Divorcing Jack (22 page)

It was time to go. I stopped him by a park bench occupied by a solitary wino. His brown trench coat appeared to be colour-coordinated with his beige paper drink bag and deep ruddy face.

I put my hand out to Mouse. 'Thanks, Mouse. It was good of you.'

'That's what friends are for, mate.'

It had a kind of sad finality to it. He turned and loped off towards Queen's Physical Education Centre on the other side of the park. I watched him for a moment and then turned towards the car.

As I turned, the wino said: 'Fuckin' poofs.'

I winked and blew him a kiss.

I tried the key in three green cars before I found the right one. I hadn't driven an automatic in a long time, but it's the sort of driving even an imbecile can pick up in a couple of minutes.

Traffic was nearly all in the opposite direction, and heavy. Maybe they'd declared a holiday for the peace rally. Last time there'd been this many people on the move for peace we'd gotten a Nobel Prize for our efforts. It didn't bring peace but it bought a powerful lot of sausage rolls for meaningful inter-denominational coffee mornings. Ah, journalistic cynicism.

BBC Radio Ulster was giving the rally the full treatment, live broadcast 'n' all. Up the Shankill Road they were giving it the full treatment as well. A carload of peaceniks up from Dublin strayed off course, stopped and asked for directions. They were dragged out and badly beaten. There was too much security about the city for the IRA to try anything much that day, but that didn't stop them lobbing a few mortars at army bases near the border and taking over a small village near Crossmaglen for a few hours in the predawn, just to prove that they could.

It was a twenty-minute drive to Bangor. I wasn't mentioned once on the news, which was a relief. Towards the end of the report the newsreader said that a body believed to be that of an American reporter had been found in the north of the city. Cause of death had not yet been established. I thought it would have been fucking obvious. Still, it was early days. A dead American was big news and there'd be reporters swarming all over it soon enough, once Brinn got his peace rally out of the way. Brinn and peace. McGarry and his tape. Margaret and me. Patricia and Coogan. And all for the want of a little overtime and too much alcohol.

'Remember me?'

'No.'

'Sure you do. I sold you a tape a while back.'

'Sorry, mate, no idea.'

He wasn't really interested. There were plenty of tapes. A lot of Irish country and western. The Monkees' greatest hits. The New Seekers. But no classical cassettes at all.

'It was a classical tape. You know, the music from all those adverts on TV.'

'Sorry,' he said. He was concentrating on his newspaper. He hadn't looked at me yet.

'It's important.'

He looked up. 'Sorry.'

'Really important.'

Maybe he was impressed by my hair. He said, languidly, 'It's not my stall, mate. I buy at a standard price and sell at a standard price. It's not exactly collector's corner, y'know? I hardly look at the things.'

I took a twenty-pound note from my pocket. Lee had lent it to me. 'Would you look at one of these?' I asked.

He folded his paper up. 'Now that I would.'

‘I was asking about a tape. Classical stuff.'

'You know what was on the cover?' He was leaning over towards me now, almost sniffing the money. He had a shrewy face and he read the
Sun.
I don't pay much attention really to the singers, y'know? But I usually remember the covers.'

I could barely remember it. It hadn't been important.

Then. I shrugged. ‘I don't know. I suppose it was an old oil painting. Something Nordic maybe. With Vikings. They usually are.'

'All sorta like Valeries and stuff, right?'

'Something like that. Yeah.'

'Sure. I remember that.'

'You know who you sold it to?'

He shrugged and nodded at the money. I handed it over.

He riffled through the tapes. 'It's not here.'

‘I know that. I need to know who you sold it to.'

‘I ... well, y'know, I've a lotta trouble with kids stealing things. Happens all the time. Thing is, I don't remember selling it. Could have been knocked off. I mean, kids don't listen to classical stuff, I know, but they could have done it just for badness, y'know?'

'This isn't very helpful.. .'

He shrugged.

‘I thought maybe if someone was prepared to pay twenty pounds for a crappy tape, he might pay some more, eh?'

I tutted. 'Listen,' I said, 'don't give me a hard time. It was me ma's favourite tape, right? I sold it by mistake and now I don't mind payin' to get it back rather than break her heart, so give us a break, eh?'

'For another tenner, I could put you in the right direction.'

I looked at him hard. This intimidates few people.

I said: 'Look, I can understand you wanting to earn some money, and, sure, I really want the tape. But I can't pay you any more. I've paid you twenty quid and I think you should play fair by me. We're coming up to the elections and we're all meant to be much nicer from here on in.' I gave him a hopeful smile. He wasn't fooled by it. I tried another tack. 'Or to put it another way, I will stay here all day and really annoy you. And if that doesn't work I'll start eating your books. That would be bad for business.'

He looked at me. Expressionless. Save for a little tick in the left eye. Or his right, if you were him.

'Are you serious?'

'Partly.'

He smiled the way a shrew might smile if it suddenly discovered quantum physics. 'Okay,' he said. 'Okay,' I said.

'Okay,' he repeated. 'If it's the one I'm thinking of, I didn't sell it. I took it with the rest of the stuff when I left day before last. It was my day off yesterday. That's when the boss does his day's graft, God love him. So he's the one would know.'

'So you'll phone him?'

'I've got this place to mind.'

'Sure the phone's only over there and there's no one else around. It would only take you a moment. I'll mind the stall if there's a rush.' I looked over into his cash box. There were only a few coins and a fiver. 'I'll promise not to make off with the bullion.'

He shook his head slightly, but it wasn't a negative reaction. He chuckled to himself while he passed. 'I don't know if he's in. He plays a lot of golf.'

I reached into the cash box and picked up ten pence and chucked it to him. He dropped it. 'For the phone.'

The phone was about twenty yards away. It was early yet and the centre was still mostly empty. Those people on the move were on their way to work. Stocking shelves. Selling shirts. Weighing bananas. Slicing beef. What they would all give to be in my exciting shoes. Who was it said about the man with no legs, are there many in your shoes? Brinn? Brinn's wife? Where was she now? Standing on a sun-kissed platform beside her husband, waving to the tens of thousands pursuing peace and a new beginning. Except there weren't any new beginnings, just old beginnings dressed up.

I shuffled in behind the stall. His books were about as impressive as his tapes. Trashy romances mostly, a few dishevelled hardbacks with their library stickers ripped out, the complete works of William Shakespeare in one volume of tiny print and a huddle of Cold War thrillers.

I sat down on his stool and took a sip of his coffee and glanced at the
Sun.
Purely for research purposes. I wasn't mentioned on the first three pages.

Somebody knocked on the stall, three knuckle raps on the wood, as if at a door.

I looked up. Two men. Early thirties maybe. Both well built but kind of thick round the waist. One wore a lumberjack jacket, zipped at the very bottom but open the rest of the way up, a white 'I shirt and blue jeans. He had a blotchy, boozy face. Unkempt hair. The other wore a Cavalier moustache and shoulder-length hair; a knee-length leather coat hugged a bulging stomach. Neither looked like they could read.

'Yup?' I grunted.

'You sell tapes?' The rotund Cavalier asked. He was looking at the pile of tapes. It was one of those stupid questions. I nodded at the stall. 'Sure. What're you after?'

'You buy tapes as well?'

'Sure. What're you sellin'?'

'You bought any tapes in the last few days?'

'Maybe.'

'Don't get smart with us, fucker.'

Lumberjack turned to the Cavalier and said: 'Take it easy.' He turned to me. 'Sorry. We're lookin' for a tape of ours that was sold by mistake. It's quite important to us.'

'It's not ours,' Cavalier corrected.

'But we think it was maybe sold to you. And we need it back.'

'You know what it was called?'

'It wasn't ours.'

'Not directly. But we do know it was sold in the last few days.' Lumberjack ran his fingers down the side of the cassette cases. 'You buy any of these recently?'

I looked at the tapes and I looked at Lumberjack and then I looked at the Cavalier. Coogan's men. It hadn't taken them long.

‘I bought them all over the last few days. But I didn't notice anything particularly valuable in there. They're all crap mostly. Depending on what you like, of course.'

'Nah, it's not that kind of valuable. More of sentimental value, really.' Cavalier ran a dirty fingernail up the side of the cassettes. 'So it could be any of them, really.'

'Unless I've sold it since.'

'Have you sold any since?' Lumberjack asked.

I shook my head. 'Not since, now that I think of it.'

'So if it's here, it would need to be one of these, then.'

I shrugged.

'We'd better take the fuckin' lot then,' Cavalier suggested. '

'Yeah,' Lumberjack agreed.

'How much, the bunch?' Cavalier asked.

'The whole lot? That's say, a dozen tapes, a pound a throw. Say the dozen for a tenner, okay?'

Cavalier looked at his companion. 'He could play them for us here, save us some money.'

'Wise the scone, son, we don't even know what we're fuckin' lookin' for.'

'I was only suggestin'. . .'

'You're always trying to cut fuckin' corners. That's yer problem.'

I glanced across at the phone. He was talking, but watching the stall carefully. I winked over at him, but he was too far away to see, unlike the rotund Cavalier, who was plenty close enough and asked me what I was winking at. 'Nothing,' I said.

He looked behind him but could see nothing besides shoppers. 'You was winkin' at somethin'.'

I chuckled at him. 'It's an old trader's ploy. Wink at the customers. Encourages them to buy. Makes them think they're getting a bargain.'

He stared into me.

'Which you are. Honest.'

'Yeah?'

'Yeah. Fiver for a dozen tapes. Couldn't beat that anywhere.'

He smiled. He fished out a crumpled fiver from his trouser pocket and handed it to me. He turned to the Lumberjack. 'See me cut fuckin' corners, eh? Stick that in yer cakehole and eat it.'

Lumberjack picked the tapes up awkwardly and walked off. 'Yeah, yeah, motormouth, yeah, yeah.'

The Cavalier held back for a moment. 'Anyone else asking about tapes this mornin'?'

I shook my head. 'Nobody ever much asks about them, mate. To tell you the truth, you're a godsend. We haven't sold that many all year.'

'But you'll buy them back. The ones we don't want.'

'Uh, well, I couldn't promise that.'

He'd put the phone down and was coming across.

'Some of them anyway?'

'I'd have to see. They wouldn't be second-hand any more. They'd be third-hand.'

'But we're only gonna play them once. Till we find what we're after.'

'Sorry,' I said, 'that's the law.'

'Ah, well,' he said. He nodded his head a couple of times. 'Sorry about the cursin', like,' he added, then walked off.

He was kind of quaint that way. Quick to anger and just as quick to forget and forgive, like a child. Thick, but quaint. Like tartan paint.

I breathed out, a big gasper. I hadn't felt nervous at all in their presence, but their departure seemed to leave a vacuum, as if my confidence in handling them was a reflection only of their stupidity.

'What the fuck was that all about?' The stallholder asked, nostrils flared.

'Hey, take it easy. I just sold a load of crappy tapes for you. Be happy.'

I put the fiver into his hands.

'For all of them? A fuckin' fiver?'

'A fuckin' fiver, yeah. They're not worth half of that, mate, and you know it.'

'It's not a question of what they're fuckin' worth, it's a question of what I fuckin' sell them for, okay? A fuckin' fiver!'

'Twenty-five if you consider what I've already paid you. Now don't tell me you're not still in profit on that.'

'That's hardly the point.'

'Hey, listen, when's the last time you sold any of those tapes, eh? They're shite, and you know it.'

'Well, I sold your tape for a start, you fuckin' bastard.'

He had a point. 'Exactly,' I capitulated, 'and here's the other tenner he gave me for the tapes.'

I took it out of my back pocket. The last of Lee's paper money.

He burst into laughter. 'You're a fuckin' chancer, mate.'

'Ach, you gotta try, eh?'

'Sure.'

So?'

'So what?'

'So what about the tape?'

He took his place on the stool again. Sipped at the remains of his coffee for a moment. 'Good news and bad news.'

'Shoot.'

'Right. The boss says he remembers selling a classical tape yesterday. Just at closing time. He was just packing the books up and the cash box was already away and he didn't want to be bothered selling it to the guy. But he was kind of insistent because he was keen on the tape and he wasn't often up this way.'

‘I don't suppose he got a name. On a cheque or something?'

'Cheques in this game? Sure. Visa and Access, mate. Nah, he didn't get a name. But he says the guy said he was going back down to Crossmaheart. Says he was wearing a collar, like, y'know. A priest. A priest from Crossmaheart. Your lucky day, mate, eh?'

Crossmaheart. He was smiling and I smiled back at him. Crossmaheart. In the heart of the Congo.