Adrian McKinty - The Bloomsday Dead

Easy to look down on people like that. But hopefully they’re the future. Eventually the tenements and back-to-backs will disappear. And along with them the parochialism, the subordination of women, the mistrust of outsiders, the hatred for the other side. It might take a hundred years and a civil war but if these people are the vector of things to come, the evil will wither away and Belfast will be like any other dull, wet northern European city. And if I for one live to see it, I won’t shed a fucking tear…

Game face on. I turned a bend in the river and saw the beginning of the long line of houseboats. Attractive converted barges that were tied up along the river. Some long and thin like coal boats, others squat, with an extra story on top. Most well maintained, decorated with flowers, all reasonably seaworthy. There were about two dozen of them moored behind one another stretching for about a quarter of a mile. They weren’t the famous teak houseboats of the Vale of Kashmir, but they weren’t the stinking old hulks that I was expecting.

I walked past a couple and stopped at the first one that had someone on deck. A young man wearing yellow shorts and a purple raincoat. He was patting a golden retriever and reading a book with the title Evolution: The Fossils Say No!

The breeze turned. I shivered and felt the cold on my stitches.

“Excuse me, I’m looking for the Ginger Bap,” I said, zipping my leather jacket over the Zeppelin T-shirt.

He looked up from the book. He had sleekit eyes and was practically a skinhead, but I figured he couldn’t be that bad because of his canine and sartorial choices.

At least that was my assumption until he said, “Why, what are they to you?” with more than a bit of hostility.

“They’re nothing to me, I was looking for them.”

“Didn’t catch your name.”

“Michael Forsythe. What’s your name, if you don’t mind me fucking asking,” I said with a wee tone in my voice.

“Donald… Did you say Constable Michael Forsythe?”

“No.”

“Are you not with the police?”

“No.”

He put down the book, his eyes closed, and he shook his head as if he didn’t quite believe me.

“Well, listen, to tell you the truth, I was thinking of calling the police, so I was,” he confided.

“Why was that?” I asked.

“There’s a smell coming from their boat, something awful, so it is.”

“Which one is it?”

“It’s the next one along. Down there, so it is, just right ahead of ya.”

I looked to where he was pointing. One of the larger boats. A highsided, flat-bottomed cabin cruiser that had been moored there for some time by the look of the slime on either side of the fenders. It was shipshape but there were bits of paper and leaves sticking against the safety rail.

“Robby noticed something was up first yesterday and then I twigged the smell this morning,” Donald said.

“I take it Robby’s your dog,” I said.

“Aye, he is,” he said, offering no more information.

“What happened that got Robby so upset?” I asked.

Donald’s natural Belfast reticence and his desire to get this off his chest conflicted inside him for a few seconds but eventually the latter won out.

“Well, it was pretty scary. Lying in me bed. I don’t know what time it was. Maybe three or four in the morning. Robby starts growling and I tell him to shut up, but he keeps carrying on and I get worried. So I look around the boat and go up on deck and check the ropes and have a wee shoofty about, so I do.”

“What ya see?” I asked.

“Nothing. Everything’s normal.”

“Ok, go on,” I said.

“Well, Robby’s whimpering now and I don’t know what’s going on, I comfort him and he goes back to sleep right. But it creeps me out and I don’t sleep too easy.”

“And then what?”

“Well, I got up yesterday and I went into the Tech and came back last night, everything seemed fine, except that Robby was a wee bit out of sorts the whole day, but he does that sometimes, didn’t really think too much about it. But by this morning first thing when I woke up I started smelling the stink, so I did.”

“From the Ginger Bap?”

“Aye.”

“Did you go over there?”

Donald’s eyes narrowed and he wiped his mouth. He wondered if he really should be talking this much to a perfect stranger. I smiled in the most friendly way I could. A smile that often has the unintentional side effect of scaring the bejesus out of people.

“Aye, I did go over. I said, ‘Barry, open up,’ but there was no answer.”

“Did you go on board?”

“No, I did not, it’s a strict rule around here, you don’t go on other people’s boats without permission. No way.”

“What did you do then?”

“Are you sure you’re not a peeler?” Donald asked suspiciously.

“I’m not a peeler, but I’m working for the peelers, so it would probably be in your best interests to answer my questions.”

“Look, I’m not causing trouble. I have never caused any trouble in my life, if you don’t count trouble at football matches and you’d be hard pressed to avoid a spot of bother at them Old Firm games cos they are-”

“Donald, please, what did you do next?” I interrupted.

“Nothing. I didn’t do anything. I just minded my own business,” he said.

“Ok, probably very wise. Now, do me a favor, Donald, tell me about Barry.”

“What do you want to know?”

“Does he live there alone?”

“Nah, he lives with his mate.”

“Who’s his mate?”

“I don’t know, student from Scotland or something. Barry’s an art student at Tech. Photography and shite like that. Other bloke’s in the same racket, I think. Almost everybody on these boats are students of some sort. I’m at the Tech myself. This is spillover accommodation. I don’t mind it.”

“So Barry must be at least sixteen if he’s at the Tech?” I asked.

“Barry? Probably near eighteen, thereabouts. You could say he looks a good bit younger, though.”

I nodded. It all seemed correct so far, but I had to be sure it was the right guy.

“What exactly does he look like?” I asked.

“I don’t know, average looking, I suppose.”

“What color was his hair?”

“What does his boat say?” Donald answered sarcastically. I looked at the Ginger Bap.

“Ginger hair. He’s a redhead,” I said.

“Aye, he has a ponytail.”

“Does he have a black sweatshirt with a bird on it?” I asked.

“Aye. Owls Football Team. Wee tiny owl. Black, dark blue, something like that.”

“You ever see Barry with a girl?”

“Oh, aye, them boys are a couple of jack the lads. Wee lasses in there left and right, so they are.”

“Did you see a girl going in there in the last couple of days?” I asked.

“The last couple of days? Well, for a start, I haven’t seen Barry at all for two days. But before that, I think I just seen him and the Jock. No wee girls.”

“Maybe you heard a girl’s voice or noticed anything unusual?”

“No girl and nothing unusual until yesterday morning,” he said.

“At around three in the morning, right?

“Right.”

“The two boys normally come back that late?”

“Nah, the bars close at twelve, so they’re there pretty sharpish after that, so they are.”

I nodded, touched the.38 in my jacket pocket. If what had happened was what I thought had happened, I wouldn’t be needing the gun but you never knew.

“Ok, Donald, thanks very much,” I said.

“Are you going over there?”

“Aye.”

“Do you think there’s something wrong?”

“Yeah, I do,” I said without emotion.

“What do you want me to do?”