did, it puts a wall up between us, a very big wall. It can be impossible to get over.'
'Walls are there to be got over. They got over the Berlin Wall. They pulled it down.'
'You're asking me to build something out of rubble. It can't be done.'
'It can be done.'
'You just get another crazy wall.'
'Maybe you get something better.'
'I doubt that.' Her voice was starting to crack. I wanted to put my arms around her and say sorry. 'I have to go,' she said quietly and put the phone down.
I sat on the stairs for a minute, holding the receiver. I thought about driving up to see her, regardless. I would be irresistible in the flesh. I replaced the receiver. My head was aching, my hair felt sore, my throat was sore. I drank from the tap in the kitchen, then went back to bed. I would go and see her when the hangover had gone.
I was just drifting off to sleep when the phone went again. I rushed downstairs. 'Patricia?'
'Uh ... no. It's me. Margaret. I've been trying to get in touch with you for ages.'
Margaret. I had a vision of her naked. 'I've been out a lot.'
'You weren't avoiding me?'
'Of course not.'
She gave a little chuckle. Nervous. Cute, but nervous. 'I think you'd better come and see me.'
'I...' I wouldn't. I shouldn't. I can't. I can. Pregnant? No. Too soon. An interesting sexual disease? No. I'd be itchy. She's in love. Not beyond the realms of possibility. More sex? Jesus. I was sweating.
'She's caused a lot of trouble.'
'What? Who has?'
'Your wife. She didn't tell you?'
'What do you mean? Tell me what? She's not here. She's left home. She's in Portstewart. Tell me what?'
'Come and see me, Dan. It wouldn't do it justice telling you over the phone.'
'I . . .'
'Please...'
She put the receiver down before I could reply. I thought of Patricia and my Sex Pistols single. What could she possibly have done to Margaret? I sat with my head in my hands. My first instinct as ever, in time of crisis, was to run away.
* * *
I put on Dr Feelgood live. Turned it up loud. I needed the fast urgent blues beat of the Feelgoods. Pick-me-up music. I went upstairs and put on some cleanish underwear and a pair of black jeans. I selected a faded Tintin sweatshirt from the wardrobe. Pointy Head and Snowy were on the front with 60 Ans d'Aventure emblazoned across the belly-button line, which was like the Plimsoll line save that it had seasonal fluctuations. Tintin's cheatin' heart, the adventure Herge never wrote.
I went back downstairs and phoned for a taxi. A gruff voice at the other end said: 'Yes?'
'Uh, I'd like to book a cab.'
'Where to?'
'North Belfast. Lancaster Avenue.'
'What's your telephone number?'
'Sorry?'
'Your number. We need your number.'
'What on earth for?'
'Security.'
'I can't go giving my number out to complete strangers.'
'Okay.'
He put the phone down. I rang back. 'What do you mean, security?'
'I mean, too many of our drivers have been shot up there. We have to check out our passengers.'
'Fuck, times are getting bad.'
'Fuckin' more dangerous being a cabbie than a peeler these days. What's your number?'
'Of course by revealing my number, it could end up with anyone.'
'It could. It won't.'
I gave it to him. He phoned me back and I ordered. It arrived within five minutes. A middle-aged woman was driving, a cigarette hanging out of her mouth.
'Starkey?' She asked, her voice an angry rasp.
I nodded. 'That's me.' I climbed in. The back seat was thick with dog hairs.
'That's some fuckin' crap you write in the paper.'
'Thanks.'
'Mind you, the husband loves it.'
'Good.'
'But then he's a stupid fucker.'
‘I see.'
'But not stupid enough to drive a fuckin' taxi, that's for sure.'
'No.'
'Not that stupid to know he's onto a winner by gettin' me to drive the fucker 'cause he's scared of getting topped.'
'No.'
As we turned onto Great Victoria Street she wound down her window and spat. Not so much a question of Finishing School as never having finished school. She was maybe forty.
'Walls are there to be got over. They got over the Berlin Wall. They pulled it down.'
'You're asking me to build something out of rubble. It can't be done.'
'It can be done.'
'You just get another crazy wall.'
'Maybe you get something better.'
'I doubt that.' Her voice was starting to crack. I wanted to put my arms around her and say sorry. 'I have to go,' she said quietly and put the phone down.
I sat on the stairs for a minute, holding the receiver. I thought about driving up to see her, regardless. I would be irresistible in the flesh. I replaced the receiver. My head was aching, my hair felt sore, my throat was sore. I drank from the tap in the kitchen, then went back to bed. I would go and see her when the hangover had gone.
I was just drifting off to sleep when the phone went again. I rushed downstairs. 'Patricia?'
'Uh ... no. It's me. Margaret. I've been trying to get in touch with you for ages.'
Margaret. I had a vision of her naked. 'I've been out a lot.'
'You weren't avoiding me?'
'Of course not.'
She gave a little chuckle. Nervous. Cute, but nervous. 'I think you'd better come and see me.'
'I...' I wouldn't. I shouldn't. I can't. I can. Pregnant? No. Too soon. An interesting sexual disease? No. I'd be itchy. She's in love. Not beyond the realms of possibility. More sex? Jesus. I was sweating.
'She's caused a lot of trouble.'
'What? Who has?'
'Your wife. She didn't tell you?'
'What do you mean? Tell me what? She's not here. She's left home. She's in Portstewart. Tell me what?'
'Come and see me, Dan. It wouldn't do it justice telling you over the phone.'
'I . . .'
'Please...'
She put the receiver down before I could reply. I thought of Patricia and my Sex Pistols single. What could she possibly have done to Margaret? I sat with my head in my hands. My first instinct as ever, in time of crisis, was to run away.
* * *
I put on Dr Feelgood live. Turned it up loud. I needed the fast urgent blues beat of the Feelgoods. Pick-me-up music. I went upstairs and put on some cleanish underwear and a pair of black jeans. I selected a faded Tintin sweatshirt from the wardrobe. Pointy Head and Snowy were on the front with 60 Ans d'Aventure emblazoned across the belly-button line, which was like the Plimsoll line save that it had seasonal fluctuations. Tintin's cheatin' heart, the adventure Herge never wrote.
I went back downstairs and phoned for a taxi. A gruff voice at the other end said: 'Yes?'
'Uh, I'd like to book a cab.'
'Where to?'
'North Belfast. Lancaster Avenue.'
'What's your telephone number?'
'Sorry?'
'Your number. We need your number.'
'What on earth for?'
'Security.'
'I can't go giving my number out to complete strangers.'
'Okay.'
He put the phone down. I rang back. 'What do you mean, security?'
'I mean, too many of our drivers have been shot up there. We have to check out our passengers.'
'Fuck, times are getting bad.'
'Fuckin' more dangerous being a cabbie than a peeler these days. What's your number?'
'Of course by revealing my number, it could end up with anyone.'
'It could. It won't.'
I gave it to him. He phoned me back and I ordered. It arrived within five minutes. A middle-aged woman was driving, a cigarette hanging out of her mouth.
'Starkey?' She asked, her voice an angry rasp.
I nodded. 'That's me.' I climbed in. The back seat was thick with dog hairs.
'That's some fuckin' crap you write in the paper.'
'Thanks.'
'Mind you, the husband loves it.'
'Good.'
'But then he's a stupid fucker.'
‘I see.'
'But not stupid enough to drive a fuckin' taxi, that's for sure.'
'No.'
'Not that stupid to know he's onto a winner by gettin' me to drive the fucker 'cause he's scared of getting topped.'
'No.'
As we turned onto Great Victoria Street she wound down her window and spat. Not so much a question of Finishing School as never having finished school. She was maybe forty.
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