In Pieces (8 page)

But after a month he'd still not heard anything, and then one evening he and Mrs Donnelley were watching the news as they had tea, and saw that a cease-fire had been declared. ‘Oh sweet Mary,' sighed Mrs Donnelley, ‘now why have they gone and done that?' A tear ran down her cheek and she left the room.

There was always a lot about Mrs Donnelley's reactions to things that the Sleeper didn't understand, so he thought it best to say nothing. But he was confused, and when he got down the pub later he agreed with Eamon behind the bar who said what a shame it was to have given up the fight and to have fallen into the English trap.

The Sleeper knew that Eamon and all the other so-called “patriots” in the pub were all mouth. What had any of them ever done in the war? What right had they to be slagging off the leadership?

‘But,' the Sleeper said, ‘maybe they know what they're doing. A trick, you know, or something, to deceive the bastards…' He noticed that Eamon and the others had gone quiet and were listening carefully. He decided to back off. From then on he only went to the pub occasionally, Saturday nights, normally, and he kept his mouth shut.

But he still heard nothing and began to get angry. Perhaps they really had decided to give up.

‘Stay down and don't do anything to attract attention to yourself. Try and live a normal life and blend into the community. We'll be in touch.' That's what they'd said. But that was before the cease-fire, and he wondered if they'd forgotten about him.

Only a couple of months after his arrival, just as he was beginning to think he'd found his feet, Mrs Donnelley turned his little world upside down. ‘Sorry, love, but we're going to have to find you somewhere else. My son's coming back from America and he'll need that room.' This was a bolt from the blue. He'd expected to stay in her spare room until he received instructions. Now he'd have to move.

‘'S all right, Mrs Donnelley, I understand. No problem.' He smiled to show no hard feelings. His ma would have been proud of his self-restraint and politeness. Inside he was boiling.

‘Good lad. So you'll be out by the weekend, then?'

‘This weekend?'

‘That's right. Didn't I say? Oh sorry, love. But my Davie's back on Monday and I'll need time to clean up.'

‘Right… Aye, of course, Mrs Donnelley.' The Sleeper made to get up from the tea table. He'd miss Mrs Donnelley's teas more than anything. She made great fry-ups. He supposed he might miss her too. She'd been a bit like a mother to him, and he didn't really have any friends in London. If he was honest with himself, he felt lonely a lot. But then he told himself to belt up 'cause he'd always known there would be hardship. Fighting a war wasn't like real life.

‘Oh, and one other thing.'

He stopped in the doorway, leaning on the lintel. He scratched at a grey patch where the white gloss had chipped off revealing the undercoat. ‘Yes, Mrs Donnelley?'

‘Could you settle the rest of your rent tomorrow as I need to do some shopping for Davie's arrival?'

‘Sure, Mrs Donnelley. No problem.' At least he didn't have to worry about money so long as the money held out; despite the cease-fire, he was still able to draw from the bank account. It was the one thing that kept his spirits up and reassured him that this was no surrender, just a tactical move as part of the leadership's long-term strategy. Otherwise, he told himself, someone would surely have been in touch and the bank account would have dried up.

The Sleeper went up to his small bedroom and sat on the bed wondering what to do next. He looked at the peeling, yellow-stripe wallpaper and the cracked mirror. Behind it he knew there was a patch of damp, which no doubt accounted for the musty smell. A garish orange rug with shaggy
tassels covered the boards at the end of the single bed, which sagged in the middle; also, one leg was missing and Mrs Donnelley had propped it up with a pile of books rather than pay for a repair. Through the small grimy window he could make out a few rooftops and the backs of small terraced houses. The sound of a baby screaming came from nearby. It reminded the Sleeper of home and he felt his stomach lurch. He wondered how he would find a new place in such a short time?

~

Jimmy was no dreamer. For him football was a way of life, one which he enjoyed, but now that he had become a professional, it was no longer his dream. However, like many people, he did have a secret ambition. Although he told Si most things, knowing that his friend would not take the mickey or break his confidence, Jimmy had never told him about one corner of his life which had been shrouded in darkness since his early teens. And he still didn't want to shine a light into it, not until the time was right. Especially now that he knew Si had once shared the same secret goal.

When he was fourteen Jimmy, Si and some other schoolmates took a train to a provincial town one Saturday evening. Not far from London, the town's only claim to fame was the huge stadium recently constructed by local developers. The idea was to draw in the youth from dormitory towns all around London and create a venue for top international rock bands.

Jimmy and his friends had never been to a proper rock concert before. He spent the evening mouth-wide-open, mesmerised by the high-energy performance. Prince leapt about the stage and effortlessly created electrifying music with his purple guitar. Jimmy couldn't take his eyes off the star.

On the way home some of the others dozed and Si offered round an illicit can of lager. But Jimmy, between swigs, remained silent, lost in a new dream. It was a dream that didn't evaporate in the morning.

Jimmy decided that night that he was going to be a rock star. He wanted this even more than he wanted to be a famous footballer. The trouble was that until the Prince concert he'd never played an instrument or sung, and he was too shy to start. Only mummy's boys learned musical instruments at school. The kids with the tidy uniforms and short, neatly-parted hair, who spent their lunch hours taking piano lessons and singing in the choir. This was hard to reconcile with his dream. Surely Prince hadn't been such a ponce when he was a kid? Would the delicate Head Chorister metamorphosise into a strutting, groin-thrusting rock ‘n' roll icon in later life?

Jimmy couldn't get his head round this puzzle. He was also afraid that he would be ridiculed by his friends, perhaps even by Si, if he discussed this with them. So he remained silent. He played soccer at lunchtimes and breaks, and jeered at the musical goody-goodies as they minced past, straining under the weight of their cellos.

But the dream wouldn't go away. He lay awake at nights, especially after watching
Top Of The Pops
or
The Tube
, and pictured himself on stage.

His tastes developed, and by the time he was seventeen and playing for Millwall schoolboys, he fantasised about strumming a folk guitar in front of a large band. He dressed like Bob Dylan and Van the Man and put posters of Jim Morrison on his bedroom wall. In his dreams he strode purposefully about a wide stage grasping a microphone and occasionally striking a few chords on the guitar which hung about his neck. The crowd of adoring fans, mostly girls with low cut tops and full lips, blew kisses and screamed whenever he moved. In his sleep Jimmy smiled and, wrapping the duvet cover around him like a spangled cloak, he turned over with a sigh.

And now at the age of twenty-seven, although Jimmy knew it was ridiculous, he realised he still wanted to be a rock star.

~

The Sleeper was seriously concerned about leaving Mrs Donnelley's; he needn't have worried.

‘My sister's looking for someone to take a spare room in her house. I'll give her a call and see if it's still going.'

Eamon at the pub knew that he was looking for a new place. The Sleeper suspected he'd be able to sort something out. Eamon knew everyone and took pride in helping out fellow countrymen in trouble. He'd been here for a long time. Twenty years by his reckoning, since he was the Sleeper's age.

Eamon returned from the back room where he'd been phoning. ‘That's fine. She says go over tomorrow and see her. Here, I'll write down the address for you.'

‘Eamon, you're a good man, you know that.'

‘Aww, just shut up and take your pint before it goes off.' He handed over the warm glass which he'd been filling. ‘That's one thing about the English. They do have good beer. I know I'm not meant to like it really being an Irishman, but I do prefer it to the black stuff.'

When the Sleeper got back to Mrs Donnelley's, he found she'd already gone to bed. That was good because he didn't really want to tell her about the new accommodation until he'd finalised it.

He sat down at the small table in his bedroom and opened the right hand drawer. He ripped a page out of an exercise book and wrote a letter to his ma telling her about the new house he was going to live in and about his friend Eamon. He sent love to his brother and two sisters as usual, and signed off
Your Loving Son
. She liked that. It'd keep her happy for a couple more months, then he'd write again.

When he'd addressed and sealed the envelope, he looked again in the drawer and took out a small metal box. The tiny key in his pocket opened it. He pulled out a folded scrap of paper. He ripped out another sheet of paper and in block letters carefully transcribed the address Eamon had given him. At school the teacher had always said how well he printed. It didn't look bad, even now after so little practice. He held up the note and admired it. Then he took an envelope and sealed the
letter before copying out the address from the scrap of paper. No name, just a PO Box. Finally, he put the paper back in the box and locked it. He closed the drawer and slipped the envelopes into his pocket.

The next day, the Sleeper posted the letters as planned. Later that morning, when the postman emptied his bag, he dropped one of the Sleeper's letters. But before he noticed it lying on the ground, the bitter wind caught it up and carried it into a thorn hedge by the side of the pavement. It lodged there for several days until a small dog saw it and tried to take it in its teeth. But he only managed to dislodge it. Once again a gust seized it, and this time succeeded in blowing it twenty yards away into a shop doorway. A passer-by picked it up and put it in his pocket to post later. It then disappeared for four months.

~

Si came out of the restaurant and regretted that he had to return to the office. He'd passed a couple of gourmet hours with a pleasant guy from a PR company. The PR company had paid, which made Si feel vaguely self-important. In fact, this was one of the first business lunches that he hadn't had to pay for. He must be getting somewhere if people considered him worth lunching.

The PR executive had predictably pushed his client, but after Si had expressed some interest and promised to keep in touch about progress, they'd moved on to discussing football. The businessman clearly felt satisfied that the lunch had been worthwhile, and Si had got away without committing himself to putting anything in the Diary. It had all been a bit of a doddle.

Si wandered along the leafy street for a while, looking in at the shop windows. He stopped when he saw a piece of paper fluttering at his feet. Still feeling rather mellow, he stooped gently and picked it up. It turned out to be a letter for a London address. Someone must have dropped it. Si slipped it into his coat pocket to post later.

~

The gaunt eyes stared back. Jimmy leaned closer to the window and tried to see through the pane beyond his own dark reflection. The lighting was dim and hardly induced anyone to stop and shop. A few old-fashioned and mutilated mannequins posed drunkenly in the display. But Jimmy's attention was focussed elsewhere. A purple guitar stood propped up in a corner. It wasn't clear whether the guitar was for sale, and certainly whoever had left it there had done so in a careless fashion. It was almost as if someone had leaned it against the wall between sets. But that was impossible because the window fronted a shop in Oxford Street, and nobody played rock concerts in shops.

He pushed his nose up against the cold glass and screwing up his eyes found that he could see the guitar much better. It looked like a Fender but there was no distinguishing mark. A string was
missing, but otherwise it looked new. How much would it cost? Of course, he'd also need an amplifier. He'd seen buskers on the tube using small battery-operated numbers. They couldn't be too much. Then, when he got better, he could buy a massive mother and let rip with the slick riffs he'd have learnt.

He felt slightly foolish but still grinned childishly. Twenty-seven wasn't too old to become a rock star, was it? Of course, he'd need to form a band. These days record companies normally arranged all that for you, didn't they? So he just had to show that he was a charismatic stage presence and learn to play the guitar. The rest would follow as naturally as day follows night.

Jimmy returned to earth. He stepped back into the icy night and caught sight of a swaying young man smiling idiotically at a window display. Oh shit, he thought. What a dick I am.

He wandered off, depressed by alcohol. The dream was but a delusion. Moreover, if he didn't pull himself together, his football would suffer and that would be the end of his career. Then what?
He'd
finish up as the dustman, not Si.

It dawned on him that Si had a future, regardless of whether he succeeded or failed in his present job. A degree meant you could always get a good job. What did he have, Jimmy Sweeny? What had he got? Bugger all… One O level. In geography. Fat lot of use that would be. Perhaps he should have made more of an effort at school, after all? Then again, remembering the anguish of homework, perhaps not.

~

Si was in the Sudan. The heat stifled him and he had wrapped something about his mouth to keep out the sand. He was driving from Khartoum airport with Roberta's father. As far as he could work out the car had no air-conditioning.