Jonathan Lee - High Dive

Dawson said, ‘You’ll have to excuse us, Dan. The best nicknames get overused. Same in every army. We forget what the reason was and then there’s this dearth of imagination, isn’t there? A dearth that’s affecting the world. How d’you get to know Paddy Magee?’

‘Collecting bullets,’ Dan told them.

‘Yeah?’

‘Yeah.’

He had cousins who lived around the Ballymurphy Estate. When the RUC took on Republicans there, news crews from all over the world came to watch. Italians staying at the Europa would pay five US dollars for a plastic bullet. They tried to give you lire but you laughed, told them you didn’t have a big enough bag; they liked the pep in that chat. The Americans would pay upwards of ten. If the bullets were still warm you could scratch names onto them, which the Japanese enjoyed — souvenirs from a dangerous trip, a bystander’s excitement at violence. A personalised bullet commissioned by an Asian and engraved to order could catch as much as fifteeen. On the downside the commissioner might easily disappear and then you were left with something you couldn’t sell on. Dan’s friend Cal had spent half his adolescence looking for a second Haruto. From the Ballymurphy you could see the Black Mountain, a thousand shades of green made dark by all that rain.

‘Not a bad little business, I imagine, Dan.’

‘It was all right. Don’t do it much now.’

‘No?’

‘I’m concentrating on odd jobs, electrics.’

‘So I hear. You and a sham, was it? For the bullet collecting?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Anyone I’d know?’

‘Cal.’

Dawson tilted his head. ‘Has he a surname, this Cal character, or is it a Cher ball-tickler sorta situation?’

Dan laughed. ‘He’s no Cher, Mr McCartland.’

‘Dawson.’

‘His name’s Cal Doherty.’

Dawson considered the sky. ‘Nothing’s ringing,’ he said. ‘I’ve succumbed to impure images of singing angels, is the thing.’

‘He suffers from a —’

‘Oh, I know Cal. Nice lad, altogether. Face like a dose of haemorrhoids but he’s nice despite it, isn’t he? I’m very wary of pretty fellas, Dan, I’ve got to tell you. A pretty guy or girl has something they’re worried’ll get spoiled, y’know? My wife’s dead on — you’d be lucky to have her company, Dan — but she’s only got one eye, there’s the thing.’ He crouched down to screw his cigarette into the ground. Carefully he folded the stub into a tissue, pocketed it and lit another Newport. ‘Wears a patch. Scottish by birth. As for me, I’ve actually got some English blood in me, y’know? Touch of Welsh too. Some say it disqualifies me from doing this job, but that’s the type of wonky thinking that’ll cause wars, isn’t it? Lack of faith in empathy. Tell me: are you a fan?’

‘Of empathy?’

‘Yeah.’

‘I don’t know. I suppose so.’

Dawson’s lips pressed thin, resisting a fresh grin, and his eyes seemed to glitter again. ‘It’s worth pondering on. If you don’t have it, a little of it, you can’t think yourself into another person’s shoes. You can’t countenance, let’s say, that I could wear yours with conviction.’ He bent down to pat his dogs, took a long look at Dan’s boots and stood. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Lack of empathy’s a tragic flaw. Ever read any Shakespeare, Danny?’

‘Why? Did he invent flaws?’

‘Ha. I like you already. You’re warming up nicely. But no. Not even God, the old fucker, could make such a wondrous claim.’ He inhaled and blew a smoke ring. ‘Wonder where He’s holidaying sometimes, don’t you? Not giving Ireland much time, is He?’

‘Probably He’s got a lot on.’

‘Depressed or drunk, like everyone else. But no, I like a bit of Shakespeare, Danny. That’s all. I don’t read it any more, but it’s in me, you know, like the Irish lingo. Seirbhís. Slán. Now. Mick. Will you go fetch the bags from the Rover, please? The ones with the gear in them. That’d be grand.’

Mick. Gear.

Dan watched Mick receding and returning, settling the bags on the grass, shirtsleeve riding up around his grudging wrist and flashing part of a blue tattoo. Tongue of a hanging snake, maybe, or flick of a mermaid’s tail.

Dawson said, ‘Do us a favour, will you, Dan? Play with the animals awhile. They don’t get out much, they’re like old Mick here. And Mick and I have deep stuff to discuss.’

At Dawson’s instruction Dan unzipped the green bag. It contained three tennis balls, a baseball bat, a warm six-pack of beer. He walked towards the trees with the tennis ball that looked least chewed.

Branches leaning and relaxing. The whispered resistance of leaves. Thinking: first stage of the interview must be over. Doing as he was told.

He threw the ball up high and retrieved it from their jaws. Amazing the amount these dogs drooled. The brown dog had patches of yellow on its tongue but it moved, on the whole, quicker than its golden friend. They competed to catch the ball on the bounce, weaving in front of one another — slipstream, overtake; slipstream, overtake — never clashing but always seeming like they would.

Should he be asking more questions? Showing more initiative? He’d been advised by Cal to stay silent unless spoken to. Probably that was right.

Every few minutes he looked back. Dawson and Mick were paying him no attention, which had to be a good thing. In his days of reading the pulps he never hankered after flight or the ability to cling to buildings. Invisibility was the most precious of the superpowers.

He tired of the damp tennis ball, exchanged it for a hunk of dried-out bark. The dogs chased it down and brought it back. Dan sprinted alongside them with the bark dangling from his hand, stopping and starting, lifting it up and lowering it down. After a while it burned to breathe. He knelt down to scratch their ears and watch the bob of their tongues. Some people said dogs were stupid, pure dim need and pure dim gratitude, but he saw in the spark of their eyes a special intelligence. Footballers calculating angles, movement without doubt.

‘Here we go!’ Dawson shouted. ‘Round ’em up.’

Dan clipped the dogs to the lead and jogged. The two men were nodding and laughing, squinting in the sun.

Dawson said, ‘Was just sharing an anecdote a guy called Clinkie told me. He’s straight out of the blocks, is Clinkie. Want to hear it?’

‘Sure,’ Dan said.

‘Clinkie says to me, he says Jesus is on the cross and the guys either side of him aren’t thieves. So, what are they?’

Dan shook his head.

‘Well, Dan, if you knew Clinkie you’d want to say they’re gays. But no. Clinkie explains to me they’re political activists, working against the Roman authorities. You’ve a pair of Republicans either side, getting crucified. And Clinkie says —’

‘I’ve heard this.’

Dawson raised his big eyebrow. ‘What’s that, Dan?’

‘I’ve heard it,’ Dan said, ‘from a couple of people. I remember now. Romans are Brits. Samaritans are Catholics. Jews are Protestants. First person welcomed into heaven today would be a paramilitary, Jesus talking to Dismas the thief, You will be in Heaven with me today, et cetera.’

Silence.

‘Well,’ Dawson said. ‘Talk about spoiling a story.’

There was the lazy sound of a bumblebee. Mick spent some time scratching his face. As Dan looked down at the grass Dawson said, ‘I enjoyed watching you with them, Dan. My dogs. Beautiful beasts, eh?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Myself, I’m not much of an athlete. A wee bit short on the breath, you know? I need a little can of special air.’ He took an asthma inhaler out of his pocket and revolved it in his hand. For a moment he looked utterly lost. ‘Anyway, I’d better head. Sadly I’ve an appointment with a fella who’s lived too long.’ He waited a beat, shook the inhaler, took a puff and held the air in his mouth. ‘Birthday party. Fortieth. Bloke’s mad as a bottle of chips, y’know, but we’ve got him a ping-pong table.’