THE DEAD AND THE QUICK

The way Rob heard it, Billy Maxwell choked on a Twix in the middle of an editorial meeting and they were so busy arguing about the unfair distribution of that week's stories that they didn't notice until he slid out of his chair onto the linoleum floor. When they asked if he was okay, they got a death rattle in response. They tried everything, but it was Billy's time. He was fat and fifty and opening the Twix was the most exercise he'd managed in years. Legend had it that Janine in Advertising was left to stand watch over him, like he was going somewhere, while everyone else ran about in a blind panic, and while she was there she unpeeled the untouched leg of the Twix from Billy's cooling hand and ate it. When he got to know her later, Rob realized that this was probably true. Janine was ruthless.

Now Rob was striding out of the George Best Airport staring around him like any other native lured reluctantly back for the first time in twenty years. On the plane some auld doll had said to him he wouldn't recognize the place and he thought, Yes I fucking will, but she was right, it was different, and not just shiny and new, there was something in the air, initially exhilarating but also somehow artificial, like Pine Fresh. The taxi driver was asking him if he was just here on business, but then caught a glimpse of him slipping into his black tie, gave him a nod, and said nothing else till they got to the church on the Donegal Road.

He had known Billy loved his football team, but not this much: the coffin coming in to the pumping Everton theme from Z-Cars, except they got the timing all wrong so that the hummable bit everyone knew was over by the time they were half-way down the aisle, leaving Billy to travel his last few feet to the weird, staccato jazzy bit that formed the latter part of the tune. Still, it would be another story to tell, and there were lots of stories about Billy and they all came out in the pub later. Rob knew some of the faces, older, more haggard, run to fat or emaciated, and he supposed his wasn't much different – less hair, more poundage – but he didn't know any of them well enough to chat about anything personal, which was a good thing.

In the early evening, a little the worse for wear and just about to make his exit, a pugnacious-looking fella, looking like he was in the same boat, caught his eye at the bar, nodded and said, 'Grand man, so he was.'

'Aye,' said Rob, 'taught me everything I know.'

'Really?' The fella moved closer. He was probably in his forties, a little heavy but with a good smile coming out of a neat beard. 'You in the business, too?'

'Aye, the Guardian,' Rob said.

'Ballymena Guardian?'

'No, the Guardian. London.'

'Really? Seriously? And you came all this way to ...?'

'Like I say.'

Rob finished his pint and set it on the bar. Before he could turn to leave, the fella clicked his fingers and said, 'two more.'

The barman didn't look very impressed at being clicked at. Rob started to say that no, really, he had to be going, but he only had a cheap room waiting for him and he knew he'd only end up watching telly with a bit of a headache, and he might as well delay that misery for a while longer, so he accepted the pint and they stood and talked newspaper business. The fella's name was Gerry Black and he ran the weekly paper Billy Maxwell had been editing twelve miles down the road in Bangor before his confectionery-related demise. Rob remembered Billy as a take-no-prisoners sub on the daily News Letter at the tail end of the Troubles, and couldn't really picture him running a local paper in a comfortably middle-class and long-faded seaside resort. Gerry said his paper was the sort of place where old journalists came to die, and on this occasion, literally. Billy had actually started out on the same paper when he was a teenager before making a swift exit for Belfast. 'You either get out within three years, or you're there for life,' said Gerry. 'Nothing's changed.'

They were in the process of ordering their second pint when Rob noticed a blonde woman in a dark suit just along from them, staring hard at his drinking companion, one hand on the bar, fingers drumming. She drained a shot glass, then moved along to them. She was good-looking, maybe late twenties with a long thin nose. She was slightly the worse for drink herself, but then most of them were. Rob expected a showdown. It was the nature of funerals. And weddings. He turned to pick at the few remaining sandwiches sitting on a platter on the bar behind him as the woman said, 'Gerry. A word.'

'Ah now, Alix,' said Gerry. 'Let me get you a drink.'

'I don't want a drink, Gerry, I want paid.'

'Alix – this is hardly the time.'

He started to turn back to Rob, but the woman, Alix, all glare and flared nostrils, grabbed his arm.

'It's exactly the time! I'm sorry he's gone and all that, but I haven't been paid in a month and I'm starving.'

Rob, drink allowing him to think it might defuse the situation, lifted the platter and offered it to her. Alix gave him a look of utter disdain. He set it back down, though he couldn't help smiling. Actually, he thought it was a smile, but it was more of a smirk. He understood this because she pointed it out.

She said, 'What the bloody hell are you smirking at?'

Rob held up an apologetic hand and said, 'Nothing' through the tuna sandwich he had just squeezed into his mouth.

She probably would have had more to say to him if Gerry hadn't draped an arm around her shoulders and given her a squeeze. 'Alix, darling,' he said, with her stiffly against him for just a moment before she pushed his arm off, 'Alix, darling – it's not my fault. Billy was a great editor, but he couldn't manage for toffee. If he doesn't – didn't – send the paperwork through to me, then I can't, couldn't, process it – but it's not a problem. Just tell me how much it is and I swear to God I will sort it out.'

'When?'

'Now.' He pulled a chequebook out of his jacket and set it on the bar. He patted his pockets again and found a pen. 'Sorry – I've taken my eye off the ball a bit. Alix – your second name?'

She let out a sigh. 'Cross.'

He repeated her full name as he wrote it out. Then he said, 'And how much are we talking about?' When she told him he raised an eyebrow, but kept writing. He signed and dated the cheque and tore it out and handed it to her. She looked at it, and her eyes widened slightly. 'Just a little extra as well – call it a ... a bereavement bonus. Billy would have wanted it. He always spoke very highly of you.'

Alix took the cheque and blew on it before folding it carefully. 'I ... Sorry,' she said. 'Just —'

'It's fine. Now go and have another wee...