[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
Then I thought that if a terrorist was standing outside with a bazooka, he wasn't going to be dissuaded by impoliteness.
It takes thirty years of Belfast life to understand terrorist etiquette.
Bobby McMaster stood there, once nobody's idea of a terrorist but now starting to shape up in the ring, even if only
in response to near tragedy. He had a mini-can from his mini-bar in each of his giant hands. They looked ridiculously
small.
'Join me in a drink?' he asked. Doleful eyes. The lonely big eejit.
It was hardly straight from the training manual, but I nodded and ushered him in. 'You're welcome. My mini-bar
has unaccountably run dry.'
He handed me a can as he passed. He didn't seem to notice the mess of the room. He crossed to the window. I
joined him. We flipped cans together and slurped as we looked out over the lights of New York.
'She's out there somewhere,' he said. 'Alcohol is a depressant,' I said.
'No, having your wife stolen from you and not knowing whether she's alive or dead is a depressant. Alcohol is a
drink.'
'I won't argue with that.'
He nodded.
'Can't you sleep?' I asked.
He shook his head.
'You're worried about tomorrow night, aren't you?' I touched his arm with my can. It was a sympathetic touch, but
done in an all-men-together way that wouldn't make him, or me, feel like a softie. 'Of course you are. You think you
should be going along. You think something might go wrong, that she might get hurt, that you shouldbe there to
protect her. It's natural, Bobby. I'd be the same. Jesus, I am the same, and I'm going on the fuckin' raid. But don't
worry. It'll be okay. I've seen Smith in action, he's very thorough, very efficient, he'll get the job done. And I'm sure
Stanley's the same, providing he doesn't have to get on a boat. We'll be fine. She'll be fine.'
He looked me in the eye. His mouth opened, he started to say something, but then it closed again and he shook his
head slightly and returned his gaze to the neon city. He took another drink. 'Do you think much about Irish politics,
Starkey?'
I took a drink. 'As little as possible.'
'What would you describe yourself as, British?'
I shrugged. One of my better ones, the kind of thoroughbred shrug I reserved for genuinely perplexing situations.
'On hijacked aeroplanes they always shoot the British third, just after the Americans and the Jews. No, not British.'
'But not Irish?'
'No. Not unless I'm in trouble abroad. I have an Irish passport, but I wouldn't produce it in public at home.'
'So would you say you were mostly ambivalent about the whole British/Irish thing?'
'Ambivalent? No. I'm from Northern Ireland, Bobby, same as you, not England, not Ireland, it's home, I couldn't
much be bothered fighting to make it one thing or the other, but if someone walked in and forced me into one thing or
another, then I might get more protective about it. And by the way, you haven't
lately, have you?'
He laughed. 'No, Starkey.'
'Then why the sudden interest in politics?'
'Nothing. Just thinking.'
'I would have marked you down as a staunch Loyalist, anyway. Didn't you used to beat up Catholics with Stanley?'
'Used to, yeah.'
'I know you've changed. Obviously you've changed. But a man's politics don't change that easily, do they? You
grew out of senseless violence, but you're still from the Protestant ghetto in Crossmaheart, aren't you? You're still for
God and Ulster, whether you're married to a Catholic or not.'
McMaster shrugged. 'I thought I was. I got to thinking that maybe none of it mattered much. Religion. Politics. As
long as you're happy with your lot and your family, it's not that important who you pray to or who you pay your taxes
to. I was thinking that.'
'And worthy thoughts they are too, Bobby. We'll get you into the Peace People at this rate. My, you're getting
profound in your old age.'
'Yeah. Keeps my mind off other things.'
'I can understand that. But don't worry. It'll go okay.'
'I don't think we should even attempt it. This raid.' He put his hand up against the window, rubbed it slowly round.
'It's too dangerous. If we know anything from home, it's how volatile religious types can be. We should leave it up to
the police or the FBI.'
'Aye, they did well at Waco.'
'I'd just hate to see anyone get hurt for no good reason.'
'Mary isn't a good reason?'
He shook his head wistfully. 'Of course she is.'
The alcohol was gone. I lay back on the bed, sipping my way through the soft drinks. The TV flickered silently. I
meandered through the radio dial. It was like politics at home. Fifty-seven different stations, all playing the same
record.
Until ... until I heard The Clash. The saving grace. 'London Calling.' The DJ, slow, cool, asked, 'Whatever did
happen to The Clash?'
I listened for a while, heard what station it was, traced them in the phone book. A squawky girl on the switchboard.
"I want to talk to the DJ.'
'On air?'
'On air.'
'What about?'
'The Clash.'
'Hold the line, sir.' She put me on hold for thirty seconds. 'Putting you through, sir. I should remind you that when
speaking on air no bad language is permitted, no advertising without prior written consent from the station, no
been taking any mind-altering drugs
comments calculated to stir up racial tension, no appeals for money, no espousing of political causes. The station takes
no responsibility for anything you may say, do or incite while on air ... you accept all of the conditions I have outlined,
sir?'
'I do.'
'Enjoy your airtime, sir.'
'Thank you.'
The Cure: 'Love Cats.' Just starting to fade. The DJ. 'Hi there. We go on air in ten seconds. And don't pay any
attention to anything Sandra says, our air is your air.'
'Cheers,' I said.
'Welcome back,' he said. 'We have a guy on the line wants to talk about The Clash. Where you from, sir?'
'Belfast. I'm calling from the Mirage Hotel. I'm sorry, that's advertising, isn't it?' [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
zanotowane.pl doc.pisz.pl pdf.pisz.pl fopke.keep.pl
Then I thought that if a terrorist was standing outside with a bazooka, he wasn't going to be dissuaded by impoliteness.
It takes thirty years of Belfast life to understand terrorist etiquette.
Bobby McMaster stood there, once nobody's idea of a terrorist but now starting to shape up in the ring, even if only
in response to near tragedy. He had a mini-can from his mini-bar in each of his giant hands. They looked ridiculously
small.
'Join me in a drink?' he asked. Doleful eyes. The lonely big eejit.
It was hardly straight from the training manual, but I nodded and ushered him in. 'You're welcome. My mini-bar
has unaccountably run dry.'
He handed me a can as he passed. He didn't seem to notice the mess of the room. He crossed to the window. I
joined him. We flipped cans together and slurped as we looked out over the lights of New York.
'She's out there somewhere,' he said. 'Alcohol is a depressant,' I said.
'No, having your wife stolen from you and not knowing whether she's alive or dead is a depressant. Alcohol is a
drink.'
'I won't argue with that.'
He nodded.
'Can't you sleep?' I asked.
He shook his head.
'You're worried about tomorrow night, aren't you?' I touched his arm with my can. It was a sympathetic touch, but
done in an all-men-together way that wouldn't make him, or me, feel like a softie. 'Of course you are. You think you
should be going along. You think something might go wrong, that she might get hurt, that you shouldbe there to
protect her. It's natural, Bobby. I'd be the same. Jesus, I am the same, and I'm going on the fuckin' raid. But don't
worry. It'll be okay. I've seen Smith in action, he's very thorough, very efficient, he'll get the job done. And I'm sure
Stanley's the same, providing he doesn't have to get on a boat. We'll be fine. She'll be fine.'
He looked me in the eye. His mouth opened, he started to say something, but then it closed again and he shook his
head slightly and returned his gaze to the neon city. He took another drink. 'Do you think much about Irish politics,
Starkey?'
I took a drink. 'As little as possible.'
'What would you describe yourself as, British?'
I shrugged. One of my better ones, the kind of thoroughbred shrug I reserved for genuinely perplexing situations.
'On hijacked aeroplanes they always shoot the British third, just after the Americans and the Jews. No, not British.'
'But not Irish?'
'No. Not unless I'm in trouble abroad. I have an Irish passport, but I wouldn't produce it in public at home.'
'So would you say you were mostly ambivalent about the whole British/Irish thing?'
'Ambivalent? No. I'm from Northern Ireland, Bobby, same as you, not England, not Ireland, it's home, I couldn't
much be bothered fighting to make it one thing or the other, but if someone walked in and forced me into one thing or
another, then I might get more protective about it. And by the way, you haven't
lately, have you?'
He laughed. 'No, Starkey.'
'Then why the sudden interest in politics?'
'Nothing. Just thinking.'
'I would have marked you down as a staunch Loyalist, anyway. Didn't you used to beat up Catholics with Stanley?'
'Used to, yeah.'
'I know you've changed. Obviously you've changed. But a man's politics don't change that easily, do they? You
grew out of senseless violence, but you're still from the Protestant ghetto in Crossmaheart, aren't you? You're still for
God and Ulster, whether you're married to a Catholic or not.'
McMaster shrugged. 'I thought I was. I got to thinking that maybe none of it mattered much. Religion. Politics. As
long as you're happy with your lot and your family, it's not that important who you pray to or who you pay your taxes
to. I was thinking that.'
'And worthy thoughts they are too, Bobby. We'll get you into the Peace People at this rate. My, you're getting
profound in your old age.'
'Yeah. Keeps my mind off other things.'
'I can understand that. But don't worry. It'll go okay.'
'I don't think we should even attempt it. This raid.' He put his hand up against the window, rubbed it slowly round.
'It's too dangerous. If we know anything from home, it's how volatile religious types can be. We should leave it up to
the police or the FBI.'
'Aye, they did well at Waco.'
'I'd just hate to see anyone get hurt for no good reason.'
'Mary isn't a good reason?'
He shook his head wistfully. 'Of course she is.'
The alcohol was gone. I lay back on the bed, sipping my way through the soft drinks. The TV flickered silently. I
meandered through the radio dial. It was like politics at home. Fifty-seven different stations, all playing the same
record.
Until ... until I heard The Clash. The saving grace. 'London Calling.' The DJ, slow, cool, asked, 'Whatever did
happen to The Clash?'
I listened for a while, heard what station it was, traced them in the phone book. A squawky girl on the switchboard.
"I want to talk to the DJ.'
'On air?'
'On air.'
'What about?'
'The Clash.'
'Hold the line, sir.' She put me on hold for thirty seconds. 'Putting you through, sir. I should remind you that when
speaking on air no bad language is permitted, no advertising without prior written consent from the station, no
been taking any mind-altering drugs
comments calculated to stir up racial tension, no appeals for money, no espousing of political causes. The station takes
no responsibility for anything you may say, do or incite while on air ... you accept all of the conditions I have outlined,
sir?'
'I do.'
'Enjoy your airtime, sir.'
'Thank you.'
The Cure: 'Love Cats.' Just starting to fade. The DJ. 'Hi there. We go on air in ten seconds. And don't pay any
attention to anything Sandra says, our air is your air.'
'Cheers,' I said.
'Welcome back,' he said. 'We have a guy on the line wants to talk about The Clash. Where you from, sir?'
'Belfast. I'm calling from the Mirage Hotel. I'm sorry, that's advertising, isn't it?' [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]