OxCrimes Page 20

  Next day Sandra’s friend came over. Come to the pictures with her. I thought that was good because it would be dark and we wouldn’t need to talk. We could just sit.

  We saw a film about a pig. After we went back to the her house and she made us chips. She had two sons and a daughter and her name was Morag.

  I walked home. Smoking. Feeling heavy. We hadn’t talked too much and that was good. She was good looking. Not flash but tidy looking. Wore brown, but still I wasn’t right about it. And when I stopped I looked out over the harbour wall and saw the next sign. As I watched that exact spot two bombs came out of the water at the exact same time and went off, their flames touching in the dark. I knew then. It would be okay.

  Once in the group, we had a laugh. Jamie started telling his story. He got the words in that they liked: remorse, damage, impulse. We knew before they did that he was telling it the wrong way, we were all smiling at each other, hands hiding mouths. He went a long way into it before they stopped him. It was a story about creeping through houses, moving in the dark, about smells from hair.

  Mum left the village when she heard I was coming. She left. I don’t even know why I’m surprised, to be honest. I should have known. That’s exactly the sort of women she was. She didn’t write to me, not once. She came to see me only once when I was in prison before and she didn’t bring me smokes or anything. It was all sobbing and god-forgive – wicked – wicked man, that child that child. I know she was going to takes sides but if she was going to take anyone’s side it should have been mine. I mean I understand better now, since being in the group but I’m her only son. Other guys in the group had family. They sent letters. One guy raped his wife and battered her to death with a brick and his sisters came every month, for christ sakes. Brought his kids.

  I passed my driving test. I went home and cried. A man. Crying. Sitting on the end of my bed and crying. I couldn’t stop, I just couldn’t make the breath get into my lungs. When I looked up, eventually, it was dark outside. The wind was up. I heard shutters slamming all over the village. Rain was sheeting down over the water and the streets emptied. It was the biggest storm of the summer.

  I left my digs. I climbed up the hill overlooking the harbour, higher than where you’d walk, up to where I was scrabbling on scree and I sat down, sweating from the walk. Bombs were bursting all over the water, as far as the eye could see, like a million Viking funerals and I was out of denial now. I undid my flies and slipped my hand inside. I was Jamie now.

  I was driving through the summer valley, with my space in the back where no one can see. The window is open, a breeze coming in, and the sun is warming my hand. And on the seat next to me is Morag, not yet crying, not yet afraid, and the smell of soap is far far behind us both.

  ADRIAN MCKINTY was born in 1968 in Carrickfergus, Northern Ireland. He studied politics and philosophy at Oxford before emigrating to New York in the early 1990s where he worked for seven years in bars, building sites and bookstores. In 2000 he moved to Denver to become a high school English teacher and in 2008 he moved again, this time to Melbourne, Australia. He has published fourteen novels and is best known for his crime series featuring Belfast rebel detective Sean Duffy.

  The Ladder

  Adrian McKinty

  Donald sighed as the university loomed out of the rain and greyness. All morning he had hit nothing but red lights and now, although it was green, he had to stop because a huge gang of students was crossing the pedestrian walkway in front of him.

  It was rag week and they were wearing costumes: animals, Cossacks, knights, milkmaids. Predictable and drab, the outfits had a home-made look and they depressed him. The students were laughing and some were actually skipping. It was raining, it was cold, it was November in Belfast: what had they to laugh about?

  The traffic light went red and then amber and then green again and still they hadn’t all got across. He was tempted to honk them off the road but no doubt from hidden pockets they would produce flour and water bombs and throw them at him. He sat there patiently while the car behind began to toot. He looked in the rear view mirror at a vulnerable, orange VW Microbus. Yeah, you keep doing that mate, he said to himself and sure enough a half a dozen eggs cut up the poor fool’s windscreen.

  He chortled to himself, the mob cleared and he turned into the car park.

  ‘Jesus, is that a grin?’ McCann asked him when he appeared in the office.

  He nodded.

  ‘What, have you got a job offer somewhere?’ McCann wondered.

  ‘No old chap, I am doomed to spend my declining years with your boorish self and my cretinous students in this provincial hell hole of a city that is slowly sinking into the putrid mudflats from which it so inauspiciously began.’

  ‘If I’d known I was going to get an essay …’ McCann said, not all that good-naturedly.

  Donald took off his jacket and set it down on the chair. ‘Is this coffee drinkable?’ he asked staring dubiously at the tarry black liquid in the coffee pot.

  ‘Drinkable yes. Distinguishable as coffee, no.’

  Donald poured himself a cup anyway, added two sugars and picked up the morning paper.

  ‘Before I lose interest entirely, why were you smiling when you came in? Some pretty undergraduate no doubt?’ McCann asked.

  ‘No, no, nothing like that I’m afraid. The students went after some hippy driving a VW Microbus, talk about devouring your own.’

  ‘Aye. I’ve seen that thing around. New guy. Been parking in my spot. Kicked his side panels a few times. Buckled like anything. It’s an original. Those old ones are bloody death traps.’

  ‘A windscreen covered with eggs and flour won’t make it any safer.’

  McCann took out his pipe and began filling it with tobacco. Donald went back to the paper. ‘So what’s on the old agenda today anyway?’ McCann asked.

  ‘Nothing in the morning. Playing squash at lunch time and then we’re doing the Miller’s Tale after lunch.’

  ‘The Miller’s Tale? Which one’s that?’

  ‘Do you actually want to know?’

  ‘Well, not really I suppose,’ McCann replied, somewhat shamefaced.

  The hours passed by in a haze of tobacco smoke, bad coffee, worse biscuits and dull news from the paper.

  At twelve Donald slipped off only to be intercepted by a student outside the gym. ‘Dr Bryant,’ the student began in a lilting voice and Donald remembered that he was a Welshman called Jones or Evans or something.

  ‘Mr Jones how can I help you today?’

  ‘Uh, actually my name is –’

  ‘Yes, Mr Jones, how I can help you? Come on. Out with it man. I’m in a hurry.’

  ‘Uhm, Dr Bryant, I’m supposed to do a presentation next week on Jonson …’

  ‘Ben or Sam or, God save us, Denis?’

  ‘Uhhh, the playwright.’

  ‘They all wrote plays, Mr Jones.’

  ‘They did? Uhm, well, it’s Ben. Yeah. And, well, the library doesn’t have the secondary sources, someone took them all and I don’t know what to do really. I tried to borrow them from the University of Ulster library but they’re out too. I’ve read all the primary stuff, but I want the secondary sources to do a good job.’

  Donald felt a pin prick of guilt. Mr Jones seemed like a nice, sincere, young man. One of the few good students. He was studying engineering but was taking English as an elective. Perhaps that explained his curious dedication. The BAs in English were all layabouts and druggies. ‘All right Mr Jones come by my office at four today and I’ll lend you my own books, they should be sufficient for a half decent presentation. You’ll be careful with them won’t you?’

  ‘Oh God yeah, thank you, thank you very much,’ the student said.

  Donald arrived at the gym feeling unnaturally buoyant – two quite pleasant incidents in one morning.

  He showed his ID to Peter Finn the ancient security guard at the reception desk.

  ‘Afternoon, Dr Bryant,’ Peter said in his rough coun
try accent.

  ‘Afternoon,’ he replied curtly.

  ‘Going to give the wee muckers another hiding eh?’

  ‘One tries, Peter, one tries.’

  ‘You still at the top?’ Peter asked, knowing full well the answer.

  Donald swelled a little. ‘Still plugging away.’

  ‘Sixteen straight months, Professor Millin says. Yon’s a record ye know,’ Peter said very seriously.

  ‘Is it indeed?’ Donald said and this time it was his turn to pretend.

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘Well all good things must come to an end sometime. This new crop of lecturers is giving me a run for my money,’ Donald said magnanimously.

  Peter winked at him as if he didn’t quite believe him.

  Donald grinned, went to the basement, found locker 201 and changed quickly into his gear: a casual blue t-shirt, white shorts, white socks and an old pair of Adidas squash sneakers. He looked at himself in the mirror. He was in the prime of life. His eyes were clear, his cheeks clean shaved, his hair jet black with only a few strands of invading grey around the ears.

  Fenton was late and Donald tried hard not to show his irritation. Fenton was a slightly younger man and he was nimble. He was number three on the squash ladder and by no means an unworthy opponent. Fenton playing above his game and Donald playing beneath his could pretty much even out the field. Fenton changed into his kit: pristine white shorts, Fred Perry top and a brand new racket.

  They walked to the court, stretched, warmed up the ball.

  Donald won the racquet spin.

  He served a high looping ball that died in the corner. Fenton made an attempt to return it but he had no chance. Donald served five more like that before Fenton managed to get one back and by that time it was too late – his confidence was broken. Donald won the match three games to one, Fenton’s sole game coming from Donald’s largesse. When he was in control it was Donald’s policy always to let an opponent win at least one game so that no one would ever know the true picture of his ability.

  They showered and had a quick gin and tonic in the bar before Donald went off to his lecture. It was nearly a full house, the students didn’t ask stupid questions and he was in good form when he set off for home at four o’clock. Half way to the car he remembered about young Jones and went back to his office. Amazingly the undergraduate was on time and he gave him the books without further ado.

  ‘Quite the day,’ he said to himself as he walked to his Volvo estate under a clearing sky. Susan noticed his good mood immediately as he picked her up outside the Ulster Bank on Botanic Avenue. ‘You’re in a good mood,’ she said.

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Let’s eat out at the new Italian.’

  ‘What about your eggplant lasagne?’

  ‘We’ll give it to the dog.’

  ‘What dog?’

  ‘Any dog.’

  The drive to Carrickfergus was easy, the new Italian was acceptable, the sommelier complimented him on his choice of wine.

  He parked the Volvo outside his neat, mock-Tudor detached house near the Marina. After another cheeky bottle of Tuscan red he and Susan had sex only slightly less exciting than that he’d been lecturing about this afternoon in the Miller’s Tale.

  As days go, it wasn’t bad and when the university loomed out of the mist next morning, this time he didn’t sigh.

  Susan, getting a lift to Belfast for the shopping, smiled at him.

  ‘It’s growing on you,’ she said.

  ‘Perhaps,’ he agreed.

  ‘You’re playing Fenton today in your silly squash thing, aren’t you?’

  ‘Oh no that was yesterday. And it’s not silly. He was the third seed. Psyched him out completely, poor chap. Went to pieces. Had to go easy on him.’

  ‘So you’re still top of the ladder?’

  Donald was a little surprised at the question. Of course he was still top. Did she seriously think he could take her out to the expensive new Italian restaurant, get the priciest plonk on the menu and be happy as a clam if he was off the top? My God what kind of cipher did she think she’d married.

  ‘Oh yes, I think so,’ he said casually.

  She started talking about something or other but he was replaying the game in his mind, wondering if his backhand was still quite as strong as his lob. He left her outside the bank.

  ‘So you’ll drive me to the soup kitchen on Saturday?’ she asked, getting out of the car.

  ‘I’ll drive you,’ he said and then after a pause added: ‘What soup kitchen, what are you talking about?’

  ‘Haven’t you been listening? Our reading group. That book really affected us and we’re volunteering at the soup kitchen on Saturday. Christmas is coming you know.’

  He tried to think what the book could be. Something by Orwell perhaps, or Dickens, or some ghastly novel set among the poor of India.

  ‘Of course I’ll drive you. In fact I think I’ll even go. Help out.’

  ‘You?’ she said incredulously.

  ‘Me, yes. Why so shocked? I’m a Labour man through and through. I would have preferred David to Ed but that’s neither here nor there. Help the common people, each according to his needs and from, uh, you know … that’s my motto,’ he said with only half sarcasm, for she had hurt him a little with her surprise.

  The week went by like every other week and on Saturday he did help out in the soup kitchen and it was by no means completely unpleasant. Some of the indigent were witty and grateful fellows fallen on hard times and he felt, if not happy, at least content.

  The following Monday morning Mr Jones gave his presentation and it wasn’t bad and that afternoon he played squash with Professor Millin in the gym. Millin was number six on the ladder, not a serious opponent. An older man, a physics lecturer, well into his forties, although last week he had taken a game off Dunleavy who was currently in second place and Dunleavy was the sort who never let anyone have a game, ever.

  ‘Heard you gave old Fred Dunleavy a run for his money,’ Donald said conversationally as they walked down to the court.

  ‘The big Scots ganch, I showed him, he’s slipping, he’s really slipping, getting a paunch, I tell you, you’ll cream him next time you play him, cream him,’ Millin said.

  Donald was happy to hear this. Dunleavy was a young physical education lecturer and for some time it had been his fear that Dunleavy would one day pull a superb game out of the bag and beat him.

  ‘He’s been avoiding me for weeks, I suppose that’s why,’ Donald said with satisfaction.

  They paused outside the court to stretch. Donald looked at the squash ladder and was surprised to see a new name way down at the bottom, at number sixteen: VM Sinya.

  ‘Who’s that?’ he said pointing at the name. Millin was the Ladder Secretary for this term, so he should know.

  ‘Oh yes, new fella, foreigner, bloody Pak … er, I mean, uh, an Indian gent I think. Initials stand for Victor Mohammed so I suppose he’s a Muslim. He’s from Computer Science. A lot of those boys do computers nowadays.’

  ‘Is he any good?’ Donald asked with a hint of nervousness in his voice. Anyone new could be trouble and several world champions had come from Pakistan.

  ‘How the hell should I know?’ Millin replied with great indifference.

  ‘All right let’s go in,’ Donald said putting all ominous thoughts of the newcomer out of his mind.

  He let Millin have a few points early before cruising to an easy victory in four games. He showered, picked up Susan and drove home.

  On Thursday the Dean told him that his student evaluations were up since last term and, after buttering him up, asked if he’d ever considered standing for the University Council. He had no such intention but the thought that the Dean was interested in him pleased him immensely.

  On Friday he had a game with McCann who was number twelve on the ladder. McCann had been quite a useful little player until the drink had become the dominant force in his life. Now all he was left with was a powerful serve and
a few trick shots. He had no stamina and he couldn’t get about the court. Donald never usually bothered to play anyone this low down but McCann was a friend. When he got to the court he was pleased to see that Mr VM Sinya was still at number sixteen. He hadn’t even been able to beat old Franklin at fifteen, clearly the man wasn’t much of a threat. He found that he was tremendously relieved by this. Was the ladder so important to him that the thought of a mysterious stranger had given him the jitters? He laughed at himself. What a dunderhead you are, he said to himself, and to prove his good humour he let McCann take a couple of games.

  On Saturday he was still feeling sufficiently good to help out at the soup kitchen. Also at the weekend he received a letter that one of his papers on Chaucer was going to be anthologised in the new collection by Dalrimple. Things, in fact, were going so well that he began to be suspicious that something terrible was going to happen. Perhaps he would be informed that he had some dreadful illness or maybe he would crash the car.

  Just in case he took the train to work on Monday, sitting in a back carriage near the emergency exit and steeling himself for a sudden derailment.

  Nothing happened except for fifty gum-chewing, messy, obnoxious children getting on at Greenisland who tormented him all the way to Central Station with their music and pointless celebrity gossip.

  His fears of impending disaster were somewhat realised when he showed up at the court to play Dunleavy and he saw that the mysterious Mr Sinya was at number ten on the squash ladder. The man had demolished five opponents in a week! This meant, of course, that he had displaced McCann, so at least he could interrogate his friend at lunch.

  In an unusually brutal and hurried match he thrashed Dunleavy, showered quickly and found McCann in the office eating toast and drinking tea mixed with whisky.

  ‘What’s Sinya like?’ he blurted out before even saying hello.

  ‘Sinya? I’ve no idea, mate.’

  ‘You played him.’

  ‘I gave him a bye, he wanted to play me on Friday lunch-time and I just couldn’t be bothered.’

  ‘You gave him a bye?’