The Day of the Jack Russell (Mystery Man) by Colin Bateman Page B

was not necessarily tied to Belfast; there were cities all over the world that were lacking a mystery bookshop. It would be just a question of finding the right one. It should enjoy a temperate climate, it would not be prone to revolution, its inhabitants would speak English as a first language, and it must not have an extradition agreement with the United Kingdom, which probably ruled out Douglas, Isle of Man. I was thinking about other possible locations as I sat on the dead men’s toilet upstairs, looking down at a set of bathroom scales where their dead men’s feet had once rested, with their dead men’s dressing gowns hanging on the door, and their dead men’s toothbrushes in a paste-encrusted glass by the sink but level with my eyes, and I was humming ‘The Battle Hymn of the Republic’ quite loudly to cover up the sounds. But the end of it coincided with hearing the pad of footsteps on the wooden floor of the landing outside, and immediately I regretted not closing the door fully and locking it. It is something I never do at home and rarely do when using the facilities in other locations because of my claustrophobia, but there and then I did not wish Alison to see me in such repose; it would be many years into our unworkable marriage before she would be allowed to see that .
    My first thought as the steps grew closer was: Whatever she’s found, no piece of evidence is this important , and I was already crying, ‘Please don’t . . .!’ as the door was flung open.
    My second thought was: You’re not Alison .
    A woman stood there.
    A woman in a floral dressing gown.
    A woman in a floral dressing gown and at least nine months pregnant, with sleep hair and bleary eyes, looking stunned, and horrified, and screaming: ‘What the hell are you doing?!’
    And I said the only thing that came to mind.
    ‘A poo.’

17
    I hate showdowns and confrontations and loud arguments; I am of the school that sees nothing wrong with throwing the quilt back over your head and waiting for a problem to go away. Burying one’s head in the sand works for me, and look, here I am, a survivor. Other people will sort it out . Suffice to say I overcame my shyness and claustrophobia sufficiently to slam the door shut in the madwoman’s face, and had the wherewithal to lock it and return to my throne and stretch across to turn the taps of both the sink and the bath on full and then clamp my hands over my ears to further drown out the screaming from without while I recommenced humming ‘The Battle Hymn of the Republic’. Alison would deal with it. She is like that, reliable, a team player; she was in love with me, the father of her child; she wouldn’t bolt out of the back door at the first sign of trouble, the way I would. She would rise to the occasion, instantly concoct a story believable enough to calm the woman down, take her downstairs, make her a cup of tea, and from the state of her, probably deliver her baby as well. All the while the woman would be blubbering and ranting that there’s a nutter having a shit in my toilet, and Alison’s lovely calming voice would be saying if he’s going to have a shit, that’s probably the best place for him to have it, and soon they’d be laughing and all would be well with the world.
    I gave it twenty minutes. I switched off the taps and cautiously ventured out. There were voices downstairs. I sat on the stairs halfway down and tried to make out what they were saying. I couldn’t. I tapped on the door at the bottom of the stairs and said, ‘Is it all right to come in?’
    Alison said, ‘Yes.’
    Alison and the pregnant woman were sitting on the sofa. They both looked like they’d been crying. The woman looked at me warily. I thought it better if I didn’t attempt an explanation or an apology.
    Alison said, ‘This is my partner in solving crime.’
    I nodded. There was no point in taking issue with that , yet. The woman said, ‘I’m sorry, so I am, I didn’t mean to walk in on