Divorcing Jack (1998)

 

The Prisoner of Brenda by Colin Bateman (Headline 2012)

 

JMJ’s hands moved to her hips; it was the naval equivalent of taking battle formation.

‘Are you deliberately trying to provoke me?’

‘It’s a distinct possibility,’ I said.

‘You do know that there can only be one winner here?’

‘It’s better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.’

‘What?’

‘A bird in the hand is—’

‘Enough! Jesus, Mary and Joseph! I’ve had you down as a troublemaker from the moment you were carried in here, and now it’s right out in the open for everyone to see! Well, you listen to me, mister, we live by harmony here, not anarchy! These pizzas have been brought in from outside at not inconsiderable expense, as a special treat, but they’ll bloody well go in the bin if you continue with this outright . . . defiance – yes, that’s exactly what it is – defiance! Do you think I’m going to go without dinner tonight? No, but these poor souls, they certainly will if you do not see the error of your ways and apologise for your attitude and your behaviour. Immediately.’

Her stare was intense.

Michael slipped off his earphones. ‘Apologise, man, you’re not going to win.’

Joe said, ‘Do it, I’m starving.’

Malachy pointed a finger at me. ‘Say “you’re sorry. We get pizza once a month if we’re lucky. Don’t fuck it up.’

Andy stared at the pizzas.

JMJ raised an eyebrow. ‘Well?’

Yes, her eyes were good, but she was no Nurse Brenda – or Alison, for that matter – and I knew my plan was good, and for every moment I held my silence I knew that it was drawing closer to fruition.

‘Okay,’ she said, ‘have it your—’

I spoke. Muttered.

‘What was that?’ JMJ snapped. ‘If you’re going to apologise, speak up, let everyone hear you.’

I said, a little louder, ‘Food fight.’

She screwed up her eyes and leaned a little closer. ‘What was that?’

‘I said . . . FOOD FIGHT!’

I reached down and picked up one of the pizzas. It was cold and as firm as a discus. “The orderly looked from the pizza to me to JMJ and back, utterly confused and seeking direction.

JMJ began to say, ‘Put that d—’ but then had to duck as I Frisbeed it across the dining room towards her. It smeared off her left shoulder and hit the wall behind her, leaving a snail trail of cheese as it slipped to the floor.

‘C’mon!’ I yelled, urging the others to join in, ‘Food fight!’ I lunged at another pizza just as the orderly jumped at me, knocking me forwards and across the table. ‘Food fight!’ I screeched. He had me by the neck, pressing down. I screwed my head to one side and spat out: ‘C’mon, you half-wits! Food fight! This is your chance! C’mon!’

But they sat there, looking blankly at me. I managed to grab another pizza but a second orderly came rushing in and caught my hand and bent my fingers back until I let go and then they pulled me up and back and JMJ came round the table and put her face in mine and raised her hand and grabbed my cheek and pinched it between her fingers and twisted it and snarled, ‘Anything you want to say now?’

‘Yes . . . yes!’

‘Well?’

‘You don’t eat pizza with forks, you fucking witch!’

‘Pathetic!’ And she twisted my cheek even harder and it brought tears to my eyes and she smiled and said, ‘Take him to his room and lock him in, and I don’t want to see him until breakfast. You can have a long hard think about your behaviour and I expect a full and sincere apology or I swear to God . . . !'

Dr. Yes by Colin Bateman (Headline 2010)

 

I have never in my whole life actually physically pursued a case, because any kind of activity requiring increased motor function is something I have to be wary of, but I could hardly help myself. Of course I didn't know it was a case then. Then it was just a man walking past my window - but what a man! You see, in my field of crime fiction, Augustine Wogan was an enigma, a myth wrapped up in a legend, a barely published novelist and screenwriter who was known to so few that they didn't even qualify as a cult following, it was more like stalking. He was, nevertheless, Belfast's sole contribution to the immortals of the crime-writing genre. His reputation rested on three novels self-published in the late 1970s, novels so tough, so real, so heartbreaking that they blew every other book that tried to deal with what was going on over here right out of the water. Until then, novels about the Troubles had invariably been written by visiting mainland journalists, who perhaps got most of their facts right, but never quite captured the atmosphere or the sarcasm. Augustine Wogan's novels were so on the ball that he was picked up by the RUC and questioned because they thought he had inside information about their shoot-to-kill policy; shot at by the IRA because they believed he had wrung secrets out of a drunken quartermaster; and beaten up by the UVF because they  had nothing better to do. He had been forced to flee the country, and although he had returned since, he had never, at least as far as I was aware, settled here again. I occasionally picked up snippets of information about him from other crime- writing aficionados, the latest being that he had been employed to write the screenplay for the next James Bond movie, Titter of Wit, but had been fired for drunkenness. There was always a rumour of a new novel, of him being signed up by a big publisher or enthusiastic agent, but nothing ever appeared in print. The books that made up the Barbed-Wire Love trilogy were never republished. They are rarer than hen's teeth. I regarded the box of them I kept upstairs as my retirement fund. In those few moments when I saw him pass the shop, I knew that if I could just persuade him to sign them, their value would be instantly quadrupled. They say money is at the root of all evil, but I have to be pragmatic. I am devoted to crime fiction, but I am also devoted to eating, and Augustine Wogan was just the meal ticket I was looking for.

The Day of the Jack Russell by Colin Bateman (Headline 2009)

 

'Shaking the tree.’

Alison was aghast. ‘You . . . at a funeral . . . you . . . caused that . . . You’re supposed to be our Chief Constable, you’re supposed to be . . .’

‘. . . a lot of things. Listen to me. I’m sure you’re perfectly decent people, in your little bookshop, and your nice lives. Yes, you dabble in your private investigations, so maybe you’ve seen a few things, but you don’t understand what’s really going on, you don’t see the bigger picture. People think the Troubles are all over, but they’re not, they’re just different Troubles, some of it historic, some of it imported, most of it we just won’t know about till it comes up and bites us on the arse. But it’s my job to keep watch, and it doesn’t help when people are constantly trying to undermine me. So I have to flush them out, because keeping an eye on the likes of MI5 there’s a genuine danger that the forces of evil will slip through. I, we, cannot afford that, so sometimes I have to do something that shows them who’s boss. Do you understand me?’

I nodded. It was the first time I’d ever heard someone say forces of evil outside of a comic book.

Alison said, ‘You blew up a funeral.’

‘For the greater good.’

Alison shook her head at him. And then at me.

‘I should send the both of you round to apologise. This isn’t a bloody game.’

She was right, it wasn’t.

Games have more rules.

Mystery Man by Colin Bateman (Headline 2009)

'Bookselling is hard, ladies and gentlemen. It's relentless. The books just keep coming. Beans don't change, peas are peas are peas, but books are always evolving. There's bugger-all profit, the hours are extraordinary and the shoplifters are stupid, because you can just borrow the bloody things from the library. You can't borrow beans.'

I studied them. They studied me.

I nodded. 'No, sir,' I said, 'you can't borrow beans.'

Several guests, unfamiliar with my ways, glanced to the door, as if realising that they'd been hooked by a free sausage roll into attending a three-hour time-share sales pitch. Others, on more familiar territory, waited for me to get to the point. The Mayerovas never took their eyes off me.

'We do it because it's a labour of love,' I continued, 'we do it because we think it's important. And here, we do it because we like to champion the underdog, the bastard outcast of literature we like to call mystery fiction. I often say, give me a young man uncorrupted by the critics, and I will make him a crime aficionado for life.'

Alison cleared her throat. Feet shuffled. DI Robinson rose and fell.

I was not to be deterred. This was my time.

'I have made a lifelong study of crime fiction. I have read all of the great works, and most of the middling ones, and many of the minor ones, and a lot of trash besides. There is virtually nothing about the solving of fictional crimes that I do not know, and what are fictional crimes but factual crimes with hats on? It seemed only natural to me when, a few short months ago, I was asked to help solve a real-life mystery that I should combine what I have learned about crime as a reader, and human nature as a bookseller, in pursuit of a solution to a fiendishly difficult case. Since that first triumph I have investigated many mysteries that previously had confounded the forces of law and order, and there is not one that I have not solved. But my most testing case, my most harrowing, and without doubt my most dangerous, walked through these very doors just a matter of days ago and it concerned the man whom, together of course with our esteemed senile author, we have come here tonight to pay tribute to: Daniel Trevor.'

I pressed the miniature PowerPoint button in my hand, and a picture of Daniel Trevor appeared on the wall behind me. There were a few hushed oooohs from my captive audience. And they were captive. 

One of DI Robinson's undercover comrades had locked the front doors.

'Daniel Trevor . . . murdered last week.

Fire and Brimstone by Colin Bateman (Headline 2013)

He gave me a big smile and continued his work. After a bit, two female Seekers emerged from the bus, pristine now in their gowns and wimples but destined to be covered in coffee and juice and vomit as the night wore into early morning. One of them gave me a wide smile and said, 'I remember you!'

'Jane,' I said, 'how're you doing?'

'Fabulous/ she said. 'Can I get you a coffee . . . Andrew . . . wasn't it?'

'Orange juice,' 1 said, 'and you have a good memory.'

'I do . . . but then there was also something happened with you at Ballyferris . . . wasn't there?'

'Oh, yes,' I said. 'I got thrown out for sedition.'

She laughed and went to get the juice. When she came back with it, she asked how I'd been and if 1 was still in that bad place with my life, and I said no, everything was fine and dandy; I had just spotted the bus on the way home and wanted to call over and say hello and thank the New Seekers for their support, and her, in particular, for helping me.

'Ah, it was nothing. Sure, that's what we're here for.'

'Well,' I said, 'I appreciate it.'

I lifted the orange juice and drained it in one. 'Better be getting home,' I said, and handed her the glass.

'Good night, Andrew,' she said as she took it from me. 'And may God be with you.'

She gave me another smile and turned away.

'And may God be with you, Alison,' I said.

It stopped her in her tracks, but just for a moment. Then she continued on into the bus. 1 followed her progress along the inside to the small kitchen area. She began to wash the glass. She did not look towards me.

I smiled to myself and turned away.

She had been right there with me, right at the start, and I hadn't noticed. But a colleague of Jonathan's in Culchie's Corner had picked up the photo I'd left and remembered her from a rumpus in the bar when she was collecting for the New Seekers and someone pulled her headdress off. I had no idea how she had ended up with the Seekers, if the trauma of the Wellington Street massacre had caused her to turn to them or they had picked her up, broken or shot, from the street and then slowly brainwashed her, or, indeed, if she had simply been converted because she believed in Eve, just like thousands and thousands of others. Ultimately, it didn't matter. My job was done: I'd been paid handsomely, the puzzle was solved and Alison was alive and free to live that life as she saw fit.

Perfect.

As I walked away from the New Seeker bus, my phone began to ring.

'Well,' Sara asked breezily, 'what's happening?'

'Funny you should ask,' I said.

Nine Inches by Colin Bateman (Headline 2011)

I’ve always had a soft spot for the Shankill Road, even though it’s hard as nails. One and a half miles of arterial road through a twenty-five-thousand-strong Unionist working-class ghetto. It’s one of the few places you can still buy a pasty, rather than a panini or a panacotta without them looking at you like you’re a fucking space cadet. The Shankill bore the brunt of, and equally was responsible for, some of the worst violence of the Troubles. Paramilitaries ruled it, and they still do, only they’ve transmogrified from Loyalist freedom fighters financing their struggle through robbery, drugs, protection and murder into gangsters who finance their lifestyles through robbery, drugs, protection and murder. They justify their continued existence in the face of widespread peace by occasionally rolling out their flags and yelling about their loyalty to the Queen and the imminent danger of a Republican uprising. Republicans usually oblige by shooting someone. It is the gangster equivalent of fixing the market. It works equally well for both sides.

Belfast Confidential by Colin Bateman (CB Creative Books 2005)

 

It used to be that I was the well-known one – I had a column in the local paper, I stirred up all kinds of shit – but just as terrorists eventually hang up their guns and enter politics, I had long since resigned myself to the security and boredom of the post-Troubles newsroom. Belfast is like any city that has suffered war or pestilence or disaster – hugely relieved to no longer be the focus of world attention, but also slightly aggrieved that it isn't. In the old days you could say, 'I'm from Belfast,' anywhere in the world and it was like shorthand: a thousand images of explosions and soldiers and barbed wire and rioting and foam-mouthed politicians were thrown up by that simple statement. You were automatically hard, even if you were a freckle-armed accountant in National Health specs; you earned the sympathy of slack-jawed women for surviving so long, and you habitually buffed up your life story like you'd just crawled out of the Warsaw ghetto. You joked about the Troubles, but in such a way that you made it seem like you were covering something up. Perhaps you said you were once in a lift with that Gerry Adams and you thought he bore a remarkable resemblance to Rolf Harris, and you pointed out that you never saw the two of them in the same place at the same time, and your audience laughed and said, 'Right enough,' but at the same time you knew what they were thinking, that you were making light of it because actually you'd suffered horribly at the hands of masked terrorists or your mother had been blown through a window at Omagh or your father was shot down on the Bogside for demanding basic human rights. To say you were from Belfast was to say you were a Jew in Berlin, or a soldier of the Somme. But no longer. And as the Troubles had waned, so had the world's interest, and so had my star.

Divorcing Jack (1998)

 

Driving Big Davie by Colin Bateman (CB Creative Books 2004)

Everyone worth knowing knows exactly where they were when they heard Joe Strummer was dead. I know exactly where I was. I was sitting in a private room in a private hospital, trying to wank into a cup.

This probably needs some explaining.

Not everyone knows who Joe Strummer is. Or was. Joe was rock'n'roll.

He was The Clash.

For my generation, he was the man.

He sang 'White Riot' and 'Garageland' and 'London  Calling' and 'Know Your Rights'. He ran the tightest, wildest, most exciting beat combo in history.

He made music important. He changed lives in a way that Spandau Ballet or The Hollies never could. 

He was my Elvis, my Beatles, and he never got fat, or bland, or shot.

The world is indeed cruel. I know that more than most people. And I take refuge from that cruelty in the music of my youth.

The Horse with My Name by Colin Bateman (Headline 2002)

It was cold and dark outside. I went up the plank. It wasn’t a plank, of course. It was like boarding an aircraft. I did a quick tour. I bought a McDonald’s strawberry milkshake and then went to the newsagent and asked for a packet of Opal Fruits. The girl looked at me and I groaned and said, ‘Starburst.’ She nodded and lifted them off the shelf. ‘They used to be called Opal Fruits,’ I said. ‘They changed the name because the Americans call their Opal Fruits “Starburst”.’

‘Oh,’ she said.

‘And do you know why they call them Starburst?’

‘No.’

‘Because the astronauts took them into space. Existed on them. They’re packed with fruit juice. There’s a dozen square meals in this packet, and all for just thirty-two pence.’

‘Thirty-five.’

I handed her the money. ‘You’re okay. You’re young. You don’t remember. The glory days of Marathons and Pacers and Toblerones.’

‘We still have Toblerones.’

‘Yes, but they’re the size of fuck all. Used to be you’d break your teeth on them. Like Wagon Wheels.”

'You couldn’t break your teeth on a Wagon Wheel. They’re soft.’

Behind me a man in a blue tracksuit said, ‘No, I know what he means, Wagon Wheels used to be huge.’

I looked from him to the shop assistant and sighed. ‘Maybe they still are. Maybe we just got bigger.’

We all nodded sagely for several moments .  .  .

Shooting Sean by Colin Bateman (CB Creative Books 2001)

'Who the hell are you?' he cried.

'Security,' I said. 'I thought you were an intruder.'

'You stupid fuck! You broke my nose! It's my best feature!'

'Jesus,' I said, 'you're in trouble.'

He began to pull himself up. 'I'm going to speak to the goddamn manager about this . . .'

Before he could raise himself any further I thumped him on the jaw and he sagged back onto his knees.

'What the hell was that for?' he cried.

'Nothing,' I said, and thumped him again. 'But that was for "I Write the Songs That Make the Whole World Sing".'

Turbulent Priests by Colin Bateman (Headline 1999)

By noon a rag-bag of some sixty agitated islanders had congregated in the churchyard. They were all men, and they all had guns. Most were shotguns, but there were a few weapons of an altogether more sophisticated hue, which was, frankly, surprising. I’d expected slings and arrows, cudgels, rolling pins, Moses crooks and fish hooks. Not AK-47 assault rifles.

Father White addressed them from the steps of the church. Father Flynn stood by the church gates. He intended to bless them as they went a-hunting. Not the gates, the hunters. He had delegated the actual mechanics of the search to Father White, although I wasn’t altogether convinced that he had much choice about it. 

He’s neither younger nor fitter,’ he explained, ‘but he could have planned the invasion of Normandy in half the time.’

It was said with grudging respect. He looked worried. His voice was dry, his eyes were pinched up pensive. The mob was excited, baying to be off, and though they didn’t need it, Father White was whipping the frenzy up further. It was a simpleton’s version of a fox hunt, chasing a big girl around half a dozen square miles of bramble, scrub and wind-bent tree.

‘That’s an awful lot of hardware for an island this size, Father. What’s this, the forgotten wing of the IRA?’

He laughed. ‘No . . . of course not . . . we get a lot of ships call by, and they’re usually keen to trade. Particularly the Russians. God love their impoverished wee souls. There’s a fair bit of bartering goes on.’

‘You mean like half a dozen cabbages for a Kalashnikov.’

‘Actually, you’re not that far off. They’ve no shortage of weapons but their rations leave a lot to be desired. Poor scrawny half-starved wee men. You could probably equip a small army in exchange for sixty-four of Mrs McKeown’s meat pies.’

‘It looks like you have.’ I shook my head. ‘That’s still an awful lot of weaponry to track down an eighteen-stone schizophrenic. She’s not Rambo, Father, she’s Dumbo.’

‘Dan, she’s with Constable Murtagh, and as far as we’re concerned he is Rambo. He has a gun and he knows how to use it.’

‘He’s also the law, Father.’

‘Not on this island.’

‘Father, you know that’s not right.’

Before he could respond Father White appeared at his elbow. He had a shotgun under his arm.

The Prisoner of Brenda by Colin Bateman (Headline 2012)

She came into No Alibis, the finest mystery bookshop in all of Belfast, bedraggled from the autumn wind and rain and sleet and hail, pulled her red hood down and spluttered hello and long time no see and wouldn’t this be a great wee country if we just had nice weather, all in one puffy gasp, and I gave her the look I keep for idiots who deserve to be struck about the head with a hammer, but made sure to add a welcoming smile just to confuse her. Times were hard in the book trade, and one couldn’t afford to look a horse-face in the gift-mouth.

I did in fact recognise her, because I never forget a long toothy gob, but I wasn’t sure if she would remember me. She had been nice to me in the past, but that was no guarantee of anything. People change, or they have ulterior motives. You have to be on your guard at all times. I have been stabbed in the back thousands of times and have the mental scars to prove it, and one physical one where Mother caught me with a fish hook.

She stood there, dripping, and said, ‘So how are you? How have you been?’

‘Fine,’ I said. There was a small sign hanging from the till that said Ask About Our Christmas Club. It was not aligned properly. I fixed it. Despite this, she did not ask. After a while I remembered to say, ‘How are you?’

My on-off girlfriend Alison had lately been coaching me in the niceties, but I found them difficult, and ultimately, hypocritical. I didn’t care how she was. I didn’t care how anyone was. What was the point? We were all going to die.

‘You do remember me, don’t you?’

‘Of course,’ I said. ‘Nurse Brenda.’

She smiled. ‘Nurse Brenda,’ she repeated.

‘Nurse Brenda,’ I said.”

Dr. Yes by (Colin) Bateman (Headline 2010)

It was the worst of times, it was the worst of times.

Spring was in the air, which was depressing enough, what with pollen, and bees, and bats, but my on/off girlfriend was also making my life miserable because of her pregnancy, which she continued to accuse me of being responsible for, despite repeatedly failing to produce DNA evidence. She whined and she moaned and she criticised. It was all part of a bizarre attempt to make me a better man. Meanwhile she seemed content to pile on the beef. She now had a small double chin, which she blamed on her conditions and I blamed on Maltesers. There was clearly no future for us. In other news, the great reading public of Belfast continued to embrace the internet for their purchases rather than No Alibis, this city's finest mystery bookshop, while my part-time criminal investigations, which might have been relied upon to provide a little light relief, had recently taken a sordid turn, leaving a rather unpleasant taste in the mouth, although some of that may have been Pot Noodle.

Cycle of Violence by Colin Bateman (Arcade Publishing 1995)

I'm not stupid, not stupid at all. I'm just not qualified at anything. I've no exams. Wasn't much cop at school. But I'm bright enough. I'm wasted here. I mean, I can't be a bloody waitress all my life. I can't get a degree in waitressing. I can't go on University Challenge reading menus. What Jamie was doing for me, as well as being my lover, was educating me. I'd never wanted to read before, but he schooled me in it, sitting here talking about the great writers. But it was a curious kind of schooling, all done through a drunken haze, a kind of second-hand education in which I picked up on the enthusiasm but only half picked up on all the facts. Half remembered names and titles. There's nothing like walking into a bookshop in Belfast and asking for Dr. Chicago by Doris Pasterneck."

"It's easily done . . ."

"Or The Day of the Jack Russell."

"Well, I . . ."

"A Pitcher of Dorian Grey. The list goes on. What I want to do well is write. Write my book."

"You've started?"

"A thousand times."

"It's hard, isn't it?"

"You've tried yourself?"

"Many's a time. I wrote a novel once, sent it off to a publisher. They kept it. Sent me back a copy of the Northern Ireland telephone directory, said it had marginally fewer characters and a better plot. I haven't written much since then."

Of Wee Sweetie Mice and Men by Colin Bateman (Arcade Publishing 1996)

"You know," said McClean, "I saw this for the first time way back in sixty-nine when I was at Queens University. It had been around for a good few years then, like, but we had this cinema club, a real fleabag joint. A brilliant film, brilliant, I was really enjoying it, but I couldn't for the life of me understand why David Lean had this little black bush in the bottom corner of every frame. It intrigued me for the whole of - what was it - three hours? This was the late sixties, like, the age of experimental film. I had dreams of being a filmmaker myself."

"A bit different from insurance, eh?" said McMaster.

"Yeah, well, boyhood dreams. But I thought Lean was such a master. I mean, there he was with this epic picture, millions and millions of dollars to make, looked like heaven, yet he has the balls to put a little black bush in the corner of every frame. I spent ages trying to work it out, the symbolism, the hidden meaning. It was a real enigma. Then it was over, the lights went up, and there was this bastard with a huge Afro sitting in the front row." He shook his head. "I should have killed him."

Divorcing Jack (1998)

Divorcing Jack by Colin Bateman (Arcade Publishing 1995)

"I don't think it would be a good idea to call the police."

"Why?" He stared into my face. "We've just been shot at. We could be dead." His eyes narrowed suddenly. "You think they were the police?"

I shook my head. "They were Protestant paramilitaries."

"Protestant? How can you tell?"

"Two ways, really. One: they fucked up. Proddies have a habit of fucking up operations like this. They outnumber the IRA ten to one but couldn't organize a piss-up in a brewery. Correction. They usually do organize a piss-up in a brewery before they try anything and that's why they fuck up."

"And two?"

The skinhead who shot at us. He had FTP written on his head."

"FTP. Tattooed? What's it mean?"

"No, just written. Like with a felt pen. It stands for Fuck the Pope. It's a dead giveaway. Actually, they're improving. Usually they can't spell FTP."

The Day of the Jack Russell by Bateman (Headline 2009)

It was the Tuesday before Christmas Day when The Case if the Cock-Headed Man walked into No Alibis, the finest mystery bookstore in all of, um, Belfast.

In some ways he was lucky to get me, because with business being so quiet I had resorted to letting my mother woman the till for that short part of the day when she could manage to keep off the booze, i.e. between the hours of nine and eleven twenty-nine in the morning. If he had walked in ten minutes earlier he would have walked straight out again, because while still undoubtedly sober, Mother is not one for suffering fools or anyone gladly and she's gotten ten times worse since her stroke. She has always been ugly and mean, but she used to restrict her glares and tempers and violence and sarcasm to members of her immediate family, but since the stroke she has expanded her circle of viciousness to include distant cousins, vague acquaintances, most other members of the human race and several dogs. Mother is wired differently to you or me. A stroke usually affects just one side of the body, but she has lost the power in her right leg and left arm, making her appear lopsided from whatever angle you care to look at her, although most people don't, and stagger from side to side like the drunk she is when she tries to walk. It is funny to watch her. When she's drinking she now only has to consume half as much as before to get legless. And half of that again usually drools out of her mouth on to her blouse, because another side effect of the stroke is the loss of all feeling in her lower lip.