I Remember You (3 page)

Chapter Four

‘Women!' expostulated Finbar, stretching out his arms in an extravagant parody of despair which almost swept a strawberry pavlova from a passing dessert trolley. ‘They'll be the death of me.'

Harry drained his coffee cup. The Ensenada's cuisine had left him feeling replete. Finbar had, as usual, been a generous host, and Harry didn't have the heart to say that for his client to malign the opposite sex was much the same as Billy Bunter badmouthing the school tuck shop.

‘Offer a few more quid each week to keep Sinead quiet,' he advised. ‘Business isn't so bad. You can afford it.'

Finbar grunted. He was too free-spending for his own good much of the time, but Sinead's admittedly exorbitant demand for maintenance pending suit had provoked a mulish refusal to compromise on a more realistic figure.

‘Lord knows what I've done to deserve this,' he complained.

Persistent adultery, perhaps, reflected Harry. Spend
th
rift habits, general fecklessness ... but clients embroiled in messy divorce proceedings were seldom open to reason. The trick was to let them convince themselves that acrimony was counter-productive.

‘When marriages break down,' he said gently, ‘there are only losers.'

He had first-hand knowledge of the truth of that. He and Liz had drifted apart long before she had left him for a man who promised the good life and in the end brought her nothing but disillusion and disaster.

Finbar nodded in agreement. An opportunistic waiter took the gesture as a sign that the bill was required and produced it with a conjuror's flourish. Scarcely glancing at the bottom line, Finbar opened his wallet and passed over a sheaf of notes. ‘A feast fit for a king,' he said. ‘Keep the change.' After much lavish gratitude, the waiter disappeared.

‘You'd never believe it these days, but at one time Sinead was a fine looking woman,' Finbar said sorrowfully. ‘Yet look at her now! I've met better-dressed bag ladies.'

Harry forbore to point out that neither he nor his client were exemplars of high fashion.

Finbar scratched his nose. ‘I suppose I blame myself.'

Harry leaned forward. This was more promising.

‘She wasn't keen on coming over to England originally - moving away from her friends and family in Dublin. I talked her into it; the worst mistake I ever made. We hadn't been married long, but already the writing was on the wall. Mind, in those days she didn't rant and rave every single time I opened my mouth.' Finbar gave a reminiscent shake of the head. ‘I should have known better. I'd always sworn I liked women too much ever to marry one. And Sinead was hardly my type. Steeped in the faith and mad about animals, while all I ever knew about was the birds and the bees. Even in those days she was into animal lib, going on demos and that kind of malarkey. I ought to have spotted the warning signs.'

Finbar mused for a few seconds. Then he grinned. ‘But there's something irresistible about a passionate woman, wouldn't you agree? And she was that, all right. So I set my sights on having my wicked way with her. In the end, I managed it, but at the cost of a wedding ring. I'd have done better with her in the long run if I'd had four legs and fur.'

‘There must have been good times.'

‘I won't deny it. In the earliest days she even let me tattoo her boobs with flamingoes - free-hand stuff. Takes guts, that, you know. You only have one chance to get it right. I hoped in time she'd agree to a complete body stocking, from her neck to her knees. A sight to make any man swoon.'

Harry winced. ‘Women
like
that sort of thing?'

‘Ah, you're an old chauvinist at heart. Let me promise you, some of them love it. I reckon Michelangelo would envy some of my canvases.' He smiled to himself, as if enjoying a private joke. ‘At least when all the papers have been signed, Sinead will have something to remember me by. That's one of the beauties of tattooing, mate. You carry your history with you, you can't deny who or what you were.'

Finbar blinked, shook his head again and returned to the present. ‘Anyway, things started to go sour between us. I had the studio, a few girlfriends, I've never exactly kept regular hours. And Sinead could never be content as a housewife. She got involved with Free Animals Now! I remember years ago she bragged to me FAN! had broken into a vivisection lab and smashed open all the cages - as if there weren't enough rats in the big bad world already.' A slow smile spread across his face as he added, ‘Mind. I won't pretend it was all bad news. At least I never had to buy her a new mink coat.'

‘And Melissa, what about her?'

‘I'm not cut out for wedded bliss. I learned my lesson with Sinead. All the same, Melissa's been good for me. I'd been having a tough time, what with ... well, it doesn't matter. We met at a party, I got talking about body art and she explained she worked on local radio and they might be interested in doing a programme about it. So I offered to draw a garland on her ankle.'

‘She took you up on it?'

‘The very next night. We've been together ever since.' Finbar rubbed his chin. ‘Funny thing, though, Harry, she's asked me to tattoo her thigh with a heart linking her name and mine and I can't bring myself to do it. I keep making up excuses.'

‘You think it would give her a special claim on you?'

‘Spot on. Besides, Melissa's a funny kid. Lovely to look at, but sometimes she bothers me. She's had ... well, let's call it trouble with her nerves. She's the sort who easily gets hurt.'

It was on the tip of Harry's tongue to say:
So don't hurt her
. Realism kept him quiet. Urging Finbar to settle for monogamy would be like inviting Sinead to join the Quorn.

Finbar belched pleasurably. ‘By the way, are you doing anything tonight?'

‘Not apart from worrying about my debut on local radio tomorrow. Why? You're surely not planning another bonfire?'

‘Something completely different, I promise you. Radio Liverpool are sponsoring a talent contest at the Russian Convoy this evening. Come along and I'll introduce you to Baz Gilbert.'

Harry consulted his watch. The court hearing was due to start in fifteen minutes. He clambered to his feet.

‘Okay, but we'd better move. It's time to try and tip the scales of justice.'

Outside it had grown colder and wisps of mist hung in the air. This kind of weather always made Harry think of
Bleak House
; Dickens' description of fog on the river had stuck in his mind. Fog, rolling defiled among the waterside pollution of a great and dirty city, yet never so thick as to assort with the groping and floundering condition held by that most pestilent of hoary sinners - the court.

The Divorce Registry was packed with sulky spouses, refusing to look at each other while their legal representatives haggled over the kids, the mortgage payments and the Dire Straits albums. Harry caught sight of Kim Lawrence at the end of the corridor, talking to a woman who wore dungarees the colour of mud. With a shock, he realised who she was.

Sinead Rogan had half a dozen badges pinned to her breast and grubby moccasins on her feet. Her dark hair was thick and hadn't seen shampoo for some time. But something oddly familiar about her features struck Harry. Watching her interrupt Kim Lawrence, stabbing the air with her finger to emphasise a point, he realised what she reminded him of.

‘Sinead was the model for your picture of Lady Godiva,' he whispered.

Finbar tapped himself on the chest and nodded. ‘In happier times, as they say in the newspapers.'

When Sinead paused for breath, Kim Lawrence nodded briskly. She turned and, noticing Harry and Finbar, loped down the corridor towards them.

‘Afternoon,' she said to Harry. ‘I take it this is your client?' She eyed Finbar with an ill-concealed distaste which contrasted with his admiring scrutiny of her tall and slender frame.

This is all I need
, thought Harry.
Kim is up in arms on behalf of the wronged wife and miladdo is on the point of making a pass at her
.

Hastily, he asked, ‘Anything doing, Kim? Mr Rogan is ready to come to an amicable agreement, if that's possible.'

‘You're well aware of what my client is looking for.'

‘And you must be aware that she has no chance of getting it. Ask her to be realistic, and we can wrap this up in five minutes.'

‘Mrs Rogan wants her day in court. She has received dreadful treatment from your client and she expects him to start paying for it, from this moment on.'

‘I realise you have your instructions and I'm not suggesting Finbar here is a boy scout. But let's talk things over. You'll see from the list we're in front of Buffalo Bill.'

‘Judge Cody wouldn't have been my choice to hear this case. Nevertheless, Mrs Rogan's mind is made up. Unless her terms are met, we proceed.'

‘You know as well as I do, Cody won't allow any latitude with cross-examination. Anything that might make him late for the cup-tie this evening would definitely be out of order.'

The weary scorn on Kim Lawrence's face conveyed her opinion of the old men who made up a politically incorrect judiciary. She was known in the city as a champion of the oppressed, spokesperson for an equal rights pressure group and Chair of the local branch of the Miscarriages of Justice Organisation. Harry often read in the
Echo
about her leading candle-lit vigils for the unjustly accused or running in marathons to help finance a new refuge for battered wives. Perhaps the creases of tiredness around her eyes marked the first faint signs of compassion fatigue.

‘What do you have in mind?' she asked.

Harry named a figure, which fell short of the maximum Finbar was willing to pay. A margin for negotiation was always required when dealing with a formidable opponent who acted for a stubborn client.

‘No chance,' said Kim Lawrence.

‘Listen, darling,' said Finbar, unable to contain himself any longer, ‘when a woman reaches a certain age...'

In a tone cold enough to freeze the rest of the sentence on his lips, Kim Lawrence said, ‘I am not your darling, Mr Rogan. And I'll be grateful if you'll spare me your puerile pub philosophising.'

Harry was beginning to lose hope. ‘Look, some allowances need to be made here. Do you know Mr Rogan's business was torched last night? As of this moment he has no trading income whatsoever. What's the wife after - blood?'

‘That will do for a start,' said a husky voice.

Sinead Rogan had joined them. She sounded triumphant. For all her unkempt appearance, she exuded a raw physical energy and Harry could guess why Finbar had once found her attractive. At close range, he became aware of the smell of cats clinging to her. Her hazel eyes gleamed with hostility as she contemplated her husband.

Finbar made the mistake of addressing her.

‘Ah, come on, love. I'm willing to throw in a few more quid. Can't we sort this out like reasonable human beings?'

She shrieked with laughter: a wild, uncontrolled noise, as out of place in the court building's calm as the sound of someone kicking a tin can down a church aisle. A security guard at the other end of the corridor cast a sharp glance in their direction.

‘The offer we're willing to make is fair,' said Harry. ‘I have Mr Rogan's authority to increase it by another ten per cent. Talk it over with your solicitor.'

Kim Lawrence opened her mouth, but before any words could come out, Sinead laughed again, the same discordant shriek.

‘You will have to excuse me, Mr - Devlin, is it?' she said at last. ‘Money may be what makes you tick, but not me. It's pound of flesh time, so far as I am concerned.'

‘For Heaven's sake,' said Finbar. ‘I don't pretend I'm an angel, but...'

‘Shut up,' she said, spitting out the words. ‘You've had plenty to say in the past. Now it's your turn to listen.' She paused for effect, then hissed: ‘You see, you bastard, I know what happened to that wretched girl Eileen.'

Finbar's cheeks reddened. Harry had thought him incapable of blushing, but with a few words, Finbar's customary self-confidence had dissolved into uncharacteristic embarrassment. He shifted from one foot to another and cleared his throat.

‘Sinead, for Heaven's sake! You don't know anything about Eileen.'

She wagged her finger at him, well aware she had struck a nerve.

‘You couldn't be more wrong. I've heard the whole story.'

Finbar half-closed his eyes. ‘Listen, I'm the only one who knows it.'

‘You think you know it all, where women are concerned; but the truth is, you're the most despicably ignorant man I ever met.' She spat on the floor and turned away. Kim Lawrence gave the security guard a worried look, but he now had his hands full with a wailing infant, probably the subject of an access dispute.

Finbar shrugged and spoke with a soft sadness. ‘Ah, but there's no reasoning with you. Come on, Harry, let the law take its course.'

So they went in before Judge Cody and in cross-examination, Kim Lawrence made her contempt for Finbar clear. Every time he prevaricated about his means, she slapped him down. ‘Answer the question, please, Mr Rogan!'

‘But it's like this, you see...'

‘Yes or no, please, Mr Rogan.'

On another day her tactics would have worked to perfection, but today they succeeded only in infuriating Buffalo Bill, who was banking on an early dart home. Finally, he threw his pen onto the desk.

‘Miss Lawrence!'

He paused deliberately, allowing the advocate a moment to fume in silence. He knew she called herself Ms, not Miss, but he had never held with that sort of nonsense.

‘Miss Lawrence,' he repeated with careful emphasis. ‘You have already been told that Mr Rogan's premises were burnt down last night: a traumatic experience by any standards. You are now indulging, if I may say so, in character assassination for the sake of it. And I will not have that in my court, do you hear? I will not have it!'