The New Collected Short Stories Read online

  She checked her watch again and then looked up, suddenly aware that he was staring at her.

  He smiled. She blushed and lowered her head just as two trains glided into the station from opposite ends of the platform. Everyone standing behind Andrew pushed forward to claim a place on the waiting train.

  When it pulled out of the station, Andrew was the only person left on the platform. He stared across at the train on the other side, and watched it slowly accelerate out of the station. When it had disappeared into the tunnel, Andrew smiled again. Only one person remained on the opposite platform, and this time she returned his smile.

  You may ask how I know this story to be true. The answer is simple. I was told it at Andrew and Claire’s tenth wedding anniversary earlier this year.

  BOTH SIDES AGAINST THE MIDDLE*

  ‘THERE’S ONE PROBLEM I haven’t touched on,’ said Billy Gibson. ‘But first, let me refill your glass.’

  For the past hour the two men had sat quietly in the corner of the King William Arms discussing the problems of running a police station on the border of Northern Ireland and Eire. Billy Gibson was retiring after thirty years in the force, the past six of them as Chief of Police. His successor, Jim Hogan, had been brought in from Belfast, and the talk was that if he made a good fist of it, his next stop would be as Chief Constable.

  Billy took a long draught, and settled back before he began his story.

  ‘No one can be quite sure of the truth about the house that straddles the border, but, as with all good Irish stories, there are always several half-truths circulating at any one time. I need to tell you a little of the house’s history before I come to the problem I’m having with its present owners. To do that I must mention, if only in passing, one Patrick O’Dowd, who worked in the planning department of Belfast City Council.’

  ‘A nest of vipers at the best of times,’ chipped in the new Chief.

  ‘And those were not the best of times,’ said the retiring Chief, before taking another sip of Guinness. His thirst quenched, he continued his story.

  ‘No one has ever understood why O’Dowd granted planning permission for a house to be built on the border in the first place. It was not until it had been completed that someone in the rates department in Dublin got hold of an Ordnance Survey map, and pointed out to the authorities in Belfast that the border ran right through the middle of the sitting room. Old lags in the village say the local builder misread the plans, but others assure me that he knew exactly what he was doing.

  ‘At the time, no one cared too much, because the man the house was built for – Bertie O’Flynn, a widower – was a godfearing man who attended Mass at St Mary’s in the South, and sipped his Guinness at the Volunteer in the North. I think it’s also worth mentioning,’ said the Chief, ‘that Bertie had no politics.

  ‘Dublin and Belfast managed to reach a rare compromise, and agreed that as the house’s front door was in the North, Bertie should pay his taxes to the Crown, but as his kitchen and half-acre of garden were in the South, he should pay his rates to the local council on the other side of the border. For years this agreement caused no difficulties, until dear old Bertie departed this life and left the house to his son, Eamonn. To cut a long story short, Eamonn was, is, and always will be a bad lot.

  ‘The boy had been sent to school in the North, although he attended church in the South, and he showed little interest in either. In fact, by the age of eleven, the only thing he didn’t know about smuggling was how to spell it. By the time he turned thirteen, he was buying cartons of cigarettes in the North, and trading them for crates of Guinness in the South. At the age of fifteen, he was earning more money than his headmaster, and when he left school he was already running a flourishing business, importing spirits and wine from the South while exporting cannabis and condoms from the North.

  ‘Whenever his probation officer knocked on the front door in the North, he retreated to his kitchen in the South. If the local Garda was seen walking up the garden path, Eamonn disappeared into the dining room, and stayed there until they got bored and drove away. Bertie, who always ended up having to answer the door, got heartily sick of it, which I suspect in the end was the reason he gave up the ghost.

  ‘Now, when I took up my appointment as Chief of Police six years ago, I decided to make it my personal ambition to put Eamonn O’Flynn behind bars. But what with the problems I’ve had to handle on the border and normal policing duties, the truth is I never got round to it. I’d even started to turn a blind eye, until O’Flynn met Maggie Crann, a well-known prostitute from the South, who was looking to expand her trade in the North. A house with four upstairs bedrooms, two on either side of the border, seemed to be the answer to her prayers – even if from time to time one of her half-naked customers had to be moved from one side of the house to the other rather quickly, to avoid being arrested.

  ‘When the Troubles escalated, my opposite number south of the border and I agreed to treat the house as a “no go” area – that was, until Eamonn opened a casino in the South in a new conservatory which was never to grow a flower – planning permission agreed by Dublin – with the cashier’s office situated in a newly constructed garage that could take a fleet of buses, but has not yet housed a vehicle of any description – planning permission agreed by Belfast.’

  ‘Why didn’t you oppose planning permission?’ asked Hogan.

  ‘We did, but it quickly became clear that Maggie had customers in both departments.’ Billy sighed. ‘But the final blow came when the farmland surrounding the house came up for sale. No one else got a look-in, and O’Flynn ended up with sixty-five acres, in which he could post lookouts. That gives him more than enough time to move any incriminating evidence from one side of the house to the other, long before we can reach the front door.’

  The glasses were empty. ‘My round,’ said the younger man. He went up to the bar and ordered two more pints.

  When he returned, he asked his next question even before he had placed the glasses on the table.

  ‘Why haven’t you applied for a search warrant? With the number of laws he must be breaking, surely you could have closed the place down years ago?’

  ‘Agreed,’ said the Chief, ‘but whenever I apply for a warrant, he’s the first person to hear about it. By the time we arrive, all we find is a happily married couple living alone in a peaceful farmhouse.’

  ‘But what about your opposite number in the South? It must be in his interests to work with you and . . .’

  ‘You’d think so, wouldn’t you? But there have been five of them in the past seven years, and what with not wishing to harm their promotion prospects, their desire for an easy life, or straightforward bribery, not one of them has been willing to cooperate. The current Garda Chief is only months away from retirement, and won’t do anything that might harm his pension. No,’ continued Billy, ‘whichever way you look at it, I’ve failed. And I can tell you, unlike my opposite number, if I could sort out Eamonn O’Flynn once and for all, I would even be willing to forgo my pension.’

  ‘Well, you still have another six weeks, and after all you’ve told me, I’d be relieved if O’Flynn was off the patch before I took over. So let’s see if I can come up with a solution that will solve both our problems.’

  ‘I’d agree to anything, short of murdering the man – and don’t think that hasn’t crossed my mind.’

  Jim Hogan laughed, looked at his watch and said, ‘I must be getting back to Belfast.’

  The old Chief nodded, downed his last drop of Guinness and accompanied his colleague to the carpark at the back of the pub. Hogan didn’t speak again until he was seated behind the wheel of his car. He turned on the engine and wound the window down.

  ‘Are you going to have a farewell party?’

  ‘Yes,’ said the Chief. ‘On the Saturday before I retire. Why do you ask?’

  ‘Because I always think a farewell party is an occasion to let bygones be bygones,’ said Jim, without explanation.