Call Me the Breeze (11 page)

He must have been about twenty minutes or so, and was still grinning as he climbed back into the car, shoving two fingers under my nose as he said: ‘So smell that, Joey Tallon! Sweet as fucking roses, man!’

Chuckling to himself all the way along the Scotsfield Road. ‘The yelps of her, Joe,’ he says, practically jumping up and down in the seat. It was almost coming naturally to me now — and I can’t tell you how good I was feeling about it — moving into that relaxing space. Where anyone could say absolutely anything and it wouldn’t bother you at all. ‘Sure,’ I said, and ‘That’s right, Boyle.’

I must have dozed off for a bit, for the next thing I remember the car is turning off the road somewhere around Lackey Cross and Boyle is
saying: ‘Now listen, Josie, I might be another wee while up here, so the best thing you can do is stretch out here for a bit. Here, take another drop of Jemmy. But don’t stir till I get back. And then we’ll have you safe and sound at home in the campsite. You’ll be OK then, Josie? Catch forty winks!’

I nodded and did just that as I watched him dodge the sudden shower as he made his way on up the lane, and it was like a warm and toasty hand had come to soothe my soul. I might as well have grown wings and been gliding over cool clear water, skimming it every so often just for the sheer fucking fun. Triumph was a word that came to mind just then — I had reached some special plain. And this was just the beginning. What would it be like in the Karma Cave? With
her
in the Karma Cave? I reckoned I was getting close to … I don’t know. ‘Delirious’ was a word that I wouldn’t have been afraid of using right then.

What time it was when the birds woke me up I couldn’t say for definite. It was bright outside and it looked like it was going to be a really lovely day, but as yet I was too tired and hungover to appreciate it. I searched around for the flask. It was dry as a bone. All of a sudden — it was like the ‘old me’, I thought — I found myself becoming unnecessarily alarmed and thinking:
Oh no! He’s gone and forgotten me altogether
! Which was stupid, of course, as I realized almost immediately — I mean, he was hardly going to leave the Datsun lying there at the side of the road.

So I just got out and went off up the lane towards the bungalow at the top of the hill, nearly breaking my neck over an old pushbike someone had left lying in the middle of the drive. ‘Will you for fuck’s sake wake up, Joey!’ I said. ‘Wake up here now, Joey Tallon! Just because things are getting a little easier now doesn’t mean you can afford to start getting sloppy!’ I grinned unconsciously, thrilled at the idea of this new confidence that appeared to be growing apace inside of me. The ‘old Joey’ might have been lying like a shed skin by the side of the road. ‘Oh, Joey,’ I heard her saying, ‘I never dreamed it would be this good. You’re so …’

She’d be lost for words. I’d toss her a smile.

There was nobody around when I got as far as the bungalow. Nobody I could see through the first window anyway. But when I looked through the second, who’s in there? Boyle. As fresh as a daisy, it seemed, walking around chatting away to — guess who? — Detective
Tuite, with the pair of them getting on like a house on fire. All you could hear was Boyle saying: ‘I’ll make sure it’s worth your while coming out here tonight, Mr Tuite. I know you’re taking a big risk, but you know you can trust me. Which is more than can be said for a lot of the fuckers around Scotsfield. And believe me, I should know, for I’ve been doing business in it long enough. Fucking felons, wouldn’t believe a word comes out of their mouths. But listen here. This information. We’ve got the lowdown on a couple of very important people. Who’ve made the big mistake of stepping out of line with some other very important people, if you get my drift. Not that it matters to me what they fucking do. Just don’t ask us where we got it. All you need to know is that they shouldn’t have crossed Sandy, know what I’m saying? And, if you play your cards right, Detective, what I have to tell you should see them put away for a very long time. But before we get to that—’

He clicked his fingers, then who comes in? Big Bertha, one of the wrestlers from the pub, and Boyle gets a hold of her. The pair of them having a great old time. The sort of time, though, best described as ‘private’. And on top of which it might not be such a good idea to go barging in wearing your big Joey Tallon size twelves. Which didn’t bother me in the slightest. Nope, not one bit.

So fine
, I thought,
I’ll just be on my way then
, and was about to do exactly that when the connecting door opens, and who’s closing it behind him only Sandy McGloin, pale and lean in his grey silk suit and obsessively flicking his cigarette. He took a pull of the fag and winked over at Boyle. But Tuite didn’t see him.

They started giving him the information then. I could hear them going on about explosives and weapons. I heard Boyle saying: ‘Sandy knows where every one of these arms dumps is located. But he’d have to be paid. He’d be risking his life, as I’m sure you appreciate.’

Then he pulled a wad of money from his pocket and waved it. As if to indicate: ‘This kind of money.’

It was obvious Tuite was surprised and confused by these sudden and unexpected demands but he clearly wanted the information so badly that he was definitely giving serious thought to the proposition. They continued debating and arguing for a long time. Then, with a flourish, Sandy produced a bottle of whiskey. They had obviously come to some kind of agreement. The detective shook hands with Sandy. Then turned to Boyle to do the same. I was on the verge of going back to the car
when I heard a laugh, and when I look in what seems to have happened is that all of a sudden Sandy McGloin has turned into a comedian, which was certainly not what you expected from him, I can tell you. In all my time in the bar I don’t think I ever heard him — a thin, cadaverous northerner, always on the alert, probably with good reason — crack a joke. But now there he was just chortling away, knocking back whiskey like it was going out of fashion and shaking his head, marvelling at how good this yarn of his was. A view shared by Tuite and Boyle, who kept passing the bottle back and forth. Then what happens? The connecting door opens again and in walks Rosa. Her and Big Bertha were a bit drunk you could tell, but not a bother on them, getting stuck right into their private show, with Tuite laughing a little bit shyly at first and raising his hands as if in protest. I could see him shaking his head and making as if to leave, with Sandy and Boyle dissuading him energetically. Then he was wavering as Boyle crooked his finger and Rosa came waddling over. Bertha’s blouse was first to come off as she continued grinding for a while in front of Boyle Henry, before moving on to the still-protesting Tuite. He tried to push her away but she just threw her head back and laughed. So did Sandy. Rosa started work on Boyle, opening his fly as he showered her in notes. ‘That kind of money,’ I could hear him saying. ‘That’d be what he’d require. Only the best for a first-class tout! Which is what you’re going to be, isn’t it, Sandy?’

‘No,’ replied Sandy, phlegmatically. ‘I’m sorry, Mr Henry! I’m sorry to say I’ve changed my mind about that.’

Boyle, running his fingers through Rosa’s hair, laughed when he heard him. ‘Stop,’ he said to Sandy. ‘Be nice to the copper. He’s a Heavy Gang man.’

‘A Heavy Gang man, you tell me? Well, let’s see just how heavy!’

Poor old Tuite was pale now, having realized too late exactly what was going on. Boyle Henry looked over at him and sighed. Then shook his head as if to say: ‘So how does it feel? Tell us, detective. Go on now, there’s a good boy. Tell the lads how it feels to be up the creek without a paddle!’

Of course, no detective would ever have given serious thought to meeting a Provo on his own, even one who had supposedly ‘turned’, which was obviously the story they’d spun him. But Boyle Henry was different. Nobody knew for sure how involved he was — and you could imagine him using all his respectable councillor wiles to convince Tuite that everything would be safe and above board.

I was so busy watching Boyle Henry — his body was rocking back and forth as he came in Rosa’s mouth — that I didn’t notice Sandy reaching into his jacket. The next thing I heard the gunshot and Tuite was buckling to his knees as Sandy looked pained, pulling the trigger again as he moaned: ‘No, not that heavy at all, Mr Henry! Not so heavy at all!’ A worm of black blood pushed its swollen head through the detective’s lips. A spot of it got on to Bertha’s white flesh. Just a paintbrush flick. She started crying but gave up, heaving on her knees as though realizing that any more sound was now completely beyond her. Unlike Rosa who started screeching and tearing at her hair. With the result that Sandy had to hit her with the revolver.

It got very bad after that, so bad I had to hide my eyes. I saw Boyle kicking her as she curled into a ball and covered her face with her hands. When they were finished, Sandy sat in a chair staring at the gun. Rosa stood there with her eyes pleading: ‘
What do I do? Can you please tell me what I’m supposed to do now
?’

Boyle, cool as ice, gave her his answer by smiling and gently placing a finger upon his lips. He blew some smoke rings as he whispered: ‘Let’s not think of doing anything silly now,’ and I never felt such melancholy as I thought of the smoke shaping her name: ‘Jacy.’ Saw those smoke rings forming the words ‘
Jacy
’ and ‘
No. You didn’t get it wrong, Joey Tallon
.’

Because that’s what I had been beginning to believe. That I had been deceiving myself through bitterness.

I hadn’t, though.

For this was him all right. This was the man. The same one who’d been with her that day in the lounge and had followed her out to the car. Calling her name and making promises. A gloom descended on me then and, for some reason, I thought of the Garden of Gethsemane —I had always been fascinated by that story at school — when it’s at last revealed what it is that Christ must do and yet how part of him wants it to pass.

‘Let this cup pass from me’ were the words I remembered from catechism lessons. That was how I felt now. With a heavy heart I found myself uttering the words: ‘
The beginning
.’

Then I looked inside again. For a few seconds or so, Tuite came to life briefly and tried dragging himself across the carpet before Boyle Henry accepted the pistol from Sandy and put a final bullet in the detective’s head.

Instinctively, I found myself joining my hands and intoning her name. I kissed my fingertips and gave thanks without words for having been given this sign. Bertha stiffened her shoulders, about to cry out again, before Sandy spotted her. He waved his finger from side to side, frowning as he cautioned: ‘
Woo woo
!’

Then Boyle went over and lifted up the poker, before shoving it in the fire.

I suppose, to be honest, when I embarked on these few ruminations last night, I was secretly hoping to stumble upon a novel. Hoping that by going through my papers I might somehow be inspired so that at least something like the beginnings of a new work might emerge. By accident, I mean, for it was definitely never going to be by design. I’ve tried that approach a thousand times, each time without success, and if it didn’t work then it won’t work now.

What I wanted, more than anything, was for the material to catch fire so it would go off and write itself, in the same way it happened that very first time, when I completed my book
Doughboy
in what can only be described as utterly adversarial circumstances. Miraculous being the only word to describe that experience.

Nonetheless, I still have to admit it’s been quite enjoyable. Sifting through these piles of papers, eclectic meanderings, memos, correspondence and what have you. Bonehead has even pasted some newspaper articles dealing with my court case into a scrapbook. I don’t bother much with them, though — it almost makes me sick just to look at them — and tend to concentrate on my own petty ramblings.

There is a mouse who inhabits this study (Bonehead has put his own name up on the door:
Seccretary [sic!] P. J. Stokes
— I mean, can you believe it?) and from time to time, you can see him poking his little rodent head out from behind the china cabinet, as though he’s checking to see everything’s all right. He’s a dead ringer for the fellow who shared the cell with the pair of us back in Mountjoy. Or ‘The Joy’, as it’s generally called.

The first day I arrived there Bonehead offered me a bit of friendly advice. Sitting on the bunk and swinging his legs, he pointed to the
mouse, going: ‘He’s the only friend you’ll ever have in here, Boss! That’s the kind of kip it is, and don’t go thinking different!’

He told me his surname was Stokes but that that didn’t mean he was a traveller. He regarded that breed — tinkers and travellers and itinerant types generally — as being lower than ‘that mouse there’, well-deserving of their reputation as shysters and thieves and disreputable people to be dealing with generally. The only problem with that being that Stokes was a common tinker name. ‘I’m no tinker! Do you hear me?’ he roared out of nowhere, and hit the wall a thump. ‘I’m not a tinker! Nor a traveller neither!’

I said that was OK and he calmed down then for a bit, puffing out smoke clouds from his rollie.

‘I have me own house!’ he barked again. ‘And don’t you mind what they tell you in here! There’s plenty o’ travellers in this dump, Joesup, but I’m not one of them! Pat Joe Stokes is a high-bred man!’

He was shaped like a barrel and as bald as a coot, wearing this stripey jumper that made him look like a bumblebee. On top of that he had a severe hare lip, which was why, of course, he referred to me as ‘Joesup’. They’d put him in for — among other things (which, I later discovered, involved a fatal affray in which an itinerant had died) — stealing lead off a roof, which seemed a pretty traveller-ish thing to be doing to me (thieving scrap was their stock-in-trade), but you daren’t say that or he’d go completely insane.

‘You just remember, Joesup,’ he said, ‘I’m a businessman and not a tinker. Them fucking travellers — all they ever do is attack each other with rusty hooks. That’s no way to be carrying on with your life. Have nothing to do with them when you’re in here! They’ll only rook you for every penny.’