Fireproof (26 page)

"So you're willing to promote something you don't believe in for revenge?"

"Indeed."

"Fair enough."

"So what way do you want to do this?"

"I'll set up an interview with the local rag and we'll see where it goes from there. With any luck the BBC will catch wind of it and we might get a bit of TV coverage. Even radio would be good enough."

"Then I'll look forward to hearing from you, Mr Rocks. Shall I call my housekeeper to see you out?"

"No thanks, we'll find our own way."

He was eager to get outside and celebrate their good fortune with Cathy. It'd be quicker if they didn't have to keep pace with an arthritic misanthropist.

Outside, Cathy hugged Mike and kissed him on both cheeks. The corners of her mouth were in danger of meeting at the back of her head, her smile was so broad. Mike could feel his own mouth stretching.

"This is going to be huge," Cathy said.

"I know. I can't wait for this to go public. Even if the bishop is written off as a nutcase, the media is going to lap up a story like this."

"So where do we go from here, Mike?"

"I don't know. Is there any way to top this?"

"I don't think there is, not unless you want to ask the Free Presbyterian Church to support you too."

"Maybe next week. I guess we should go find Jim and tell him to get ready for some serious publicity."

"Oh, let's get Cadbury too. We can all get pissed to celebrate."

"Good idea. Will you wear the habit to the pub? That'd be kind of fun."

"I would, but Jim is going to want it back."

"Excuses, excuses."

"Don't sulk. I'll see about getting one of my own. I'm beginning to like the look."

"Sounds like a sweet deal to me."

***

For a change of scenery Mike, Cathy, Cadbury and Jim went to Biddy Duffy's in Andersonstown. It was karaoke night. Mike couldn't sing for shit but that wasn't the point at a karaoke. It was all about relaxing, acting stupid and getting drunk. A perfect way to celebrate. His spirits were high until he went to the bar.

There was no mirror behind this bar, but in the shining chrome of a Budweiser pump, Mike could see the distorted green reflection of the imp. He sighed and made his way to the men's room. A young man relieved himself at a urinal. He swayed drunkenly, sloshing piss on the wall, the floor and his shoes. Mike hadn't the patience to wait for the drunk to leave. He stood at the sink, glared at the imp and gritted his teeth.

The imp said, "Hi. I've been waiting for you to discover me for ages."

"Well isn't it nice to have fuck all to do but wait around eavesdropping? What is it now?"

"I sat in on your meeting with the bishop earlier. I think you and the lovely Cathy were a little too proud of yourselves considering the level of your achievement."

The imp looked to Mike for a reaction. Mike didn't comment.

"I mean, what did you guys do, really? You talked an alcoholic into lying for you. Whoop-de-do. One bishop from Ireland is not going to raise the profile of True Satanism by any significant amount. He'll be written off as a crackpot and life will go on. But not for you, Mike. You'll be burning in Hell. But I'll come and see you every so often to remind you of your embarrassing failures."

"I have no desire to convince you that what I achieved today will prove to be the most important moment in this mission to date. You're nothing to me. If you've come here to try and undermine me, get your attempt over with and sod off. If you have something to tell me that I might find relevant or useful, cut to the chase, then sod off."

The imp stuck its tongue out at Mike's reflection. Mike fought hard to stop himself from pulling the skinny black tongue out of its mouth and tying it around the little bugger's throat.

"Fine then, spoilsport. I just wanted to let you know that even though the taxi driver seems to have been taken care of, you still have a date with Cerberus on Saturday. The Master still requires your attendance. Guess you didn't send Cathy to sort out the witness soon enough."

Mike wore his poker face but his mind was racing. The taxi driver had been taken care of? In what sense? Had Cathy gone behind his back and killed the innocent man? If Lucifer's orders were followed, with or without Mike's knowledge, then why did he still need to be dragged back to Hell? How was he going to approach Cathy about this? What was he going to do about Cerberus? Why did he continue to listen to the green piece of shit on his shoulder? Mike needed to vent his aggression.

With one lightning fast movement, Mike grabbed the imp by its throat. As it struggled against his iron grip, Mike filled the sink with cold water. When it was deep enough he held the imp under. Green scum filled the sink as the invisible creature thrashed. After a minute he pulled the imp out of the sink and moved to the electric hand drier. He bashed the imp's head off the plastic casing a few times until it stopped struggling. Mike wasn't sure if the little bastard was unconscious or playing possum. He didn't care.

The abuse he'd dished out to the drier loosened the plastic casing and Mike was able to get his fingers underneath a seam. He ripped the front off and exposed the workings. He jammed the imp, dripping wet, into the middle of the drier's motor, stepped back, and with a high front kick, planted the heel of his rubber-soled shoe onto the start button. Sparks flew. Mike smiled.

"What the fuck was that?" The young drunk seemed to have achieved a moment of clarity in the wake of Mike's miniature pyrotechnics. Mike didn't answer him right away.

An acrid burning smell filled the men's room as the drier shorted out in a shower of sparks. There was a dull, wet slapping sound and Mike guessed that the imp's body had slipped out of the drier and hit the tiles in a heap. Mike stomped his foot down in the area underneath the drier. On the fourth stomp he heard a satisfying crunch and splat as his heel met something spongy and invisible. Mike looked at the young drunk.

"Jesus, they may get Health and Safety in here to have a look at the electrics. I was just trying to dry my hands when the thing exploded."

The drunk seemed satisfied by this explanation. After a few unsynchronised blinks he said, "See, if you didn't piss on your hands, mate, you wouldn't have to worry about washing and drying them."

"I'll bear that in mind, mate. Enjoy the rest of your night."

The drunk left without washing his hands. Mike scrubbed his and dried them with green paper towels from the dispenser beside the busted electric drier. He went straight back to the bar and ordered his round.

As the barman set the drinks in front of him Mike said, "Some eejit fucked up the drier in the men's room. Now I didn't see who did it, but that young buck sleeping at the other end of the bar left as I went in. I'm not saying he did it, but maybe you should ask him about it."

The barman nodded in appreciation and waved one of the bouncers over. The young drunk that had spoken to Mike about poor pissing technique was removed from the premises in seconds. He didn't even wake up as the bouncer used him as a battering ram, opening the door with the top of his head.

Mike brought the drinks to the table. He tried to forget what the imp had said about Cathy. The little fucker was obviously trying to wind him up. They got drunk, sang and made merry.

Thursday morning, and Cathy's head thumped. Her time with Mike was streaming by in a liquid blur. Her alcohol consumption had increased to epic proportions since she'd hooked up with the charismatic, reincarnate rebel. The warm fuzz of drunkenness at night and the distraction of a sickening hangover during the day leant a dreamlike quality to her recent adventures. She decided not to drink another drop until Saturday passed. She wanted to experience Mike without the distraction of alcohol. She wanted untainted memories.

Thoughts of Saturday caused flutters in her belly. She turned her head on her pillow to look Mike in his face. She could smell Guinness off his breath and skin, Mike's signature scent in the mornings, and she knew she would miss it when it was gone. She scolded herself inwardly for such negative thoughts, but couldn't change the way she felt. She was terrified she might lose him.

They'd stayed at hers because it was closer to Biddy Duffy's than Mike's apartment was. Cadbury and Jim had not gone home with them. They'd been invited to a party by the guy running the karaoke. Cadbury proved to be an excellent singer of Motown classics and Jim had the voice of Freddie Mercury. They'd entertained the bar well past closing and were eager to sing on. Cathy and Mike declined their invitations politely. Cathy didn't want to stay up drinking all night as she was due into the office and Mike wanted to spend as much time with her as possible. They'd fallen asleep as soon as they'd climbed into Cathy's soft bed, wrapped up in each other's arms and breathing the same air.

Mike was now in a deep sleep as Cathy checked her clock and realised she needed to get a move on if she was going to get to work on time. She let Mike sleep on as she slid out of bed and made her way to the bathroom, avoiding the creaking floorboards she had by now memorised. Her shower was refreshing and helped her forget her hangover until she got out and was attacked by the cool morning air. Her shivering body and rattling teeth reminded her of her tender brain. She towelled off with haste, practically sandpapering her gooseflesh with the towel. Mike slept on as she dressed. Before she left for work, she placed a glass of water and two aspirin tablets on the bedside cabinet.

Outside, her street was quiet. The crisp air and overcast clouds prophesised more rain. She hoped it would rain heavily enough to wash some of the dog shit from the footpath into the gutter. She was tired of skipping over the strategically placed coils. Just once, she'd like to walk to work without monitoring every inch of ground on her way. She was in danger of developing a stoop.

At the office, Margaret and Mary were buzzing with excitement. They'd both beaten her in, even though she wasn't late, and they were very well turned out. Each wore a generous amount of makeup and smart trouser suits. They looked very professional, but warm and easy to approach; a tough combination to achieve. Cathy was particularly impressed that Margaret managed it. She usually looked like a smacked arse.

"What's the occasion, ladies?"

"The Andersonstown News is sending a photographer," Mary said. "They want to do a two-page spread on your idea. They think it's all very positive."

"That's today? Jesus. How did I forget that?"

Cathy suppressed the urge to slip into the bathroom and check her makeup. She'd just checked it before she left and knew she looked fine. The mere mention of a photograph should not unnerve her. Vanity, how were you expected not to commit that sin in this day and age?

"What time will he be here?"

"Just after ten," Margaret said. "You look great, as usual. Don't be worried."

"I'm not."

"Oh, right. Why are you biting your nails then?"

Cathy removed her index finger from her mouth. Of course she was nervous, but for reasons beyond her first reaction of vanity. "I forgot to clip them this morning. When they get too long they get in the way of my typing."

Margaret smiled at Cathy but said nothing. Cathy broke eye contact with her as she felt the heat of a blush on her face.

None of them were able to concentrate on work during the hour they waited for the journalist. They drank tea and discussed how good the publicity was going to be and who should say what during the interview. The ladies tried to coax Cathy into taking the limelight as it had been her idea, but Cathy wouldn't hear of it.

"The only reason I even bothered to come up with something was to help you two out," Cathy said. "I admired your passion and your belief. I can't take all the credit because I'd feel like a phoney."

They tried to argue with her, but when she threatened to go home early due to a mystery bout of light-headedness they stopped cajoling her.

At half past ten the ladies were worried the journalist wasn't going to show, but it was too early to call the paper and find out if their man had forgotten them. The journalist walked into the centre at twenty-five to eleven, interrupting Margaret's negotiations to keep Mary from phoning in a complaint. Mary put the handset back in the cradle and Margaret gave her an "I told you so" look.

The journalist was of medium height and build, his hair very short. A skinhead with a week's growth on it, Cathy guessed. He sported a ragged goatee beard. He didn't look like someone to mess with either. A hard look was set in his eyes and he seemed to sneer for no reason. Cathy could not imagine that he would take "no comment" for an answer from even the most hardened criminal.

"I'm here to do a piece on your community work. You want to do this here or do you have an office or something?"

"You don't have a camera," Margaret said. "I was hoping you'd take some photos of the centre."

The journalist rolled his eyes. "The photographer is coming now. He's just getting his equipment out of the car."

Margaret gave him a slight nod. Cathy could tell she was not impressed by the man.

"Well, this is Margaret," Mary said. "The lovely, young lady over there is Cathy and I'm Mary. We're so glad you could come."