Divorcing Jack (18 page)

'You make a fuckin' jam sandwich, mate, or we'll do a fuckin' Lord Mountbatten on ye. They'll find your fucking head and shoulders on the beach.'

The waiter blanched, nodded.

'Thank you, Frankie,' Coogan said, and Frankie sat, still glowering at the waiter as he replaced the gun. A courting couple seated behind Frankie, just entering their first course, glanced nervously back. Frankie's head, thick like a bulldog's, slanted towards them and they quickly looked away.

The waiter, his voice shaky, said: 'Will that be all?'

'Fish fingers,' Coogan said, closing the menu, 'to go. For all of us.'

The waiter was about to burst into tears. He had my sympathy on that. He nodded sharply, completed writing the order and retreated to the sanctuary of the kitchen. Coogan guffawed.

'What's going on?' Parker asked.

Coogan smiled at him. 'Gun law,' he said, simply. His blue-black suit was a fashionably cut Adolfo Dominguez but it sagged a little at the shoulders, like it had been made to old measurements. A white shirt, grey silk tie.

Parker handed me the CV. It was a litany of law breaking, dominated by a string of close-printed armed robberies he'd been found not guilty of, together with a string of offences he'd been questioned about but never charged with. Under a list of leisure pursuits it read, 'the cinema, theatre, and amassing a fortune by whatever means possible because I like to live well'.

'Anyway,' Coogan said, to get back to murder.'

I spread my hands, palm upward.

'What can I say? I'm not guilty.'

'Most everyone seems to think you are. In fact most everyone wants you dead.' I shrugged.

Parker said: 'I don't think he did it.'

'When I want your opinion, I'll let you know. Didn't this afternoon teach you anything?' Parker sat back.

'What happened this afternoon?' Parker shook his head.

'We got bored waiting for you to call,' said Coogan, 'so we had a game of Irish roulette. I won't go into it in detail, but it involves a petrol bomb and an ability to blow out matches very quickly. You didn't enjoy it very much, did you?'

Parker shook his head again, his eyes lingering for a defiant second on Coogan's face before darting away.

'I should tell you now, Parker, that those bottles were filled with urine. It was just Frankie's idea of a wee joke. He has a wicked sense of humour, our Frankie. He has never really warmed to Americans since they turned down his application for a visa. It seems an armful of convictions for violent assault doesn't help your chances. He wanted to go to Disney world.'

Frankie smiled and nodded from across the way.

'It was a fun afternoon,' Parker said humourlessly, his eyes fixed now on the courting couple who were explaining to a different waiter that they had changed their minds about a main course.

I lifted Parker's glass and drained it. My mouth was dry. 'So what are you going to do, kill me?'

'Possibly. I wouldn't mind knowing where the tape is first, though?'

'He's looking for a tape,' Parker said.

'A tape?'

Coogan smiled wanly. 'Now let's not play stupid bastards. We all know about the tape, you hand it over now and we'll see what we can do for you that doesn't involve lead.'

'That's kind of you.'

'Don't get fucking smart with me, Starkey. Right now you're a flatliner and I'm God. Only I can bring you back to life. Give me the tape and that's a start.'

'I thought you were concerned about Margaret.'

‘I am concerned about Margaret.'

'But this tape is more important?'

'For the moment.'

'What's on it that's so great?'

Coogan sat back in his seat. 'This is getting tedious. Star-key.' Abruptly he stood, his seat toppling backwards. It cracked off the polished hardwood floor. None of the other customers looked round. He nodded to Frankie and his companion and the pair stood up. 'We'll go somewhere they can't hear you scream, Starkey. Pain is a marvellous memory stimulant.'

'Pain is bad enough, but the prospect of pain can be just as bad. Travelling towards pain can be worse than pain itself.'

'Starkey, that is the most goddamn stupid thing I think I've ever heard.'

'I was just trying to reassure you about what's to come.'

'Starkey, they're not going to torture me. I don't know where the tape is. I didn't even know about the goddamn tape until today. You're the one they're gonna torture, so don't get philosophical about pain with me, save it for yourself.'

'Will you two stop bickering?'

Frankie leant back from the front passenger seat. He had locked us securely into the back of a small van which had
gerry blacks gardening supplies untidily painted on the side. In case we felt like trying to escape, his mate, whom he introduced as Mad Dog, sat opposite us with a gun pointed between us. Coogan drove, incongruous behind the wheel of the tradesman's van in his smart suit. We drove through the city centre and turned towards the west of the city. The roads were quiet. Nine times out of ten driving that late at night in the west you would be stopped by the police. Luck had not been running my way; right then the police would have seemed like the ultimate good luck.

'When we get close to where we're going,' Coogan said from the front, 'I'm afraid we'll have to blindfold you. We have to keep certain secrets, y'know?'

'I don't see why you're taking me,' Parker ventured, 'I don't know anything.'

'You'll see.'

It was a disquieting answer. Parker slumped forward.

'This is ridiculous. I should have turned you in to the police in the first place, Starkey.'

'Think of the story, Parker.'

'Fuck the story, Starkey.'

Mad Dog leant across and tapped Parker on the knee, if he doesn't talk, we put the blindfold on, take you to a secluded spot and shoot you in the back of the head.'

Parker looked up. 'Why put a blindfold on if you're shooting me in the back of the head?'

Mad Dog smiled crookedly. 'I wear the blindfold. Sometimes it takes nine or ten shots. But it's a good laugh.'

Frankie, his mouth half-full of sandwich, looked back again. 'Pay no attention to him. You'll be okay as long as you cooperate.' He started picking at a raspberry seed jammed between his front teeth. 'Good sarnies, Pat. Just what the doctor ordered.'

'A doctor ordered these?' Asked Mad Dog. 'They brought us a doctor's food? What sorta fuckin' place is that?'

'Maddie,' said Coogan, mock scolding, 'shut up.'

We pulled into a side street off the Falls Road. Mad Dog put his gun away while he put blindfolds on us: not real blindfolds, but musty-smelling balaclava helmets, back to front. The barrel of Frankie's pistol peeked at us from the rim of his seat. The last thing I saw before the lights went out was a little wink from Frankie.

Coogan started the engine again and we drove for another ten minutes. Then the van drew to a halt and a door opened on the driver's side; I felt the slight tilt of the vehicle as Coogan got out and a muffled knock on a door. It opened with a slight creak and I heard hushed voices.

'What's going on?' Parker whispered.

'Fuck up,' Mad Dog whispered back and followed it up with a dull thump which I presumed by the way Parker wheezed was the sound of metallic gun barrel on fleshy knee.

The door to the van was pulled to again and Coogan climbed back in. The fuckers are down the road, we'll have to go the long way round.'

We started off again and it was another ten minutes before we pulled to a stop. The engine was killed and the back of the van opened up. I heard the hum of a street lamp and a child crying somewhere way above me. Mad Dog pushed us forward and Frankie guided us down from outside. My feet splashed through a puddle and I smelt urine.

Our feet moved from gravel to smooth cement and then a tiled floor. Then a hiss as an elevator door opened. We began moving upward. I counted twelve tings on the bell and then we stopped.

Twenty feet along a corridor with the same smooth floor, and still the smell of urine. A door opened, closed. My mask came off.

We were in a small, average-looking lounge. There was a poor reproduction of the
Mona Lisa
on one wall, a black and white television tuned to Channel 4 in one corner, a mustard-coloured three-piece suite afflicted with a series of cigarette burns along another wall. A smell of vinegar.

Frankie had me by the arm, his grasp tight; his pistol was in his other hand, hanging down by his side. Coogan stood by a large window which opened out onto a balcony. He pulled the window inwards and stepped out until he was framed against the blacker-than-night colossus of the Cave Hill. So much for security - twelve floors up and with the Cave Hill behind him, it could only be Hillside Apartments, the tallest and ugliest public housing in Belfast. A breeding ground for rats and terrorists. Parker was by his side, still with his balaclava on, and held tightly by Mad Dog.

'I don't believe in messing about, Starkey.'

'I know.'

Coogan nodded to Mad Dog who helped Parker up onto the balcony wall. Parker obligingly stepped up, but his body suddenly shuddered as he felt the cool breeze.

'What's going on? What are you doing?'

There was a frightened edge to his voice. He moved an exploratory foot six inches forward, felt the open space before him and arched back from the edge. Mad Dog held him firmly in place.

'You stay where you are, Parker, and you'll be okay. As long as Starkey here cooperates you'll have nothing to worry about and a good story to write in the morning. Take it easy.'

He turned to me. 'His life in your hands, Starkey. I'm going to make this very easy for you. We are twelve storeys up here. I am going to count to three. At the count of three, if you haven't told me where the tape is, Parker learns to fly. Okay?'

I nodded.

He said: 'One.'

'Starkey, tell him where the fuckin' tape is!'

I had no choice.

‘Two.'

No choice at all. 'Starkey?'

'Okay, okay ...'

Coogan pushed him. Parker gave a sharp little yell, and disappeared over the edge.

I surged forward, screaming, but Frankie cracked me behind the knees and I collapsed to the floor.

Coogan peered after Parker then turned from the window, grinning. 'Fastest reader I ever knew,' he said, twelve storeys in six seconds.'

Frankie grabbed my jacket collar and pulled me to my feet. 'Don't curse at the boss, fella,' he growled. He jabbed a fist into my kidneys and my legs gave way again, but he held me up.

Mad Dog, bent out over the balcony, turned his head back towards Coogan and shouted: 'Flat as a pancake, Pat.'

The shrill whistle of the wind over the Cave Hill all but drowned out Coogan's reply. He shook his head lightly and turned to usher Mad Dog back into the flat. He closed the balcony doors. 'Have him removed,' he said quietly. Mad Dog nodded curtly and left the room; he winked at me as he walked past.

Coogan stood with his back to the balcony, watching me intently for a moment before advancing.

'There was no need for that,' I said.

'No, there wasn't.' He nodded sagely, his hands clasped before him. He held my eyes for a long moment and then looked down. 'Here's the church,' he said, holding his hands up to my face. He raised his index fingers until they joined at the tip. 'And here's the steeple.' He finished it with a flourish, turning his hands inside out, his thumbs spreading to reveal the six thin cigar-like fingers remaining, wildly cavorting within. 'Open the doors, and there's all the stupid bloody people.'

'You're talking nonsense, Coogan.'

He wiggled his six fingers again. 'All these stupid people, all talk no action.' He separated his hands again, the fleshy church palm upward and still. Slowly he curled them into two tight fists. 'The only thing they understand really. You were too slow, Starkey.'

'You said you would count to three.'

'I say a lot of things, I mean very few of them. You were fuckin' me around, you paid the price.'

‘I was ready to tell you.'

'It's not a case of when you're ready, Starkey. Understand that and you'll get on a lot better.'

'He didn't deserve that!'

'Who deserves anything? The kid who gets bombed? The guy that gets run over? Yeah, sure, Parker didn't deserve the flying lesson. Tough. That's the way it works. He's a casualty of war, a means to an end. It was a mistake of his to assume he would get some sort of special treatment because he was an American. His death is your fault, you got him involved in all this.'

'Don't try blaming me, Coogan, you sick bastard.'

Frankie punched me in the kidneys again and this time let me flop onto the ground.

'Is this not the pot calling the kettle black, Starkey?' Coogan was above me, leering down. 'I didn't murder Margaret and her mother, did I? A little assist off a wall hardly compares to that, does it? He was only a fuckin' Yank.'

I pulled myself up onto my knees.

'You can stick your fuckin' tape up your hole, Coogan.' Rage as bile. I was sick on the carpet.

'Jesus,' Coogan said, turning away, 'I can't stand people being sick.'

'He can fuckin' well clean it up,' Frankie moaned. 'You can be bloody sure I'm not.'

'Someone has to.'

'Let Mad Dog do it, Pat. Sure he'll probably eat it anyway.'

'Jesus,' Coogan winced, 'do you have to?'

'Or let the bitch do it.'

'Sure isn't the bitch going to learn to fly too?'

Frankie smiled. 'Oh, yeah. I forgot.'

Coogan got over his squeamishness. He smiled at me. 'I don't think that tape would fit up my hole, Starkey.' He bent down beside me. 'But I know whose it might.'

He nodded to Frankie. Frankie turned and disappeared down a darkened corridor to the right of the door. A door opened and I heard him rasp: 'Up you get, sweetie.'

There was a derisive snort and a flurry of curses.

Frankie appeared in the corridor again. Smiled at me and moved to one side to make way for a woman in a shapeless pink dressing gown. I raised myself to a kneeling position.

'Well, look what the cat's dragged in,' she said.