Divorcing Jack (6 page)

'She doesn't like what I write about her programmes.'

'You a TV critic?'

'An everything critic'

'And what do you say about her programmes?'

'That they're all crap.'

'I can see why she mightn't like you.'

I shrugged. 'Par for the course.'

I walked over to the table and opened a couple of bottles of Harp. I handed one to Parker, then tapped the TV screen lightly with my own. 'And this, God bless him, is our next prime minister.'

'Yeah, I recognize the face. Mark Brinn. Leader of the Alliance Party. Widely seen as the best hope for Northern Ireland: an acceptable compromise to both the Unionists and Nationalists. That's what my file says. What do you make of him?'

'It doesn't matter much what I make of him. That's not why I'm here.'

'You're a Unionist writer, I'd be interested in the Unionist view.'

I took a seat in front of the TV and a slug from my beer. 'Who told you I was a Unionist?'

'My file.'

'Must be some fucking file if it has me in it.'

'Hey, I'm a journalist. I'm paid to know these things.'

'Keen as well.'

He shrugged his shoulders. 'Well?'

'You want a personal opinion I'll give it to you. If you want one from your official guide I'll give you the official opinion.'

'The official opinion I know. He's the good guy.' Right.'

'You don't agree?' I don't disagree.'

'But?'

'Personally speaking, off the record?'

'Of course.'

'I just love him to bits.' Brinn had finished having his make-up applied now and was staling patiently into the camera. He had a thin face, sallow despite the make-up. His nose was long, slightly bent, but he was not unattractive in a middle-aged successful executive kind of way. 'I love him because he's such a salesman. Politically and literally. What do you know about his background?'

'Uh . . .' Parker thought for a moment, his eyes dulled and then suddenly bright as if he'd just remembered an awkward date in a history exam. 'Right . . . born in Cookstown, County Tyrone...' He pronounced it Tie-rhone.

Tyrone . . . pronounced Ter-own . . .'

'Yeah, whatever, Ter-own ... to Protestant father and Catholic mother, educated locally . . . didn't go to college . . . into business, successful, injured in a terrorist bomb attack on local restaurant 1974, in which eight people died, suffered severe burns . . .'

'Although you wouldn't know it.'

'. .. spent six months in hospital, on release resumed business and joined Alliance Party. His status as victim and peace campaigner quickly catapulted him into the limelight, became local councillor and then Member of Parliament in 1980. Elected leader of the party in 1987.'

'Dead on. You want to know what says more about him than any of that, than any speech or anything you'll hear him say in a minute?'

'Of course.'

'His name.'

'Brinn? Mark Brinn? What about it?'

'Your file probably has this, if it's any good, but doesn't understand it. Nobody understands it, 'cept me of course.'

'Which makes you the smartest man in the country, or the stupidest.'

'Exactly.'

'Okay, so what about his name?'

'Until 1972 his surname was O'Brinn. 1972 was one of the worst years we've had. Major death and destruction. O'Brinn is ostensibly a Catholic name. When he opened his first furniture shop in 1972 he had his name changed by deed poll to Brinn. So nobody would know he was a Catholic'

'Is Brinn, as a name, Protestant?'

'It's not anything, it's neither one thing nor the other, you'll barely find another like it in the phone book. It's a compromise name, like the Alliance is a compromise party. He changed his name to make money by not offending anyone. A lot of people wouldn't do business with you back then if you were a Catholic'

'That's changed?'

'Mostly.'

'So what are you saying, you don't like him because he changed his name?'

'Yeah.'

Parker wiped his hand across his brow. Mockingly. 'Well thank God that was all off the record - that's too hot for me to handle.'

I shrugged, emptied the bottle, and fetched another two. Parker finished his off and then accepted the second.

'You don't understand - it's the wee things like that that mark a man out.'

Parker took a long drink, watching the screen as the picture shifted to the interviewer having a microphone attached to his tie. 'According to my file . . .'

'I must see this file

'Brinn has never been religious. Why should he lose business having a Catholic name if he isn't religious? It makes perfect sense to me.'

'Yes, but you're American.'

'And exactly what do you mean by that?'

'Nothing. Here we go.'

The interviewer had begun his introduction. I reached over and turned the sound up as Mark Balmer started his questioning. Balmer's thin grey hair glistened under the studio lights, his pink skin looked sunburnt. 'If I can take you back to your very earliest days in business, Mr Brinn,' Balmer began, 'you felt the need to change your name from O'Brinn to just plain Brinn. Could you explain that decision? It seems to me in some way you were denying your Catholicism.'

Parker looked across at me. 'Two smart men in this country,' he said.

'In a way perhaps I was,' Brinn replied gently. 'I think it was possibly a way of expressing my resentment at the state of affairs in this country - the fart that just because there was an "O" at the start of my name a certain section of the community automatically believed that I was, in some way, the enemy. In fact, although I was brought up a Catholic, I ceased to be a practising Catholic in my teenage years. I am a God-fearing man, Mr Balmer, but neither Protestant nor Catholic. I simply believe in God.'

I tapped the TV screen again with my bottle. 'And butter wouldn't melt in your mouth.'

'Seems a reasonable argument to me,' Parker said.

'You come from a land of salesmen. He's just renounced his religion, but he's still going for the God vote.'

'Perhaps people admire his honesty.'

'Who ever admired honesty? Catch yourself on.'

Balmer meandered through Brinn's career with an admirable thoroughness that had us both yawning. Near the end he came to the standard Brinn question and the standard Brinn answer.

'Your experience in the restaurant bombing had a tremendous effect on you, didn't it?'

'Uh, no, didn't change me a bit,' I said to the screen. Parker shushed me.

'Of course, of course. You know I really don't like to talk about it, but it was, in some ways, a catharsis, the bomb itself, hospital, the sympathy and understanding of ordinary people from both sides of the community. It gave me hope and, I suppose, an ambition, an ambition to try to do something to stop such things happening again.'

'Shite,' I said.

'You really don't like him, do you?'

I gave him one of my better shrugs. 'Do you want another drink or will I swipe this wine?'

Parker looked at me for a moment, his pupils darting about in his brown eyes like lemons on a fruit machine. Weighing me up. 'How about we have another drink, then you swipe the bottle?'

'Sounds good to me.'

I handed him the bottle and took one for myself. The screen had just gone blank as the door opened again and Kay entered. She smiled at Parker.

'That will be going out tonight,' she said to him.

'I appreciate you letting me see the recording,' Parker said. 'It was most informative.'

'No trouble at all.'

I stood up, buttoning my coat so that she couldn't see the wine bottle under my arm. 'Balmer come out of the closet yet, Kay?'

'You tell me, Starkey, you're the newshound.'

'Newshound?'

'I think she means son of a bitch,' Parker ventured.

'Jesus, a double act. What is this.
The Black and White Minstrel Show?'

Kim took Parker by the arm and led him to the door. 'Don't be offended by our Mr Starkey, he doesn't know any better. You read any of his stuff? He's a national institution. Like rickets.'

Outside it had started to rain, a fine cool rain that was pleasant to walk in. 'Leave the car,' I said. 'Let's go for a drink, 'less you have something planned.'

'Not me, I'm a stranger in town. Have you not a wife to go home to?'

'She can wait.'

'She must be an understanding woman.'

'The best,' I said, but as I walked she slipped from my mind like a one-night stand and I found myself thinking again of Margaret.

We were in a bar in the centre of Belfast, somewhere I didn't know. It was jam-packed, sweaty. The Clash were singing 'White Man in Hammersmith Palais' out of the biggest jukebox I'd ever seen. I spent twenty minutes trying to get a drink, but every time I squeezed my way to the bar I got squeezed out again. It went on and on and on.

Parker was in a big black baggy suit. He wasn't having any trouble getting a drink. The people just melted away in front of him, but he wouldn't buy me one. I kept asking but he kept saying I'd had enough. He looked uncomfortable in the heat; sweat stood out on his high forehead and every minute or two a little tear of it trickled down his cheek.

And then there was a breath of fresh air as the doors opened and the crowds began to ooze away, called to another bar by some unheard siren, some Lady Vodka.

I made it to the bar. I got a drink. Parker was beside me. I said, 'It's starting to thin out a bit.'

His face went all serious, his brow furrowed like a potato field. 'Are you calling me bald?' He demanded.

I shook my head, started to explain the expression but he put a big hand on my shoulder and squeezed tight. 'You call me that again and I'll break your face,' he said.

I turned away from him, taking a giant slug from my glass. Jesus. Touchy, touchy. I decided not to hold it against him. We'd both had a lot to drink and he'd done most of the buying. I'd buy him another, he'd cool down.

Before I could order, my eyes met Patricia's. She was walking the length of the bar towards the ladies' toilets. God, she looked good. She walked straight past me. I said, 'Patricia?'

She stopped, turned uncomprehendingly towards me, her eyes focused in, widened in recognition. 'Fuck off,' she said.

She walked on. I stared after her, mortified. My wife. Fuck off. I turned to Parker, gave him a knowing all-men-together smile and said: 'Her loss.'

'Hair loss?' Parker shouted and before I could make a run for it he knocked the glass from my hand and caught hold of my arm. He produced a big shiny pair of scissors from his pocket and cut off two of my fingers and stuffed them in his ears. 'Explain that to your mum!' He cried and loped off towards the men's toilets with a big grin on his face.

And then I woke up.

Noise.

Distant at first, then closer, insistent. As the fog lifted I recognized the sound of the phone mixed in with something closer, just as repetitive but faster, more annoying. I stumbled from bed, naked but for my socks, and made for the phone. I stopped on the way past to lift the needle from the record player where it had been stuck on the third verse of the Skids'

'Working for the Yankee Dollar' for just over seven hours.

I lifted the receiver and said hello. Nothing came out. I cleared my throat and tried again. 'Huh?' I said. 'Hello, could I speak to Daniel Starkey please?' I recognized the voice. 'You've got him.'

'Ah, Starkey, good man, didn't recognize the voice.'

'A bit of a sore throat.'

'Well, yes, that time of year, isn't it?' What was he talking about? 'Just checking on yesterday. How did it go with your Mr Parker?'

'Fine, no problems at all.'

'Good, good, fine. You're seeing him today?'

'No.' In fact, I couldn't remember what we'd arranged. All I could remember was that both of us had trouble speaking by the time he paid for my taxi home. 'I've to phone him. He's out on his own today.'

'What did you make of him?'

I shrugged and for a moment I was puzzled by his lack of response. 'He's keen,' I said quickly. 'He seems to know his stuff.'

'Good. We've had a cancellation, so I've been able to set up a meeting with Brinn for him. Tomorrow, 3 PM.. Red Hall. Can you get him there?'

'Of course.'

'Good man.'

'Do I get to sit in on the meeting?'

Maxwell was silent for a moment. 'Okay - but with conditions. You're there as an observer only, nothing he says goes into your paper.'

'If it's going into his ...'

'Nothing in yours.'

'Okay.'

'And you get him there sober.'

'Parker has a drink problem?'

'You know what I mean.'

I shrugged again. 'What are you implying?'

'I'm not implying anything. I'm telling you. Don't go hitting the drink tomorrow. This is serious. Leave the expense account alone for tomorrow.'

'Why give me the job if you don't trust me?' I asked. I could feel a sulk coming on.

'Starkey, do you have any idea how many foreign journalists there are floating round this place at the moment?'

'I . . .'

'Hundreds. We have to use who we can as guides. And don't take that personally. You know yourself you're no one's idea of a public relations executive.'

I sat at the bottom of the stairs, cradling the receiver in the crook of my neck. There was a thin layer of dust on the telephone stand. 'Okay,' I said, 'maybe I'm a little rough round the edges, but you can depend on me.'

'I know we can.'

I opened the fridge and took out a couple of eggs and a copy of the previous night's
Belfast Telegraph.
I must have been drunk to buy the rival paper. There wasn't much worth reading. I scrambled the eggs and took them through to the lounge. I put on the Ceefax. It had been another night of fun and games across the city. Two taxi drivers had been shot for being Catholic. One was on his first night on the job. He'd been called to an address off the Lisburn Road and his car sprayed with automatic fire. His wife's first husband had been murdered by the UVF twenty years before. Two Unionist election workers pasting up posters had been attacked and badly beaten by a gang of skinheads off the Ormeau Road. A string of hoax bombs had been left in various shopping centres on the outskirts of the city. For all we'd known, meandering drunk through the city centre, it could have been another world.