Robert Wilson - Eureka Street - A Novel of Ireland Like No Other

Through my clean, clean windscreen the city looked dirty suddenly. After a day of calorific politics and no-show romancing, Roche had been enough to make Belfast seem like a washed-out mouth. I couldn't spit the taste of my day away. I hated the way that could happen. Driving around, liking the streets and the people, was one of the few pleasures I had left. I hated it when my life took that away from me.

It was near ten o'clock when I got home. The cat was pissed off and hungry. I was pleased. He was close to missing me. My expectations were low. I'd settled for pissed off and hungry. I fed the fucker and played my messages.

Chuckie told me he'd sorted out my Crab and Hally problem.

Septic asked me to double-date with him on Friday.

The Amnesty guy was back on my case.

The coppers who'd called yesterday said they were dropping it.

Aoirghe told me to go fuck myself.

I kicked the cat. He looked at me like it wasn't his fault. I couldn't argue. I switched on the radio. It was a foolish move. I should have realized so close to the hour that the news would be on. This time, I didn't switch it off.

`Police said that the incident was not serious.Three arrests were made. A Just Us spokesman alleged that one of their members had been viciously assaulted by a so-called peace campaigner and required hospital treatment. The spokesman said that this showed the insincerity of such so-called peace rallies. The poet Shague Ghinthoss, who was at the incident, refused to comment. Sometimes, he said, things were better left unsaid!

I laughed and started making some coffee. Good old Shague. I even poured the cat some guilt-milk.

'There has been a report tonight that the mysterious group calling itself the OTG has threatened two young Protestant men from North Belfast. The RUC refused to comment but sources have suggested that the men were threatened because they were involved in debt-collecting activities in the area.'

I switched off the radio and picked up the phone. I called Max's house. Aoirghe answered.

'Is Chuckie there?F

'Is that Jackson?'

'Yeah:

There was a pause.

`I'll get him.'

Jesus, no abuse. What a polite exchange!

Chuckie came on the line. `Hey, Jake, I'm sorry we didn't make it to the train thing.You know how it is. Sounds like you and old Aoirghe had a good time there.'

I cut him short. 'Chuckie, what exactly did you do about Crab and Hally?'

Chuckie sounded scared. `Well… Deasely and I talked about it and we thought since they were hassling you, the best thing we could do would be to give them some of their own.'

'Did you ring them up and pretend to be the fucking OTG?'

`Well, yes, we did.!

'Brilliant.'

'It worked. Donal called Crab and told him that we'd kill his family, his friends, people he'd only passed by in the street and then we'd kill him if he didn't lay off you. Donal said he was pissing himself.'

'Fucking wonderful!'

`What's wrong?' Now Chuckie sounded wounded.

'It's just been on the radio. If Crab tells anybody my name was mentioned, people will think I'm in a terrorist organization that doesn't even exist.'

'Oh, yeah,' replied Chuckie lamely.

`And what if those two fuckers are in the UVF or something?'

'Relax! You said yourself they were mostly too stupid to be dangerous.'

'What?' l screamed. `Do Loyalist paramilitaries have entrance exams now? All they have to do is tell someone and I'm dead under a housing estate or doing a hundred and seventy-five years in Long Kesh.'

`Take it easy.'

'I'm going to kill you, Chuckle!

`Jake, Jake.'

My doorbell rang. I froze.

`What's wrong?' asked Chuckie.

'There's somebody at my door,' I whispered.

`Well, go and see who it is.'

'What if it's the guys with the hoods and the 9-mms?'

'Go to the window and look out.'

I put the receiver on the table.The window was open and there were a few lights on so it felt safe enough. I craned out into the musky dark air. It failed to cool my face. I could see a man at my door. A cop. My heart sank but it might have sunk further. The RUC were better than the UVE I hoped.

I went back to the telephone. 'Chuckle. The cops are at the door. I'll call you when I can.You're in big trouble, fatso.'

I hung up and answered the door with an upstanding expression on my face. `Yes?' I enquired squeakily.

The cop turned to face me and I saw that it was Paul, Mary's fisty boyfriend. I ducked.

He laughed. Relax,' he said.

I straightened up. `Are you going to hit me again?'

'No'

'Good'

There was a silence. He seemed uncomfortable. I wondered what he wanted. He looked at his shoes.

`Lovely evening,' I said.

He laughed again. There was a glitter in his eyes that made hint look young and pretty. I was resolutely heterosexual but I couldn't help nearly liking him for that.

'Look, I haven't got long,' he said.'I just wanted to say thanks.'

'What for?'

'For not splitting on me to CID yesterday.'

CID? What was that? Oh, yeah, the cops. I was getting very, very tired of three-letter initials.

`Oh, yeah, right. Forget it,' I said mildly.

`I shouldn't have hit you like that.'

`Maybe not.'

He looked at the scratched graffito on my door.'Who did this?' he asked, shining his torch at it.

`Just some guys I used to work with. No big deal.'

He looked at me with his tough but friendly expression. `You get any trouble, you give me a call.'

My hero! Jesus, he'd been doing well up to then but I thought this was taking it a bit far. What was I supposed to do? Swoon into his embrace and run my hands up his manly chest?

`Right,' I said.

He smiled uncertainly again. He hadn't planned his exit line. I looked blankly at him.

`Well, anyway. Sorry about hitting you and thanks again for keeping it quiet. I owe you.'

"Bye now,' I hinted.

I watched him walk away. I shook my head. I suppose I should have been glad that it was an amiable end to a fractious day. Then I remembered Chuckie.

`What happened with the cops?' he said, when I called him.

`Nothing. It was a mistake. Something else entirely.!

`Good. There's no problem.'

'Bollocks, Chuckie. I'm still in trouble. I'm still going to kill you.

`Jake, you've got to calm down. You take things too hard. You've got to sort your life out.You're a mess.'

`You've got a lot of cheek.'

`I'm your friend, Jake. That's why I say these things.'

I looked at my watch. I was too tired for this. `Hey, Chuckie.'

`What?'

`Does your dick reach your arse?'

`Hold on, I'll check.'

I heard him setting the receiver down, I could even hear the faint whizz of a zipper being unfastened.

I hung up before Chuckle could tell me any stuff I didn't want to hear.

That night, on Poetry Street, Jake slept like Chuckie and Max, like Slat, Deasely and Septic, like little Roche and big Ronnie Clay, like all the city's the nocturnals, the insomniacs, the dark-workers and the general nightwalkers. With so many of its people asleep, Belfast lay like an unlit room.

The city rises and falls like music, like breathing. The sleeping streets feel free. The southside shopfronts and the streetlit sidewalks echo empty. Near Hope Street, a stray drinker walks late and wavy. In a small house in Moyard, a thin man lies sleepless and old. On Carmel Street, a dark young woman stalks fearfully in slippers, looking for her cat. There are small events everywhere. On Cedar Avenue, on Arizona Street, Sixth Street and Electric Street, the Royal Ulster Constabulary stand around in damp little groups, keeping an eye on nothing, stopping infrequent cars, checking licences, radioing control. Hello, Control?

Under street-lamps by all the city's walls, writing gleams: IRA, INLA, UVF, UFF, OTG. The city keeps its walls like a diary. In this staccato shorthand, the walls tell of histories and hatreds, shrivelled and bleached with age. Qui a terre a guerre, the walls say.