Divorcing Jack (4 page)

'I'm not entirely sure I'm a married man.'

'It'll be okay.'

'What, you'll go round and patch things up for me?'

'The last man was here said he had to leave because he had to see the Cup Final. It was eight o'clock in the morning. He said he wanted to see the teams leaving for Wembley. Can you imagine doing that to someone?'

'Depends who was playing.' I leant over and kissed her lightly on the lips. 'Besides,' I added, 'I've nowhere to go.'

The bedroom was small, warm. The floral wallpaper looked like it had been pasted in the sixties; maybe even the fifties. It was a single bed but it fitted us well; neither of us were fatties, yet. At the end of the bed there was a simple wooden dresser with a round mirror. There were a couple of cheap-looking jewellery boxes and some fluffy toys on the left. In a gold-effect frame on the right there was a colour photograph of a red-headed woman in upper middle age; resting against it was a much smaller colour snap, beginning to curl at the edges, of a young man, probably in his twenties. They didn't look dissimilar.

'Mother and brother, right?'

'Mother and friend.'

'Her friend?'

'My friend.'

'Boyfriend?'

'Ex.'

'But still has a place in your heart.'

She shrugged.

'What happened to him?'

'It's a long story.'

'Shorten it.'

'You don't give up, do you?'

'I'm a journalist.'

'Is this off the record then?'

'No.' I lifted the quilt and snatched a look at her body. 'And I feel a column coming on.'

'You're a dirty bastard' she said, poking me in the ribs, but it was a good-natured poke and she fell to kissing me next and in a minute we were making love again and it was every bit as good as the first time. When she was finished, and I most certainly was, she said: 'You don't let your troubles interfere with your lovemaking, do you?'

'A trouble shared is a trouble halved.' I had no idea what I meant, but it sounded quite appropriate.

We nestled back into the bed. It was a little after eleven. It was a Saturday morning and I'd no work until the evening. Patricia would maybe be wondering where I was, and maybe she wouldn't. I cared deeply, but I couldn't bring myself to do anything about it. I would phone her later, let her stew for a bit, let her realize she'd jumped to conclusions a little too quickly. It was only a kiss. A wee kiss. She didn't need to know about the rest. I could bluff it through. I was in bed with a woman who wasn't my wife. The first time. Ever.

'Tell me about the guy in the photo.'

Her chin rested in the crook between my arm and chest, her thin hand on my stomach. 'I had an abortion. I had to go to England for it. He didn't want me to have it. We split up.'

'Okay,' I said.

'I'm not looking for approval. I didn't want the baby.'

'I didn't say a word. Your life.'

'Yeah.'

She said it with what might have been a melancholy sigh or a stifled yawn, or both. It was the first hint of bubbleless-ness she'd displayed, if it was the former, and about time if it was the latter.

'You still see him?'

'No. He's in prison. The Maze. He's a bad boy. Or he became one.'

'Because of you?'

'I don't think so. He was going that way anyway. You've maybe heard of him. Pat Coogan?'

'Cow Pat Coogan?'

'Cow Pat Coogan. Yeah. The Paper Cowboy.'

'I haven't heard that one. Paper Cowboy.'

'You know the old joke. He was done for rustlin'.' She turned her head up towards me, held me with her eyes.

'Jesus,' I said. 'I kissed the mouth that kissed the mouth of Cow Pat Coogan. Mother would have me shot, were she still alive.'

Coogan wasn't quite a legend - most all of them were dead - but he was a name, a character, in a largely characterless war. Reckless or stupid, he'd added a bit of life to the papers a couple of years back with a series of daring armed robberies round the country, north and south of the border. He'd briefly been the most wanted man in the Province, not so much for the viciousness of his crimes as for the extent of them. He was branded a Republican, but he always seemed more interested in money than freeing Ireland. When he was finally arrested he faced thirty-nine charges - thirty-eight for armed robbery on the word of a supergrass and one of stealing cattle. He was only convicted for the cattle.

'So how long were you going with him?'

'Not long. Six months maybe. Long enough to get pregnant anyway.'

'Still hear from him?'

'No. And don't worry. He doesn't keep tabs on me.'

'Who's worried?'

'It's quite hard to think of him being in prison. I keep thinking of sitting in the back row of the flicks with him., holding hands, sneaking a kiss. I think I was quite smitten. Then we split up. You know how it is. You think you're over someone then you hear he's taking a girl out for dinner and you feel all right about it, but then you hear he's meeting her again and you're in tears for seventy-two hours. Miserable. I hated him for doing that to me. He's a good-lookin' fella. There were a lot of broken hearts along the Falls when he went inside, and it wasn't for the love of Ireland.'

'You'd not go out with him again then?'

'I don't know. I suppose in a way I still love him. But things would have to be different.' Margaret ran her fingers through her hair, then through mine. 'You're nice, y'know? A lot of men wouldn't like to hear a woman they've just slept with talking about old boyfriends.'

'As long as they don't come through that door with a shotgun I don't mind who we talk about,' I said. And I didn't. I had enough problems of my own without worrying about anyone else's, but I could listen all day. 'Well, I take it you're from at the very least a fairly Loyalist family - I've seen those records, and they aren't a pretty sight - what did they make of Cow Pat Coogan? It must have been like bringing the Pope home for dinner.'

'We may be Protestants, but we're not bigots. Mum got on with him all right, I suppose. Dad never met him. He's not home much.'

'What's he do?'

'Don't ask.'

It was a don't ask that was a do ask, but I took her at her word and left it. It was getting late and my head had cleared and my stomach was rumbling.

A high-pitched whine, gradually growing in annoyance, enveloped us as we lay in sunny silence.

I said: 'I let the dog out a while back. I gather he wants in.'

'If there's blood dripping from his mouth, you're in big trouble.' Margaret jumped from the bed, her small bottom a marvel of tightness. She pulled on a T-shirt with Mickey Mouse on the front and hurried down the stairs. I heard the back door open and a scampering of paws.

When I went downstairs about ten minutes later Margaret was making a fry-up. Sausage, bacon, egg, fried bread, soda bread, potato bread, mushrooms, pancake, tomato; I liked the way she took it for granted that what I most needed after a night on the tear was a fry. She made me wait in the living room and we ate in there on the settee with the plates on our laps.

When we'd finished she went to wash up and I ordered a taxi. We sat awkwardly in the lounge for ten minutes until it arrived. What, after all, do you say? A pump of a horn from outside, and I stood up and slipped my jacket on. She stood up with me and followed me to the door in silence. She opened it and then stood back, looking up at me.

'Well,' I said.

'Well,' she said.

'This is it then.'

'Yeah. Uh, thanks, I'd a really good night.'

'Yeah, so'd I. With certain exceptions.' I touched my eye. Margaret reached up and patted the side of my head lightly, then, on her tiptoes, kissed me on the lips.

'Y'know,' she said, 'apart from the bruising, you look like James Stewart when he was black and white.'

I smiled and left.

The knot in my stomach was still there. Guilt. Satisfaction. The pizza. The fry. A mixture of all four. I felt uncomfortable. As the hangover receded, the worry set in. I have an inability to lie well. My face reddens and I talk nonsense. My wife is aware of this.

I had a faint hope that she might remember nothing. Awaken from her drunken stupor just wondering where I'd gotten to. I'd breeze in like nothing was wrong: I'd continued partying elsewhere. It had happened before. But then she'd look at her hands, feel them sore and bruised from striking me. And then she would remember. But a furtive kiss never hurt anyone, did it, Patricia? It was an aberration of alcohol. A whispering in the mouth of a fleeting acquaintance. She would have a vague memory of us fighting and an even vaguer memory of me upstairs with Margaret. A furtive kiss never hurt anyone. She'd been guilty of the same every Christmas as long as I could remember.

The city centre was already crowded with Saturday shoppers enjoying the sun. As we passed the city hall we had to slow down to allow a hundred or more Linfield supporters, all decked out in red, white and blue scarves and hats, and for the most part skinheads and Doc Martens, to cross the road, shepherded by about two dozen cops with Alsatians straining enthusiastically on chain leads. They would be off to cause havoc with local rivals, Glentoran, near the shipyard. Two winter-grey armoured police Land-Rovers moved slowly against the flow of traffic behind them.

When I got home there was a letter waiting for me on the kitchen table. The envelope was plain white but my name was written in block capitals on the front in thick red strokes. It was either a note from Patricia or a final demand from the Blood Transfusion Service. I took it into the lounge and sat down amongst the empty beer cans. She hadn't bothered to tidy up.

And she had. I pulled the grill out from the cooker. The disc, hardened into black plastic stalactites, hung pathetically from the thin metal rungs of the grill.

I made a charge for the record collection. It was still haphazardly slung around the stereo system, most of the albums out of their sleeves, but it only took me a moment to realize that all of the records particularly valued by Patricia had already been whisked away. She knew me too well. I sat down to let my anger subside; I thought briefly about crying, but instead I started giggling. It had been a smart move on her part. She hadn't let her fury crowd her judgement, she knew how to strike where it hurt most and protect herself against reprisals. I wondered if she was laughing herself now.

I set about tidying the house. There were two or three half-full cans of Harp sitting about and I drank them as I worked. They were a bit warm and a bit flat, but I was trying to wean myself off Coke and I didn't reckon they were half as bad for me. I finished the tidying and adjourned to my study, the scene of the previous night's passion. It was shielded from the sun, pleasantly cool and dim. I tinkered with a few lines on a short story but didn't have the energy for it. I lay down on our bed and dozed off thinking about Patricia and about Margaret. Taking what must have been a thumping hangover into account, Patricia couldn't have left the house until quite late, so she'd still be on the road to her parents' house in Portstewart, a holiday-resort-cum-retirement-town up on the north-west coast. She couldn't stand her parents or Portstewart, all three of them old and decrepit and buffeted by the Atlantic gales, so she must have been pretty bloody angry with me to go to them. I'd call her later.

I woke with a start after maybe an hour and went downstairs to watch the football results come across the teleprinter on BBC 1. Liverpool won, United lost, a good omen. I phoned Neville Maxwell. It was his home number, but he answered it on the second ring.

He said: 'Maxwell.'

'Hi. Dan Starkey. You called.'

'Ah, yes, Starkey. Good man.' Five words in and he'd already complimented me. 'How are you?'

'Fine. Practising chopsticks. I think I've got them cracked.'

'Ha, yes, mmmm. Listen, Starkey, I have a man coming in on Monday morning and I thought you might like to meet him and show him around.'

Sure.'

'You know the form, Starkey, we've been over that. Let me know what you think of him and if he's up to scratch we'll maybe try to arrange for him to meet the Big Chief himself.'

'Big Chief himself?'

'Brinn.'

'Ah. Right. Got you now. What about him being up to scratch?'

'You know, sympathetic. He's an American, by the way, and we're quite keen for some positive coverage on that side of the ocean. A lot of money in it, if you know what I mean.'

'For me?'

'For the country, Starkey, for the country.'

'You didn't manage to find me a Brazilian then?'

'Ah, no. Not this time. Maybe another time, eh? Man's name is Charles Parker, no relation to the jazz person of that name, works for the
Boston Globe.
He'll be arriving at 10.30 on a puddle jumper into Sydenham. He's staying at the Europa. I've arranged for you to meet him there for 11.30.'

'Okay. Sounds good.'

'Charge all sundry expenses to me, I have an account there, and get receipts for everything else.'

'No trouble.'

'Oh, and Starkey?'

'Yeah.'

'Americans tend to have an odd attitude to things. They may not appreciate all of your witticisms. Try not to be too much of a smartarse.'

'No fear.'

He put the phone down. I resolved to spend the next day swotting up on American history. I already had
The Alamo
on tape.

* * *

I got out of my dirty suit and showered. I pulled on my black jeans and a white short-sleeved shirt. I meandered between my tweed jacket and my stone-washed denim. Tweed got it. By the time I hit the street there was a pleasant early evening coolness settled on the city, blowing in off the lough, successfully battling the stench of the River Lagan. I called into the Empire Bar, housed incongruously in an old church beside the railway station on Botanic Avenue and had half a pizza and a pint and then headed into the
Evening News.