Nine Inches Page 9

  ‘Jack, mate, I think it’s a bloody disgrace, so I do . . . This guy claims to represent the Protestant community, and likes to think he’s an artist or a poet or something, and he’s sitting at home writing his little verses while his men are out there viciously—’

  I turned him off. Jack was doing what Jack did. Stirring it up. He was like me, but with an audience. He had been giving it to the Miller brothers for weeks, and now he had widened his scope to Boogie Wilson. He was, I supposed, admirably fearless, or you could call it admirably reckless. But it only strengthened my newish theory that whatever had spooked him in the first place had nothing at all to do with the UVF and everything to do with . . . something else that I had yet to determine.

  I sat at the kitchen counter and sipped my Diet Coke and gingerly stretched my aching limbs while wondering what to do with myself. The Bob Shaw wasn’t the only bar in Belfast, but it was my local, and my favourite. However, I would probably have to stay clear of it for a while. I needed to keep a clear head. Jack Caramac was annoying me. He had led me up the garden path and then paid me off, either because the original problem had been resolved or because I was getting close to some truth he no longer wished me to discover. I’m not brave, never have been. But I like poking.

  I drove to work. There’s a private lane behind the block where I usually park which is safe from traffic wardens who might notice the tax disc and the tread, and who might enquire and find out about my licence and the non-existent insurance and the fact that my car hasn’t been anywhere near an MOT for several years in a row. I locked it up, then stood and looked at it. It had once been top-of-the-range but was now near the bottom; to even make it legal would cost me more than it was worth. It would be quicker and easier to just put it out of its misery, but the sad fact was that I couldn’t afford anything else.

  I went back down the lane and was getting my keys out for the office when the butcher said from his doorway, ‘Been in a scrap?’

  I was limping, a bit, and one eye was swollen. ‘Yes,’ I said.

  He said, ‘Word of warning.’ And I thought: Christ, what now? But he nodded at my door and said, ‘I was opening up, and couldn’t help but notice your lock’s been forced.’

  I moved up to it. The door appeared firmly closed, but there was a slight splintering of the frame around the lock. I put one finger on the wood panel and pushed. The door drifted slowly inwards.

  I looked at the butcher.

  He said, ‘I would’ve checked it out, but didn’t want to go in without your permission. Are you going in or calling the peelers?’

  ‘Going in,’ I said.

  ‘I’ll go with you,’ said the butcher, ‘if you just give me a minute.’

  I nodded. He darted back inside his shop, and came back with a meat cleaver. ‘Just in case,’ he said.

  He moved past me into the doorway. ‘I’ll go first, if you don’t mind.’ He gave me a sample swing of his cleaver. ‘I’ve probably got a bit more practice at this than you have.’

  ‘Be my guest,’ I said.

  There was only a hall at ground level, then two floors of vacant offices before you got to what the estate agent had called an executive penthouse office suite and most sane people would have called an attic.

  We proceeded cautiously; I more cautious than he.

  ‘Anything valuable up there?’

  ‘Laptop and a family bag of Twix.’

  ‘Aye, well, I was right then, better not to phone the police if you have a laptop.’

  ‘I don’t follow.’

  ‘Saw what you have on your car; maybe you don’t want the cops checkin’ out your files.’

  ‘If you’re suggesting . . .’

  ‘Each unto their own, mate. Doesn’t worry me. I met all sorts inside, so I did.’

  ‘Inside?’

  ‘Oh aye, before I was a butcher on the Lisburn Road, I was one on the Shankill.’

  He gave another swish of his cleaver.

  ‘You were a Shankill Butcher?’

  ‘Coulda been, but never had the inclination.’

  Just as we reached the top of the stairs, there was a noise from beyond my office door, about twenty paces ahead of us along a short hall.

  ‘I should warn you,’ I whispered, ‘that I may recently have upset the UVF.’

  The butcher looked surprised, but undaunted. ‘More power to your elbow,’ he said, and gave me a theatrical wink. ‘You ready for this?’

  I nodded. He gave me a broad smile, before suddenly letting rip with a blood-curdling yell and hurtling forward. The lock on my door was clearly already busted, but he kicked it in anyway and leapt through the gap.

  ‘Gotcha now!’ he cried, raising the cleaver, ready and willing to decapitate the teenager sitting in my chair, one good foot propped up on my desk, and the other resting peacefully on the other side of the room.

  17

  Bobby Murray was wearing a rumpled and stained white T-shirt, black jeans and one big trainer. He was shaven-headed and acne-faced, tired-eyed and haunted-looking. There was a healthy amount of defiance in there too. He didn’t appear fazed at all by the butcher looming over him with a cleaver, and his lack of fear seemed to puzzle my new friend and protector.

  ‘You know him?’ the butcher asked, the cleaver still held high and ready for beheading.

  ‘I know of him. What’re you doing here, Bobby? And why’s your leg over there?’

  ‘Chafing,’ said Bobby.

  I nodded at the butcher. ‘It’s okay, I think.’ He lowered his weapon, but continued to look suspiciously at the boy. I crossed the room and picked up Bobby’s leg, somewhat squeamishly, and set it on my desk. ‘Would you mind putting it on?’ I asked. ‘It’s just . . . not right leaving it lying around.’

  Bobby made a face, but swung his good leg off the tabletop, pushed his/my chair back a bit and began to fit the leg back into place. All the while the butcher was looking down at him, shaking his head.

  I said, ‘Well?’

  ‘Well what?’ the what pronounced with a silent h and with the impact of a slapped face.

  ‘In case it has escaped your notice, you’ve broken into my office and busted two locks in the process. What do you want?’

  Fully legged up again, Bobby sat upright and pulled himself closer to the desk. He used one finger to push a crumpled piece of card towards me. I peered down at my own name. Bobby sat back and folded his arms. The top of the desk was also littered with Twix wrappers and crumbs.

  I picked up the card and said, ‘Yes, but what are you doing here?’

  ‘My mum said if there was trouble I should come to you, that if I went to any of my relatives I’d be found and they’d be shot too.’

  ‘So you’re not worried about me getting shot?’

  Bobby shrugged.

  The butcher said, ‘Do you want me to turf him out?’

  I sighed. I shook my head. ‘No, I’ll sort it myself. I appreciate the help.’

  He nodded. He came forward and put his hand out. ‘Name’s Joe. I’m only down the stairs if you need anything.’

  ‘Appreciate it.’

  Joe gave Bobby a long hard look before turning for the door.

  ‘Nice dress,’ said Bobby, nodding at Joe’s striped apron.

  Joe hesitated for just a moment. He gave me a fleeting glance that included a surreptitious wink. Then he turned suddenly back, swung his arm and buried the cleaver in the desk inches from Bobby’s fingers. Bobby let out a yell and threw himself back in the chair, cowering down as the butcher loomed over him.

  ‘What was that, son?’

  ‘Nothin’ . . . nothing . . . Jesus!’

  Joe let out a short laugh, jacked the cleaver out of the wood and turned back to me.

  ‘Sorry about the desk,’ he said, ‘I’ll send you up some sausages.’

  I pushed the door closed behind Joe. It swung open again. The lock was fucked.

  I turned back to Bobby and said, ‘What happened to your other trainer?’


  ‘I lost it.’

  ‘You can walk on that thing okay?’

  ‘It’s not a thing. It’s a prosthesis.’

  ‘Is it now? Would you and your prosthesis mind getting out of my chair?’

  I pulled out the less comfortable chair I keep for customers and indicated for him to sit in it. He glared at me for what was supposed to be an intimidating five seconds before slowly pulling himself up and limping round.

  Satisfied, I sat in my own chair. He watched me as I gathered up the Twix wrappers, balled them and threw a perfect shot into the round file against the far wall. I then swept the crumbs into my palm and opened one of the empty drawers and poured them in. I was working on the theory that if I collected enough crumbs, eventually I could make my own Twix. It’s good to have a purpose in life. I switched on the laptop, and as I waited for it to power up, I opened a different drawer and took out a large notebook and a pen and flipped back the cover and wrote Bobby Murray’s name down at the top of the first page. I nodded to myself. I sat back. I had no idea what I was doing, but it seemed important to look professional.

  Bobby took a squashed packet of Embassy Regal out of his jeans pocket, slipped one into his mouth and then offered the box to me. I shook my head. He patted his pockets, without success.

  He said, ‘Do you have a light?’

  I said, ‘Yes.’

  When I made no move, he said, ‘Can I have it?’

  ‘No. It’s a non-smoking office. And you’re too young to be smoking. And it’s not good for your health.’

  He snorted at that.

  I smiled too. ‘So, Bobby,’ I said, ‘how’re you doing?’

  ‘How do you think I’m doing?’

  ‘You broke into the building, and then my office. That’s going to be expensive.’

  ‘I had nowhere else to go.’

  ‘It’s not just the locks, it’s the door frames.’ I cleared my throat. ‘I’m sorry your mum got burned to death.’ He stared at me. I shrugged. I doodled. The last time I’d spoken to a fourteen-year-old one-to-one I was fourteen myself. ‘So, Bobby, what are we going to do with you?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘You mentioned relatives.’

  ‘I told you, they’re not—’

  ‘Aunts, uncles . . .?’

  ‘Nah.’

  ‘What about your dad? Could you not go to him?’

  ‘Never met him. He lives in England somewhere.’

  ‘You could go there, safer.’

  ‘I don’t want to go to fucking England.’

  ‘Okay, and watch your language.’

  ‘Fuck off.’

  ‘You’re coming to me for help, and you’re telling me to fuck off? Good thinking.’

  ‘I’m here because my mum said, that’s all. Far as I’m concerned, you’re just another useless wanker.’

  ‘It seems to be the general opinion,’ I said.

  ‘What?’

  I shrugged. I doodled some more. In times of stress I draw swastikas. No particular reason, other than the fact that I have no artistic talent and they’re easy to draw.

  ‘Well I can check out your dad, if you want.’

  ‘I don’t want.’

  ‘Just give me his name and last known whereabouts, I can put out a few feelers . . .’

  ‘You want his name?’

  ‘Yes. Please.’

  ‘Johnny. Two ns. Jay oh aitch . . . en en why . . .’

  I wrote it down. ‘Johnny . . .?’

  ‘Johnny Cunt Fuck.’

  I glanced up. ‘Is that with a cee or a kay?’

  ‘Whatever makes you happy.’

  I put my pen down. I sat back. ‘The police are looking for you.’

  ‘Sure they are.’

  ‘They can protect you.’

  ‘Yeah, right.’

  ‘Where were you when it happened?’

  ‘Where do you think I was?’

  ‘I don’t know, that’s why I’m—’

  ‘I was up the fucking stairs with the Xbox LIVE, earphones on, shootin’ zombies, and this smoke starts coming under the door and I tried to get downstairs but the fire was . . .’ He trailed off. ‘Since it all started, she always slept downstairs, on the couch.’

  ‘To protect you. She was your first line of defence.’ He shrugged. ‘So you got out, how?’

  ‘Back window, down the back alley.’

  ‘So you didn’t see who . . .?’

  ‘Course I did. When I got to the end of the street, I saw them.’

  ‘Clearly?’

  ‘They were just standing there, watching.’

  ‘So you could identify them?’

  ‘To the cops? Yeah, right.’

  ‘They killed your mother, Bobby.’

  ‘She was asking for it. She’d never shut up. I told her a million times but she kept on and on and they killed her.’

  I balled the swastikas and threw them. Two out of two. I was definitely in the wrong career.

  ‘Where have you been since it happened?’

  ‘Here and there.’

  ‘You have friends?’

  ‘Course.’

  ‘They can put you up?’

  ‘If they could put me up, would I have had to break into this shitehole?’

  ‘It’s my office, show some respect.’

  ‘Sorry, office.’

  ‘I can call social services, they can sort you . . .’

  ‘No.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘Been down that road before, not going.’

  ‘Bobby, I’m sorry you’re in this mess, and I’ve suggested various things and you’ve rejected every one of them. What exactly do you want me to do?’

  ‘I want you,’ he replied, ‘to buy me breakfast, because I’m fuckin’ starving.’

  18

  I bought him breakfast in a café down the street and he wolfed it down: two bacon baps and hot chocolate and an apple flapjack. There was barely any chat from him. He sat with his back to the door. Whenever it opened, he didn’t look round or show any interest; he knew the police were looking for him, that the Miller boys were after him, and that both sets of hunters had to have feelers out all over the city, but he appeared inured to it. He had been besieged and intimidated, he had lost a leg and now his mother; maybe he thought they’d done their worst. I suspected they hadn’t. Every time the door opened, I jumped.

  He said, ‘What happened to your eye?’

  ‘I got in a fight. It’ll heal. What about your leg?’

  ‘What do you mean what about it? It won’t heal.’

  ‘I know . . . I mean, you seem quite proficient with it.’

  ‘I had lessons. I’m aimin’ for the Paralympics.’

  ‘Really?’ He gave me the eye. I blew air out of my cheeks. I fiddled with the remnants of my fry. After a while I said, ‘So?’

  ‘So what?’

  ‘What are your plans now?’

  ‘You tell me.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You’re supposed to look after me.’

  ‘I bought you breakfast, and you found my secret stash of Twix. It’s the least I could do, after what happened, but . . .’

  ‘You’re right.’

  ‘I’m right. I’m right what?’

  ‘It’s the least you could do.’

  ‘I don’t follow.’

  ‘My mum said you would look after me.’

  ‘Yes, I appreciate that, but just because she says something, said something, it doesn’t mean it’s magically going to happen. I met her once, for five minutes, I gave her my card. I’d never even set eyes on you till you broke into my office. I have an Xtra-vision card in my wallet, but I don’t expect them to look after me if I fall on hard times.’

  ‘I was listening to youse from the top of the stairs. You said to her, if there’s anything else I can do. She took you at your word.’

  ‘I was just being polite.’

  ‘So you were lying to her.’
<
br />   ‘No, it’s just something you say.’

  ‘If you didn’t mean it, then it’s a lie.’

  ‘Okay. It was a lie. Happy?’

  ‘What am I supposed to do now?’

  ‘I don’t know. It’s not my problem.’

  ‘Great. Thanks.’

  ‘What do you want me to say?’ I snapped. ‘Come back to my place, put your head down till I sort something out? Come under my wing? You can be the son I never had?’

  He looked at me for a long time, and there were tears in his eyes and he was straining, bloody straining hard to stop them coming out.

  Fuckety fuck fuck fuck.

  I am not completely callous. I said he could put his head down in my spare room for one night until I sorted something out for him. In response, I got a shrug. As we drove to St Anne’s Square, I spelt out how it was going to work. He wasn’t to mess with my stuff. He wasn’t to use my phone. He wasn’t to go out. No drugs. No drug deals.

  He said, ‘What do you think I am?’

  ‘I know exactly what you are. The Millers weren’t picking on you because you were choirboy of the year.’

  ‘That was then.’

  ‘So you say. I don’t have to do this. If it’s not good enough for you, I can stop the car now.’

  ‘Yeah, right.’

  ‘I’m serious.’

  ‘Do you have an Xbox?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘PlayStation? Anything like . . .’

  ‘No.’

  ‘PC?’

  ‘Not usually.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘Yes, I have a computer. Yes, you can use it, if you’re careful and don’t spill anything over it and don’t use it inappropriately.’

  ‘Ina . . .’

  ‘You know what I mean. And if you’re on Facebook, don’t update your status to your new location, don’t tell anyone where you are.’

  ‘I’m not fuckin’ stupid. And Facebook? You fuckin’ jokin’?’

  ‘Sorry, is Facebook not where it’s at these days?’

  He just shook his head. We rode in silence for a while.

  Then he said, ‘They didn’t spell paedophile right.’

  ‘I know,’ I said.

  We got to St Anne’s Square and parked. Bobby nodded appreciatively as we crossed the piazza; he nodded some more when we got to the block and took the elevator up, and continued nodding as we entered my apartment. He stood just inside the door and smiled.