Of wee sweetie mice and men Page 5

  He slipped his other hand inside his jacket and produced a revolver and stuck the muzzle into my chest. 'This dangerous.'

  I nodded sagely. 'The National Trust's sure getting protective of its pathways,' I said, 'and I'm glad to assist them.'

  I turned the bike. My first instinct was to ride away, so was my second and third, but as I set to pedalling there was a shout from down the track and we both turned to see McMaster clatter into one of the baseballers. He went flying into the undergrowth. Two of the hoods jumped at McMaster and he hugged them tight, swinging them round, their arms and legs flailing helplessly, while the second batsman swung at McMaster's legs, but he moved sweetly, avoiding contact and forcing the batsman back using his own comrades like animated clubs.

  My gunman turned quickly back to me. 'You fuck off !' he shouted and made to join the fray, but in the second he turned I was a step behind him and my foot had snaked under his and pulled back and he was on his face in the mud. It was an assault honed in primary school but still admirably efficient. He hit the track with a splat and the gun fired as it hit the ground. I dropped the bike on him and jumped on it. He let out a squeal. I flattened his hand in the mud with the heel of my shoe and picked up the gun. The shot had momentarily stopped the commotion down the track, but as I ran towards them they resumed.

  McMaster dumped the first, then the second of his passengers onto the path. Winded, they lay there for a moment while he advanced on his third assailant. The batsman swung forward, McMaster leant back almost imperceptibly. If it had been me, the curve of the bat through the air would have ended with a severed nose, but it just whisked past McMaster's face, either a fine judgement or very good luck. As the batsman followed round with the force of his swing the heavyweight contender stepped forward and punched him full in the face. He dropped. The other two, now back on their feet, looked at each other, nodded, and moved forward again, one left, one right. They were big enough, well built, looked like they worked out.

  I stopped ten yards away. I shot a tree. All three turned to look at me. Two groans came from the undergrowth.

  'Do you want me to shoot them, champ?' I asked, waving the gun at them.

  He shook his head, then smiled at the two hoods.

  'Okay, boys,' he said, 'ding ding.'

  I looked back up the track. The former gunman was making off on my bike. It was a shooting offence in most parts of Belfast, but I was happy to let him go.

  Meanwhile McMaster stepped forward. He ducked down low then brought up his right. It glanced off the skull of the hood to his left, staggered him, but the hood on the right slipped in and threw a punch into McMaster's kidneys; McMaster dropped his shoulder and swung round with his left, connecting with the hood's nose, breaking it with a crack audible in Dublin. McMaster straightened and smiled as the hood dropped to the ground. The other hood, showing impressive powers of recovery, was suddenly before him again, and threw a lovely arcing left which landed in the centre of McMaster's gob. The contender staggered back and spat out one of his front teeth, but the hood was in no condition to take advantage; he let out a scream, his hand split across the knuckles, blood spraying everywhere. He looked at the gash for a shocked few seconds. Then he ran away. ,

  McMaster started after him, went twenty yards into the undergrowth, then stopped and stared after his rapidly disappearing foe. I stood and marvelled at him for a moment, standing there amongst the mizzled trees with his fists clenched by his sides, erect, supreme, primeval, vanquished bodies littering the murky undergrowth about him. Then he opened his mouth and guldered:'Away ya go, ya fuckin' wee fuckin' fucker!'

  Three hundred years of Protestant culture distilled in one man.

  7

  We wandered on down the track, leaving the fallen to drag themselves back into the murk from which they had come.

  As he slopped along the puddled track McMaster shook his head in bewilderment. 'In all the years I've been fighting,' he said, wistfully poking at the gap in his top row, 'that's the first time I've lost a tooth.'

  He'd a thick lip as well, some scratches about the face, and he was splattered in mud thanks to the contortionistic attempts of his assailants to free themselves from his grasp.

  When we'd rounded the curve in the track I looked back quickly, saw that we weren't being followed, then wiped the gun with the unfulfilled width of my tracksuit top and threw it into the undergrowth. Doubtless it had a story to tell, but it wasn't one I wanted to pursue. There had been too many guns in the past, and they were seldom happy stories.

  'Do you mind telling me what that was all about?' I asked. 'Just a bit of a disagreement.'

  'I gathered that.'

  'Nothing to worry about.'

  He gave the impression of moving slowly, but I had to work to keep pace with him. Odd, that, I thought. Worth remembering. 'Bobby, listen. Those guys just tried to kill you,' I said, telling him nothing he didn't know already. 'Worry about it.'

  'If they'd wanted to kill me they'd have shot me, Starkey, you know that.'

  'Well, what'd they want then? Did you know them?'

  He shook his head. 'I know their type. They don't worry me.'

  'Bobby, you're fighting for the world title in a couple of weeks. You can't afford to go losing teeth.'

  'It's unfortunate, I agree, but it did expose a weakness in my defence. It hasn't been an entirely worthless experience.'

  As we walked the sun began to wink warily at us through the clouds and it began to look as if the miserable hangover of wintry rain might be slowly transformed into a hint of early spring. As we approached the park gates a Labrador, damp and old, waddled towards us, tail wagging. McMaster knelt down to pet it. A man, damp and old, waddled up after him. McMaster straightened, still patting the dog's head.

  'Sorry,' said the old man.

  'Nice dog,' said McMaster, smiling. It wasn't a very pleasant smile.

  'You're Bobby McMaster, aren't you?'

  McMaster nodded. The smile faded.

  The old man put out his hand. 'Good luck in the fight, son. I'll be cheering for you.'

  McMaster clasped it.

  'Thanks,' he said. 'I'll do my best.'

  'Can't do more than that.' The old man nodded and moved on. After a few seconds the dog followed him.

  McMaster shook his head slowly. 'Almost makes it all worthwhile, doesn't it?'

  I shrugged. 'Better than letting the UVF have a go at you.'

  'How do you know it was the UVF?'

  'I'm a knuckle reader from way back.'

  McMaster nodded. 'They don't worry me.'

  'So you say. Do you mind telling me what exactly they wanted?'

  McMaster gave me the gap-toothed smile. 'They wanted me to throw the fight.'

  I snorted.

  'I know,' he said, 'crazy, isn't it? They wanted me to take a dive in the third. As if I'm going to last that long.'

  'So what did you say to them?'

  'I said the best I could offer was a dive at the weigh-in, but they didn't appreciate it.'

  'That's seriously what they were after?'

  'Honest. They were just hoods, Starkey, out to make some money. They're thick as shite and they thought they could pressure me into a few quid. They don't know any better.'

  We walked through the gates. McMaster stood on the side of the pavement and tried to flag down a taxi. There was no shortage of them passing and several slowed, but they didn't appear to fancy letting a muddy giant into their cabs. After ten minutes McMaster stepped back into the shadow of the gates and I tried my luck. The third one along stopped and we were both in the back before he had a chance to change his mind.

  'McClean's gym, Sandy Row.'

  The car edged out into the traffic. I could see the driver eyeing McMaster up in the mirror.

  'Shouldn't you go and get that sorted out?' I said, nodding at his mouth.

  McMaster shook his head. 'Later.'

  'You don't want to go home and get cleaned up?'

  He
shook his head again. 'I'll get cleaned up down at the gym.' I shrugged. The driver looked back and said: 'You're that boxer, aren't you?'

  McMaster nodded wearily.

  'Been in a fight?'

  'There'll be another one if you don't fuck up,' McMaster said testily. The driver nodded and returned his attention to the traffic.

  It was early yet, but the gym was already packed and sweating up. McMaster led the way in. We had to pass through the aspiring fighters working on the bags, skipping, shadow-boxing on the floor of the gym, then along the side of the empty ring, to reach the changing rooms. Silence fell as one by one the fighters spotted the mud-spattered giant lumbering across. McMaster kept his eyes down and pushed through the swing doors into the changing area. I followed through, but the doors had barely swung shut before they opened again and Jackie Campbell came in.

  McMaster, seated on a bench, looked up at his elderly trainer, but kept his mouth closed.

  Campbell, hands on hips, looked at his boxer and shook his head. 'What happened to you?' His voice was ill-raspy.

  The heels of my trainers clipped the base of the locker stack as I leant back against them and Campbell looked round at me for the first time. He nodded slightly.

  'He took a tumble out running, that's all,' I said. Campbell looked back at McMaster. 'That all, Bobby?' McMaster nodded.

  'You look like you've been in a fight.'

  McMaster looked up. He reached up to scratch his nose, his massive hand shielding his mouth as he said: 'I took a tumble.'

  He dropped his hand and was tight-lipped again.

  'Where's the rest of your gear?'

  McMaster scratched his nose again. 'Forgot it.'

  'Jesus Christ.' Campbell shook his head again. 'You forgot it?

  You're telling me you forgot your gear? Jesus Christ,' he said it again, louder. He rattled his hand against one of the metal lockers.

  'Jesus H. Christ!' he shouted.

  McMaster turned his head away. 'Take it easy, Jackie. I forgot. I'm sorry.'

  'Jesus Christ!'

  'I'm sorry.'

  'Jesus Christ!'

  'I'm sorry, Jackie.'

  'Jesus Christ!' He turned to me. 'He's fighting for the world title in a couple of weeks, and he can't remember to bring his gear with him to the gym?' I shrugged. McMaster stared resolutely at the far wall. 'What's the matter, Bobby, got too important all of a sudden to bring your own gear? You expect it to be all sitting ready for you here like some fucking Maradona? Jesus Christ!'

  'Jackie, I forgot my gear, that's all. Calm down. I can borrow somebody else's.'

  'Aye, aye, aye, Bobby, fuck, aye.' He shook his head again.

  Clattered the locker again. He was trembling with rage. 'Do you think Christiaan Barnard forgot his scalpel when he was about to do the first heart transplant?'

  McMaster shook his head.

  'Do you think Newton forgot the apple when he was about to invent gravity?'

  McMaster shook his head

  'Do you think Bismarck refused to sign the fucking armistice because he'd forgotten his pen? Well? Well?'

  McMaster turned his head slightly towards Campbell, spoke quietly, barely moving his lips.

  'Bismarck didn't sign the armistice.'

  'Yes, he did.'

  'No, he didn't.'

  'Yes, he did. He signed the fucking armistice.'

  'No, he didn't.'

  'I tell you he fucking did. I was fucking there.'

  'No, you fucking weren't.'

  I decided to add my tuppence worth. 'I think it was Marshal Foch. For the French. I don't know who it was for the Germans. Von someone.'

  'Von fucking Bismarck.'

  'I don't think it was Bismarck,' I said. 'Von something.'

  'Who the fuck asked you anyway? I don't care if it was Frankie fucking Vaughan!'

  McMaster stood up and opened a locker. He lifted out a groin protector. He sniffed it and put it back. Campbell stood with one hand on the lockers, drumming with his fingers. I could see the rapid pulse beat on the side of his temple. He shook his head.

  'It was Marshal Foch, for the French,' said McMaster, 'General von Winterfeldt and Captain Vanselow for the Germans. I have the First World War on video.' He closed his locker and sat down again.

  'You're one fucking smart biscuit, Bobby,' sneered Campbell. He turned to me. 'Isn't it just like a fucking big barrel of lard like him to know everything there is to know about fucking surrender.'

  I shrugged. 'What're you gonna do, Bobby, sign an armistice with Tyson?'

  McMaster looked at me. 'Don't worry about this, Starkey, it's straight from the text book. He pretends to hate me just to make me angry in the ring. Water off a duck's back.'

  'I do fuckin' hate you, McMaster.'

  'How could you hate a smile like this?' For the first time McMaster turned and faced him full on. It was a wicked smile.

  What little colour there was drained from Campbell's face. 'What the fuck happened to your mouth?' he screamed.

  McMaster burst into laughter.

  'What the fuck happened?' Campbell surged forward, McMaster took off round the back of the lockers. 'What the fuck happened?'

  McMaster appeared round the other side. 'I took a tumble, Jackie, that's all.'

  Campbell laboured round behind him; McMaster kept his distance. 'Slow down there, Jackie,' he said, 'you'll have a coronary.'

  'Don't bloody coronary me, you big galoot! Now stand still and tell me what happened!'

  McMaster let the smile fade, then took his seat again on the bench. 'Sorry, Jackie. I got in a fight. Not my fault.'

  'It wasn't his fault,' I said.

  'You were there?'

  'I went along with him on his run this morning. Some hoods jumped him. He sorted them out.'

  'Jesus Christ!' Campbell slammed his fist into the lockers again. 'Biggest night in your life coming up and you get in a fight! Fuck!'

  'What the hell did you expect me to do?' McMaster shouted.

  The doors swung inwards. Geordie McClean came through; behind him I could see the fighters grouped in the doorway, enjoying the argument. 'What the bloody hell is going on?' McClean snapped.

  'Look at the champ there,' said Campbell, 'look at his lovely smile.'

  Now McMaster looked a bit sheepish. 'Sorry, Mr McClean,' he said, 'but I've lost a tooth.'

  'And been in a fight!'

  McClean turned to the elderly trainer. 'Okay, Jackie, okay. Calm down. I'll sort this out. Go away on out there and sort that lot out. Never mind about Bobby, I'll get to the bottom of it. ..'

  Campbell turned for the door. "'Never mind about Bobby,"' he mimicked, pushing his way out. In a moment I could hear another rush of swearing and then the steady beat of skipping returned.

  'Don't worry about Jackie there, Starkey, he's the best trainer there is. Just has a bit of a temper on him. He's been like that since I was in nappies.'

  'Kind of depends when you got out of nappies.'

  'Very funny, people man, very funny.' I gave him a smile.

  'Right, Bobby,' he said, 'into my office.'

  Bobby stood up and moved forward. I went with him. 'And where do you think you're going?' McClean asked. 'With you.'

  'Oh yeah?'

  'If you don't mind.'

  'And if I do?'

  'I'm supposed to have access. We've paid for it.'

  'We?'

  'Someone has.'

  'What do you think, Bobby?'

  'May, as well let him come. He was there this morning, for the fight. You might appreciate his perspective on it, seeing as how I'm just a big dumb fighter.'

  McClean looked at his boxer for a moment, eyes searching for the sarcastic glint. Then he nodded. 'Okay then, Starkey, come to my parlour.'

  McClean pushed through the doors. McMaster followed him, holding the door open for me. 'That's one interesting chapter for you anyway,' he said quietly.

  'You think?'

  8

 
In my younger and more vulnerable years my father gave me some advice that I've been turning over in my mind ever since.

  'Whenever you feel like criticizing anyone,' he told me, 'just remember that all the people in this world haven't had the advantages that you've had.'

  Actually, that's a direct lift from The Great Gatsby. I would like to be able to say something like that about my dad, to remember him as an old philosopher sitting on the verandah, quietly rocking in his chair, puffing on his pipe and being magnanimous to those less fortunate, but the fact is he sat in the old armchair in our poky front room, staring at the box, wasting his money on a string of losers and the most profound thing he ever managed was, 'Away down to the shops for a packet of fags, son.'

  Actually that's not strictly true either. He said some profoundly bigoted things.

  Let me take that again.

  In my younger and more vulnerable years my father gave me some advice that I've been turning over in my mind ever since.

  'Never trust a Catholic,' he told me, 'and never trust a woman.'

  Even when you're only seven or eight, when your father is your God, you don't accept those things carte blanche. You ask why. And your dad shakes his head like he's talking to a fool and mumbles beerily, 'Fenians and women, Fenians and women. Away down to the shops for a packet of fags, son.'

  Fenians. I wonder if he knew about the Fenians. I wonder what he would have done if this little man, short trousers, cropped hair, Action Man in one hand, cheese and onion crisps in the other, had said, 'Actually, Father, did you know that the Fenian Brotherhood was an organization active in the nineteenth century in Britain and North America fighting British rule in Ireland? It had as many Protestant as Catholic members.'

  I expect he would have sat back in his chair, nodded thoughtfully, then stubbed his cigarette out in my eye.

  And women, what did they ever do to him? Surely not Mother, dead but not forgotten, always there in a dozen photographs about the house. There seemed no bitterness towards her. Perhaps she stood apart from her sex. An honorary man. Which woman, which women, had treated him badly, to so jaundice his view?

  I never did ask, but the question came back to me as I sat in my car outside Patricia's flat and watched her kiss Tony From Work.

  A long, lingering kiss. It wasn't just saying good night to a colleague.