chapater one

The past had gone and the future didn’t exist. Today, now, this moment, was all there was and was all that mattered. He couldn’t change what had already been done anyway. Who could? God? Peter smiled to himself has he stared between his knees at the floor. That wasn’t God’s job was it? Why give free will in the first place if you’re going intervene all the time and try and put stuff right? His smile widened to a grin as he continued to stare. Wasn’t it great how he always had time for a philosophical debate with himself? Even here on the brink. He knew in the back of his mind, in what remained of that little bit of grey jelly that was still rational and sensible but which was like the rest of his grey matter, becoming worn out and exasperated, that in the end he could always say sorry. Sorry for what he’d done so many times before and sorry for what he was about to do to try and do now. Saying sorry was easy. Sorry. See?

Peter had to admit that now and then even his one-eyed discipline would slip and a cold, brutal fear would seep into the pit of his stomach at the realisation of how he had been living his life. At various times through the years he had listened to those who had tried so hard, through both love and in friendship to tell him that he had to stop it. And after he’d listened. And after he’d agreed that they were right. And after he’d promised them sincerely – and he had been sincere, he swore to God – that he would start doing the right thing this time, well tomorrow for definite, he did it again. He had become a Jedi master at dishonesty by omission: a therapist’s case study in avoiding the issue. Also because self justification was innate, he had honed the skills of doing just what he wanted to whom or whatever in to a fine art. That he could explain it all away so passively, so plausibly, so perfectly, that he could anybody in the eye and lie. It had to be said, it was kind of impressive.

And anyway, he was already so far gone it was crazy, so this last time was hardly going to make a difference was it? He reasoned to himself. And in the end, you can’t take knickers off a bare arse now can you? This was his justification this time, by seeing it as a last challenge, the old bank robber making one last heist before he retires. But there would be no tights over the head. No guns. No shouting. No getaway car running outside. Modern life had a far easier way of giving you money. This was fine as long as you were prepared to face the consequences if ‘they’ caught up with you. And lately he had begun to feel their hot breath on his neck, their grasping fingers reaching for his shoulder. But he felt confident he could keep them at bay for another while, he’d managed it so far, and you never knew your luck, he could maybe even escape, yes that was a possibility too.

But for now the woman he was about to meet – and he knew it would be a woman of some kind – would have to look him in the eye, believe that he was genuine and agree to what he wanted. She must he thought, Jesus he’d never failed yet. And anyway, the system wasn’t built to let you fail. It wanted to give it to you. It wanted you to impregnate it with you’re with little debts that would grow and grow into big grown up debts, that you would feed for years to come. Then he would stand up, walk out of that door over there having got what he wanted again. Getting what he had wanted had always been easy enough. Wanting the right thing, now that was the hard part of the equation. Sometimes, totally by chance it would fall into his lap, but then he either lost it, or he let it go, or it left him. He did accept when he was in his cups, that he possessed a remarkable ability to do the wrong thing, choose the wrong option or go the wrong way about things. And now here he was a divorcee. His credit cards maxed. He was nearly £30,000 in debt. He’d been made redundant two months ago. He’d lost his share of a lovely house along with his lovely blonde, now ex, partner in exchange for a lonely bed-sit in a tiny village on the border, surrounded by fields, sheep and cows. It was all pure compulsion. A chip straight off his fathers block.

He been driven to desperation and desperation had driven him to driving. Taxi driving to be exact. Christ, he thought with a perceptible shake of his head it was hard going, you met some right miserable bastards. Women who would argue over 20 pence with their cheeky, snot nosed wanes and their 10 plastic bags full of frozen pizza, coke and crisps. And their buggies; this really drove him spare. Within a week of becoming a taxi driver he’d become like Travis Bickle in ‘Taxi Driver’. Picking up and dropping off low life’s in the post war darkness of the Northern Irish night, he heard a New York accent rattle in his head. It had dawned on him that Howard Hughes hadn’t been far of the mark. People? Dirty scummy bastards who’ll infect you with a glance. Who’ll gut you before they’d even look at you. Who’d step over you in the street. Hell really was other people.This was a penance. His penance. But like some pathetic recidivist, some kind of problem junkie, he was here again looking for the wrong thing. The sacrament of confession a get-out-of-jail-card.

Peter looked up from his chair at the clock over the counter. It was time. A blue door. Blue doors all over the place in fact. Pastel walls blue. A blue counter, with people in blue uniforms with light blue shirts and blouses. One of the blue doors opened and out she came in her blue uniform. Power dressed. Right on cue. She approached the lady with the blue rinse at the desk who motioned her blue head in his direction and she looked up over her spectacles. Long brown hair tied in a ponytail. Serious looking glasses, not much make up, bony features. She lifted a file from the desk. His file. And turned towards him.

If she didn’t agree the whole trip was off, simple as that. If she did, it was on and he could go; happy days. Success would mean that he could enjoy the next moment and the next and the next. For a few days at least. But then it would all be gone. That’s the way it works and he was used to it now. Having to start again with nothing. Skint, boring days stretching off into the night, the next day, the next week and on until the next time he could work the oracle….

….He stands. About six foot. Broad shoulders with a big bull of a baldhead on top. Bushy eyebrows, clear blue eyes returning an unblinking gaze back over the counter. The remnants of his hair cling to the sides of his head, a bit thick above the ears. Think intelligent thug. Nice shirt. Ralph Lauren. From America. A gift from one of those precious things that had fallen into his lap by chance but that he’d managed to somehow lose amidst everything else. Subtle tie, maroon. Silk. Navy three button. Well cut. Not paid for but very slimming all the same. Covering a slight paunch. Pale Chinos just a tad too tight or is it that they’re just a cheap and bad cut? Funny, he’d thought that this morning putting them on. How can those French Connection jeans he’d taken off be exactly the same waist measurement and inside leg and fit perfectly and these chinos don’t? Primark. Mental note, never again. Brown Italian leather brogues, nicely polished. Nicely confident. He smiles that smile and the skin around his eyes crinkles as he approaches the counter. He can smell his own aftershave. Chanel Allure anti- perspirant roll-on, after shave balm and Eau de Toilette. He wonders to himself “am I wearing too much?”

Time to go to work Pete.

“Mr Baker? How are you? I’m Helen Smith, I’m in charge of your account since Sylvia moved on”, she reaches across the counter with her hand.

“Hello Helen, call me Peter, it’s very nice to meet you, thanks for seeing me at such short notice”, He takes her hand and shakes it very gently. She is in charge and he wants her to know it.

Helen motions to a cubicle at the back of the bank, “Shall we take a seat over there so we can, you know, have a bit of privacy?” she says in a stage whisper.

People in the queue for the cashier watch Peter as he moves around the counter to take his seat. They wonder what he wants. Is he in trouble? Must owe a fortune? Getting a loan maybe? New car or a house? Maybe a holiday? Oooh I’d love a holiday.

He can smell her when she takes her seat opposite him. She loves her job. Loves this power. In five minutes this woman will decide his fate. She opens his file. She can say yes or no. Peter looks her in the eye and she meets his gaze levelly. It’s in the bag. He knows it. He relaxes. This woman wants to give him what he needs because she can. It’s in her gift that she can have this effect on his life and she loves it. She clasps her fingers together. The big fuck off emerald in the engagement ring catches his eye as it sparkles in the light.

“So Peter, What can I do for you today?”

“Well first of all can I thank you again for seeing me at such short notice”, she inclines her head, “Its just that as you can see from my records I’m at my overdraft limit nearly. I’ve received an offer for an interview for a really good job in Manchester tomorrow. It’s a position I’d love to get with an excellent salary and lots of fringe benefits, so, er, I was wondering would it be possible for you to give me an increase, because my girlfriend has booked a flight for me with her credit card today and I need to pay her back plus have a bit of cash for when I get over? Temporarily of course” Peter looks her straight in the eye again and smiles a hopeful little boy smile.

He can see his account details in the file in front of her. Grim reading.

She looks down at the file, “Lets see, your current limit is £300 and your balance is about £260, what is it that you need? An increase to £450…?” Before she can finish he’s in like a shot.

“Maybe £500 to be on the safe side eh? It means I can pay the girlfriend back all in one go and still have a bit of spare cash?” He holds her stare. She nods her head slowly.

Back…Of…. The…. Net.

“Hmmm…Ok…yes…that seems fine…I’ll…mark that up on your account this after…Er…I see that your account pays charges on a quarterly basis…I could change your account to the monthly system and that may save you some money in bank charges…if you’d like, it takes at least 24 hours to proc…?” She looked up from the file to explain, but though he’s looking, and his eyes remain in contact with hers, he’s not listening; in fact he can’t hear a word of what she’s saying, because it’s worked again. His head is gone. He’s somewhere else. Already planning, conniving, and projecting.

His brain screams “respond”. And Scotty beams him back to the chair in the bank from way way back in the recesses of his mind. “We’re giving her all she’s got captain”.

Peter smiles. Then switches on.

“What?…oh sorry Helen…what was that…less charges? Of course, go ahead I’m all for less charges aren’t you?” He’s watching what she’s writing in his file but it doesn’t register because elation has taken over.

“Ok, that seems fine Mr Baker; I’ll make those changes to your account and put that overdraft increase through as well. Now is there anything else I can help you with. We’ve a whole new promotion on life insurance at the moment. Do you have life insurance?” She produces another sheet with a list of other financial products she has to push.

“Er…life insurance…er, no. Tell you what why don’t you send us some information out?”

He glances up at he clock on the wall behind Helen. “Listen I have to go Helen. I have to pick up the suit from the dry cleaners” he’s standing up as he says it, “Thanks for your help, you’ve really got me out of a bit of a hole”. He leans forward and proffers is hand. She stands up lifting his file and clutching it to her flat chest with her left hand while she offers up her right. Totally railroaded.

“Oh…ok then…Goodbye Mr Baker, I’ll make sure those adjustments to your account are put through OK? And I’ll er…put some of that insurance information in the post for you”

He was already half turned. “Oh right, thanks again”. He just wanted to get out. He hesitated for a second. There was something he should have asked. Something she started to say. What was it? Ah fuck it. He strode on. He felt smug. He’d done it again. Manipulated the situation to get what he wanted, told a pack of lies for the sake of £240. Which he knew in his heart of hearts he would never pay back. Free money? Absofuckinlutely! What “crucial interview”? What Girlfriend? What priorities? He’d had the ticket for tomorrow tonight’s match for weeks.

Stepping down on to the street the smug smile slowly began to transform into a furrowed brow. There was a cold wind blowing through Shipquay Place. Peter buttoned his billowing jacket and dug his hands in his pockets and braced himself against the strong breeze. He’d promised himself that he would drive his taxi for seven days on the trot. He’d promised himself that he wouldn’t go out for a month when he got back. He’d promised himself that this time, yes this time it would be different and that this time he would really try. If it worked out. It had, but he knew, deep down as he was making those promises as he sat waiting for Helen that he wouldn’t come through. Again. As he passed the Ulster Bank he caught sight of the manager’s office where he had sat so many times going through exactly the same procedure. The same promises, the same half hearted efforts to fulfil them until he went to the well again. They’ll never get those thousands back. He bowed his head and walked on quickly. This time it’s Manchester United. Other times? Girlfriends, cars, holidays, debt to pay off other debt to ease the Catholic guilt.

Walking up William Street back to the car he undid the top button of his shirt and loosened the tie. The rain came on just as he crossed the road and reached the car park. He made a sprint for the car as it began to come down in stair rods. He fiddled with key and then was in, his glasses speckled with large raindrops. He took them off and wiped them clean with his tie, holding them to the light to inspect his progress. His mind was going its usual 100 miles per hour.

He sat back in the car seat.

This time has to be the last time he thought as he gripped the steering wheel. It has to or I’m fucked. You’re fucked already and you know it he answered himself almost immediately. These conversations he had with himself inside his head were getting worse he thought grimly as he dug into his pocket for some change and the car whined in 1st gear toward the car park kiosk.

He wound down the window and looked up to the attendant.

“How much?” He handed over the ticket to the man in the kiosk and the rain ran down his sleeve.

The attendant, fag in mouth looked over his glasses at the time when the ticket had come out of the machine.

“30. That’s a wile day innit?” He turned back to Peter with his hand out.

“Great day for ducks. There you go, cheers”, a smile, as if there was not a bother on him. “Cheers”, The attendant took the 30p. Raised the barrier closing the kiosk window against the rain and then turned back to the Derry Journal.

Peter indicated right, looked both ways then pulled out into the left lane. Job done. Time to just get on with it.
Chapter 2

Closing the door of the flat firmly behind him he walked down the dark and dim hall to the kitchen opposite his front door. The light of the day was beginning to fade and the room was now murky, slowly his eyes adjusted to the darkness. He peered out into the gloom of the backyard through the dirty window. There was no latch on the frame to open it if he wanted to let in some air. Just a thick sheet of grimy wired glass, the type they used to use in bus shelters in Salford when he was a kid in the seventies. To the left he could make out the fire escape leading up to the two flats above and then straight down the yard he could see the window to his own room on the right wall, permanently closed and curtained. He never opened that window and the smell of the room was testament to that. But you never knew, some bastard could climb over the back wall to look in and decide that it was worth breaking in. The three wheelie-bins squatted in the left hand corner of the yard like three trolls, overflowing with bags of type plastic and bin. Take away boxes hanging limp and damp out from under the lids after nights and days of continued soaking. Used beer cans lay around their wheels in the slime.

He reached over and lifted the kettle and filled it at the sink, and then put it back on its mount. Opening the cupboard above he fumbled for a tea bag and turning round reached for a cup on the draining board of the sink. He glanced to check where his hand was going because there were beer glasses on there too and he selected the white one because it was easiest to see. Turing round again he clicked the button on the kettle and the light didn’t appear in the base. He tried clicking twice. Cursing under his breath he reached over to the light switch. Again nothing.

Electric. Gone.

Placing the cup beside the kettle he went back to the front door of the flat and opened it making sure to put on the latch. He felt for his key in his pocket just to be on the safe side. Don’t tempt fate he thought with a smile. The electric meters were in a cupboard on the right hand side of the hall. He squatted down and peered at his own meter and with his forefinger depressed the grey button for the emergency credit. How ironic he thought as he stood up. There was a whirr and a click and the £4 began counting down. Will it last until I get back or should I go and get some? He thought to himself. Aye should be ok. He closed the door on the meter cupboard and stood up.

Back in the kitchen with the bare light bulb on he started the kettle and put the teabag in the cup. He opened the fridge and took out the milk and looked at the fare inside. There wasn’t much to behold. A Marks and Sparks Rogan Josh curry, a Sainsbury’s pizza or the remains of the Chinese from last night. Nothing but the best of course. Thought you had no money Mary had said. You’re always complaining you have none she’d said. All this, as she gulped the food he’d bought her down her throat in indignation. He fished out the remnants of the deep fried chilli chicken and sniffed it. Smelt OK. That’ll do he thought. At least it will save me buying anything tonight and I can wash it down with a few Stella’s – motto “reassuringly expensive” – to help me get to sleep.

The kettle began to hiss and gurgle as the element inside started to heat. He lifted the cup and looked at it. There was a black shield outline on one side with the image of a black and white phoenix emerging from red flames. On each side of the shield were the years 1955 and 1995 were imprinted in black. Underneath the shield was the shape of a scroll outlined in red with the word “NEWBUILDINGS” in bold black capitals on the white background. Underneath the scroll in thick black Italics were the words “Primary School”. He turned the cup around with a smile on his face, 40th Anniversary was written in a flourish. Who would have thought that he would posses something once owned by Paddington Bear the convict? As the kettle boiled and he put the teabag into the cup and then filled it with boiling water his mind wandered.

He’d been a security supervisor in the local shopping centre and had been volunteered to drive Paddington bear around the local schools one early summer near the end of term to help promote the centre to the local children. Paddington was actually one of the guards he supervised, dressed up in an oversized suit. Eddie O’Brien was his name. Eddie worked nights mostly but occasionally on his days off the centre manager used to pay him overtime to come in and get dressed p in various guises for various promotions that were happening in the centre – Easter, St. Patrick’s day, Christmas, that kind of thing.
It could be Barney the Dinosaur or Donald Duck or Santa and occasionally Eddie would be Paddington Bear. He would then walk round the malls shaking hands with older children and kissing babies and generally making a fuss of any kids. Occasionally he’d hand out sweets or leaflets depending on the particular promotion on in the centre that day. Eddie was a character, a charmer. Small and wiry he was fastidious about his appearance. Even when he did nights he would come in clean shaven, shirt and trousers pressed, shoes polished, tie done up to the top button, then he would strut around the place like he was the supervisor. A good-looking bloke with light brown hair parted on one side and cut short at the back and the sides. He had wide cheek bones and a perfectly straight nose which dissected two very bright and very blue eyes. His pearly white teeth seemed perpetually set to a salacious grin. Peter’s overwhelming memory of Eddie was seeing him in the canteen one summers day stripped to the waist, braces hanging loosely by his side sweating profusely, pulling on a Benson and Hedges as if it was his last, half Barney, half man, cracking jokes about anal sex to the cleaning girls after an hour or two on the malls giving out sweets to the children in the centre. The other half of Barney, grinning to the room on the table beside him. Quite appropriate given what happened. You see the thing with Eddie was that he couldn’t leave women alone. To be fair they couldn’t leave him alone either. It was well known that he had several children around the town to various women.

Working nights with Eddie was a nightmare. The phone would be ringing regularly with different women looking to speak to him. Sometimes they would even come over to the centre and park in the lay-by outside on the street. He’d tell them to bring pizza or Indian or Chinese and most times they would. Eddie was in his element, because the other night men who worked with him would be sat there in the centre control room watching the cameras, zooming them in on the various cars and it was obvious what was running through their mind, “that bastard is out there getting a hand job or better and we’re stuck in here”, then Eddie would land back in laden with the grub grinning from ear to ear. However, as time went on there was a change. There was one woman who rang nearly every night looking to speak to Eddie. As soon as the phone would ring he would be making the, I’m on the malls, I’m not here, take a message stage whispers and the woman on the end of the line would get really irate knowing she was being avoided, “I know he’s fucking there, tell that lying cheating cunt to ring me back or else”. It began to get heavy. Really heavy. Every night.

It was the summer that Peter Baker, the security supervisor finally decided he was getting out of the security supervisor game. He had a job for life and he knew it. It was a piece of piss. On days anyway. Sat in the control room reading his paper answering the radio for the men, filling in the log book, telling the boys where the local hoods were and following them with the CCTV cameras. Down for a break after an hour then out on the malls to check that the guards were where they should be, but really to check out the talent on the malls, and then back for another break before it was his shift in the control room again. The only hassle was if the fire alarm went off on your shift in there but it had been installed so badly and had gone off that many times in the early days when the centre had opened that even this wasn’t the heart attack that it’d used to be. But his line manager was going nowhere for life. So the days began to stretch out boringly before him and he decided he’d have to get out. Self improvement and all that. Then one day at the beginning of this summer he received a call to go and see the centre manager.

It turned out that all the primary schools in the area had been booked for a visit by Paddington Bear, and Peter was to be Paddington’s Chauffeur. And, as it turned out. the warm up act as well

“Who’s Paddington? Eddie?”

“Yes. Eddie.”

So there they were driving around the schools of Derry. Protestant and Catholic. He did the warm up by saying what a great place the centre was blah, blah and then in would bound Paddington and all the kids would go mental. It was good fun and it got him out of the centre for the afternoon. Where would you get it? One of the last schools they went too was Newbuildings Primary School, a Protestant school on the outskirts of the city. The Headmistress was a lovely lady who thanked them very sincerely for coming to entertain the children, and so after a couple of buns and a cup of tea handed them the two mugs when they were leaving. They were to commemorate the 40th anniversary of the school she said and they had a few spare. It was a nice thought. They had both thanked her for her hospitality and headed back to the car. When they had put Paddington’s suit into the boot of the car out of sight of the children naturally, and got in, Eddie turned round and said, “Here, what the fuck do I want with a proddy fucking mug. You want it? Here take it.” And handed it to him. So he’d brought both mugs home. Made countless cups of tea in them and that was that.

One day, whilst working as a Team Manger in a call centre a year or two later, one of his colleagues called to him one morning.

“Hi, Peter,”

They called everybody in Derry “Hi”, it mattered little whether you were two or ten foot tall.

“Didn’t you work in Foyleside shopping centre once?”

“Yeah, I left over 18 months ago, I was a supervisor in the security up there, Why wassup?”

“Naw, it’s just that I heard that one of the security guards up there had been arrested this morning for the attempted murder of that girl that they found at the weekend lying up at the back of Ballymagroarty. God she was in a dreadful state. Throat cut and left in a bin bag for dead. This fella had been out walking his dog and found the wee girl. It was the cold that saved her. It froze the blood. Imagine?”

He knew straight away it was Eddie. Knew in his heart.

Eddie ended up getting a long, long stretch. He’d met up with the girl that night, the one who had been ringing and giving him a hard time on all those nights. He’d taken up a country lane had sex with her and then slit her throat, bundled her into a couple of bin bags, taped them up and left her for dead. Thing is that Eddie had occasionally made a few extra pound when he was working at night valeting cars in the loading bay of the centre. He was bloody good at it, but not that good apparently. It sunk him. The forensics had found a trace of the girls blood on one of the car door handles despite Eddie valeting the night of the attack in the loading bay of the centre. And now Paddington Bear was doing time for attempted murder and Peter was drinking tea out of the cup that he had given him. It was a crazy mixed up world he thought to himself as he dunked another ginger nut. But still and a shiver of anticipation ran through him, Old Trafford tomorrow night. Magic. Just magic.

He woke with a startled jump in the cold, dark room and rolled left on his side toward the locker beside his bed. Seconds later his mobile erupted into a vibrating, chirruping firefly. He stretched over and grasped the phone. Lying back again he cancelled the noise of the alarm. He lay for a second under the heat of the duvet with his bleary eyes and nose poking above the edge of it, trying to gather his thoughts breathing in and out deeply but unsteadily. Confused he stared at the ceiling in the darkness. He hadn’t slept well. He felt strung out, uneasy, disorientated. He’d had a strange and vivid dream and the dark shadows in the room cast threatening shapes on the wall in the darkest hour before dawn.

He’d dreamt that he’d arranged to meet Paddington Bear outside Old Trafford before the match tonight to collect his ticket, which was strange as he already had his ticket. In the dream he had to go and meet Paddington in Lou Macari’s chippy on Sir Mat Busby Way outside the ground. And right enough, when he did get to the chippy, after pushing through the crowd gathering outside the ground for the match, there he was, standing in the queue, large as life in his blue duffel coat and hat, waiting for a meat and potato pie and chips just like he did it at every match. He’d tapped the bear on the shoulder and it had turned round and had gave it the hands in the air, “I’m so shocked and surprised” move that Eddie had always used on the malls whenever any children had tugged at his costume. He remembered that he had said something like “come on Eddie take that friggin’ outfit off I know its you, give us that bloody ticket”. But this Paddington just started to laugh silently, shoulders shaking violently, one paw on its hip, the other costumed paw over the massive furry mouth as if trying to stifle some silent hilarity at a private joke. Then, the Paddington removed his costume head and it wasn’t Eddie at all, it was Helen the bloody bank manager from yesterday.

He’d woken up then alright. He shut his eyes again, “knew I shouldn’t have drunk that fourth can of Stella” he grumbled ruefully to himself, “hmmm, you know maybe that chinkers was off in the end”, and he had a premonition of lumpy farts on take off, still, his guts felt fine at the moment but it would be just his luck to get caught short half way between here and Belfast.

He sat up abruptly and looked at the time on his mobile. Time to get going. He fumbled under the lamp shade and switched on the light. In the light the room was even drearier. He heard the floor above him creak as one of his neighbours stirred in their bed. He threw back the duvet and stepped into the cold night air. He could smell and feel the damp around him and he dressed quickly.

The rest of the flat was cold and lonely. Mary didn’t like the flat, its smell, its lack of central heating, the fact that you could here the ones above going at it until the early hours of the morning, so she never stayed now, she much preferred her own bought and paid for semi detached comforts. She wasn’t the only one either. He hated the place as well, but things had been up and down between them for a while and now and again things would blow up and he’d walk away from the warmth and the hot baths, and the Egyptian cotton sheets to exert his independence and show her he wasn’t going to take anymore of her shit. He hated it when she would tell him that he couldn’t be in a relationship and expect to do the things he did. It was just that after the initial heat of the moment anger when he had once more packed his bags and drove back down to the flat, he felt terrible and knew that she did too. Deep down there seemed to be some semblance of love and affection it was just that he just kept denying it and kept to his old ways because he didn’t know any other and yet he was mortally afraid of yet another failure.

This trip to see United was just one more example. He’d told her he was going on Monday night. She said you have no money and anyway you’ve just come back from the cup final in Cardiff yesterday. He said he would get it. She said how? He told her some bullshit story. She said she didn’t believe him. How could you not believe me he’d said? Because Peter you told me last week how that you were in the shit financially. Well I shouldn’t have told you should I he’d said. But we’re supposed to tell each other stuff if we love each other she’d said. Well that’s the last time I tell you anything he’d said. And on and on and on. So that in the end he’d done the usual. Stormed out again to get away. from the fight but also to get away from the awkward questions. Her tears and her pleas for him to stay fell on deaf ears as he marched to his car and drove off into the night. That had been only two nights ago. Peter shrugged his shoulders and continued to dress. Socks first as always.

Rain spattered against the kitchen window in gusts as he yawned repeatedly and waited for the kettle to boil. The darkness outside only seemed to compound his disorientation. It was quarter past five in the morning. On the kitchen table his bag. “Plane ticket – check. Match ticket – check. Passport – check. Two pair of undies – check. Two pair of socks – check. Two t-shirts check. Wallet- check. Empty – check”. He reached in his jean pocket and found a £5 note and a €5 note rolled up together and a couple of pound in assorted change. “Skint – check” he declared to no one in particular and grimaced as the kettle bubbled to a climax and he filled the cup with the t-bag in it. Still he comforted himself as he took out his cash card and then put it back securely in his wallet; it’s great when a plan comes together.

Face splashed, teeth scrubbed, arse wiped, hands washed, he lifted his keys and bag off the kitchen table. He double-checked his match ticket, plane ticket, passport, and wallet again. He swore he was getting more obsessive and compulsive as he got older. “You’ll need fuck all else today Peter” He said to himself, as flicked the kitchen light switch off and opened the front door of the flat and stepped into the hall way. Slamming the door shut and making sure it was closed – twice to be sure – he lifted his bag, turned and strode down the hallway and opened the front door of the three storey building and onto the street. There was a squally shower blowing and the bare arms of the trees danced in the arc of the streetlight, their shadows swooped over the ground.

Hunching his shoulders against the wind and rain he made a dash over to where his car was parked. He opened the back door and threw the bag onto the back seat along with his coat and made a dive into the driver’s seat as a particularly strong gust washed down the wind tunnel of the street. He didn’t like flying at the best of times but the thought of taking off with that kind of wind made him feel very uneasy. He switched on the ignition, the diesel engine growling deeply as he flicked on his lights. Putting the car in to gear he negotiated an awkward four point turn in the narrow street and then pulled out onto the main road. He was half expecting tumbleweed to be blowing past it was that quiet, then, just as the traffic lights in front of him changed to amber, with a surge of elation he dropped down to second let out the clutch and flew through on red. No traffic at this time in the morning. He was outta there!

“Oh Manchester, Is wonderful, Oh Manchester is wonderful” He roared at the top of his lungs, “Its full of tit, fanny and United, oh Manchester is wonderful…Oh Manchester..”

He sped up the Glenshane road towards Altnagelvin hospital and the road out of Derry. He was on his way home. Even for one night it felt good. The plan was simple and had been done many times before. Fly from Belfast “International Airport” to Liverpool “John Lennon” – Ok God? – and then get the airport bus from the airport into Lime Street train station and then get the next train to Victoria. Quick taxi to Leslie’s. Hug, feed, chin-wag, bus to Old Trafford for, Oooh, say half five, several cans and a sing song in the Bishops Blaize, stumble round to the ground. Watch United stuff the Leeds sheep shagging scum, pint and a pie at half time, after the match the long march back to Leslie’s then a few more beers and a bite to eat and chinwag with the family. Up in the morning, into town on the 93; get a nice brekkie, then Victoria station to get the train to Lime Street. Airport bus. Airport. Check in. Plane. Land in Belfast – Ok God? – collect car. An hour or so later, home for the 6 0’clock news. Schweet! Helen I love you!