Father Benedict woke with an aching head, a throbbing nose and a swollen lip. He was confused and groggy and handcuffed to the headboard. Boy, he thought, that must have been fantastic. Absence does make the heart grow fonder.
Yet ... now he realised he was still fully dressed. And although he usually liked it quite rough, he felt like he had actually been beaten up. He tried to get his thoughts together, but it was hard, with his head so sore and his breathing difficult with his nose all stuffed up. At first he thought it was a cold, but then with his free hand, the one that wasn’t attached to the headboard, he poked at it, wincing at the pain and then examining in the half-light the dried blood on his hand. My God, he thought, it’s broken. My God, he thought again, what has become of Damian? He went out to that godforsaken country a meek and pliable country priest, and he’s come back a raging beast. Benedict wasn’t quite sure that he liked it.
He heard movement then, off to his right. The curtains were closed and the light above off, but he now realised that the half-light was coming from the bathroom across the hall; its door was slightly open and by twisting his head he could see the mirror, and reflected in it, the shower cubicle, with Damian inside.
Father Benedict didn’t know what to do - whether to call out to Damian to release him or to try and get himself out. The problem was, he couldn’t remember whether he’d volunteered for all of this. He remembered watching the DVD, then embracing Damian and kissing him, but everything else was a blank. Had they taken drugs? Had Damian brought something especially strong back from South America? But why the violence? And what if he’d done something equally bad to Damian? What if he was in the shower now, washing the blood off?
Oh my, this is getting out of hand.
The handcuff was on tight, and pulling at it only rattled the headboard. He tried to squeeze his hand out of it, but without success. The shower door opened and closed. Benedict closed his eyes immediately, but when at first Damian didn’t appear, he opened them again and darted a glance towards the bathroom. He saw Damian standing naked in front of the mirror, drying his hair. He thought, My God! And suddenly things felt a little clearer.
Ten minutes later, Redmond entered the bedroom, back in his priest’s outfit. He opened the curtains and light flooded in. Father Benedict blinked up at him, his face a mess of dried blood, his eyes already yellowing.
‘Damian,’ Benedict began.
‘Shut your cake-hole.’ Benedict fell silent. Redmond stood over the end of the bed. He looked furious. ‘Haven’t you ever heard of the Seven Deadly Sins?’ he snapped out.
‘Yes, of course. Brad Pitt—’
‘Not the movie, you clampett! Our rules, our laws. Pride! Envy! Lust! Anger! Gluttony! Greed! Sloth!’
‘Yes, yes, of course - but Damian …’
‘Shut up!’ He pointed an angry finger at him. ‘People are supposed to look up to us! We’re supposed to be an example!’
‘We do our best,’ Benedict said weakly.
‘Our best? What about to?!’
‘Well, it takes two to tango.’
‘Don’t get smart with me!’
‘Damian, please. I know what you’re saying, and we’ve all struggled with our consciences, but we are but weak mortals, and we pretty much avoid the other deadly sins. Six out of seven isn’t bad; in another field that sort of percentage would get you into a good grammar school.’
‘I’m not talking about grammar schools, I’m talking about this. I’m talking about last night and you … you disgust me.’
Even this was a bit rich for Benedict. I disgust you? Well, listen here, sweetie. They’re your handcuffs - you were always more into this than I was.’
‘My … ?’
‘Unless of course you keep them in your bedside drawer in case a burglar comes by.’
Redmond shook his head. He didn’t know what he’d thought when he’d found them while casting around for something to restrain the unconscious priest with. There had been no way of telling how long the headbutt would keep him out for, and he didn’t want him charging off into the night screaming blue murder and probably giving the whole deception away. In fact, the thought had crossed his mind that they were for a burglar. But not, he ruefully thought, an a*se burglar.
‘Damian,’ Benedict said gently, ‘I know what’s going on.’
‘You do?’
Benedict nodded. ‘I knew the moment I saw you.’
Redmond swallowed. ‘It was that obvious?’
‘It was that obvious.’
‘Oh, Christ. And are you going to tell anyone?’
Benedict smiled for the first time, even though it hurt to do so. ‘Do you want me to tell anyone?’
‘No, of course not.’
‘Well then, I won’t. Of course I won’t. I’ll just save it all for me.’
Redmond blinked at him. ‘Save it?’
‘Oh Damian. It’s all clear now. I’ve read all about it, I’ve heard what they can do.’
‘Who can?’
‘Not who, what! It’s the steroids. Or hormones. Or the medication.’
‘What medication?’
‘Damian, please. I saw you in the bathroom mirror. That thing. You went away a little finger, and you came back a thumb.’
‘I what?’
‘Damian, please. You went away a poodle and came back a Doberman.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘Damian! You went away a sprickleback and came back Moby Dick!’ This time he nodded at Redmond’s groin, and the penny - finally, finally - dropped. ‘I saw, Damian, and I’m impressed - and it explains everything. You attacked me last night, didn’t you? That’s why I feel like this. Ever since I arrived, you were moody and taciturn. It was as if you were a different person. I know, Damian. While you were away you met some glamorous South American surgeon and he did fantastic things to your little man, but you’ve paid a terrible price as well. You talk to me about the Seven Deadly Sins? Well, what about Vanity, Damian? What about that? You’ve interfered with God’s will. And while the results are certainly pleasing to the eye, at what price, my darling, at what price?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Redmond.
‘Will you be on these drugs for ever?’ Benedict asked.
‘I don’t know,’ said Redmond.
‘Will your personality be altered for ever?’ Benedict asked.
‘I don’t know,’ said Redmond.
‘And will you ever love me again?’ Benedict demanded.
‘Probably not,’ said Redmond.
Redmond released Benedict from the handcuffs and helped to get him cleaned up. Then he took him downstairs and made him a fry. Throughout Benedict watched him with sad swollen eyes, and not just from the beating he’d taken.
‘It’s like the ultimate confirmation of God’s love for us,’ said Benedict. ‘He blesses the surgeon with the ability to do the operation, and you with the kind of personality who would want to undergo this appalling operation in order to please me - even though you’ll recall that I hardly ever complained about your size in the past. And yet in doing this, He also visits a personality disorder upon you which renders what you’ve undergone completely irrelevant. It’s like payback for vanity: “I’ll give you this huge weapon, but you won’t have any desire to use it at all”.’ Benedict cut into his Denny’s pork sausage. ‘Damian, what are we going to do?’
‘Well, I’ve got a service to perform.’
‘I mean about us.’
‘Well, I’ll obviously consult my doctor. But I do believe I was warned that I could be on these for a very long time.’
‘It’s a crying shame, and such a waste.’
‘I’m sorry for attacking you, for handcuffing you.’
‘It’s all right, Damian. It’s your condition, I understand that now.’
Redmond nodded at his fry. He had pulled it round, saved the day. He had been preparing to flee, so convinced was he that the game was up, but now he could relax. Benedict would lea
ve soon, bruised and chaste, but at least still believing that Redmond really was Damian. It was, Redmond reflected, like a French film he’d seen once, The Return of Martin Guerre, except it was slightly less believable, and without the subtitles.
122
Paper Trail
When they got home, the first thing Marsh did was locate his gun and check that it was in good working order. Then he set it on the coffee table in the lounge. Billy eyed it warily.
‘Is that for me?’ he asked.
‘No,’ said Marsh. ‘It’s for them.’
There was also a half-drunk bottle of whiskey sitting beside it, but it wasn’t on offer. Marsh made coffee instead. He set the cups down, then moved to the window and turned the Venetian blinds so that he could see out but anyone outside couldn’t see in. He watched for a minute, then, satisfied, turned and nodded at the two stacks of documents he’d placed on the hearth earlier. One was made up of the photocopied files Gary had delivered to him, the other contained the paperwork concerning Pink Harrison that they’d managed to retrieve from Billy’s apartment earlier. Bull had smashed his plasma screen, toppled over his fridge and ripped the door off his expensive microwave, but although the contents of his filing cabinets had been strewn about the room, they hadn’t actually been destroyed or removed. All of the papers relating to Pink’s investments were still there, and the laptop, which had further details, was untouched.
‘Right,’ said Marsh, ‘let’s get started.’
It was a slow, slow process. But they both worked (or had worked) in jobs where that was taken for granted. The devil was often in the detail. There was nothing to be gained from Billy reading interview notes and witness statements, just as there was no point in Marsh examining profit and loss accounts and bank transactions, but there was everything to be gained from Marsh shouting out a name from his pile and Billy trying to trace a match in his, or Billy saying such and such an amount had been paid by Pink to someone he had not previously encountered, and was he by any chance mentioned in one of Marsh’s wire taps or surveillance logs? The only difference between this approach and routine police work was that Marsh usually had dozens of trained officers at his disposal, but now there was just him, and Billy, who kept drinking his coffee and asking for more Viscounts.
Marsh’s daughter phoned in the late afternoon and asked breezily how his lovelife was and he said it was fine. She asked him how work was going and he realised suddenly that she had somehow managed to miss the news that he’d resigned from the PSNI. It probably wasn’t such a big thing in England. So he said fine to that as well.
She said, ‘You sound tense.’
‘Busy, a case,’ he said.
‘At home?’
‘Uhuh.’
Billy knocked over his cup, then raised his hands apologetically. Lauren - maybe it was the detective genes in her - quickly said, ‘You’ve someone with you.’
‘Yes, I have.’
‘Is it one of your new lovers?’
‘No, it isn’t.’
‘You don’t want to talk, do you?’
‘Can’t,’ said Marsh.
‘In that case, I just wanted to say: I love you, Daddy.’ She kissed the phone then, and cut the line.
When Marsh retook his seat Billy said, ‘I wiped up as much as I could.’
‘Don’t worry about it.’
‘Did someone die?’
‘What?’
‘You’ve tears in your eyes.’
‘No, I haven’t.’
Billy knew different, but he was too intimidated by James Mallow to pursue it any further. Instead he said, ‘It’s like looking for a needle in a haystack.’
Marsh nodded, and lifted his next stack of papers.
About an hour later Billy said, ‘I’ve a receipt here signed by a Mark Beck. It’s marked “political contributions” and it has the Unionist Party stamp on it.’
‘Why would Pink have that?’
‘Well, as far as I’m aware his people collect direct from local supporters and the money is counted down at Unionist Headquarters so at least it’s seen to be going in the right direction, but there are two receipt books, so that half the money gets recorded for the Party, and the other half goes back to Pink.’
‘Okay, nice work if you can get it. Anything else on Mark Beck?’
‘No. Never heard of him.’
Marsh quickly leafed through his own pile and soon found what he was looking for - Mark’s brief interview with Gary McBride at Pink Harrison’s house in Holywood on the morning the search warrants were executed. ‘Mark Beck, Party worker, Civil Servant, Department of Education … Office Twelve. That rings a bell.’
Billy nodded. ‘I mentioned Office Twelve to you one time. Pink - well, Pink told me I should. He knew you were after him, obviously, so he thought mentioning Office Twelve would lead you on a wild-goose chase.’
‘You were working for both sides, were you?’
Billy saw no point in denying it. ‘I was just protecting myself.’
Marsh snorted. ‘I’m glad it all turned out well in the end. So what is Office Twelve?’
‘I don’t know. He just told me to say it.’
Marsh drummed his fingers on the arm of the chair. Then he got up and checked his telephone directory for a number for the Department of Education. He called and asked to be put through to Office 12. The operator thanked him and put him through. To the canteen. The canteen said they couldn’t transfer him, so he hung up and called back. He asked for Office 12 again, and a different operator transferred him through to Pensions Branch. Pensions Branch said they couldn’t transfer him from there and put him back to the operator. The operator apologised and promised to put him through. Marsh waited and waited, then realised that the line was dead. He phoned back and explained that he’d been trying to get through to Office 12 for the last ten minutes, and what exactly was the problem? She apologised and put him through. The phone rang, and rang, and rang.
‘Perhaps,’ Billy ventured, ‘if you tried asking for Mark Beck by name?’
Marsh glared at him. Then phoned back. ‘Could you put me through to Mark Beck, please.’
‘Which department?’
‘I’m not sure.’
‘Oh, right. Just hold on.’
The call was transferred. A moment later it was picked up. Marsh said, ‘Mark Beck?’
‘No, sorry - Walter North.’ Marsh, who neither recognised the name nor the voice from Linda’s attempted suicide, just sighed at being given the familiar runaround. But then Walter said, ‘I can transfer you if you want?’
‘You can?’
‘Absolutely. Just hold on.’ It went quiet for another minute, then Walter came back on the line. ‘Sorry -I don’t know what’s up with these bloody phones, but I can’t seem to get a connection. Look - he’s only down the corridor. If you give me a minute, I’ll nip down and get him.’
‘I’d appreciate that, thanks.’
Walter put the receiver down, and hurried down the corridor. It was as good an excuse as any to see his old mate. He had exciting news to tell him about his property developments, and he had at the back of his mind to mention Margaret and her Primark problem, to see if the all-powerful Office 12 could lend a hand. Walter hadn’t spoken to Mark since he’d shifted offices the day before. He hesitated for a moment, wondering whether he needed to knock before entering, then decided he should. Given the mysterious workings of Office 12, he didn’t want to just barge in on something he wasn’t supposed to see. He gave a little drum roll on the door, and Mark’s slightly querulous voice came back, ‘Who is it?’
Walter opened the door - then frowned. Mark was sitting to the left of Steven’s desk, with his coat on and his belongings still in a cardboard box in front of him. There was no one else in the room.
‘Where’s Steven?’ Walter asked.
‘I don’t know,’ said Mark. ‘He hasn’t been in.’
‘This morning?’
‘At all.’
&nb
sp; Walter nodded down at Mark’s box, and the computer in front of him which wasn’t switched on. ‘So what have you been doing?’
‘Waiting for him.’
‘Didn’t he call, or didn’t you call someone?’
Mark shook his head. ‘I thought maybe it was some kind of test.’
Walter sighed. ‘Well, there’s someone on the phone for you in our … my office.’
‘Is it Steven?’
‘No, Mark, it’s not bloody Steven.’
123
The New Man in Office 12
‘Mark Beck? You’re a hard man to track down.’
‘Am I?’
‘Anyone would think you’re trying to avoid being contacted.’
‘I’m sorry, but who is this?’
‘This is James Mallow.’
‘James Mallow? The … ?’
‘Yes, that one.’
‘You used to be … ?’
‘Yes, I did.’
‘It was only the other …’
‘Yes, it was.’
‘Oh my Lord. I mean, what can I do for you?’
‘It’s like this, Mark. I’m kind of working freelance now.’
‘For the PSNI?’
‘No, not for the PSNI. Shall we say, for other interested parties.’ Marsh let it sit in the air for a moment.
‘Oh. Right. I see.’ Mark lowered his voice a little. ‘You’re Office Twelve as well?’ Marsh cleared his throat.
‘Right,’ said Mark, ‘I understand. Our tentacles reach far and wide.’
‘Okay. So, Mark. Tell me about yourself.’
‘Well, I’ve been sitting here waiting for two days and I’m not sure whether it’s a test or everyone’s so busy they’ve forgotten that I was meant to start yesterday. I haven’t looked in any of the filing cabinets or opened any of the drawers, if that’s what you’re worried about. I was curious, but I thought maybe you had CCTV cameras hidden somewhere - just, you know, to see how I coped with being left alone. But I didn’t touch anything, I swear to God.’
Marsh had to think about that for a few moments, and that brief silence was somehow interpreted by Mark as a confirmation that he had indeed been observed and possibly recorded.
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