The Birdwatcher (14 page)

The cracked red leather was cold. The road wound up the hill into the heathland to the east of the estate.

Fat Elvis turned and said in a gentle voice, ‘Don’t worry, kiddo. We’ll only keep ye a wee while.’ Close to, he didn’t look anything like Elvis. He had a big round nose thick with blackheads.

Heart pounding, Billy watched the lane ahead twist up the hill, big hedgerows on either side. They drove a mile through the countryside until they reached a solitary red phone box that stood at a crossroads in the middle of nowhere. ‘Wait there,’ said Fat Elvis, and he got out and went to make a call.

‘Am I in trouble?’ said Billy.

‘Jesus, no. What makes you think that?’ said the one called Donny Fraser.

He wanted to make a dash for it. He knew the countryside around here. He came here on his own, most weekends. The hills beyond were where they said they’d spotted the snowy owl. He could run there; hide out. But instead he stayed, sitting in the car.

‘OK,’ shouted Fat Elvis, thumbs up, running back to the car. ‘He’ll meet us at the quarry.’

When they reached the top they turned right into the old quarry, which was now a picnic area. Supposedly. No one ever went there except to ignore the sign that said
No dumping by order
.

He imagined the news report – Boy’s body found in car park. His mother watching it, weeping. ‘How long will I be? My mum will be really worried if I’m late.’

‘Not long,’ said Fat Elvis, taking out a cigarette.

‘Can I have one?’ said Billy.

‘No you bloody can’t. It’s bad for you.’ Donny switched on the radio: ‘Rivers of Babylon’ by Boney M. A rubbish song. The sky was greying. Billy watched a wagtail in a puddle next to the car.

‘I need the toilet.’

‘Go on then.’

Billy hesitated, then got out of the car and walked towards the rocks at the edge of the quarry. He undid his flies, hands shaking. Both the men were looking at him.

‘I can’t if you’re watching,’ he called.

The men looked away. The quarry was a horseshoe. The only ways out would be the way they drove in or up the rocks, but they looked steep and slippery.

A car was approaching. What if he ran out and flagged it down before the men could catch him? But just as he was about to start running the car swung into the picnic area, blocking his exit.

It was a black Rover 90, one of those old-fashioned, round, heavy cars his father hated. Right away, Billy recognised the man getting out it. His name was Mr McGrachy. A big, sick-looking man, with yellow skin and a face like crumpled laundry. When the Troubles first started, this man had often appeared at the house and he and Dad would go sit in the front room. Mum would usher Billy upstairs with a glass of lemonade and the two men would conduct long, whispery conversations.

Billy stood there, legs still shaking.

‘’Bout ye, Mr McGrachy,’ called Elvis. ‘We got the wee lad for ye. Over there. He was just having a Jimmy Riddle.’

‘Hello, Billy.’ When old man McGrachy smiled, his wrinkles multiplied. ‘Jesus, you’re a monster.’

It took Billy a second to realise that he was talking about how much he had grown since he had last seen him.

The car door closed with a heavy clump when McGrachy shut it. McGrachy had power. Billy knew that by the way the others straightened their backs, lowered their eyes, stubbed out their cigarettes.

‘I want a little pow-wow,’ said McGrachy.

Pow-wow. How old did he think Billy was? He was thirteen, God’s sake.

‘I was very very upset to hear about your da, ye know that?’

Billy stiffened. Aw Christ. Here it comes.

‘Really upset. He was one of the coming men. One of the strong ones. One of the men who hold the line. You should be proud of him, young Billy.’

Billy nodded. With a click of the knees, McGrachy squatted down beside Billy, face close up so Billy could smell the fag breath. Could McGrachy see how much he was shaking?

‘We were real shocked about his death, y’understand? Now I just want to ask ye a couple of questions, OK, sonny?’

Billy nodded again.

‘Look at my ears, Billy. Would ye say they were big?’

Billy looked. They were huge, flappy things, with waxy lobes hanging down.

‘I don’t mind. Go on, tell me.’

Billy didn’t know what to say. Jimmy Creedy’s cousin Maureen McBride had once asked Billy if he thought she was fat. Billy had answered as truthfully as he could. It had been a mistake.

‘They’re big, ain’t they?’ said McGrachy.

‘Pretty big,’ conceded Billy, cautiously.

McGrachy laughed. ‘And these ears hear an awful lot, too,’ he said.

Aw Christ.

‘Now then, my big ears heard that you were the one who found your daddy dead. Is that right?’

Billy opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out.

‘I’m sorry about that, Billy. Nobody should have to see that.’

Billy remembered his father, blood from his ruined forehead covering his eyeballs.

‘And my big ears also hear that Sergeant Ferguson is sweet on your mother. Is that right?’

‘Dunno.’ But now McGrachy had said it he saw that it must be true. Sergeant Ferguson loved his mother. It was absurd. Why would anybody fancy his mother? Sure she was quite slim compared to the other mums round the estate, and she had nice hair, but . . .

Grimacing, McGrachy stood slowly, as if it hurt his legs to be bent for so long. ‘So you’ve been seeing a lot of Sergeant Ferguson then?’

‘Bit.’

‘She could do much better than him, I’ll tell you that. He’s soft.’

Billy blinked. ‘Fergie’s all right,’ he mumbled.

McGrachy grunted. ‘So. What is Fergie saying about who killed your da?’

Billy considered a while.

‘It’s OK, laddie. No one’s going to let on you told me. Us in the Volunteers are normally like that with the Constabulary.’ He crossed his nicotine-stained fingers. ‘But Fergie’s a queer one. His mother is a Taig, you know that? He’s a bit suspect, know what I mean?’

Billy said, ‘No.’

Elvis giggled.

McGrachy said, ‘So what is he saying, Billy?’

After sucking his upper lip a few seconds more, Billy announced, ‘He says they’re thinking it was one of the Volunteers killed my daddy.’

He saw McGrachy’s eyes widen. ‘Is that what he’s saying?’

‘Jesus. Why’s he saying that?’ Donny Fraser approached, standing on McGrachy’s left.

‘’Cause of the gun he was shot with. It’s one as has been used before,’ said Billy.

‘Is that right?’

And again, Billy nodded, emphatically this time.

‘So they think it’s one of us, killed him?’ said Donny Fraser. ‘That’s mental. Why the fuck would we do that?’

In one simple movement, McGrachy swung round and punched Donny right in the middle of his face before he even knew what was happening. Amazing how fast he was, considering his age. Fraser took the full heft of the punch and tumbled straight backwards onto the wet gravel.

‘Mind your language, you dumb gam. Show some respect, front of the lad.’

Donny Fraser lay on the ground, elbows in puddles. A little blood started to trickle from his nose.

‘You broke my nose, I reckon.’ Donny struggled to his feet.

‘An’ I’ll do it again if ye like.’

‘Sorry, Mr McGrachy.’

‘It’s not me you should be saying sorry to. It’s the wee laddie here.’

Donny mumbled another apology. ‘Sorry, Billy.’ It was embarrassing.

McGrachy said, ‘So they really think it was one of us Volunteers killed him? Did he say why? Why would one of our own do a thing like that?’

‘The peelers are up to something, ask me. Trying to stir it up,’ said Donny Fraser, dabbing his nose with a hanky.

‘Maybe,’ said McGrachy.

Fat Elvis spoke: ‘But what if they’re right? I don’t trust that Portadown lot far as I can throw them. They’re a bunch of psychos.’

‘Not in front of the wee one,’ said McGrachy. He was quiet for a minute. Behind him, a pair of crows tumbled in the wind.

‘You are one of us, lad,’ he said eventually. ‘Like your dad. OK?’

‘OK.’

‘It’s a war, you know?’

‘Yes.’ Billy thought he didn’t want to be part of any war.

‘And in a war, you have spies, don’t you. Like James Bond, eh?’

Donny Fraser wiped his nose with the back of his hand and checked it for blood.

‘That’s what you are. Our spy. OK? Anything Ferguson tells your mother, you tell us, OK?’

‘Jesus,’ said Donny Fraser. ‘The Portadown lot must think we’re bunch a windie-lickers.’

McGrachy turned to him. ‘Shut. Up. We don’t know nothing. They may be a bit wild but they’re on our side.’ He turned to Billy and said, ‘Good lad. Now you’re one of us, right? Like your father.’

For an age, McGrachy stood there, hands in pockets. Donny Fraser and Elvis glanced at each other, unsure what to do.

‘Do you want us to take the lad home now, Mr McGrachy?’

McGrachy took out another cigarette. ‘No. You go home, lads. I’ll do it,’ said the big man.

Back down the hill they went in his Rover, McGrachy staring ahead, not talking for the first couple of miles. The man should have emptied his ashtray. It was full to bursting. Billy inspected the dials and the walnut fascia. The car had a radio too. He reached out and touched it. ‘Like music?’ asked the big man.

‘Ay,’ said Billy.

‘Switch it on,’ he said. Out came Nat King Cole.

‘Great, hey? What a voice.’ Billy hated Radio 2; the ‘JY Prog’. Billy sat in the vast leather passenger seat, sliding from one side to the other as the car rounded the bends.

McGrachy stopped outside their house. He pulled out yet another ciggie, let out a big sigh, then lit it and blew a lungful of smoke. Billy wondered if it was OK for him to get out.

‘Things are bad,’ said McGrachy. ‘Real bad.’ He reached inside his jacket and pulled out a wallet. ‘Here,’ he said, holding a pound note.

Billy hesitated.

‘Take it,’ said the man. ‘You’ve helped me today by being straight with me. Just like your dad. Chip off the old block, eh?’

Billy grabbed the note and pocketed it. His father would’ve said: ‘Never take a man’s money unless ye know why he’s giving it ye.’

The man sighed again. ‘How’s your mother, Billy?’

‘OK.’

‘A nice woman, your mother.’

‘Yes,’ said Billy.

‘Good-lookin’ too. Quite a beauty.’ McGrachy coughed phlegmily, then pulled out his hanky and wiped his mouth. ‘I got somethin’ to ask you . . . man to man, like.’

Billy fingered the pound note in his pocket.

McGrachy leaned slightly towards him. ‘I’d like to pay her my respects. Is she ready to accept visitors?’

Billy blinked. ‘I suppose,’ he said. Loads of people had called round, the last few days. More than ever had when Dad was around.

‘This is a terrible time, right now. There aren’t enough good honest people around,’ said McGrachy.

McGrachy looked over towards Billy and smiled. His teeth were even yellower than his eyes. ‘I like ye, Billy. You’re a good boy, ain’t ye?’

Billy said nothing, just tried to smile back.

‘Don’t mind that idiot Donny Fraser.’

‘OK.’

‘I’m goin’ to try to make all this up to you, Billy. I promise. Your generation deserves better than this.’

He wound down the window and flicked the ciggie out onto the pavement outside their house. ‘Another thing. This little talk is between you and me, OK? Don’t tell a soul.’

‘OK,’ said Billy.

‘Not even your ma.’

Billy fidgeted.

‘Remember my big ears will hear it if ye do.’ He smiled so hard that even his wrinkles had wrinkles, then reached past him and opened the door for him to get out.

NINE

Two days later mud still lingered in the carpet. South was hoovering the hallway when the phone rang.

‘What are your plans for the day?’

‘It’s Sunday, DS Cupidi.’

‘Exactly, William. Only, I am going to work and Zoë doesn’t have anything to do and she hasn’t made any school friends yet . . .’

A voice in the background said, ‘Mum. Shut up. God’s sake.’

‘You know you said how she was interested in going birdwatching?’

‘Oh,’ said South.

‘Only if you’re free, that’s all,’ said Cupidi. ‘I really have to work. I wasn’t planning to. We’re extending the search for people matching the description of those homeless people you saw. Time’s running out and every day counts.’

‘You want me to be your babysitter?’

‘No. She wants to do this.’

South paused. ‘Really?’

‘Of course she does. Don’t you, Zoë?’