I was as stiff as hell and everything ached. There was Diet Coke in the fridge and orange juice cunningly disguised as Jaffa Cakes in the cupboard. As I ate, I watched the breakfast news. There had been a number of shootings, but none of them fatal. Armed and hooded men were on the Shankill threatening anyone they felt like threatening. Politicians, police and community leaders were calling for calm. It could have been so much worse. I might have been dead.
So I was relatively happy, at least until I switched to the radio for Jack’s show and heard the tail end of him saying: ‘. . . well it appears to be self-published, so I think we all know what that means. Do you want me to read one of them? I think I should. What about this one? “The Green, Green Hills of Down”?’
He proceeded to read it, in a deliberately high-pitched, highfalutin voice that would have rendered Wordsworth even more ludicrous.
When he was finished, he said, ‘We have Michael Ridley, Professor of Poetry at Sheffield University, on the line . . . Michael, you’re the expert, what do you make of “The Green, Green Hills of Down”?’
‘Well it’s—’
‘It’s a bit rubbish, isn’t it?’
‘Well I wouldn’t go that far. It’s, it’s quite . . . I would say free form, almost stream of consciousness . . .’
‘It doesn’t even scan, does it?’
‘Well, no . . . but poetry doesn’t necessarily—’
‘What do you think about self-published poetry? Anyone can do that and call themselves a poet, can’t they?’
‘Actually, many of our leading poets started out by—’
‘Do you want me to tell you who wrote this one?’
‘Well, I . . .’
‘What would you say if I told you that this book of poetry was published, self-published by Boogie Wilson. You’re in England, so you won’t necessarily know that Boogie Wilson is allegedly the brigadier general of the Ulster Volunteer Force, one of our murderous terrorist organisations, which, incidentally and only yesterday, murdered a poor innocent woman on the Shankill Road. What do you say to that, Professor Ridley?’
‘Ahm, I’d say I’m glad I live in Sheffield. But I have to—’
‘Thank you, Professor,’ said Jack, abruptly cutting the call. ‘Now we have Noel, from Limavady, on the line – Noel, what do you think of this self-confessed terrorist spouting lines of poetry about how beautiful our countryside is?’
‘Jack, mate, I think it’s a bloody disgrace, so I do . . . This guy claims to represent the Protestant community, and likes to think he’s an artist or a poet or something, and he’s sitting at home writing his little verses while his men are out there viciously—’
I turned him off. Jack was doing what Jack did. Stirring it up. He was like me, but with an audience. He had been giving it to the Miller brothers for weeks, and now he had widened his scope to Boogie Wilson. He was, I supposed, admirably fearless, or you could call it admirably reckless. But it only strengthened my newish theory that whatever had spooked him in the first place had nothing at all to do with the UVF and everything to do with . . . something else that I had yet to determine.
I sat at the kitchen counter and sipped my Diet Coke and gingerly stretched my aching limbs while wondering what to do with myself. The Bob Shaw wasn’t the only bar in Belfast, but it was my local, and my favourite. However, I would probably have to stay clear of it for a while. I needed to keep a clear head. Jack Caramac was annoying me. He had led me up the garden path and then paid me off, either because the original problem had been resolved or because I was getting close to some truth he no longer wished me to discover. I’m not brave, never have been. But I like poking.
I drove to work. There’s a private lane behind the block where I usually park which is safe from traffic wardens who might notice the tax disc and the tread, and who might enquire and find out about my licence and the non-existent insurance and the fact that my car hasn’t been anywhere near an MOT for several years in a row. I locked it up, then stood and looked at it. It had once been top-of-the-range but was now near the bottom; to even make it legal would cost me more than it was worth. It would be quicker and easier to just put it out of its misery, but the sad fact was that I couldn’t afford anything else.
I went back down the lane and was getting my keys out for the office when the butcher said from his doorway, ‘Been in a scrap?’
I was limping, a bit, and one eye was swollen. ‘Yes,’ I said.
He said, ‘Word of warning.’ And I thought: Christ, what now? But he nodded at my door and said, ‘I was opening up, and couldn’t help but notice your lock’s been forced.’
I moved up to it. The door appeared firmly closed, but there was a slight splintering of the frame around the lock. I put one finger on the wood panel and pushed. The door drifted slowly inwards.
I looked at the butcher.
He said, ‘I would’ve checked it out, but didn’t want to go in without your permission. Are you going in or calling the peelers?’
‘Going in,’ I said.
‘I’ll go with you,’ said the butcher, ‘if you just give me a minute.’
I nodded. He darted back inside his shop, and came back with a meat cleaver. ‘Just in case,’ he said.
He moved past me into the doorway. ‘I’ll go first, if you don’t mind.’ He gave me a sample swing of his cleaver. ‘I’ve probably got a bit more practice at this than you have.’
There was only a hall at ground level, then two floors of vacant offices before you got to what the estate agent had called an executive penthouse office suite and most sane people would have called an attic.
We proceeded cautiously; I more cautious than he.
‘Anything valuable up there?’
‘Laptop and a family bag of Twix.’
‘Aye, well, I was right then, better not to phone the police if you have a laptop.’
‘I don’t follow.’
‘Saw what you have on your car; maybe you don’t want the cops checkin’ out your files.’
‘If you’re suggesting . . .’
‘Each unto their own, mate. Doesn’t worry me. I met all sorts inside, so I did.’
‘Inside?’
‘Oh aye, before I was a butcher on the Lisburn Road, I was one on the Shankill.’
He gave another swish of his cleaver.
‘You were a Shankill Butcher?’
‘Coulda been, but never had the inclination.’
Just as we reached the top of the stairs, there was a noise from beyond my office door, about twenty paces ahead of us along a short hall.
‘I should warn you,’ I whispered, ‘that I may recently have upset the UVF.’
The butcher looked surprised, but undaunted. ‘More power to your elbow,’ he said, and gave me a theatrical wink. ‘You ready for this?’
I nodded. He gave me a broad smile, before suddenly letting rip with a blood-curdling yell and hurtling forward. The lock on my door was clearly already busted, but he kicked it in anyway and leapt through the gap.
‘Gotcha now!’ he cried, raising the cleaver, ready and willing to decapitate the teenager sitting in my chair, one good foot propped up on my desk, and the other resting peacefully on the other side of the room.