Hayden was in the middle of not writing. It was mid-morning. Mornings had been allotted to getting on with his novel. He’d been sitting in front of a blank page waiting for inspiration for some time. Nothing. He pushed his chair back and looked longingly at Bram’s book box. If he dipped into one, just one, it might set him off. He knew this wouldn’t work. He’d get sucked into someone else’s plot and that would be that. Morning gone. Besides, he’d arranged to meet Bram at the Nautical Buoy at midday. Only ten minutes to go until he headed off, but if the previous ten minutes were anything to go by they could take hours.
Just one. Honest. Just the blurb on the back. A quick fix. The drug terminology wasn’t lost on him. He was desperate. Anything, anything to take his mind off not writing. Well, not anything. Not alcohol. He knew where that led. No, just a quick blurb. Where was the harm in that? Good question. Nowhere. Ah, but that’s where the harm lay. He recognised in his reasoning the inner voice of the addict, but who cared? The addict didn’t, and neither did Hayden.
He was about to succumb to his inner demon and pounce on the box when Eddie’s phone rang. He pounced on that instead, with pathetic gratitude. See? He wasn’t an addict after all. He could take a blurb or leave it. Given a choice, he’d chosen the phone. He didn’t recognise the number, but why would he? And who, again, cared? Hayden didn’t, and the addict, because Hayden wasn’t one, didn’t exist.
‘Yes?’
‘Oh, hi. Trace here.’
A woman’s voice. But Trace? Who was Trace?
‘Trace,’ he said. ‘And you are?’
‘Trace,’ said Trace. ‘You know. Trace? AA?’ Hayden stood up, stunned. ‘So, when will you be back?’ He started rooting in Eddie’s drawer. Possibly a nervous reaction. A bottle opener. He ignored it. ‘Thing is,’ said Trace, ‘I’m worried about you, over there in Dublin with all that, you know, temptation and suchlike.’
Hayden spluttered in disbelief. A pair of bicycle clips. He took them out. ‘You’ve no right to worry about me. You’re not my mother.’
‘Who left when you were seven years old, Hayden. Who moved to Waikiki with your dad and left you mum-less ever since. Do you maybe want to talk about this?’
‘I wasn’t seven,’ snapped Hayden. ‘It was the day before my seventh birthday. And no I bloody don’t.’
‘Well it could be the root of your problem, love.’
Hayden wasn’t having this. ‘Two points: one, I don’t have a problem and two, I’m not your love.’
‘Admitting we have a problem is the first –’
‘Hold on. You’re right. I do have a problem. Well spotted, love.’
‘See? Self-knowledge is the first step. Do you want to share it?’
‘Yes. I do. You. You’re the problem.’
He pulled an old nutcracker from the drawer and fondled it distractedly.
‘That’s it,’ said Trace. ‘Blame the messenger, Hayden. It’s an old trick, but trust me, it never works. I should know, because whatever hell you’ve been through, I can assure you I’ve been through it too.’
‘Well, thanks for sharing that. How did you get this number? No, wait, don’t tell me. The Higher Power moves in mysterious ways. Well you tell the Higher Power –’
‘That’s not nice, Hayden. Edward McGlynn? Dublin? It wasn’t that difficult.’
He put the nutcracker back and spotted a pair of opera glasses half-buried in the clutter. He pulled them out and held them up to the light.
‘Another thing. You seem to know a hell of a lot about my private life.’
‘I’ve seen your act.’
Fair point. Waikiki. Good comedy name. That’s the problem with confessional comedy. Sometimes the truth is funnier. But still.
‘My parents are none of your business,’ he said. ‘There’s no temptation. Or – or suchlike. Bye now.’
‘But what about the Ten Point Plan?’
Hayden didn’t hear that bit. His ears were too furious. He slammed the phone down and stood by the desk, fuming, clutching the opera glasses. He looked down at his hands, took a closer look at the opera glasses, and, possible displacement therapy this, the very fact of looking, of engaging ocularly with the glasses, calmed him down. His ears stopped burning. He turned the glasses over and was soon lost in the aesthetic pleasure of their operaglassesness. He’d never seen a pair before. He didn’t know if Eddie liked opera, but in a funny sort of way you didn’t have to. The glasses were a thing of beauty in themselves, and he was about to train them on the garden to see if there were any sopranos lurking in the bushes when he suddenly remembered. Bram. Nautical Buoy. Midday.
He placed the opera glasses gently on the desk and closed his blank notebook with gratitude. Courtesy of Trace, the final ten minutes of his self-imposed routine had flown by in seeming seconds. Not that he thanked her for it. The woman was certifiable, but she was in London and he was in Dublin, so no harm done. All thoughts of Trace forgotten, he stepped into the light of a lovely June morning. The three aunts observed him from behind the cotoneaster and kept their own counsel.
The Nautical Buoy, newly refurbished, sat facing Dublin Bay. The interior was bright and welcoming, with a smattering of customers dotting the bar stools and bistro tables. The lunchtime crowd hadn’t quite made it in yet. No sign of Bram. Over in the corner, guitarist Voot O’Rooney improvised a jazzy little number about the dish of the day, Mushroom, Tomayto and Sweet Potato Pie. Not that it was on the menu, but that’s jazz for you: rhythm is all.
Hayden sat at a vacant table. He hadn’t been in for some years and the changes were dramatic. From traditional dark pub, no women, tipped cigarettes a sign of effeminacy, to bright, inclusive, family-friendly bar/bistro. A shaft of sunshine from the skylight illuminated the distinguished-looking man at the counter, fedora in hand, voice projecting as if to the back stalls.
‘A large contusion to the left ventricle suggested foul play, but it turned out he was a keen hurler so he died, as it were, in the line of duty. The clue? He was on a GAA pitch at the time. Auchentoshan single malt an’t please you, Declan. I like to start the day alphabetically. And while you’re preparing this estimable libation I’m off for a quick puff, no offence to our gay brethren.’
‘Right you are, Mr. Quilty,’ said the barman. ‘None taken, I’m sure.’
Quilty strode to the door as if all eyes were on him. Hayden’s were. This was the fedora-wearing drunk Bram had referred to as ‘your man’ before Eddie’s funeral. A criminal pathologist, judging by his little speech. Interesting. Could be very useful. The sun, angled from the skylight, seemed to follow him across the floor. After he’d made his exit through the swing doors, it settled back on the glass of single malt Declan placed on the counter in front of Quilty’s stool.
Before the doors had stopped swinging, Bram came in. The sunlight stayed where it was. He spotted Hayden and sauntered over.
‘Pint?’
Hayden drummed his fingers on the table. ‘I don’t drink.’
‘Half?’
Hayden decided to sit this one out.
‘Glass of wine?’
‘I’ll have a coffee, thanks,’ said Hayden. ‘Hold the liqueur.’
Bram nodded in understanding. ‘Scrabster, right?’ He placed the order, two coffees, brought them over and pulled out a chair. ‘Just passed your man on the way in,’ he said. ‘I’ll tell you one thing. This place is on the up and up.’
‘Your man?’ said Hayden. ‘Ah yes. Quilty. Pathologist by the sound of it. Cause of death, that sort of thing. Could be useful.’
Bram gave him an odd look as he sat down. ‘Are we in work mode here?’ he said. ‘Fair enough. How’s it shaping up?’
Hayden didn’t want to talk about the novel.
‘Eddie,’ he said. ‘I think he may have been murdered. Which means somebody out there must have done it. And if so – who?’
‘Work it is,’ said Bram. ‘Good start. Get your reader involved.’
Hayden settled back. Two old friends with nothing left in common, coffee in front of them, nothing to be done about it; so he filled Bram in on the story so far. The gash on Eddie’s forehead, which Bram already knew about. The cellar. The sawn-through ladder. The guards. The late night incident with the intruder. He was about to mention the answerphone message when a mild-mannered little man at the next table leaned over.
‘Excuse me,’ he simpered. ‘Is anyone using the salt?’
Hayden waved it away impatiently. And here’s the curious thing. The man has asked the question. He’s got his answer. He doesn’t take the salt. Interesting. If Hayden had been narrating this thrilling opus himself, he wouldn’t have included that seemingly insignificant detail. Why? He didn’t notice it. I did. One-nil to third person narration.
Hayden had been in mid-flow, but the man had upset his rhythm and Bram used the slight pause to interject.
‘Brilliant. Write what you know, am I right?’ He nodded gravely. ‘It also means you can set it in Clontarf. Clever.’
Hayden was about to lead him gently back to the real world, but Bram had other ideas.
‘Okay. Now as previously discussed, your great crime writers plot the story backwards. You know who dunnit. You work back. Plant clues. Set up the murder. Then you write it. So, you know your perp –’
‘No,’ said Hayden. ‘I don’t know “my perp”.’ He shook his head. ‘If I knew who perped it –’
‘Fine,’ said Bram. ‘Keep yourself in the dark. That way you’re as surprised as the reader. Equally valid. We don’t know who dunnit. We don’t know why he dunnit. Works either way.’
‘Could be a she,’ said Hayden.
‘Blank sheet,’ said Bram. ‘I can live with that.’
Hayden sighed wearily. ‘This is not a book, Bram. This is real life. Eddie is a real person and someone out there, also presumably real, may have killed him.’
But Bram didn’t hear the last bit, because he was off again. ‘Your sleuth,’ he said. ‘Let’s call him –’
‘Let’s call him Hayden,’ said Hayden.
Bram nodded. ‘Fine, if it gets you started. You can change it later. He’s a man alone. Bit of an outsider. Addicted to painkillers. Tragic past. Rescued a baby from a bomb in Baghdad. Beirut? Belfast? Lost his left leg and most of his upper torso when the second bomb went off. I don’t think that’s been done.’ Hayden’s heart sank. Confiding in Bram possibly wasn’t such a good idea after all, but there seemed to be no stopping him. ‘Then there’s your talk-to person,’ Bram continued. ‘Also as previously mentioned.’
‘I remember him well,’ said Hayden. ‘Someone a bit thick so you can explain stuff to the reader. Let’s call him Bram.’
‘The name isn’t important at this stage,’ said Bram. ‘We’ll think of something.’ He rooted through his brain for other pearls of advice. ‘Ah. Final point. The love interest. We’re looking at a series here. Your sleuth has to walk away from the femme fatale. Tough one. Maybe she dunnit. But you take my point. He can’t start book two with a couple of kids and a house in Portmarnock.’ Bram punched the table gently for effect. ‘Dark past yes, mortgage no.’
Hayden was about to change the subject – prostate cancer, bus timetables, anything – when he remembered the answerphone message.
‘By the way,’ he said, ‘you don’t happen to know a woman name of Marina?’
Bram sat back in his seat. ‘Not intimately,’ he said. ‘Wish I did though. Why?’
‘I have to pay her a visit.’
‘Do you now?’ said Bram. ‘And why would that be?’
‘Oh, you know,’ said Hayden, who didn’t want to go back to the Eddie narrative. ‘Business.’
‘Business,’ said Bram. ‘Like that, is it?’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ said Hayden.
Bram sighed. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘Fair enough. Marina’s your one with the red coupé. Lives next to your aunts. Moved in about a month ago. Big sign outside advertising her wares. But you’ll know about that already. To be honest, I didn’t think you had a problem in that direction.’
‘Sorry?’ said Hayden. ‘What direction?’
‘Oh now. Says he to me.’ Bram checked his watch. ‘Got to head, compadre. The afternoon shift waits for no man.’
Just then the swing doors flew open and Quilty returned from his quick puff. No point trying to push Bram further, so Hayden changed tack.
‘Before you go,’ he said. ‘I could use a copy of that Eddie shot. You know. The one with the gash.’
‘I’ll do better than that,’ said Bram. He whipped his phone out. A few quick hand movements. ‘Job done,’ he said. ‘Check your inbox. Anyway,’ – he punched Hayden playfully on the shoulder – ‘here’s me bus.’
Hayden waited until he’d gone, then opened the attachment. You could just about make out Eddie’s wound on the small screen. He’d appeal to Quilty’s vanity. He looked the vain sort. A quick perusal, if you would be so kind, and do let me replenish your glass. Ballachulish, is it? He was about to go over when Quilty picked his fedora off the bar and waved it flamboyantly in a half circle. ‘That’s me away,’ he declaimed. ‘Busy day, busy day.’
He drained his tumbler and swirled dramatically towards the exit. He flung the swing doors open and all but bowed from the waist. ‘Allow me, ladies,’ he announced to the room, and the three aunts scuttled in.
‘Why tank you, kind sir.’
‘Nice to see there’s some gentlemen left.’
‘And if you don’t tink it’s being too forward, you remind all tree of us of the great actor manager Sir Donald Wolfit in his heyday.’
‘In Macbet.’
‘A vain, vain man, but my God, he could certingly reach the stalls.’
‘Positively stentorian.’
‘A rare compliment, ladies. I well remember his one-man Othello at Borris-in-Ossory Parish Hall. His Desdemona? Quite, quite heartbreaking, and his lightning removal and reapplication of face paint during the dying scene was a lesson in stagecraft I will assuredly take with me to the grave. Adieu, gentle ladies. Adieu.’
Quilty waved them in and exited stage left. The three aunts scurried excitedly across the plush carpet.
‘There you are, Hayding.’
‘We’re down for the cream tea brunch.’
‘Bit risqué on the old ticker front at our age, but c’est la mort.’
This led to a fit of giggles, which suggested possible comic intent. Hayden held seats for them and made the usual flattering noises, but as he left he was struck by a disquieting thought: they didn’t seem surprised to see him. Why? Were they there to check up on his movements? He also noted, although it didn’t seem significant at the time, that the salt was still on the table.