The Day of the Jack Russell (Mystery Man) (21 page)

‘But . . .’

‘Just do it!’

I had lowered the shutters again to stop any other drunks from wandering in, so took the back way out, locking Brendan in behind me. I hurried down the back lane. Just as I emerged on to Botanic Avenue, Alison came hurrying up, her face flushed with excitement and fear and exertion. Before she could say a word, I bellowed: ‘Jeff’s in the Holiday Inn! He’s drunk and listening to poetry!’

She took only the briefest moment to compute that. She had a wonderful facility for turning what I was thinking into a succinct and pithy observation.

‘The fucker!’ she cried.

At a No Alibis event, the launch of a new book or one of my theme evenings –
Victorian crime novels and why they’re important NOW!
comes to mind; it was hugely popular if rather drab – you can be fairly certain that while there will always be a few amateur writers in the audience, most are there because they love reading and don’t aspire to anything beyond that. Poetry events, on the other hand, are almost exclusively attended by other poets, who are, generally speaking, an extraordinarily wilful, selfish, egotistical, drunken, back-stabbing bunch of layabouts, and that’s just the published ones. Those who have yet to see their names in bold type – and I discount the internet here, because any old shite can be published there – are all of those things, with added bitterness and jealousy and a propensity to sudden bouts of extreme violence. Entering the Holiday Inn Express at a little after ten o’clock on a Tuesday night was like venturing into a war zone. The smell of blood and innards and desperation was thick in the air, tobacco smoke clung to coats and beards, and puddles of vomit mixed with Guinness spillages to produce an odd moonwalking effect as we pushed through the crowds looking for Jeff, while being quietly aware that we were also there on the word of a drunk. But then, off in a corner, surrounded by girls, just lifting a pint to his mouth, my eyes met his, and he looked momentarily stunned. He set down his drink and quickly moved out from behind his table, stepping on toes, knocking over glasses, determined to get away.

‘There goes the scabby little fucker now,’ said Alison.

And there he went, and there we went, shouting after him, but our cries were drowned out by the hubbub and the righteous anguish of souls in torment, our progress hindered by poets refusing to give an inch. For a moment I thought we’d lost him before spotting him in the slightest gap between two bickering groups, bent almost double, squeezing through towards the toilets at the back of the room. I signalled Alison, who had been moving in a different direction, hoping to cut him off. She gave me the thumbs-up and we met at the entrance to the toilets. Once through the main door, the men’s and ladies’ were left and right, and we divided according to sex. The men’s was empty save for a coot crying as he leaned over a urinal, his head resting on his arm against the wall.

Alison’s voice echoed off the tiles: ‘He’s in here!’

I entered the ladies’. One woman was waxing her moustache in a mirror, another was assaulting the condom machine and repeatedly shouting, ‘It ate my pound! It ate my pound!’ Neither of them seemed to notice me. It was the story of my life.

Alison had literally cornered Jeff. ‘Here he is. Here’s the dirty stop-out.’

I wasn’t quite sure yet why he was cowering the way he was. He was a young, fit man who worked out occasionally; he could have whipped me and Alison with one hand tied behind his back and one leg amputated at the knee, but his back was against the wall, and he looked truly terrified. I supposed we had the moral high ground, which has a strength all of its own.

‘Hello, Jeff,’ I said calmly. ‘Fancy seeing you here.’

He held his hands up in a pacifying gesture. ‘I can explain . . . I can explain . . . You . . . youse weren’t followed here? Were you, were youse followed?’

‘Followed, Jeff ?’

‘By
them
! They’re watching, watching everything!’

‘They’re not watching in here, Jeff.’

I was in absolute control.

Alison was rather letting the situation get the better of her. She jabbed a finger at him and shouted: ‘So spill the beans, you little shit!’

‘I’m sorry . . . I’m sorry . . . They told me . . . they told me I didn’t know what I was involved in, that if I knew what was good for me I’d stay away from youse, that I shouldn’t go to work or call or even switch my phone on, just to lie low. He said youse were up to your necks in something and they kept asking me about a dog, a Jack Russell, where was it, where had we hidden it, they kept shouting at me, they kept yelling and saying give us the dog, where’s the dog, give us the dog and I didn’t know what they were talking about and they wouldn’t believe me and I thought they were going to kill me . . .’

‘Did they actually kill you, Jeff ?’ Alison asked.

‘No . . . obviously . . .’

‘Did they hurt you?’

‘They shouted!’

‘Where was this?’ I asked. ‘Were you in their HQ?’

‘No . . . thank God . . . You go in there and you don’t come out!’

‘Then where?’

‘They made me drive down the coast. A beach. I thought they were going to drown me.’

‘Did they drown you, Jeff ?’ Alison asked.

‘No, obviously . . .’

‘Obviously.’

‘They said if I co-operated, they could help me – help us . . .’

‘Us?’

‘Not us . . . us . . . Amnesty . . .’

‘Oh
Amnesty
,’ I said.

‘Never mind
us
,’ said Alison.

‘And how were they going to help
Amnesty
?’

‘They said they could arrange for Hugo Cadiz to stay in the country.’

‘Who the fuck is Hugo Cadiz?’ Alison snapped.

‘He’s a poet. A political activist. He’s Chilean. They’ve been trying to send him home for months. Today his visa suddenly came through. They can do that!’

‘So you sold us out for a visa?’

‘I didn’t sell you out! I didn’t know anything!’

‘So you think you somehow played them?’

‘No! Yes! I don’t know! All I know is that they said they’d help us out if I helped them out, but I didn’t know anything.’

‘So you made something up?’

‘No!’

‘You must have given them something?’

‘No! Only stupid stuff . . .’

‘Like what?’

‘Just stuff about the shop, about you being preg—’

‘You fucker!’

‘They were shouting at me! They had me in a car, in the dark, by the sea. I thought they were going to kill me!’

‘Fucker.’

‘It’s easy for you to say. You weren’t there.’

‘A man shouted at me, so I ratted out my friends.’

‘Okay,’ I said.

‘Okay?’ Alison spat.

‘Yes, okay. Enough.’

‘Oh, listen to the fucking voice of reason. Is this how you’re going to stand up for your kid?’

‘Alison.’

‘Fuck off.’

She turned on her heel and strode to the door.

‘Where are you . . .?’

‘I’m going to get a drink.’

‘Do you think that’s wise in your . . .?’

‘Oh fuck off!’

She stormed off. I looked at Jeff. He shrugged.

I said, ‘Well, I’m glad you’re not washed up on a beach.’

‘So am I.’

‘Because I’d much prefer Alison had the pleasure.’

‘I’m sorry, but I really gave them . . . nothing.’

‘Yeah.’

I turned and went after her.

As I reached the door, Jeff said: ‘Do you think she’s hormonal?’

I stopped, but only for a moment.

She was on a stool with a Bacardi Breezer. The length of the bar itself was packed with parched poets trying to attract the barman’s attention, yet in those few seconds she’d managed to get herself served and create a space in which she could comfortably sit. She was giving off an aura of
don’t mess with me
.

I came up behind her and said, ‘Are you okay?’

She turned and smiled up at me. ‘Course I am. Here.’ She handed me an orange juice. ‘He’s just such a limp little . . .’ She shook her head.

‘Well, look on the bright side. It definitely proves that Greg’s working to his own agenda, otherwise they’d have had him in their big shiny new building beating the shit out of him. Maybe we can afford to ignore his twenty-three hours or else?’

‘Doesn’t it just mean that he realised Jeff was a gutless idiot who would rat his mother out if you blew smoke in his face, so he let him go in order to concentrate on shafting us?’

‘That’s certainly another way of looking at it. But I thought I was the one whose glass was always half empty?’

She nodded. She gave me a long look, then said, ‘Good point. Do you think then that they haven’t been through your computer, or the shop?’

‘Sounds like they haven’t.’

‘So they probably haven’t bugged your house or installed secret cameras.’

‘No.’

‘Because your mother would have flayed them alive.’

‘Definitely.’

‘And if they haven’t done yours, they haven’t done mine, which means we’re free to go back there right now?’

‘Yes. But why? What are you planning?’

‘You’ll see.’

‘Have you worked this all out? Do you know what’s going on? Do you know where the Jack Russell is?’

She smiled. ‘No.’

‘Then?’

‘I’m just feeling very, very horny, and we haven’t done it in months.’

‘Oh.’

‘And I’m impressed with you. You took control of the situation. You restored order. And we ran all the way here, and you didn’t complain once about your brittle bones, or your busted knee ligaments, or your blood pressure or your malfunctioning lung or any of your other bollocks.’

‘It’s the early-onset Alzheimer’s. I forget—’

‘Take me home now, before I change my mind.’

‘Okay.’

We headed for the door. Jeff was standing there, talking to a girl. As Alison passed, she growled at him. As I passed, I nodded and mouthed: ‘Hormonal.’

But I was grinning like an idiot.

Alison was snoring gently, and I was thinking about what would happen if I pinched her nose. And covered her mouth. The head is so full of holes, and the ear, nose and throat are
supposedly
connected; you would wonder why it isn’t possible to breathe through your ears.

I was finding it difficult to sleep, which had been true since November 1976. No particular reason, besides Mother’s cupboard. Now, in the semi-darkness – the curtains were half open, with a street light providing an orange glow – I lay back, trying to ignore the fact that I was being watched by hundreds of eyes. This was not my usual and justified paranoia; it was the fact that every available inch of wall space was filled with Alison’s artwork: characters bizarre and grotesque yet somehow sympathetic. I had been aware of the paintings before, but only from a distance, when I used to lurk in the undergrowth outside her window and watch her. Perhaps lurk is the wrong word. I would nestle in the bushes. I was standing guard. I had always been intrigued by her drawings, but this was my first opportunity to see them up close. She did good eyes. They say that the eyes are the windows of the soul, so it’s a good job that my cataracts act like Venetian blinds.

I studied her. Beautiful. Younger than me. If I just used a pillow to smother her, then it probably wouldn’t feel as bad as actually pinching her nose and clamping her mouth.

It seemed like the most natural thing in the world to do. Making love. With my various illnesses I had so little time left, so it would be good to go out on a high. I could finish her, then nip round to Mother’s and enjoy putting her out of her misery. Then, God knows, I had enough medication stockpiled to take myself out and half the city if I chose to somehow get it into the water supply.

There was, of course, the problem of the baby.

She was the mother of my child.

I wouldn’t want to kill a child; that would just be sick.

Presently I became aware that Alison’s eyes were open.

‘Hello,’ I said.

‘Hello,’ she said. ‘Are you thinking nice thoughts?’

‘I was thinking about the Munich Olympics.’

Alison smiled blearily. ‘I’m glad someone is,’ she said softly, and her eyes closed again.

I never truly sleep, but I do enter a netherworld where I dream so frenetically that when I open my eyes I am more exhausted than before. There is also a lot of thrashing about. It was lucky that Alison was no longer in bed with me. I could hear her voice, and another woman’s, coming from further down the hall, probably the kitchen, chatter and laughs. I had a sudden dread that it was her mother, or her sister. I had never been interested enough to ask if she had either, but the prospect of meeting them was enough to reduce me to a nervous wreck, a state of mind I don’t usually embrace until after I’ve been verbally abused by
my
mother at breakfast. Alison I could just about cope with; being scrutinised by or having to make small talk with strangers without the prospect of commercial gain was just anathema to me. But I was fully awake now, rubbing at my skin, convinced that the bed bugs had been at me. One of the many reasons I find it difficult to sleep is that I stay awake to watch for them. They are generally active just before sunrise. They use two hollow tubes to pierce the skin. With one tube they inject their saliva, which contains anticoagulants and anaesthetics, while with the other they withdraw the blood of their host. It’s a fucking wonder that
anyone
can sleep.

I got up. Alison’s bra and pants were on the floor. I put them on.

Not necessarily in a perverted way.

I just wanted to know what it felt like to wear Alison’s underwear.

I looked at myself in the mirror.

From along the hall Alison shouted, ‘Are you awake? Do you fancy some eggs?’

‘Just coming,’ I called back.

I was fully dressed, in my own clothes. I shuffled into the kitchen, hands in pockets, but it was not Alison’s mother or sister, unless of course it was some
huge
coincidence. It was Pat, the late Jimbo’s intended and soon to be the mother of his child.

‘Oh,’ I said.

‘She said you wouldn’t mind.’

Alison was at the cooker, scrambling eggs. ‘How would you like yours done?’