The man walked away, just slowly enough to be dignified.
Tick licked his lips and spoke. `Did I ever tell you boys that I wrote "Jailhouse Rock"?'
They all laughed.
`Fuck's sake, Tick,' said Septic. 'Remember who you're talking to.'
`How much money do we have to give you to make you go away and leave these people alone?' asked Jake.
Tick, entirely unoffended, adopted his business expression. He frowned, calculated, did a brief headcount of their table and smiled. `Five of you at a pound each is not, I think, unfair.'
`That's extortionate," complained Deasely.
`But you know how unpleasant I can be,' Tick explained simply.
`There's a point,' said Slat.
Chuckie stood up. `I'll sort him out,' he explained hurriedly. He shepherded Tick out of the cafe. Once on the pavement, Tick, suspecting he was about to be deprived of a multiple contribution, complained so loudly that he could still be heard clearly inside the cafe. The other boys saw Chuckie give the old tramp something that reduced him to silence. They could have sworn that they saw Tick briefly lose consciousness. When Chuckie came back one of the others asked him how much he'd given Tick. Chuckie lied.
They drank their drinks. They talked about Chuckle's girl. They talked about Chuckie's money.They talked about Chuckie. His friends cajoled him affectionately. Chuckie knew that he should have loved it, that this praise from his friends might have been something that he valued, but his recent sense of unease had returned. Tick had made him feel uncomfortable.
Septic's head was swivelling monotonously, like a bodyguard beside a president. Chuckie looked around the cafe and saw the various tables of women that Septic was `scoping'. Septic Ted was obsessed with sex. He was marvellously adept at getting it. He had made his discovery when only seventeen or eighteen. Septic just pratted about whenever there were any girls around. He knocked things over, he stumbled, he wore unfashionable clothes and blushed when he said stupid things. He got a bad haircut. Most of all, with thrilling success, he told girls he was crap in bed, useless, embarrassing.
It always worked. His friends suffered a tortuous form of collective amazement to see the lines of girls lie on the pavement before him, begging, moist, absolutely, completely seduced.
Stirred by Septic Ted's massive turnover, Chuckie had tried this line a few times himself. Unfortunately, when Chuckie told girls that he was crap in bed, they believed him. But for a decade the line had continued to work for Septic Ted. Chuckie had to hand it to Septic. Everybody else did.
The only hitch Septic ever faced was when girls asked him why his male friends called him Septic. He always told the truth. Only some of them liked it.
(Septic, more properly Edward Gubbins, had been so named when he was fifteen years old. An inveterate and publicityseeking masturbator, Septic had delighted in giving his schoolfriends updates every day on the progress of his campaign of self-abuse. He told them of new record diurnal aggregates, new fantasies, new techniques. Towards the end, he started experimenting by including a variety of moistures in his onanistic efforts. He robbed his mother's make-up bags and bathroom cabinets of a melange of ointments and unguents. Next day, he would pass lordly verdicts on the qualities of Nivea, Pond's, and Vaseline. But one fateful night Septic had absent-mindedly swiped a tube of Immac hair-removal cream from one of his mother's drawers. Blithely, he spread the astringent substance over his eager penis.
It had taken ten or twelve seconds to really make itself felt. Septic always refused to talk about those following moments, but over the next few days, he was happy to appal his schoolfriends with brief flashes of his mutilated organ. Several boys fainted at the sight. Looking so like a mutant raspberry, a nuked strawberry, it had only been a matter of days before Edward Gubbins had become Septic Ted.)
`I'm in love,' groaned Septic.
The others looked where he had been looking. A few feet away there was a table of three women. Mid to late twenties. All attractive.
`Which one?' asked Slat foolishly.
`Fuck. All of them.'
`One of them is Janine Stewart. Isn't that Janine?' Deasely was excited.
Slat looked closer. `God, yes. It is.' He paled. `I used to go out with her.'
`Yeah, I remember,' said Septic. `Father's girl. Gorgeous but legs like something off a cheap chicken.'
`That's the one.'
`When was the last time you saw her?' asked Jake.
Jesus: Slat smiled uneasily.The others knew that he was a little strange about sex. A little too discreet. Slat would have claimed that this was just his rigorously correct political attitude to women but the others suspected something more. `I haven't seen her for five or six years. Someone told me that she's gay now'
Septic sputtered in his glass. `Christ! Janine Stewart a dyke. That's criminal.'
Slat looked at her. `She's still lovely,' he murmured.
Amongst this little group of men there was something unconvincing in the casual way they talked about women. Chuckie had watched it become less brutal over the years but there was still a cavalier dash to it that was hard to believe. Chuckie, now Max-happy, suspected that each went home and thought differently and thought tenderly, each suspected that the others did the same but when together there was always that air of raillery, of musketeerish bombast.
Jake stood up and excused himself, heading for the toilets. Septic followed him with his eyes. He was still a little bruised by his ticking off in front of the waitress.
'What's wrong with him?' he asked.
'Maybe it's Sarah,' suggested Slat kindly.
'Ancient history,' said Chuckie.
`What about the waitress you told me about?' asked Septic.
'Nah, she dumped him.'
`Poor old Jake,' laughed Septic, 'he's always been more dumped upon than dumping.'
Deasely had been silent. He spoke now with some authority. 'I know what's wrong with him.' Furtively, he fished in his inside pocket. He pulled out a copy of the Belfast News Letter free sheet, a soundly Protestant newspaper that had been printing soundly Protestant news for two hundred and fifty years. He passed it to Chuckie.'Read that'
Chuckle read the headline:
SECRETARY OF STATE MAKES STATEMENT ON OTG
Yesterday the Secretary of State for Northern Ireland, Ronald Moncur, voiced his concerns about the possible emergence of a new terrorist force in Northern Ireland.
'We have no definite information about who this new group might be or what the letters OTG even stand for.The police and the security forces are treat ing the matter with utmost seriousness. It could all be a harmless prank but we will monitor the situation. Anyone with information about this matter should telephone the confidential telephone number and assist the police with their enquiries.'
`What's this got to do with Jake?' asked Chuckie, mystified.
`What do you mean?' asked Deasely. He looked at the paper. `No, no,' he said impatiently. `Underneath. Read that.'
Chuckie read:
Republican agitators have accused the RUC of conducting a campaign of police brutality against a South Belfast man. The accusations concern Jake Jackson, a 29-year-old debt counsellor and Roman Catholic. Allegedly, Mr Jackson was seriously assaulted earlier this month by a number of uniformed but off-duty police officers who broke into his home in the early hours of the morning. Sources claimed that Mr Jackson's injuries were serious and that he is currently too frightened to talk to the press.
Security spokesman for the just Us party said:
`This is a typical breach of human rights by the parliamentary forces of the British Crown. The Catholic community has historically been subjected to just these kinds of abuses. Just Us has been accused of being the political wing of the IRA. With this incident we can see again that the Royal Ulster Constabulary is merely a semi-legal group of Loyalist vigilantes.This young man is obviously too disturbed to come forward. Just Us extends its protection to Mr Jackson.'
The R
UC said last night that they were aware of no such incident and had received no complaints from any member of the public. Despite this, Amnesty International have said that they will be setting up an investigation. Mr Jackson was last night unavailable for comment.
'Shit,' said Chuckie. He passed the paper round to the intrigued others.
Jake came back from the bathroom. 'I hate that,' he announced.
'What?' said Chuckie nervously.
'Ungrammatical toilet signs. Male and Female Toilets, it says in there'
The others were still reading the newspaper.
'So?' Chuckie persisted.
'Male and Female Toilets? Should we expect that one type is taller and hairier than the other?'
The waitress came and slapped some cutlery down on their table. Jake glanced at her with helpless admiration. Chuckie tried to think of something to say.
But Septic Ted read too quickly. 'Hey,' he said, 'can I have your autograph?'
Chuckie blushed.
'What are you talking about?'Jake snapped.
Septic Ted passed the paper over to Jake. Jake glanced at the story and his jaw tightened. The waitress looked on with new interest and even craned her head to try to read the paper.
'Thank you; said Chuckie,'that'll be fine.'
She moved off sulkily.
'You're famous, man,' said Septic.
'It's not funny,' said Jake.
'Is this because Chuckie dried up.
Jake looked at him unkindly.'Aoirghe?'
'Yes.'
'What do you think?'
There was an uncomfortable pause. Septic smiled. 'Look at the waitresses,' he said.
They all looked round towards the till. They could see that their waitress was telling the other girls about Jake. She had a copy of the News Letter and they were all reading the offending story. Jake groaned.
`Don't knock it,' said Septic. `You might score some freedomfighting pussy.'
`Give it a rest, Septic,' chided Chuckie.
`Who's Aoirghe?' asked Slat.
Chuckie gulped. `She's Max's flatmate. Jake and she met through me' He glanced at Jake's black-hat features. `They didn't really hit it off.'
`So what has she got to do with this story?' asked Deasely.
Chuckie smiled eyelessly. `It's a long story,' he said. He started telling them about it.
Two minutes in, the waitress arrived at their table with the food they had ordered. She delivered their meals in two trips. Second time around, she inclined her head and gave them a muttered and insincere, `Enjoy your meal.' Then something strange happened. She bent close to Jake and looked intently, piercingly into his face. Chuckie leant closer to hear what she would say. To his amazement he heard her say his name. `Chuckie Lurgan,' she said. `Chuckie Lurgan.' Then, satisfied, replete, she walked away.
`Did that girl just say my name?' he asked Jake.
They all laughed.
`No, she Jake said something that sounded like Chuckie Ar La.
`What?
`It's Irish for `our day will come'. It's a nationalist rallying cry.'
`Chuckie Ar La?'
`Yeah, Tiocfaidh ar La. It's the slogan of the just Us party.!
Chuckle's friends looked at each other.
'We never told you, Chuckie, but that's the funny thing about your name, what with you being a Protestant and all.'
`Your name sounds like a supremacist republican slogan.'
`Yeah, it's like a Jewish guy being called Deutschland iiberAlles'
`It's a laugh.'
They stopped.
He looked at them unhappily. `Let's eat,' he said.
The rest of the meal had passed mostly without incident. Jake had been mutinous and the supernumerary political attentions of the grumpy waitress did not assist his mood. Tick had astoundingly come back to the cafe with a bunch of flowers for Chuckle. There had been a big fuss on the door as the manager had tried to refuse him entry and then Chuckie had to do some very imaginative talking when the boys asked him why Tick had brought him flowers. He told them several things, which did not include the fact that he had given Tick eight hundred pounds earlier.
The next day Chuckie had a big lunch meeting. He'd slipped off to London a couple of weeks before to try to find out if he could hide his ill-gotten money in Cayman Island funny banks or discreet Swiss drug-dealer accounts. He had met a fancy financial adviser who had recommended Luke Findlater to him. Findlater was some kind of posh money man who helped companies expand, contract, upsize and downsize. Chuckie, Protestant Belfast, had imagined that he was just some guy who sacked working-class people but his adviser told him that he had other skills.
Amazingly, said the adviser, Findlater lived in Northern Ireland. He still worked all over the financial world but he chose to live in the wilds of Ulster. Chuckie considered being offended by the man's surprise at this decision. He told Chuckie he would get Findlater on his case when Chuckie returned to Belfast. Chuckie paid the man twelve hundred pounds for telling him that someone else would do the work.
As he prepared to meet this man, Chuckie was nervous. Englishmen always made him feel below-stairs. Most of the Englishmen he had met had been working-class Northerners with berets and automatic weapons but, like many people, he still clung to a notion of Englishness based on Kenneth More in old war movies.
It sounded as though Findlater was a representative of this breed. Chuckie's adviser had told him that Findlater was an aristocrat, a baronet's son or something like that. Chuckie put on his suit and unwrapped a new shirt. With an imperfect understanding of the old-school-tie business, he even put on the orange and blue striped tie of Fane Street School for Methodist Boys.
They were to meet in the Europa. When Chuckie arrived building work was going on in the foyer and he thought he saw Jake. He ignored him and hurried on to the restaurant. He was directed to a table at which Findlater already sat. Chuckie walked up and nervously shook his hand.
`Charles Lurgan,' said Chuckie Lurgan.
`Luke Findlater. Glad to meet you.'
They sat. Chuckie was appalled. Findlater was tall and elegant. His suit might have belonged to his grandfather but it looked much better than Chuckie's five-hundred-pound barrow-boy effort. He imagined a satiric bent to the welcoming smile with which Findlater favoured him. Mutinously, hotfaced, he prepared himself to be patronized.
That did not happen. There was something soft in Findlater's patrician armour. Chuckie found the chip on his shoulder easing away and began to tell this man his troubles.
At last he found someone who understood. Findlater seemed unamazed by how Chuckie had amassed his Lz7z,645. He seemed undaunted by the prospect of the rest of the IRB grant coming in. He understood that Chuckie was manufacturing, selling, producing nothing. Chuckie even told him about the prosperity-bringing vibrator. Findlater laughed delightedly.
Chuckie tried to dampen his humour by talking of his concern at being given nearly a million pounds for doing nothing.
`You see a problem in that?' smiled Findlater.
`Yes, don't you?'
Findlater laughed. `Mr Lurgan, I think that this is a precious skill of which you should be proud'
'Yeah, but I'm going to get found out. I'm going to get arrested. It's all going to fall apart.'
Findlater asked him how he managed to persuade these people to give him so much money. Chuckie replied that he was fucked if he knew.
`No.That's not what I meant.What did you tell these people you were going to do with the money?'
This was what Chuckle had wanted to avoid. With shame, he recounted the details.
Chuckie had known that his big chance was to play on the ecumenical angle with the grant agencies. In divided Northern Ireland, the Government thought that solution and resolution lay in schemes that would bring the warring tribes together. No idea was too lunatic to be rejected in this expensive cross-community effort. Chuckie had told the UDB that he was starting a business that would bring the Catholic nat
ionalist sports of Gaelic football and hurling to Protestants, and the English Protestant pursuits of rugby and cricket to Catholics. These sports were sharply divided and a significant emblem of the apartheid in Northern Ireland, or so he had persuaded Slat to write on his application form. Since the men who worked in the UDB were all witless ex-executives from a multinational toothpaste company, this struck them as an excellent business proposal and they had given him fifty thousand pounds on the spot.
He told the IRB that he was going to set up a chain of ecumenical Irish restaurants in Paris. When they asked him what his restaurants would cook that would be distinctly Irish, he nearly said that he couldn't give a fuck but he wasn't sure that employees of a Northern Ireland Office department would understand that sloppy concept. He had hastily changed the subject and had told them that an employee of his was working on the biodegradable gas television receiver. He told them a number of lies and when he ran out of cogent mistruths he just ran through the menu of his own absurd and megalomaniac fantasies.
When poor, Chuckie's daydreams had been modest: a car, an easy job, oral sex with a constantly updated series of film stars, weather girls and game-show hostesses. Any of these things would have been a massive extension of any waking or likely aspirations he might have had. But now Chuckie dreamed of buying the Department of Social Services and the Royal Ulster Constabulary. But, in particular, Chuckie dreamt of buying Ireland. He could already visualize the estate agent's description for the Ireland auction: FINE OLD COUNTRY, RECENTLY PARTITIONED. IN NEED OF MINOR POLITICAL REPAIR. PRICED FOR QUICK SALE.
Chuckle's detailing of his methods faded away. He saw Findlater staring at him fixedly. He blushed.
`That kind of thing,' he said. `More of the same. Can't remember most of what I said now.'
Findlater continued to stare at him in fixed silence. Chuckie felt his blush spread.
`You mean you managed to persuade government agencies to give you hundreds of thousands of pounds with that witless amateur bullshit?'