In Pieces (32 page)

‘Great. And what are you doing on Wednesday?'

‘I'm meeting your friend Ricky for a jam. The Crocodiles are rehearsing and he's asked me to come along.'

‘He did?'

‘Yeah. Great, isn't it? God, Si, you don't know how excited I am about finally getting to play with a rock band.'

‘I was meaning to ask you about that. I mean, I had no idea….'

‘Well, I kept it kind of secret. But I've been practising and I've got quite good.'

‘Excellent. So where are you meeting Ricky?'

‘He said he'd ring me nearer the time to let me know.'

‘So you've talked to him quite a bit then?'

‘No, not really. Just a couple of times since you introduced us. He's a really great bloke. I'm looking forward to meeting up with him.'

‘Right. So, is it just music or shall I come along too on Wednesday?'

‘No, don't worry. I think we'll just do the music. You and I can meet up Thursday.'

‘Oh, all right. So, let's talk nearer to the time then, shall we?'

‘Yeah, I'll give you a call on Thursday morning first thing. Okay?'

‘Fine.'

‘Good. See you then, mate.' Jimmy rang off.

~

It was all over the news on Monday 12 September. Three days later the Sleeper was still dazed. The English security forces had somehow found out that Ginger was organising arms runs into London. They'd busted the house in Hammersmith and shot him through the front door. Ginger was dead. Apparently, his real name was Martin Coughlan—the Sleeper hadn't known that, but he recognised the picture straight away. The other two men in the house—neither of whom the Sleeper had met—had been arrested.

The news claimed that the police had found a huge arsenal—enough to mount a huge bombing campaign. Commentators concluded that the cease-fire seemed likely to end soon.

How many others like me are there? the Sleeper wondered. Sleeping in London until called to go into action. By the sound of it, Ginger and his mates had been running quite a few lads.

He felt no sorrow for Ginger's death. A bit of admiration and respect, yes. He'd died a martyr, fighting for the cause. But he'd not liked him personally. And he'd hated that Ginger had known all about the affair with Greta.

The Sleeper hadn't wanted Greta to be involved. He still didn't. After long thought in his bedroom, he devised a way of ensuring she could avoid being implicated. Although he recognised it was rash, he decided to record a last testament on tape, so that if something went badly wrong the next day, she could use it to prove her innocence.

‘If you're listening Mr Policeman… Whoever you are…' he spoke into the small dictaphone he'd bought for the purpose, ‘pay attention… Greta Andrews has no idea who or what I am… What I'm doing or anything. Okay? Got that? Good.'

Of course, hearing about Ginger put the shits up him. If they knew about the arms smuggling, surely they know about his operation too? Also, the two blokes arrested in Hammersmith might have known about him. What if they'd been tortured and had given him away? But so far nothing had happened. He didn't seem to have been followed, and nobody had been round asking questions, as far as he knew.

The Sleeper had even been up to Eamon's pub to take the temperature; it was tepid, the same as always. The regulars greeted him the same as ever. Nothing to worry about. Of course, everyone was talking about it, saying what a disgrace that the police had opened fire without giving proper warning and that the only proper response from true Irishmen now would be to fight back. Not that any of them had any intention of doing so.

The Sleeper started to despise them all. He couldn't help it. Sitting there with their Guinness in front of them, listening to the fiddle music from back home, with their fat beer bellies wobbling and spouting about a united Ireland, when none of them had ever done anything to help make it a reality. Well, I'm different, he thought; I believe actions count more than words, like my ma taught me.

In his bedroom, The Sleeper picked up the dictaphone. ‘Greta, if you're listening to this it will be because… Something has happened. I don't expect you to understand, but I hope that this will help you to remember me as I was when others are telling lies about me. I imagine many others who never knew me will try and persuade you that when I was with you I wasn't what I seemed. Believe me, I was. Perhaps you alone know me as I really am.

‘I'm not recording this for history's sake. No, it's more of an insurance policy really. For you. If you're listening to this you'll know why you need it. Just give it to the police if they arrest you, okay?

‘Remember me as I was, your Baa, and don't forget I love you. Okay? Right… Well, I'll take a break, then I'll tell it as it was.'

~

The jamming session was a great success. Jimmy's hours of practice had paid off and he had become a competent twelve bar blues man. Nothing fancy, mind, just a few imitative licks here and there. But he had made enough progress so that, by using the effects pedals to enhance his performance, he could add a new dimension to ‘The Crocodiles' slick sound.

‘Jimmy, that was real cool.'

‘What, that riff at the end? Yeah, I was working on that last week. Seems to come off now.'

‘Good, real good,' grinned Art.

‘Wild,' said Dog.

Jimmy smiled as happy as a sandboy. This was childhood dream stuff.

‘You sure you're not gonna be down for longer sometime? Then we could really do some stuff. Maybe even gig together.'

Jimmy was ecstatic. ‘You mean like on stage with you guys? I'd love that.' Then his expression clouded. ‘But I'm not going to be back for more than a day or two at a time till next summer. And that's so far away, who knows what'll be happening?' He didn't dare to even express the thought clearly to himself, but Jimmy had seen an article suggesting that he might yet play for his country in the World Cup qualifying matches. The idea was beginning to take root. Who could rule it out? If he
had a good season with United, it wasn't totally out of the question. But his disappointment at being unable to perform with The Crocodiles, at least in the near future, was more immediate.

‘Yeah, sure. I understand. You're a big time soccer star and this is just small time rock ‘n' roll, but you're always welcome to jam. Just let me know when you're around, okay?'

‘Sure, that'd be great.'

‘Enough yakking. Let's do one more, then catch last orders.'

‘Okay, Ricky. What'll it be then?' The rest of the band looked instinctively to their lead singer for an answer. So far he'd delivered and they now had as many gigs as they wished to play. Still pubs and clubs, but their reputation was growing steadily in the independent music press.

‘Let's hit
Gemini Jane
, okay?' This was one of their own compositions; to be accurate, it was Ricky's composition, into which he'd built the band parts bit by bit. It was a hard-hitting R&B number with enough original touches to give it commercial potential. What they really needed was a good producer to turn them into a recording band, but not even Ricky had planned that far ahead yet. The first step was to build a reputation and then find a record company.

‘Jimmy, you'll pick it up. It's basically a twelve bar on E, okay?'

‘No problem,' grinned Jimmy as he adjusted the strap of his guitar in anticipation. ‘No problem.' This was even more fun than playing football for Manchester United. Life was smiling upon him, he decided. But that was how it should be.

‘One two, one two three four…' shouted Ricky, and began to strut as the chunky bass riff kicked in.

~

The office was like a steam room; sod's law that in August the air-conditioning should break down. Mary hunched over her desk and pressed on her voice mail. ‘You have two messages. Press five for new messages.'

‘Get on with it, you stupid cow.' Sometimes Mary loathed this woman, even if she was nothing more than a disembodied electronic voice.

‘Temper, temper,' teased Rory, who sat at the adjacent desk.

‘Get lost, Rory,' she snapped.

‘Oh, PMT? Or is it that you're just not getting enough?' Rory raised a camp transatlantic eyebrow. ‘There's no need to take it out on your poor phone, you know. It can't help being a pre-historic bundle of IT.'

‘Piss off, Rory. Just mind your own business.'

Rory sighed dramatically. ‘Girls today… I don't know. Just no… etiquette.'

Mary deliberately swivelled her chair so that her back was towards him. How she hated open-plan offices. No privacy. Whoever had come up with the idea had clearly never worked in close
proximity with one hundred fellow creatures sweating in the airless confines of a fifteenth floor with phones ringing off the hook all day and computer screens cynically destroying all hope of retaining twenty-twenty vision beyond one's youth.

‘First message,' intoned the electronic voice.

‘Hi… Three o'clock, Calvin calling. You know the number and the deal.' She glanced at her watch. Ten minutes since her main client in New York had rung. She'd ring him back in just a mo'.

‘Mary? It's Si. I'll try later.' Mary immediately pressed the automatic dial for Si's flat.

‘Hello?'

‘Hi, darling. How are you? You rang.'

‘Oh yeah. That was quick, I only left the message two minutes ago.'

Mary wondered if she was being too keen. God, she never knew with men. Either they complained that you were too aloof and distant or they ran away when you tried to be obliging and enthusiastic. She decided to play it cool. ‘Oh, I didn't realise. I must have been on the line to someone else. I'm in a bit of a hurry, so can you make it quick?'

Si sounded hurt. ‘Oh, sorry to waste your precious time…'

Damn, she'd got it wrong. As usual, thought Mary glumly. She gave up the act. ‘No, don't be like that. Of course I've got time for you. As much as you want, my love.'

Si softened. ‘Good. Sorry, if I was uptight. You know how it is… Tough day in the flat doing nothing,' he quipped. Mary waited for him to go on. ‘I just wanted to check you were having an all right day.'

‘That's sweet. Yes, it's okay. Not brilliant, mind, but okay. Bloody hot.'

‘Yeah, isn't it great? I'm about to go off to the park and try out those rollerblades.' With typical generosity, Mary had bought them both blades last week when she'd been in the States on business.

She surprised herself by feeling happy that Si was having a good day, even if she was cooped up and feeling like a boiled cod. Normally, she would have been deeply irritated and jealous of a friend having fun while she suffered. God, it must be love, she thought, her pink skin flushing to red. ‘That's great. I wish I could be with you.'

‘Yeah, me too,' Si replied nonchalantly.

I wonder if he means it. Si sounded so breezy and insouciant. Changing direction really had been a good move for him. Not just resigning from
The Courier
, but also starting to read more and really explore what he wanted to do with his life. Even all the spiritual stuff his mother had got him into seemed to have helped; although Mary sometimes worried that he might go all religious on her. ‘Listen, darling, I must go. Have a good skate, and don't break a leg, okay?'

‘Yeah. I'll be thinking of you. Stay cool.'

If you only knew how uncool I am, thought Mary. ‘See you tonight, then.'

‘I'll be waiting. Dinner at eight?'

Mary giggled. Definitely one of the best things about Si's new freedom was his willingness to cook for her. And, after a dodgy start, he was getting better. ‘Can't wait. What are we having?'

Si put on an appalling French accent and unwittingly demonstrated how the banality of uxoriousness increases to fill the time available. ‘Well, I thought Madame might enjoy some poached salmon with a warm rocket salad and croutons followed by summer pudding and clotted cream, accompanied by a sophisticated little wine I found today…a superb white burgundy dribbling butter and with a powerful nose of freshly cut lemongrass…'

Mary could stand no more. ‘Stop, stop,' she wheezed, ‘it sounds fabulous. Promise me something.'

‘Anything,
ma chérie
.'

‘Promise me, that whatever you decide to do, you won't become an actor.'

Si sounded offended. ‘
Pourquoi?
'

‘Just don't, okay?'

‘Okay. See you.'

‘Love you… Bye.' Mary wiped her eyes and looked around. Fortunately, no one seemed to have noticed her having a good time. If they had, intrusive questioning would have been bound to follow. Another joy of open-plan working.

She spun her chair back towards the computer screen. Her screen-saver told her in no uncertain terms that
TOP TOTTY KICKS TUTS
—not her phrase, but suggested as a motto for her by one of the vice-presidents. She'd taken it as a compliment six months ago. Now she wasn't so sure. Is that really what her colleagues thought of her? If so, shouldn't she be concerned?

God, it was hot. If she was going to get home by eight, she'd need to pull her finger out. Right, Calvin—down to earth with a bump. She grimaced as she forced herself into serious business mode and pressed another automatic dial button on her phone.

~

Jimmy looked out the window at the blue cloudless sky and brown fields. It was only ten, but the dew had long since evaporated from the tired grass. Better late than never, he thought. It had been such a bloody awful summer.

Exhausted Friesians moped in the shade of tall, solitary trees. Probably contemplating a BSE future, mused Jimmy. Personally, he couldn't see what all the fuss was about. After all, hardly anyone had died of this new disease as far as he could work out. He still ate beef, loved it; in fact, he made a point of telling everyone that he did.