The Ballroom on Magnolia Street

by Sharon Owens

  He was currently living in a hostel for the homeless, on a rate of benefit so low it was an insult to him. To stand in line at the post office, waiting to cash his unemployment cheques, brought him out in a nervous rash. It was worse than being in jail, where the men took a certain pride in their punishment. Hard men, surviving on the edge, talking to their lawyers, going to court and on rehabilitation schemes. In jail, there was a timetable, things to do. Routine, gossip, and people to talk to. Living on the dole, however, was just miserable. Plain and simple. He had nothing to do all day and no release date to look forward to. He was even beginning to miss the prison officers; at least they had chatted with him as they went about their duties. And the dinners weren’t that bad, either. Very nice sausage rolls.

  Now, he was just a face in the crowd. No name in the paper, no mention on the local news. The staff in the post office stamped his book without looking at his face and swiftly slid the money under the glass partition. People who could not provide for themselves were too shameful to look at, obviously. He had become anonymous, a man of no importance, and that hurt him more than anything.

  The hostel was built beside a six-lane motorway and the traffic roared past him twenty-four hours a day. The shadows of the biggest lorries blocked out the light, so that even reading the newspaper became an ordeal. No one from his former life would speak to him or let him in on a deal. Failure was contagious. The Bonbon Gang were legendary losers. ‘Doing a Bonbon’ was still slang for messing up. On bad days, Eugene thought of going straight, but that really would be the bottom of the barrel for him.

  He ordered another pint of bitter and a corned-beef sandwich. He looked at the paper again. Nothing interesting. Maybe he would take a wee walk down to the bookies or the chip shop? But then he turned a page and his heart missed a beat. There was a picture of Hollywood Hogan, large as life in his white jacket, and – wait for it – he was announcing his retirement. And him only forty-eight! He must be worth a mint! Eugene read the article closely. Hogan was putting the ballroom up for sale and going to live in America. He was going to spend the rest of his days running a small pub and collecting vintage cars. At the end of the piece there was a list of events planned for the ballroom; including a Disco Extravaganza, spanning four decades of pop music. Well, well, well. Eugene Lolly put on his thinking cap.

  And he thought of Timothy Tate, and of Johnny Hogan, and his dear old granny, Eileen, and the ballroom on Magnolia Street. And he smiled. Three months out of prison, and Eugene Lolly was back in business. That night, he lay back on his single bed in the hostel, watching the lights of the lorries flicker across the bare walls. Timothy Tate had yet to be punished for helping the police, back in 1967. Johnny Hogan had built his career and his reputation on the humiliation of the Bonbon Gang. Years’ and years’ worth of protection money had been lost to Eugene, when he was locked up. The flight of Mrs Lolly, and the loss of his beloved home and furniture, stuck in his throat like a chicken bone. He would devise a plan to wreak his revenge on Johnny Hogan, and he would get Timothy Tate to help him. He would make enough money to retire on, and maybe even get himself a replacement for Mrs Lolly. Some pretty little thing who wouldn’t ask too many questions. Then again, he might not bother. For everyone knew, you could never trust a woman.

  It wasn’t too hard to find out where Timothy Tate lived nowadays. He had a job. A regular job. Caretaker of a gym, out by the M2 motorway. Live-in, it was. Timothy had found religion, too. He was a member of the local church, and never missed a service. He had kept his nose clean all these years. A real reformed character. The police would not be keeping an eye on him any more. Eugene decided to pay him a visit.

  Timothy was mopping the floor when he saw Eugene standing in the doorway of the Northside Gymnasium. He looked away at once and resumed his mopping, hoping that his eyes had played a trick on him. Just because the man was short and menacing did not mean it was Lolly. But it was, and when he turned around and faced the door, Eugene was still there. He came in, and sat on the edge of the boxing ring.

  ‘Haven’t seen you in a month of Sundays,’ he said.

  ‘How’ve you been, Eugene?’ Timothy was playing it cool.

  ‘I’ve been better.’ Eugene was playing it cool, also.

  ‘You were inside, again?’

  ‘Long time. I’m out now.’

  ‘Well, that’s great news, of course. Any jobs lined up?’

  ‘You mean, proper jobs?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What? Like you? Cleaning floors? That’s not my style, Tim.’

  ‘Honest work is its own reward.’

  ‘Oh, Tim. What did they do to you?’

  ‘I’m happy now, Eugene. I can sleep at night. I have a little flat, and a bicycle, and lots of friends here in the gym. It’s not so bad.’

  ‘How nice.’

  ‘I don’t know why you’ve come here, today. But if you’re planning something, then leave me out of it.’

  ‘I have a plan, as it happens. And you do figure in it. Quite a lot.’

  ‘No. I won’t tell on you, Eugene, but I’m not getting involved.’

  ‘You owe me, Tim.’

  ‘We were friends a long time ago. That’s all behind me, now.’

  ‘I got three years extra, inside. Because of what you told them. Jobs they didn’t even know about. You told them everything.’

  ‘You were going to shoot Hogan. I couldn’t go along with that.’

  ‘I wasn’t going to hurt him. The tough talk was only for show.’

  ‘I saw your face. You were going to do it. We could have been up for murder.’

  ‘You never were much of a gangster.’

  ‘I know. Is it money you want? I haven’t any.’

  ‘I want money, all right. But I want a lot more than a cleaner’s wages.’

  ‘You’re not going to rob the gym?’

  ‘Would it be worth my while?’

  ‘No. They’re behind with the bills, as it is.’ There was a series of charity bouts coming up and some money would be coming in, but Timothy wisely decided to say nothing about them.

  ‘I thought so.’

  ‘Well, then, what?’

  ‘I’m going to rob Hogan’s place.’

  ‘But that was a disaster last time! The two of us were taken out of it on stretchers. We were a laughing-stock. We still are, Eugene. The Bonbon Gang, and all that.’

  ‘It’s time the laughing stopped,’ said Eugene quietly.

  ‘How do you know he has any money?’

  ‘Are you joking? After all these years? He must have millions. The lazy sod is retiring, and he’s only forty-eight.’

  ‘Eugene, Eugene, have you not tired of all this? Have you not learned your lesson, after all the time you spent incarcerated?’

  ‘All I’ve learned is this: I’m finished with small-time stuff. Everything I had in the world is gone. Everything I worked hard for.’

  ‘With respect, Eugene, most of it was not earned morally. Look on this as a fresh start. It’s never too late to turn to the light. God is always there –’

  ‘Don’t start with all that holy rubbish. That’s exactly what I am doing: a fresh start. A fortune I’ll get from that fool, Hogan, in his ridiculous white jacket. I’m getting out of Belfast, permanently.’

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘You don’t need to know. Somewhere warm, I’ll tell you that. I won’t need an overcoat, where I’m going.’

  ‘I want no part of it. I’m sorry.’

  ‘I need a look-out, some back-up muscle and an alibi.’

  ‘I can’t help you. I can’t even run very fast, with my leg the way it is.’ Timothy dipped the mop in the bucket, and swirled it round thoughtfully in the hot water. The smell of disinfectant wafted up to Eugene’s nostrils. He flinched. It reminded him of prison.

  ‘You owe me,’ he said again. ‘one last job. For old times’ sake.’

  Timothy didn’t answer him. He didn’t say yes or no. He wo
uld wait and see how things turned out. Maybe the plan would die a natural death. Eugene didn’t have a weapon, he knew that much, although he could always pretend he had one. The old pointed-finger-in-the-pocket routine. They’d done that quite a few times in the past.

  ‘I’ll be in touch,’ said Eugene. ‘Few weeks from now. There’ll be a few quid in it for you. You can donate your share to this dump, if you like.’ He walked out as slowly as he had come in.

  11. A Date with Destiny

  Kate had no idea why she was going on a date with Alex Stone. The lust that had consumed her for months seemed to have disappeared without trace, and she simply could not understand it. She’d been to the doctor for a list of tests, and there was nothing wrong with her. Her blood count, thyroid, and sugar levels had been tested. Everything was fine. The advice was to get plenty of sleep, eat well and relax more.

  ‘Shirley,’ she said, as her sister passed the bedroom door, wearing spider’s-web tights, an ankle-length skirt and a purple mohair sweater. ‘Will you do me a favour? Will you tell Alex, when he comes to the door, that I have a headache, and I’ve gone to bed?’

  ‘Sure, I will. Poor you! Will I tell him you’ll see him another time?’

  ‘I haven’t really got a headache, you stupid lump! I have simply changed my mind about the man.’

  ‘About time you saw sense. Why don’t you just ask him to step into the hall and tell him the truth tonight? It’s only fair.’

  ‘Oh! How did I get myself into this mess? It was okay talking to him when he was up against the wall in Hogan’s, when I could get away from him. But if he’s walking around the place freely, there’s going to be no escape.’ The doorbell rang just then, with a little wobble. The battery was running low. Kate flinched. ‘Wouldn’t you know it! He’s bang on time, the old slug! They always are, when you don’t want them.’ The two sisters looked at each other. Kate put her hand to her throat.

  ‘Look, go for the meal,’ advised Shirley, ‘and let him down gently. Just talk about general things, and keep the mood light.’

  ‘I suppose I’ll have to. What if he gets frisky?’

  ‘You’ll be fine, Kate. After all, this is a first date. He can hardly think he’s going to get any more than a quick kiss goodnight anyway.’

  Kate blushed. Memories of other first dates flickered across her consciousness.

  ‘Why am I so worried? This is not like me at all, Shirley. I could always handle myself, before. Am I getting old? Losing my touch?’

  ‘I told you he was wrong for you, but you wouldn’t listen.’

  Listen to Shirley! Well, that was the absolute limit! Anger temporarily took over. ‘Oh, shut up! What do you know about men? Let me past. I’m going to sort this mess out. And by the way, that outfit should carry a government health warning.’

  ‘Suit yourself, Bigmouth,’ snapped Shirley, and she went into her tiny bedroom and banged the door. Her fabulous tights and sweater were the height of fashion. Kate was just jealous of them, she decided. They were the first new things she had bought in years. There was just no pleasing some people. She lay on the bed, debating whether to read a book, listen to a record, or dream about Declan. She decided to do all three, and let Kate sort out her complicated love life on her own.

  Kate went down the stairs with a heavy heart. Alex was waving in at her through the patterned glass at the side of the front door. Kate hated him for doing that. It was intrusive, to say the least. And he looked awful. Seen through the lumpy glass, it was as if he had fourteen eyes. She opened the door, and he stepped right into the hall, forcing Kate to take two steps backwards. She had intended telling him the date was cancelled, there and then, but he was already peering into the sitting room.

  ‘Will I say hello to your parents, before we go?’

  ‘No, no. They’re watching television. We’ll just nip out, quietly.’

  But he was already in the front room, somehow, and shaking hands with her father and telling her mother she was only a ‘young bit of a thing.’ He took up all the space in the tiny room, with his big, broad shoulders.

  ‘God, but that’s a terrific fire you have there, missus,’ he said, rubbing his hands before it. ‘A great set-up, altogether! Alex Stone, at your service.’ Laying it on like a player in some small-town third-rate theatrical production.

  Mr and Mrs Winters beamed up at him, from their cosy sofa.

  ‘Will you take a cup of tea, Alex?’ said Kate’s mother.

  ‘I thought you’d never ask,’ he practically roared, so enthusiastic was he. ‘I’m as dry as the Sahara desert.’

  Mrs Winters heaved herself to the edge of the chair, and attempted to get up off her nest of cushions, although it wasn’t easy with Alex’s great bulk towering over her. Kate was absolutely livid. Really, he was going on like they were engaged to be married. How dare he make himself at home like this! On a first date!

  ‘There’ll be no time for the tea-drinking,’ she said, becoming a reluctant actor in this bizarre domestic theatre. ‘We’re off to a fancy restaurant, the two of us. Come on!’ She put on her coat, a plain one that buttoned right up to the neck, and she selected a long umbrella for self-defence, from the hallstand. She would just have to break his heart over the chicken in white-wine sauce, instead.

  ‘Come on,’ she said again. ‘Look lively! I could eat the leg clean off a wild horse.’ Deliberately being crude and unladylike. She was determined to make sure the evening was a dismal failure.

  They walked to the restaurant. Alex’s car was broken down again, he explained. That figures, thought Kate, sadly. He probably hasn’t even got a car, she suspected. Kevin McGovern would never have a broken-down car, she thought suddenly. Kevin was a mechanic with his own business. The thought of Kevin, driving along in his well-maintained car, cheered Kate up immensely. Alex saw her smiling and was pleased. They reached their destination in good spirits. Alex had chosen an Indian restaurant, which Kate thought was inconsiderate of him. He should have consulted her, first, before booking the table. Some people didn’t like spicy food. (Or busy wallpaper.) A candle-lit French or Italian place would have been much more romantic. There were no other diners in the room. It was too early in the evening, probably. Alex ordered the hottest curry on the menu, lots of side dishes, two glasses of milk and two bottles of lager for himself. Then he asked Kate what she wanted.

  ‘You can have anything you want,’ he said. ‘As long as it doesn’t come to more than a fiver! Only joking!’

  Kate smiled weakly. She ordered a vodka and cola, and a mild chicken curry with boiled rice. Then she changed her order to fried rice. And chips.

  When they were left alone with their meal, Kate expected an awkward silence to engulf them. But Alex told her a very long and complicated tale about a body-building competition that he had once taken part in. And how he didn’t win it because the whole thing was fixed. Kate had to cover her mouth with a slice of naan bread when she was unable to stifle a yawn. At one stage, he jabbed his fork into her plate and made off with seven fat chips that she had been saving for the end of the meal. In revenge, Kate called the waiter over, and asked for another drink. A double.

  At no point did he ask her anything about herself, unless it was a question about her work. Did they get a bonus if they could think of a way to disallow a payment, for instance? (No.) Had anyone in the place ever been beaten up by a claimant? (No.) He laughed out loud when she told him that a clinically depressed gentleman had once arrived to sign on, in a drunken state and brandishing an antique sword. Was he arrested, Alex wanted to know. He was let off with a warning, Kate said. (Most likely, he had a few mates down the station.) And then, the narrow counter was swapped for one that was six foot wide, to give the staff some protection. Or at least, a head start.

  ‘Ha! The yellow sissies!’ he laughed, and drank a pint of milk in one go.

  Alex burped right into her face as they stood at the cash desk to pay. He looked at Kate when the bill was presented to him on a little
saucer full of mint imperials, but Kate kept her hands in her pockets and looked away. It was still only early in the evening. By right, she should have thanked him for the meal, and they should have parted as friends. After all, no formal announcement had been made that they were on a date. This meal was just to say thank you for the tip-off about the Fraud Squad. Right? Shirley would have been proud of her, if she had done that.

  However, it was to Kate’s eternal shame that she went straight home with Alex Stone to his miserable little flat. For a drink. And a nose around, if she was honest. If there was one thing that Kate loved as much as her handbags, it was having a good snoop around other people’s houses. And she wanted to test herself; to see if she could be alone with a man and not start that awful trembling again. She might as well test the water with someone she didn’t care about any more. She gripped her umbrella tightly, and went bravely up the creaking stairs of the dingy house on the Cromwell Road. Alex showed her round the place. It didn’t take long. His bedroom was a terrible disappointment. A rather sad little bed, propped up on a brick at one corner, with only a very thin and faded quilt on the top of it. She began to feel a bit sorry for him. It was no picnic, living like this. Any available floor space was taken up with several large pieces of exercise equipment. Everything was covered in dust. There were sheets pinned over the windows with drawing pins, in place of curtains. Nothing nice anywhere. Somehow, Kate had pictured a Comfort-Zone boudoir of sheepskin rugs, zebra-print footstools and a well-stocked drinks trolley. Kitsch, but comfortable. Like Alex himself. Then she remembered, sadly, that he was actually unemployed. Any money he made in Hogan’s must have been spent on the exercise equipment. And red-hot curries.