Lenny was gone by half one. Some nights the Bob Shaw has a late licence, some nights not. They aren’t always the same nights. She uses this to confuse her husband so that we can grab some time together at my place. It works for me, and it seems to work for her. We call it the Happy Hour.
I took a Bushmills out on to the veranda and watched her wend her way through the drunks. She had a taxi pre-booked to pick her up outside the bar. It always came at the same time, and so did we.
I woke shivering at four, and there was another pizza crust, this time in my lap. I was turning into late-night sport for someone. I went inside and cranked up the heat and poured another whiskey and listened to some more Jack Caramac and sat with a notebook, making lists of callers’ names and what they were whining about. Later, I managed a couple of hours’ sleep and then a shower and shave before wandering across the city centre and up Great Victoria Street, on to the Lisburn Road and my office. I could have worked from home, but it was too easy. It seemed important to make the effort to get out.
I was in position by ten. I had coffee from Arizona, a few doors down, and a Kit Kat from Nestlé. I read the papers online and then moved on to Facebook. I had discovered, by bumping into them in Starbucks two weeks earlier, that Patricia was meeting one of her work colleagues for coffee. She swore that there was nothing in it, but they looked shifty enough for me to suspect the worst. We were separated, though not legally. We – and when I say we, I mean I – had always played fast and loose with the marriage vows, but nevertheless, this was a knife to the heart. His name was Richard McIntosh. I shook his hand and passed idle chit-chat for all of thirty seconds before pretending I had to take an urgent call and fleeing. In years gone by, fists would have flown and I would have ended up in Casualty feeling miserable, so I was quite proud of the way I dealt with her treachery. I was older, more mature. When I got home, I went online to find out what I could, but there wasn’t much beyond a couple of photos on Google Images of him playing rugby for a work team. He wasn’t even on Facebook. So I created an account for him, uploaded his photo and set about asking random strangers from around Belfast to be his friend. People rarely say no to such requests, so before very long I’d acquired more than one hundred and fifty new mates for him. Then, working tirelessly, I went through the photo collections of many of these new friends, adding pithy comments on his behalf. Things like: love the chins, fatty; see you’re keeping incest in the family; those are fucking big ears, Dumbo, and yer ma’s yer da. The level of abuse that appeared on his wall in response was quite incredible. Every time he was removed from a list of friends, I found him another. According to Patricia, her strictly platonic friend Richard had been punched twice in the face by random strangers in the past few days while out and about in the city. It was such rewarding work.
The buzzer sounded at eleven. A vaguely familiar voice said, ‘Hi, I’m from Cityscape FM. Jack asked me to pop round with an envelope for you.’
‘Oh right, come on up.’
I was hoping it was Cameron, but it wasn’t. It was the other one. I tried not to look too disappointed. She was equally gorgeous. She had on a black Puffa jacket and purple jeans. Her hair was dirty blonde and short. I put my hand out and told her I hadn’t caught her name yesterday.
‘Evelyn. Evelyn Boyd. I’m Jack’s producer.’
‘Oh right – I thought you were just like one of those dizzy blonde girls who ran around doing things.’
She gave me a look and said, ‘No.’
I smiled. ‘Have a seat.’
‘I have to—’
‘Kettle’s broken, but I can offer you one quarter of a Kit Kat.’
‘No, really, I—’
‘Is this them?’ I nodded at the envelope she still held in her hand.
‘Oh. Yes.’
I said, ‘Thanks for bringing them. You didn’t have to come up.’
‘Yes I did. You don’t appear to have a letter box.’
‘Good point. My mail gets left with the butcher downstairs. When I pick it up, it’s usually bloodstained. It adds a certain frisson.’
She smiled hesitantly. ‘I should be—’
‘No, seriously, take the weight off. Not that you . . . I mean, I wanted to have a word anyway. Jack said it would be okay.’
‘Did he?’
‘Absolutely. He said you were the first and last line of defence between him and the great unwashed.’
She sat. She smiled. ‘Really?’
I nodded. He hadn’t, but he should have. It’s good to appreciate. I was appreciating now. If I was ten years younger. And she was ten years older.
‘I take it he’s told you what this is about? The threat, his kid.’
Evelyn nodded. ‘He’s very worried.’
‘You must talk to a lot of cranks.’ She held my gaze for a moment before nodding. ‘How do you sort them out? You let some of them on air purely for entertainment purposes?’
‘Course we do.’
‘And what about those who don’t make it; do they not just get crankier?’
‘We try to be kind. We just say there’s such a high volume of calls that we’ve run out of time. And actually, it’s usually true.’
‘Do any of them ever turn up at the station, try to confront Jack?’
‘Rarely. We don’t really advertise the address; we have a post office box number. Of course if people want to find us, they generally will, but most of our callers haven’t . . . the wherewithal, if you know what I mean.’
‘What about when he’s out and about? Does he get approached much, maybe threatened, asked for autographs? You know, like John Lennon?’
‘Not really, no. Jack’s a radio man, so his face isn’t that widely known. It’s one reason he avoids doing TV, so he can preserve that anonymity. Again, you can Google him and get as many pictures as you want, but he hasn’t got that kind of recognisability that goes with genuine fame. He can get about pretty much unmolested.’
‘What about in the station itself?’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Would he have enemies there?’
‘Enemies?’
‘Someone who might want to give him a scare, put the frighteners on him?’
‘No, of course not.’
‘A jealous presenter with an eye on his slot. A chairman who resents paying him so much. A blonde who’s been sleeping with him and hates the fact that he won’t leave his wife.’
Evelyn raised an eyebrow. ‘Of course other presenters are jealous of him; he’s got the number one show, best time slot, highest paid. But they’re also aware he keeps them in work, because he’s the only one making the station any money.’
‘The golden goose who lays the . . . what about that?’
‘What about what?’
‘Is he getting laid? A woman scorned and all that.’
‘No. Absolutely not. And I’d know.’
‘Fair enough. Had to ask. How would you know?’
‘Because I’m with him from the moment he walks into the station until the moment he walks out. And the rest of the time he’s with his wife.’
‘Sure about that?’
‘No reason to believe otherwise.’
‘Trudy.’
‘Tracey.’
‘That’s what I said. You know her well?’
‘No. A bit. She comes to station functions. Jack has a New Year’s party. She’s . . . okay. Protective.’
‘Possessive?’
‘Protective.
‘And older.’
‘Older?’
‘Than the general age of blondes you’d find working in a radio station.’ Before she could respond to that, I followed it up sharply with: ‘Jack has a certain reputation. For being awkward. Hard to work with. Egotistical. Mean. Given to rages. In fact, people say he’s a bit of a cunt.’
Evelyn’s eyes widened. ‘I don’t like that word.’
‘I’m sorry. No wish to offend. Is wanker any better?’
‘I’m not sure I like your tone, Mr Starkey.’
‘Please, nobody calls me Mr Starkey.’
‘I’m not sure I like your tone, Mr Starkey.’
We stared each other out. I quite liked her, but sometimes people have to be pushed and prodded, even the attractive ones.
‘He’s a star. All he wants is to be treated like one.’
‘Fair enough,’ I said. ‘So you’re doing him too.’
‘That’s just . . . ridiculous. I’m engaged, if you must know.’
‘Couldn’t be true then, fair enough.’
She stood up. I stood up too.
‘I better fly,’ she said.
‘Good luck with that. And thanks for the info.’ I tapped the envelope. ‘I’ve been friends with Jack for twenty years, so don’t take anything I say about him personally. We like to wind each other up.’
‘Is that why he told me you were a sad alco who needed a break?’
‘He’s such a bitch.’
She smiled. I smiled.
I said, ‘I’m heading out myself. Can I give you a lift back to the station?’
‘No, I’m fine, thank you, I’ve the car with me.’
‘The silver one?’ I asked.
She looked suitably surprised. ‘How’d you know?’
‘I know many things,’ I said, cryptically.
She stood her ground. ‘No, really, how do you know?’
‘Relax, it was an educated guess. Last year, sixty per cent of new cars bought in the UK, including that part of Ireland that will always be British, were silver. I have an endless amount of such trivia in my head.’
‘But why would you even say that? I might have been up all night worrying about how you would know.’
I shrugged. ‘I’m very good at keeping women up all night,’ I said.
She gave me a tight smile. ‘Hard to believe,’ she said.