Читать книгу An Accident Waiting to Happen - Vincent Banville - Страница 5

It was a raw, grey day in Dublin City. I had woken up that morning to find my two-year-old daughter Emily sitting on my chest. She was singing ‘Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star’, only breaking off to demand to have her nappy changed. I did the necessary, then we went downstairs in search of something to eat.

We were in the sitting room, watching the Teletubbies and eating rice crispies, when my wife Annie came down. She has red hair and a temper to match. She also has definite views on how Emily should be brought up.

Now shaking her head, she said, ‘What did I tell you? No television, no comfort food. You’ll have the child spoiled. If we don’t train her in before she comes to the age of reason —’

‘Train her in?’ I cut in. ‘Why can’t we let her be a free spirit? Do her own thing.’

‘At the age of two?’

‘Well, she can walk and talk. Sing, dance, say her abc’s. I know she sometimes puts her shoes on the wrong feet, but that can happen to anyone.’

Annie’s sense of humour will always overcome mock anger. Laughing, she bent down and planted a kiss on Emily’s cheek. As she straightened up, I said, ‘What about me?’

‘What about you?’

‘A kiss for Daddy?’

Thinking I was talking to her, Emily gave me a big wet, slushy one. I also got a mouthful of rice crispies, which went snap, crackle and pop.

After we were washed, cleaned and dressed, Annie took off for work, leaving me to drop Emily at her crèche. Rain was pouring down from an October sky, the clouds low and sulky. The kids in the crèche were in bad form too. Emily’s friend Aoife attached herself to my leg like a limpet. She had to be removed with much wailing and gnashing of teeth. I felt for the carers, two young girls who couldn’t be long out of their teens themselves.

My name is John Blaine, and I’m a private detective. What that means is that I stick my nose into people’s business because other people pay me to do so. I find missing sons, daughters, wives and lovers. I spy with my little eye for folk involved in divorce cases. Once upon a time I worked for an insurance company, and a friend there, Tom Hardy, sometimes hires me to look into suspect claims. I’m good at my job, mainly because I’m six foot two, have scars on my face from my days on the Wexford hurling team, and am as stubborn as an old mule with a thorn up his bottom.

My office is located just off O’Connell Street. Down a lane behind the Imperial Hotel. The rain was still pelting down, drumming off a line of evil-smelling dustbins. I had to move one in order to get in my door. Up the stairs, into my outer office and through to the inner one. There was a musty smell, but I couldn’t open a window for the very good reason that there wasn’t one.

I looked through my mail, then dumped most of it in the bin. My answering machine was more promising. A voice told me it was Bertie Boyer calling, the owner of the Purple Pussy nightclub. He might have some work for me if I cared to look in on him. He left a telephone number, then clicked off.

I rang the number, and waited until a very nice female voice said that she was Gertie and asked what she could do for me. I said I could think of quite a few things she could do for me, but for the moment it would be enough if she would put Bertie on the line. Bertie and Gertie, I mused, I wonder if they’re related.

Bertie came on the line. He had a strong Dublin accent. He told me he couldn’t talk over the phone, but if I dropped over he’d fill me in on what he wanted. The address of the club was in Temple Bar, on the other side of the River Liffey. As I wasn’t exactly snowed under with work, I told him I’d be over before noon.

I left soon after that, but I had only gone halfway up the lane when the wind blew my umbrella inside out. I dumped it and had to walk the rest of the way in the pelting rain. A bad start to the day, and it was about to get much worse.