I sat where I was, and sipped my beer, and ate some of Tracey’s chips. I was happy enough, if a little damp. You see, you think you’re just having a bit of banter, and they’re right there with you, but then you go just a little bit too far and suddenly they’re in tears. Part of me wanted to think that I had misjudged the reason for her joining me. What I had dismissed as drunken flirting at her cocktail party could actually have lodged in her sozzled head as a real come-on. Even after so many years she retained strong feelings for me, and why not? She had agreed to lunch so quickly, and then arrived dressed to the nines, only to discover that instead of a secret affair, I was more interested in grilling her about the case.
But most of me knew that was bollocks. She was from the Shankill, and they breed them tough there. Something was bothering her, something she’d hoped to share with me, but I’d wound her up too far and in her nervous state she’d snapped and bolted.
Still, it suggested I might be on the right track, or a track, at least. When I emerged on to Waring Street, Tracey was standing at the end of the hotel, facing away from me, smoking. I walked up and she turned just as I arrived. She studied the pavement.
I said, ‘Sorry, Tracey.’
She turned panda eyes up to me. She took another drag, her hand shaking. ‘I can’t believe you finished your fucking pint rather than come running after me.’
‘I’m fond of a pint,’ I said.
‘You always were a bastard.’
‘As I recall, it was you who finished with me.’
She threw the fag down and ground it into the footpath. ‘You’ve a good memory,’ she said. ‘What is it, once bitten, twice shy?’
‘It’s complicated.’
‘Still Trish, yeah?’
‘Yep, she’s the only one for me.’
‘Always hated her.’ She forced a weak smile. ‘Sorry about that in there. It’s not you. It’s me. It’s him.’
‘The voice of the people?’
‘Don’t, please. You were right first time. Those fuckin’ clippies from the station. I can fuckin’ smell it off him. I thought I’d have my wee bit of revenge, but when it came to it, I couldn’t.’ She lit another. ‘I could have had you, though, couldn’t I?’
‘You had me at chips,’ I said. ‘Tracey, love, something’s up. Is it just the affairs?’
‘Just?’
‘You know what I mean. Jimmy.’
She held my gaze for a long time. Then she said, ‘No, it’s not just the affairs; there’s other stuff he won’t tell me about. He never has, Dan. I’ve never really been interested in the business end, so I can’t go crying to him now if he freezes me out. It’s just with Jimmy, I nearly die every time I think about what might have happened to him.’
‘You were lucky.’
‘I know. God, I know. And I know you understand. You lost one too.’
I looked at the passing traffic for a bit. When I turned back to her, she was lighting another.
‘So tell me, what really happened? One minute he’s worried to death, the next he’s top of the world.’
‘And I’m telling you I don’t know.’
‘Is it to do with the show?’
‘You can ask me in as many different ways as you want, Dan, but I can’t tell you if I really don’t know.’
‘Well maybe you could find out.’
She studied me. ‘You mean like . . .?’
‘Yes. Snoop around. Check his calls, his computer, anything.’
‘On my own husband?’
‘He’s screwing around behind your back.’
‘I’m resigned to that.’ I raised an eyebrow. ‘Y’know, you’re like fuckin’ Roger Moore when you do that, except you’re a better actor. Dan, I can’t just go hoking through his stuff.’
‘Why not? Listen to me.’ I reached out and took her hand. Or tried to. It was meant to emphasise my point, but it was the hand with her fag in it and she burned my palm by mistake and I said, ‘Fuck!’ and rubbed at it.
‘Sorry! Here . . . let me . . .’
She took hold of it and kissed the burn and then held it against her cheek. There were tears in her eyes. I let her hold it for a few moments, then gradually drew it away and let it drop to her shoulder.
‘Tracey,’ I said, ‘you need to help me. I’ve been involved in crap like this before and my experience is this: he may look happy, he may sound happy, but if you get into something that involves your own child being kidnapped, then you are not dealing with normal people and it is unlikely to end happily. And I have worked with media people before, and as a rule of thumb, the less demanding their job, the larger their ego. He will think he can deal with this because he is Jack Caramac off the radio, with the highest listenership in Ireland, but it will mean nothing to the people who might eventually put a bolt through his head.’
‘I know. I know. I know. I have thought all this. I could just up sticks, take Jimmy away, keep him safe.’
‘Yes, you could.’
‘Except.’
‘You love Jack.’
‘Yes, I do.’
I nodded some myself.
‘Love’s a bitch, isn’t it?’ I asked.
‘No,’ said Tracey, ‘love is great.’
‘That’s my girl,’ I said, ‘metaphorically speaking.’
I walked back to the office with the full intention of making some calls, sat down, put my feet up on the desk and dozed off. I was out for three hours. I woke groggy and stiff and with a mild headache. I necked some paracetamol, drained a warm Diet Coke and tried to decide if I was sober enough yet to drive home. Only a few years back it wouldn’t have mattered. I have driven while spectacularly drunk and never actually killed anyone, though I did once bounce a nun off my bonnet. She just rolled off and kept walking. She’d either taken a vow of silence or I’d broken her throat.
But times have changed. There wasn’t an exact method of working out when I would be sufficiently legal; it was guesswork.
I went into the small bathroom and threw water on my face. I sucked on an emergency Polo mint. I lifted Bobby’s spare leg and walked to the car. Nobody mentioned the leg. The Lisburn Road was busy enough. I drove carefully. Guessing that it was what teenagers were most likely to want to eat, I stopped to pick up a bargain bucket of KFC. I drove on home with the windows down. St Anne’s Square’s piazza lights were just coming on. I parked. I nodded to a neighbour on the way up, and let myself into the apartment. It was very quiet. I called Bobby’s name. There was no response.
‘Hey, Bobby, you here? I went to Kentucky. Do you want a leg?’
Still nothing. I went from room to room. Gone. I checked my valuables. TV, present; PC, present. There was a dirty plate in the sink and a sodden towel on the bathroom floor. I picked it up and put it over a radiator. I checked the spare bedroom – not slept in. So, he’d done a runner, or, at least, a hopper. Maybe it was no bad thing. I wasn’t equipped to deal with any teenager, let alone a one-legged drug dealer whose mother had just died. I set his leg appendage down on the counter. Maybe he had spares dotted all over the city, like Scott on his way to the Pole, who didn’t have legs, but supply dumps. That hadn’t ended so well. But it wasn’t my problem.
I looked at the KFC. If I ate anything else dripping in fat, I really would implode. I left it sitting there and went to the cupboard above the sink. A healthy dose of Black Bush was in order.
There had been a three-quarters-full bottle, but it was gone. As I discovered this, I heard a groan. It did not come from me, though it should have. I turned and surveyed the open-plan kitchen and lounge. My eyes were drawn to the veranda. The curtains were still closed from the night before, but one of them was flapping gently in the breeze.
Another groan.
I moved across to the sliding doors, pulled the curtains back and saw Bobby, naked, on his hands and knee. He was throwing up. There was my bottle of whiskey, empty, on the ground beside him.
Christ.
I opened the door and went out. His head turned very slightly.
‘Sorry . . . sorry . . . sorry . . .’
I knelt beside him, reluctantly, and said, ‘It’s okay . . .’ through gritted teeth.
‘I’m not drunk . . .’
‘I can see that . . . C’mon . . .’
I tried to pick him up. He was heavier than he looked. Dead weights always are. I levered him straight-ish and balanced him against my shoulder.
‘Lean on me,’ I said, and tried not to hum it.
I tried to shuffle him forward.
‘Can’t . . . can’t . . . fuckin’ . . . gonna . . .’
He threw up down my arm. My natural and understandable response was to step away from him, which I did, leaving him to topple in the opposite direction. He reached out for support, and I caught hold of him and pulled him back towards me, and in the same fluid movement he sprayed me again, and then fell into me, and we both fell backwards, slathered in boke, on to the cement. Horrified, and about to hurl myself, I shoved him hard, and he slithered off and cracked his head on the ground and threw up again. I lay there, simultaneously gasping for fresh breath and trying not to breathe in, and it was only a new sound from him that turned my head in concern: big, aching sobs. They were so powerful that they made the heaves of his boking seem tame.
I didn’t know whether to crawl over and give him a hug, or break out the power hose.
I poured large amounts of coffee and Diet Coke down his ragged throat. He sat on the sofa with a basin in his lap and his head drooped, saying nothing, while I showered the stench off me. Then I gave him his leg and told him to go shower again. He attached it, and moved meekly towards the bathroom.
I stood at the kitchen counter, a towel around my waist, and just shook my head in disbelief. I had volunteered for this. He was nothing to do with me. I was not responsible for him or his predicament, unless you wanted to be really, really pedantic. He could sober up and he could fuck off.
The door bell sounded.
I remained where I was. I was harbouring a child whom ruthless terrorists were looking for. I had no way of knowing if Boogie Wilson had mentioned me to the Miller brothers or if they were even aware I existed. But only that morning I had very definitely been seen to be in Bobby’s company, and had probably been spotted driving off with him, by a cleaver-wielding butcher who had strong ties to prison and the Shankill Road. It would not have taken a genius to track us back here. It was still a remote possibility, but I decided to err on the cautious side and ignore it, at least until the bell rang again and Lenny said through the door, ‘Dan? Are you there? I saw your car outside. I know you’re angry with me, but please let me in.’
It wasn’t anger, it was relief. I opened up and she fell into my arms. She peppered me with kisses and paid particular attention to my eye, which had blackened like an overripe banana.
‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,’ she cried.
‘It’s okay,’ I said, patting her back, ‘it’s okay.’
‘No it’s not, he could have killed you.’
‘No he couldn’t, I’m indestructible.’
More kisses. Then she held me at arm’s length and said, ‘I’m so sorry. When he said he was taking the kids up the coast, it was all a lie. He was watching me. Watching us. He followed us here. He confronted me when I got home. There was nothing I could do but admit it, and then he wouldn’t let me leave or phone or anything.’
‘Did he hurt you?’
‘No. He wouldn’t. But he wanted to hurt you.’
‘Him and his pals.’
She frowned. ‘He had help?’
‘Did you think one man could pin me down?’ I smiled. ‘Don’t answer that.’
‘Oh baby, I’m really sorry.’
‘Does he know you’re here now?’
‘No, of course not. He dropped me off at work. Soon as he drove off, I came here. What are we going to do?’
‘I don’t know,’ I said.
We sat on the sofa. She leant back against my bare chest and kissed it. ‘I can’t give you up,’ she said.
I nodded. I could see her point.
‘We’ll work something out,’ I said.
She stroked my arm. After a little while she said, ‘I saw your car. Someone has scratched paedophile into it, though I don’t think it’s spelled properly.’
‘I know,’ I said. ‘The state of our education . . .’
Before I could finish, and with perfect timing, the bathroom door opened, and my fourteen-year-old mostly naked guest, with steam still rising from his body, limped across to the kitchen counter, lifted the KFC bargain bucket, and returned swiftly to the bathroom without once looking in our direction.
As the door closed I said, ‘I can explain.’