The Cutting Room (16 page)

looking at her. `I love those Irish bastards.’

`You love their money.’

`I love their money. But I’ll tell you what I love almost as much, they fuck that cunt Jenson. Tell you, Rilke, one day

I’m going to expose Jenson’s ring.’

She caught my eye and we laughed. Sometimes I could

almost like Rose. I gave her a pre-performance smile and she straightened up to me. Shimmying her shoulders in the

excitement of the joke and the money to be won. For an

instant I glimpsed, beyond the open V of her jacket, the

demanding breasts, black lace trim of brassiere. Her throat

white, soft, perfectly indented. I looked away.

As I climb onto the podium I shrug off myself and don a lean hard-to-pleaseness. I’m dressed for the part, costumed as the Auctioneer. Put me on a dais. Raise me on a pedestal and

watch me roll. A navy suit with a silver pinstripe that echoes the gleam in my slicked-back, sleek black hair. Al Capone

jacket, double-breasted and wide-lapelled. I wear my mirrored aviator’s shades. The black of the lenses is like the

eyehole gaps in a skull. Instead of my eyes, a mineral

reflection of the crowd. A scented red rose in my buttonhole, the shade of a vamp’s velvet gown; its petals will drop, one by one, as the day goes on. I ascend the rostrum, rest my weight

against the lectern and take the gavel in my right hand.

There’s a buzz in the air, a low drone that descends to a

whisper. Three sharp beats of the hammer and…silence.

`Welcome to Bowery Auctions, for our monthly special sail

of fine art and collectables. Viewing is now over. I’d like to remind those intending to bid to register for a paddle number at the front desk. There will be no viewing during the sale …’

Eyes glaze as I give my spiel. I scan the room mapping who

stands where.

I closed my introduction and started the bidding.

`Lot number one, an etching in the style of Muirhead Bone.’

Jimmy James hunched by the picture wall, an ancient troll,

morose in his khaki dust coat. He was at his worst, Smikelike, hangover biting, beaky nose red and dewdrop-tipped. He

scowled at the assemblage, raised his pointer slowly, as if it was made of lead rather than balsam, and indicated, way up in the corner, a `small, dark etching.

`This one here.’

`Thirty pounds? Thirty? Who’ll start me at thirty? Twentyfive?

Twenty? Come on, ladies and gents. You’ve been and

viewed. Unsigned. A very fine etching, in the style of

Muirhead Bone.’

I dropped to ten and suddenly they moved. A catalogue

snapped and we climbed, three of us, in jerky bids of five, until we were back at thirty. Below me a mob who would spend an hour for fear of losing a fiver.

At its best you soar. When the mood is right and the chase

is on we can fly through the figures and the crowd stands silent in admiration of the gall, the sheer strong-livered ballsyness of the bidders, pursuing each other through the hundreds, while I beat out the rhythm. The corpse dancing on the scaffold.

One twenty

One sixty

Two twenty

Two forty

Two sixty

Two eighty THREE HUNDRED

Three hundred and twenty

Three forty

Three sixty

Three eighty

FOUR HUNDRED

Four hundred and twenty

Four hundred and twenty

Four twenty

Four twenty

Four twenty Four hundred and twenty

pounds, Going once, Going twice, Last bid, Going,

Going, That’s four hundred and

twenty pounds,

Ladies and gents,

For this rather fine …

One forty

One eighty TWO HUNDRED

Jenson versus a private, an

all-week-in-the-office bo ,

smart in his smart-casus.

M gaze slipped from one to the

er, conducting the scores.

The Auctioneer,

impartial in the pulpit.

My loyalty is with the loot. At every third bid

Jepson’s head twisted

towards his rival,

face harsh,

giving him the evil eye. Maleko!

The private faltered, hesitated,

shook his head.

I could have been a contender!

I let the hammer hover,

lingering over the last bid,

suspending Jepson’s triumph in

the air, no sale until I say so.

slow,

but slow,

my arm, descended.

On the far side of the room,

one of the Irish,

looked me in the eye

and topped his head,

as I knew he would,

I stayed the hammer,

flashed a grin and …

Fresh Bidder!

`Bastard.’

Their gazes linked, the bids went on, but the battle was

decided.

`Why don’t you boys just tell us what you’ve got written

down in your notebooks there? A Belfast accent cut through

the crowd. `Come on, tell us how far you’ll go so we can top it right now. Get it over with and save us all a lot of time.’

A woman laughed. Jenson held his head high, but defeat

brought colour to his cheeks.

`Remember where you are, gentlemen. I’ll have order on

the floor.’ Inside I didn’t give a damn if they fought. `This is an auction house and we are bound by certain rules.’

I resumed the sale but there was something out of kilter, a

tremble in the crowd, a drift towards the centre of the room.

Then I saw him. Standing by the entrance, taking in the view, Inspector Anderson. He caught my eye and gave me a nod.

The bid was standing high and for a second I thought of

counting him in, but friend or foe he was police. I gestured towards the open office door and he took the hint. I could see him through the window, sitting himself at my desk, glancing at the impatient invoices, the red reminders and black final demands splayed across its surface, selecting a back copy of The Antique Dealer, settling down to a long wait.

`Good sale? Anderson put down the magazine and turned

towards me.

`Fine. Average.’ My mind was fast-tracking to Les and the

drugs. `Developing an interest in antiques??

‘Perhaps. You’re busy.’ He looked towards the crowd

paying Rose at the cash desk, showing their receipts to Jimmy James, removing what lots they could carry, arranging terms

with carriers. `A few familiar faces, too.’

`No doubt. I trust you’ll leave them alone while they’re on the premises.’

`Nothing that can’t wait.’ He leant back in my chair and

placed his hands, palm up, on the desk. `I’m off duty,

anyway.

`I wouldn’t have thought that would stop you if you had a

mind. So is this in the way of a social call?’

I climbed onto a chair, stretched up to the top shelf and

toppled a small box into my arms. The bottle of malt was still there, hidden under a gross of manila envelopes.

‘Drink?

`Why not. I take it alcohol has a habit of evaporating around here.’

`Positively vaporises.’ I poured out two measures and we

touched glasses, `Slainte.’

`Yes, good health.’ He took a sip. `Nice. Very nice.’

`So what can I do for you?’

`I’m not sure. I was intrigued by that wee ornament you

showed me the other night.’

`The netsuke.’

`Aye, that’s it. Horrible thing. The name you mentioned,

McKindless, I told you it rang a few bells.’

`Yes?’

`Well, I got one of the constables to have a root around and see if we had anything on him.’

`And??

‘And he came up with a file. It made interesting reading, so I thought I’d pop round here and see if you knew anything else about this guy. He’s dead, you say??

‘Three weeks since. We’re in there clearing the house right

now.

`Find anything I might be interested in?

`Like what? Japanese erotic art??

“Anything of a dubious nature that might interest me in my

professional capacity??

‘Nothing.’ I lied, not sure why or where we were going.

`To be honest, I’ve been leaving it to Jimmy James and the

rest of the boys. I’ve been on a bit of a skive.’

`I remember. Nocturnal wanderings.’

`Yes, well, thanks for the other night.’

`I wouldn’t want anyone to overhear you saying that to

me.’ He shook his head. `No, it’s no problem. Forget it. I

can’t do it again, though. Get caught a second time and

you’re on your own. You should really watch yourself. Man

of your age wandering about the park at night. It’s not

exactly safe.’

`What did the file say??

‘Classified.’

`The man’s dead.’

`Aye, so you said. I spoke to the officer in charge. He was

delighted at the news.’ He finished his drink.

`The officer in charge of what?

I lifted the bottle to pour him another, but he put his .hand over the glass and shook his head. `No, thanks. I’d better get going. Tell you what, if you find something, anything, let me know and then, maybe, I’ll share what was in the file with

you, a trade. How does that sound??

‘Sounds like my life.’

He slipped a card with his telephone number on it across

the desk and I added it to the stack in my wallet.

The door opened and in came Rose. She was flushed, eyes

wide, hair half tumbled from its knot, but I noticed she had freshened her lipstick. She gave us a smile, the full hundred watts.

`Well, that’s another sale over. I just thought I’d say cheerio.’

Anderson removed his hand from the glass. `Ach, you

twisted my arm. Just a small one, then.’

I freshened his drink and did the introductions.

`Rose Bowery, my employer. Rose, this is Inspector

Anderson, an old schoolfriend who joined the other side.’

She leaned over the table and shook Anderson’s hand. I

wondered who had the firmer grip.

`He’s an awful man isn’t he, Inspector??

‘Call me Jim, please.’

`Jim. Was he as bad at school??

‘Worse.’

`Would you care for a drink, Rose? I held the bottle of

malt in the air.

`No, thanks.’ She turned to Anderson. `I’m not much of a

one for the hard stuff. No, I’ll have some of my own, if you don’t mind me joining you.’ She fished her Dunhill, a bottle of Rioja and a corkscrew from her bag, then set to pouring

herself a drink. `Bottoms up!’ Half the glass disappeared with her first swallow. `Anyone mind if I smoke??

‘Not at all.’ Anderson took his Players from his pocket. `I

was going to have one myself, but I thought it might be against fire regulations.’

`Well, not if we’re careful!’ Rose laughed, placed a

cigarette between her lips and leaned towards Anderson’s proffered lighter. B-movie as ever, a flash of cleavage in return for his flame. We talked and drank for a while, but I could tell my presence had become superfluous.

It was a relief when Rose turned to me and said, `Is this not your night for going on the randan? `Are we keeping you back, Rilke?’ Anderson poured himself a shot and offered Rose one of his Players.

`No I’ll stick with these, if you don’t mind. You get away if you want, Rilke. Me and Jim’ll lock up.’

`Why not? I shrugged on my jacket. `I’ll see you both

later.’

Rose winked. `Be good.’

Anderson loosened his tie. `Be careful.’

I closed the door behind me.

Gilmartin’s

I L E F z z x E mt T o it and headed towards Gilmartin’s. I wanted to punt the McKindless sale and I wanted to feel myself in the real world. The world of objects and people. The black and

white basement where the dead girl lay was in the past. I

could see her eyes, her torn throat, but I couldn’t reach

through the celluloid and touch her. If I thought too long

about Anderson’s proposition I might accept. I was too late to save her, too late to avenge her. If she was murdered it was sad. Meaningless, like most deaths. I had found her but that was no obligation. Les was right: I should leave well alone and get on with life.

These were the thoughts spinning through my head, all

caught up with calculations from the sale. I was beginning to roast beneath my dark suit. The warmth made me conscious

of my own body, the white shirt brushing against the hairs on my chest. The weight of the black jacket on my shoulders, a

roughness across the back of my neck where the collar

rubbed. Beneath these clothes I am completely naked.

Awareness of my body made me think of other bodies,

and I knew I didn’t want to be alone that night. I pushed

open the swing door into the bar-room and I was out of the

sunshine and into the familiar, anytime world of smoke and

drink.

Gilmartin’s is a quarter-gill shop three blocks away from

the saleroom. Victor Gilmartin bought it twenty years ago

when he decided to retire from the building trade, a decision which coincided with reforms in planning-application law and the resignation of a number of city councillors. The genesis of Gilmartin’s is a story Victor loves to tell.

`I’d made my money, but you can’t sit still, boy. When I

bought this place, it was a dump, nothing like it is now, a real working man’s pub, you ken the like, sawdust on the floors,

no decor at all, just a dump. I gutted it. Pulled out the insides and redid it, top to bottom. When it was finished you

wouldn’t recognise the place. The old regulars wandered

back, but I let them know they weren’t welcome. I started to attract the university crowd, a better class of drunk. On the surface things were going well, but it still wasn’t right, there was something missing. Don’t get me wrong, it looked good,