open-necked shirt with loose tie, examines Finbarr and then smiles. ‘Oh, you little honey.’ She raises her voice. ‘Girls, this charming young man wants to buy us a drink.’
‘I’ll have a gin and tonic, Aggie.’
‘Make that two.’
‘Brandy and ginger ale.’
‘Sit down, handsome,’ Aggie says. Finbarr sits down and Aggie grabs and squeezes his cheeks. ‘Couldn’t you just eat him?’
‘You will be eating him before the night’s out,’ one of the girls screams. Squeals of exuberance follow.
Someone says, ‘Yvonne, call a waiter.’
‘What’s your name, lovey?’ Aggie asks.
‘Finbarr.’
‘Finbarr? No way! You’re too good-looking to be a Catholic.’ Aggie puts her hand at the back of Finbarr’s neck, pulls him into her and kisses him, her tongue finding his. He breaks off. ‘Wow!’ she says. ‘This little taig kisses like a Prod!’
Finbarr spots his scruffy friend Peteris and gets up to leave. Aggie grabs his arm. ‘Where are you going, gorgeous?’
Finbarr smiles deferentially. ‘I’ve an emergency, missus. I’ve got to skite. Sorry.’
‘But what about our drink? You said you were going to buy us a drink.’
‘Some other time, yeah?’
‘Some other time, my arse. You said—’
‘Piss off, cockaholic!’
‘What did you just say there?’
‘Hey, you, Pea-dick,’ another ‘schoolgirl’ shouts, ‘don’t you dare talk to a lady like that.’
Finbarr knows that their wrath is about to descend upon him and he makes for the exit post-haste. Following him is Peteris – black-haired and black-hearted – a Latvian pimp and human trafficker. He whispers in Finbarr’s ear as they leave the bar.
Surprisingly, given Peteris’ dark persona, his apartment is clean and pleasantly decorated. Finbarr’s eyes focus on the five neat lines of cocaine that are laid out on the glass coffee table.
‘Help yourself,’ Peteris says.
Finbarr snorts a line. His head jerks as he absorbs the hit. ‘String ’em up, Sheriff!’ he says.
‘Is good?’ Peteris says.
‘Very tasty, Pete. Now where’s the chick?’
‘In here.’ Peteris leads Finbarr into a dimly lit bedroom where a frail, blonde-haired girl, no more than twelve years of age, lies naked on a double bed. ‘Fresh tenderloin of beef, my friend,’ Peteris says, running his hand up the girl’s leg. ‘Only shipped in yesterday. Sweet? I not have her myself yet.’
‘What’ve you given her?’
‘Rohypnol.’
‘What’s that?’
‘It drug-rape pill. She no remember who fuck her when she wake up.’
‘What’s her name?’
‘Galina.’
With the back of his fingers, Finbarr brushes aside some strands of the girl’s blonde hair. ‘How much?’
‘She virgin.’
‘How much?’
‘For stranger, two hundred. For you, only one hundred.’
‘Fifty.’
‘Eighty.’
Finbarr removes three twenty-pound notes from his wallet and, without taking his greedy eyes off Galina, dangles them between his fingers. Peteris glibly takes the notes.
When Finbarr steps out the door of Peteris’ apartment, he feels nothing: no remorse, no self-loathing, no guilt. Rohypnol, he thinks – that’s a name worth remembering. What was the girl’s name? He cannot remember.
Eyes bulbous, drenched in sweat and gasping for air, Ructions springs upright in bed. Maria McArdle puts her arms around him. ‘It’s all right. It’s all right, Ructions. It’s a nightmare. Nothing else.’ Ructions falls back. Maria goes to the chest of drawers, takes out fresh pyjamas and throws them at him. ‘Here, put these on.’
Ructions removes his pyjama top and lies bare-chested on the bed.
‘Are you okay?’ Maria asks. ‘Do you want to talk?’
Ructions waves his hand dismissively.
Maria turns, intending to give Ructions a dirty look, but walks to the window and looks across Belfast harbour. Ructions has told her about the glory days when dozens of cargo ships were moored along the quay. Now, there are only two lifeless cross-channel ferries. She watches a little pilot boat lead a cruise liner up the channel, and she wants to shout, ‘Hey! People of the liner. Go back. Turn around. Why are you coming to Suffocation City?’ Fuck! I need to get out of Belfast, out of Northern Ireland. Jealously, she watches an early-morning plane from George Best city airport endeavouring to gain height. She knows it’s not going to Buenos Aires or Los Angeles, but at this stage she’d settle for Malaga.
‘Come back to bed, love.’
Maria moves away from the window and throws herself on the bed. She sighs. Oh, Sweet Jesus, she’s having another of those ‘Fuck this’ moments. I can do without it, kiddo. It strikes Ructions just how beautiful she is, with her flawless skin, slim body, and natural blonde hair which he twirls affectionately with his finger. He’s well aware she’s been sighing a lot recently. Our relationship is on life support and I know why: Eleanor Proctor. I have fallen for the mark, despite what I said to Panzer.
He remembers better times. It was Kelly’s Cellars, in Belfast city centre, and The Dead Handsomes were playing. The place was so crowded there was barely room to lift your drink. Terry Sharpe, the charismatic lead singer, made his way down from the stage during the break and had a drink with Ructions and his two friends. Ructions stood aside at the bar as Maria squeezed through. Terry knew Maria and introduced her to Ructions. The attraction was instant. She had repeated his nickname aloud a few times and told him she didn’t know why but ‘Ructions’ seemed appropriate. At the end of the night, she instantly accepted his offer of Indian food. Both knew they would end up in bed together.
The physical attraction and white-hot sex never waned. But sex, no matter how good, isn’t enough to sustain a long-term relationship, especially when a substantial age gap exists. Ructions was well aware that Maria was unsettled: there were clubs, gigs and protests to attend; there were elephants, orangutans and rainforests to save; and there was her dream – South America – to explore. Ructions was just a bank robber. It was a bonus that she was well versed in the art of ‘ask no questions’, her father being a major green-diesel launderer on the Armagh–Louth border. She couldn’t care less what he did for a living; above board or under, it was of no concern to her.
