Divorcing Jack (25 page)

'Brinn elected doesn't guarantee an end to the violence, Father.'

'But he'll make a stab at it, if you'll forgive the expression. On the other hand, to withhold the tape from public scrutiny

I switched off. He wasn't telling me anything that hadn't already raced through my tiny mind. He had a dog collar and all that training and God and the Bible and he was about to bring his advice full circle because his God hadn't fully seeped his thoughts through to him yet.

After a while, I cut in. 'What are you telling me to do, Father?' I asked flatly.

He drained his glass. 'I believe you might say, I haven't a fuckin' notion.'

He walked me to the door. He put out his hand and said: 'Good luck.'

'I hope you get your congregation back.'

'It's all right. They're all papists anyway.' He smiled brightly and clasped my hand. Only joking. Don't pass it on.'

I shook my head and walked to the car. He was still standing in the doorway as I drove off. He waved. I waved back.

I headed back into Crossmaheart and tried to think about what I was going to do. The tape was my protection, and my danger. Whoever had the tape had the power, but only if he knew how to use it. And why. And when. I could go to the paper, expose Brinn. I could go to the police, trade it for my freedom. I could destroy it, give peace a chance. I needed time to think. My head was buzzing. I couldn't get things straight. Who was right, who was wrong. I needed a drink; Flynn had got me started. A big drink. No.

The first thing I had to do was get the tape out of my possession. I could feel it glowing against my jacket. I knew well enough by then that I was an adventuring liability and to keep it about my person would be a silly mistake. At the very least security would be much tighter on the way back up to Belfast. If they didn't get me that way Cow Pat Coogan and his gang or Billy McCoubrey and his outfit or any other of the myriad interested parties would find a way to get to it. God knows I'd left enough clues about where I was going for the tape.

Crossmaheart's main street was livelier now that the pubs were open. The pavement wasn't wide enough on either side to accommodate more than a single file of tables. They were all full. The outdoor clientele was exclusively male. I parked outside the post office and walked in quickly; I didn't give them the time to give me dirty looks. My friend was still behind the counter. He was about a third of the way through a battered paperback version of
Dr Zhivago.

'Do you have any padded envelopes?' I asked.

That's not a very witty start,' he replied.

'It's not meant to be.'

'You're not in as playful a mood as you were before.'

'You could say that.'

'I did say that.' I looked at him.

'And now the steely look.' He pushed his seat back and began to fuss around beneath the counter. 'I hate these moody types,' he said testily, his face hidden from view.

He produced a small padded envelope and asked for 80p. I counted out some change. I paid for the envelope and borrowed a pen from him. I put the tape in the envelope and asked him for a piece of paper. He ripped a page out of a spiral-bound notebook on the counter and I scribbled a note to Patricia. Then I sealed the envelope and addressed it to Lee. When I'd paid for the postage I'd 30p left. It wouldn't buy me much of a drink. I knew people who'd asked for 30p's worth of drink before.

'Do you want a receipt?'

'No.'

'Sure?'

'Certain.'

'Your meeting with the Prince of Darkness must have gone badly.'

I nodded and turned to leave. 'Have a nice day, now,' he said.

I turned at the door. He'd picked up his book again.
'Dr Zhivago?'
I asked.

He looked up. 'Yeah.'

'Seen the movie?'

'Nah.'

'You know he dies in the end?'

I closed the door behind me. It was thirsty weather. The sun, high in the sky now, gave the whitewashed main street a Mediterranean glow. The two men sitting on my bonnet looked like they were enjoying the sun. One had a goatee beard and long curly hair. He wore a denim jacket in better shape than my own. The other was a squat skinhead in DMs. The skinhead said, 'You're about as difficult to find as a goat.'

His companion looked at him for a moment, then at me. 'I'd get in the car, mate, no need to cause a scene.'

'You don't look much like traffic wardens,' I said. Bravado masking knocking knees.

The skinhead tutted and said: 'Wise up.'

'He has a point,' Goatee added. He held out his hand and I threw him the keys. He unlocked the passenger door and pulled the seat forward to let me into the back. He turned to the skinhead. 'Seanie, away and see what he was doin' in there, would ye?'

'Will I hit him?'

'Who?'

'The fruit behind the wire.'

'Please yourself.'

'Cheers.'

Seanie walked in an ape-like fashion, his curving arms hung low, his furry head bobbing Tysonesquely. Goatee climbed into the passenger seat, then turned and extended a hand to me. I shook it. 'Malachy Burns. Pleased to meet you, Starkey.' I nodded. 'Mr Coogan will be pleased to see you.'

‘I dare say.'

I thought briefly about violence. There was only one of him and he didn't look that fit. With a bit of luck I could have taken him out and be off yomping across the fields or driving like fury. Before I could work myself into a combative state Seanie appeared at the door of the post office, my parcel in his hand. Burns leant over and opened the driver's door. Seanie handed the parcel in to him, then clambered in behind the steering wheel.

'That was some goin',' said Burns, turning the package over in his hands. He looked back at me. 'This what I think it is?'

I shrugged.

'Any trouble?' He asked Seanie.

Seanie shook his head. 'I just asked him for it and he handed it over.'

'So you didn't hit him?'

'No, but I gave him a really mean look.'

Seanie started the car. This'll only take a minute' Burns said to me as we moved off along the main street. He turned to our driver. 'I was meaning to ask, Seanie . ..'

'What?'

'Don't take it the wrong way, like.'

'What?'

‘I mean, as difficult to find as ... a goat?'

'What of it?'

'A goat?'

'Yeah, a goat. What of it?'

'A goat?'

'You ever tried to find a goat?'

'Can't say I have.'

'Right then, case proved. It's fuckin' difficult.'

'Ah - I see. I see.'

'You see what?'

'Nothing.'

'You see what?'

'Nothing.'

'You see fuckin' what?'

‘I ... I thought you were being sarcastic. About the goat.'

Seanie turned his head from the road for the first time and fixed Burns with a bulldog stare. 'I wasn't.' He turned his eyes back to the road. Burns nodded.

The change from cottage quaint to breeze-block poverty was almost instantaneous. From the bright optimism of white to the grey of depression. The roads were glass-strewn, the tarmac as undilatorily impressive as Flynn's had been but with none of the care and attention. Tiny gardens grew wild. One in five houses was bricked up. Cars, wrecked or burnt-out, lay in dry rust. And everywhere the summer cackle of children. Seanie drove slowly, negotiating the potholes as if the car was his own pride and joy. Maybe it was, now.

We moved onwards and upwards in a meandering but loosely circular pattern. My hosts stopped occasionally, talked to men lazing in gardens or standing bare chested on corners. As we stopped, children came running out and peered into the back of the car. I stared resolutely back, but they weren't intimidated. The half of them looked like miniatures of Seanie, all scalped heads and threats. The men were big on cursory glances, the children more demanding, shouting questions, their bravery hastened by our slow departure.

'Only a mo' now,' Burns said after a while. 'You know that tape's worth a fortune?' I ventured. Seanie looked back. 'Wise up,' he said. 'I'm serious.'

The car thumped into a pothole, throwing the three of us forward, then back as Seanie roared out of it. 'See what ye done?' He shouted.

'We know what it's worth,' said Burns.

'So wise up.'

It wasn't a very good effort at inspiring insurrection. We entered a cul-de-sac which was in conspicuously better condition than the rest of the estate. The road was smooth, gardens tidy. At the end stood a house which had once been similar to many others in the estate, an end-of-terrace dwelling. It had been enhanced at the side by a long extension which occupied most of a large garden. Pale-yellow stone cladding. A satellite dish. Big red car in the driveway. Smaller one sitting outside. It wasn't a palace, but compared to the rest of the estate it looked like the Hall of the Mountain King.

'Chez Cow Pat, as we say,' Burns volunteered.

'It's funny what attracts two people, isn't it?'

'I'm sorry?'

'Sexual chemistry is a curious business, Starkey, wouldn't you say? Beautiful to beautiful, beautiful to ugly, ugly to beautiful, ugly to ugly. You never can tell how people will end up, can you?'

Cow Pat Coogan sat in an armchair in a spacious lounge, his arms folded. I sat opposite him in an identical armchair. We were separated on one side by a sofa and on the other by a wide, ancient fireplace. The room was refreshingly cool. He still had a small plaster on his nose, but he was very much king in his castle. He oozed a confidence that fell short of charisma. Burns and Seanie lolled against the windowsill outside, their talk blurred by double glazing.

‘I mean, me and Margaret, you and Margaret, me and your wife, you and your wife. We're so different, yet we have so much in common, wouldn't you say? I suppose to complete the circle you would really need to sleep with my wife.'

We were alone in the room, yet there was another presence, dead, but alive. Margaret's self-portrait was framed above the fireplace, just as it had been in her own home. It dominated the room. The last time I'd seen it it had been sliced up, lying in her lounge. The smooth tear lines were just visible if you looked hard enough.

'But I wouldn't recommend sleeping with my wife, for health reasons, if you get my meaning.'

'You mean she has some sort of embarrassing disease?'

Coogan smiled. 'You're very cocky, Starkey, and I can't work out why. I wouldn't have said you had a lot to be so chirpy about. Perhaps you can tell me. I mean, don't get me wrong, but I'd say that having this tape, having the address your wife is at, and you, really put me in the driving seat, wouldn't you?'

I chose my answer as carefully as I always did in desperate situations. I shrugged.

'And I also have about a dozen other cassette tapes which you so thoughtfully supplied at a knock-down price. I thought that was quite clever, of course. Audacious even, given your circumstances and intellect. I suppose I should really have sent some better men to Bangor, but I was trying to cover a lot of bases at once. It isn't always the easiest thing to coordinate a lot of activity when you have the army on your tail. You tie a decent enough knot, Starkey, but not decent enough. And the dig in the balls was rather painful. But I'm afraid you have let yourself down a bit by coming to Crossmaheart. Entering the lion's den, rather.'

‘I didn't know you lived here.'

‘I don't live here,' he replied disdainfully, 'I own here. This was all ours before they built these fuckin' hideous estates. Country born and inter-bred, if you like. All our land, but they got it off us one way or another, paid us a fuckin' pittance for it. Still, the name mightn't be on the deeds any more, but it's still ours. Ours to play with. And it can be fun.'

I could picture him out in the fields. The range. Stealing. 'This is where you started your cattle rustling. Where the Cow Pat comes from.'

'Oh, yes. Good country fun. Of course, there's not a lot of danger in stealing cattle, and you're never going to make your fortune from it, but it can be a bit of a laugh under the right circumstances.'

'What, funnier than pushing someone off a balcony?'

'Ach, you're not still smartin' about that one, are you?

It was business. He knew too much.'

'He knew fuck all.'

'He knew a lot more than he let on.'

'He'd only been here a few days, for God's sake.'

'True, but I imagine it doesn't take CIA agents that long get acquainted with a place.'

'What?' I spat sharply. My cheeks burnt. Pictured Parker, tiling. I leant forward.

'Thought that might wake you up.'

I sat back. Take it easy. 'You are the ultimate bullshit lan. Cow Pat.'

'What an interesting run of words. But, no, your friend wasn't everything he said he was. Or, rather, he was everything he said he was, but a little more besides.'

‘I don't believe I'm hearing this.'

'Well, that's up to you, of course. But y'know, a man an say quite a lot if you give him a really bad tickle. Especially with a pistol. It does wonders for the memory. Your friend Parker did a lot of talking. He really wasn't made of tie stern stuff you expect to find in secret agents. God love hem though, the Americans, they really haven't got anywhere proper to play now that they've lost the communists, it's all they're trained for. Everything else they do seems so lam-fisted, don't you think?'

'Whatever you say.'

'Don't be like that, Starkey. You'll agree him being a CIA agent does put a different perspective on things.'

'What, to a cattle rustler?'

'Now let's not be naive. If you take it as fact, you see my point in killing him? Granted, you may not agree with the manner of his death, but you see the thinking behind it?'

'You people have never had much trouble justifying murder in the past. To yourself, that is. No one else believes you.’

'Jesus, man, I'm not justifying anything, I. . .' He paused for a moment and glanced at Margaret. 'You think I enjoy killing people?'

'Yes.'

He shook his head. 'Sometimes it has to be done. Simple as that.'

'And you feel you have to look happy doing it just to impress people?'