough to try and take stuff through customs. Amsterdam is drug central, it's the natural place to come.' She smoothed out her skirt. She ran a finger along my leg. 'So why are you here? I can't believe you're that enthusiastic about the book.'

  'I don't like leaving a job half finished. I need to talk to Sean.'

  'Well, he doesn't want to talk to you. You fucked him over, Dan, you betrayed him. You betrayed me.'

  'I was drunk.'

  'It's no excuse.'

  'I'm sorry. Look. I've come all this way.'

  'And you can go all this way back. He won't talk. He's up to his eyes in the film, you know the sort of deadline he's up against, and all this shit about Fruitcake has hardly helped. He hasn't the time. He hasn't the time for me, let alone you.'

  'So who's looking after you?'

  'Don't even think about it.'

  I tapped my knuckles against the glass. I said, 'I can't keep this drug stuff out of the book, you know that?'

  She nodded. 'It'll just be dismissed as gutter journalism. You don't have any proof. Besides, he's an artist, people take it for granted.'

  'Who was that you were visiting?'

  Her eyes turned sharply towards me. 'You were following me?'

  'I like to hang out in red light districts. You walked past. I shouted, you didn't hear. You knocked on a door, you disappeared. I'm only asking.'

  She sighed. 'Okay. I'm sorry. I'm nervous. I'm not used to all this shit. Jesus. I had to go out and buy gear for Sean. Heroin. Fuck. Look what I'm reduced to.'

  'Love is throwing your husband's heroin fix in the canal.'

  'I can't. Not yet. We've tried cold turkey once, we'll do it again when the time is right. When the film's finished.'

  'So until then you'll have to take your life in your hands going to buy smack for him.'

  She gave a little shrug.

  'What was it like? Were they scary? Did they try to rip you off?'

  'They were fine. Maybe they sensed a regular customer.'

  'What were they, Moroccans? I hear there's a lot of them involved.' There was the merest twinkle from Maurice upfront.

  Alice shook her head. 'I don't know what they were. Black guys. Nigerians, maybe. Does it matter?'

  We had driven down onto the canal where Paralog Films was situated. Maurice pulled into a parking space several doors down. Alice put her hand back on my leg. 'Sean's working his guts out. He's been through a rough time. Please don't complicate matters. Let him finish his film. Come to Cannes. I swear to God he'll speak to you there. And I swear to God he'll be clean.'

  'I find generally that God is quite busy.'

  She smiled. She leant across and kissed me on the lips. The tongue didn't try anything this time. 'You're nice, y'know, Dan,' she said.

  'And we'll always have Dublin.'

  She nodded. 'You're not hurt, are you?'

  'No. Of course not.'

  'Good.'

  She opened the door and climbed out. She didn't look back. When she'd gone through the door into Paralog Films Maurice looked back at me; I asked him if he wanted another cup of coffee and he nodded. We went back across the canal and took our original seats.

  This time, when he offered me a Camel, I took it. 'Maurice,' I said, 'you look like a man who has connections in this town.'

  He stirred his coffee with one hand – or, indeed, a spoon – and cupped his cigarette with the other. He kept his black eyes steady on me.

  'I need to buy a gun.'

  A pained expression. 'Why you need a gun, mister?'

  'You know why I need a gun. Can you get me one?'

  'A gun, I think yes. But is expensive, yes?'

  'I don't have much money. But I have drugs. Heroin. Lots of. I'll swap the lot for a gun and some bullets.'

  'I not think . . . you were into heroin, man.'

  'I'm not. I have it by . . . accident.'

  'How much you have?'

  'About half a pound.' He looked confused. I had no idea what it was in grams or even if Moroccans or Dutchmen used grams. I was of the ounces and pounds generation. I raised my cup of coffee. 'About this much,' I said and levelled my hand across the top of it, 'and then some.'

  'Plenty heroin,' Maurice said. 'I talk to right people. Get you gun okay.' Then he gave a little cackle. 'Get you six guns and . . . rocket launcher!' He smiled expansively.

  'I'll settle for the gun. You can keep the change.'

  'Keep . . .?'

  'Whatever is left, after buying the gun. You keep.'

  'That is, I think, very generous.'

  'Well,' I said.

  Across the road the door to Paralog opened again and three men in big suits and dark glasses emerged. They checked north, south, east and west. Then Sean appeared, with Alice on his arm. Behind them came two more heavies. One of them had kissed me before, though it hurt that he hadn't called since. A limo came around the corner and stopped before the little group.

  Beside me Maurice continued to stir. 'This, I think, is the man you want to kill.'

  I nodded.

  'I have seen his movies. They are not good.'

  'No, they are not good.'

  'But not so bad, that he should die.'

  'Maurice, I have no choice.'

  He nodded slowly. I got up. He followed. We got back into the taxi and tailed Sean's car along the canal. At Wester straat the limo pulled off the road and approached a set of electronic gates which barred entry to a small car park facing a block of expensive-looking apartments. There was a guy in a cap guarding the gates. Evidently he knew the car. The gates opened without any checks. Maurice pulled his cab to a halt a few hundred yards down the road. We watched as Sean's guards shepherded him and his wife into the apartment block.

  'I think,' Maurice said, 'he will be difficult to kill in there.'

  'I think,' I said, 'he will be difficult to kill full stop.'

  'That woman,' Maurice said, 'I not trust her.'

  'No,' I said, 'me neither. You'll get me a gun?'

  'I will get you this gun, you will do right thing.'

  I wasn't so sure. I was more Robert Morley than Robert de Niro. It floated across my mind for a moment that I was about to give this taxi driver the tip of his life and that the least he could do would be to kill Sean O'Toole for me in return. My Travis Bickle.

  But no. It was something I had to do myself. He had his own wife and many children, not to mention the camels.

  I had one wife, and one child, and they were dying. I had to get to Sean.

  30

  Three thirty AM. We were back on Prinsengracht. There were no cyclists, no coffee shops, no tourist barges. Even the hookers had closed their legs for the night. Maurice was wearing a new jacket and smoking a cigar. He could now afford to put his children through medical school, though he still insisted on keeping the meter running. I had a Glock automatic in my pocket and fear in my soul. Just over the bridge Paralog Films sat in darkness. I sat in a pool of sweat. There was a plan in my head, a simple plan for a simple man.

  I grasped the door handle. 'Wish me luck,' I said.

  Maurice nodded back. 'Break your leg in a horrible accident,' he said.

  I climbed out. I was wearing my black zip-up bomber jacket, black jeans and black Oxfords. I was going for a black look. If I'd owned a balaclava I'd have worn it, but they'd stopped selling them in Belfast since the ceasefire.

  I bent back into the car and said, 'Twenty minutes.' Maurice nodded. I closed the door and he drove off. I lurked in a doorway for several moments until I was sure there was nobody about, then hurried across the bridge and along the few yards to Paralog. I had reconnoitred the
building before and was fairly certain that there was no alarm system. Certainly on my earlier tour none had been evident. After escorting Sean home, I had returned with Maurice and watched the staff leave for the night and it had taken them a while to secure the locks. It seemed evident they trusted manual rather than electronic security.

  I was convinced that my earlier escorted tour had not missed out any rooms in the three-storey building. Which left the possibility of a basement. One hop over a low wall at the rear of the building confirmed it. There was a long, narrow window which ran the width of the building at about foot level. At the far end, where it joined the next building in the terrace, there was a set of steps leading down. They were strewn with rubbish and the door at their base had been barred by planks of now rotting wood. The whole area was damp. Of course it was. There were canals all around.

  I pulled at the wood. It came loose easily. Then there was the door and a grimy window. The door was locked. The window was already cracked, probably from the contractions of its damp wooden frame. I pressed against it and it came away in my hands. I was able to place the glass on the ground without making a peep. I reached inside and opened the door. A moment later I was inside Paralog Films.

  When I'd started looking in the early evening for a shop to buy a flashlight, I had not been able to locate one. In Amsterdam, however, there is no shortage of hippie emporiums and I was able to lay my hands on an aromatherapy candle and a box of matches made from a tree which had died of natural causes. It was a relief that there was nobody around to see the most embarrassed burglar in western Europe lighting up in the basement of Paralog Films.

  There were four rooms. Only one of them was locked. The other three were used for storage. I found that the fourth, after I'd kicked the door in, had been recently tarted up; it smelt of fresh paint and the carpet was crisp and springy. The room was dominated by a large desk on which sat a Lightworks Editing System, a computer-based program editors use these days as an alternative to the mechanical restrictions of working with film in a cutting room. Sean had told me that the main advantage of the Lightworks system was that it allowed a numbskull like him to edit and re-edit to his heart's content. He could change scenes and their running order without having to strike another cutting copy of the negative, which in turn left him free to be more creative. I had asked him to explain the process to me both as a requirement for the book I was writing and out of a film fan's curiosity. I had not thought then that what he told me about the process of film making might help me to lure him to his death. For Sean had also made the mistake of deciding to keep all of his eggs in one basket. Sitting stacked in one corner were a dozen cans of film, each one of them marked with a logo for The Brigadier.