I Predict a Riot

by Bateman, Colin

  No!

  She picked her bag up again. Who did he think he was, showing her such a lack of respect? Turning up drunk - falling asleep! She thought: I can do better than this! Then: Run away!

  She glanced at Walter again, and saw that he was now awake, and looking at her. He sat up straighter in his seat. He brushed out a crease in his trousers. He nodded his head in time to the music. Then he leaned closer.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he whispered. ‘I dozed off.’

  Margaret nodded.

  ‘I had a couple of beers before we met. I was nervous.’

  Margaret nodded again.

  ‘I’m sorry. It wasn’t the right thing to do. And also, this show is rubbish.’

  She smiled at that. It was.

  ‘Why don’t we slip out and go for something to eat?’ Before she could respond, he leaned even closer, and kissed her lightly on the cheek.

  Margaret blushed to her kidneys, then nodded.

  It had stopped raining. The wind had died down. They strolled along, close, but not too close.

  Walter pointed up at one of the dozens of slightly battered election posters, still attached to lampposts the length of Great Victoria Street. ‘You think they’d have taken those down by now.’

  I think they get fined if they don’t,’ said Margaret. Actually, she had no idea.

  ‘Gerry Adams,’ said Walter, pointing up again, this time at the Sinn Fein President. ‘Don’t you think he looks like Rolf Harris?’

  She stopped and looked. ‘I suppose he does.’

  ‘And the interesting thing is, you never see them in the same place at the same time.’

  ‘I’d never thought about that before,’ Margaret admitted.

  ‘Maybe that’s the problem with the whole Army Council business. Perhaps he’d like to be on the Army Council …’

  ‘But he’s too busy saving animals and can’t spare the time.’

  They were both laughing now. It was nice. Walter began to hum ‘Tie Me Kangaroo Down, Sport’ and she was just about to join in when he stopped abruptly.

  ‘I’m sorry.’ He touched her arm, and looked sympathetically at her. ‘I can’t go on like this.’

  ‘You … what?’

  ‘It’s just not working, is it?’

  Her mouth fell open slightly. The blush, which hadn’t quite faded from earlier, was back and beaming.

  He moved closer. ‘But it doesn’t mean it can’t be fixed, right?’

  ‘I … I …’

  Walter dropped to one knee and grabbed Margaret’s ankle.

  She was about to whack him with her handbag. But even as she swung back, he lifted her foot gently and slipped off the shoe with the bent heel.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘but it’s like going out with Hopalong Cassidy.’ And with that he bent the heel back into place.

  ‘Oh,’ said Margaret.

  ‘Try that,’ said Walter, kneeling again, and slipping it back onto her foot.

  Margaret tried it out. ‘That’s perfect,’ she said.

  ‘We aim to please,’ said Walter. ‘Now then - what do you fancy? Chinese, or a cowboy supper?’

  3

  Bread Rolls

  Walter McCoy joked about taking Margaret to a Chinese or a chip shop, but he actually steered her into one of Belfast’s more expensive restaurants in Shaftesbury Square. They’d no reservation, of course, and the restaurant appeared full, but Walter charmed the maitre d’ into bringing out an extra table, and Margaret found that very impressive. He ordered wine with casual self-assurance, tasted and approved it, then they perused their menus. Walter had his glasses on now, and he suited them.

  They sipped their wine. Their eyes met over the top of their menus. They studied their menus some more.

  A waiter appeared and asked if they were ready to order.

  ‘I think we need another few minutes,’ said Walter.

  Margaret nodded in agreement, then accepted a bread roll. She was starving. Hadn’t eaten all day. She liked her food plain and simple, and wasn’t ashamed of it. She would play safe, and order steak. She glanced at Walter again. His lips were forming up the words as he read the menu. His brow was slightly creased. He liked his food plain and simple as well, but was slightly ashamed of it. But this woman, whom he was liking more and more as the evening wore on, she was probably used to dining in expensive restaurants like this. He felt desperately out of his depth. Even when he’d slipped the maitre d’ a £20 bribe to ensure they got a table, it seemed to Walter that the man had responded more out of pity than genuine appreciation.

  Walter had tried to take command of the situation by ordering an expensive bottle of wine. He’d pointed at it on the wine list so that he wouldn’t have to pronounce it, then when he tried a sample he almost gagged. He had no idea if this was how it was supposed to taste or if it was corked. But he smiled anyway and allowed the waiter to pour. How much simpler it would be, he thought, if beer could be ordered in the same way. I’ll have a pint of your Harp ’87. Then he’d be on safer ground.

  ‘Think I’ll go for the steak,’ said Walter.

  ‘Me too.’

  He smiled. She smiled. She took a sip of her wine. It tasted rotten, but she persevered.

  They ordered. Margaret accepted another bread roll.

  ‘So,’ she said, ‘you’re a property developer.’

  ‘Oh, in a small way,’ said Walter.

  Modesty is very attractive, thought Margaret.

  Please don’t ask me for details, thought Walter.

  ‘Do you employ many people?’ asked Margaret.

  ‘No, it’s a very tightly run operation.’

  ‘That’s probably a good thing.’

  ‘Yes, it is. And you - fashion designing. That must be exciting. Paris, Milan …’

  ‘Cullybackey,’ said Margaret.

  They laughed.

  She was, actually, telling the truth. She had knitted some jumpers a couple of years back and they’d been shown at a Women’s Institute Fashion Night in Cullybackey. Then they’d been auctioned for charity. For her trouble she’d been given a bottle of home-made ginger wine and a £20 voucher for The Body Shop. The wool alone had cost her more. She still had the wine, and the voucher was out of date.

  The waiter brought their starters, and some more bread.

  Walter shifted the conversation to movies. He liked Spielberg and The Godfather and Al Pacino. She liked Casablanca and Tom Hanks, although ‘not for sex’. She said it without really thinking, and immediately blushed again. She urgently buttered another roll.

  Walter was very kind. ‘I know exactly what you mean,’ he said. ‘I feel the same way about Maureen Lipman.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘You know, Maureen Lipman - off the TV. She used to do those adverts. And she always pops up on panel shows and prize-givings. She’s very funny. But not in a sexy way. And Kathy Bates.’

  ‘Kathy Bates - from … I know, Misery, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, that’s her!’ exclaimed Walter, a trifle too enthusiastically. ‘I think she’s fantastic. Remember how she broke James Caan’s ankles?’

  Margaret shuddered. ‘She’d get a job over here no problem,’ she said. ‘You know, one of those punishment squads.’

  Walter nodded thoughtfully. ‘Yes, she would. I can just see the trailer now.’ And he slipped into the big American voice you hear on the movie trailers. ‘Coming soon - Misery Two. She’s back, and this time she’s in Dundonald.’

  Margaret laughed. The waiter appeared at her side, and she accepted another bread roll.

  ‘God,’ said Walter. ‘It’s like feeding-time at the zoo.’

  Margaret paused just as she began to tear the roll apart. ‘Sorry?’

  Walter was immediately flustered. ‘I didn’t mean … I meant, they don’t half keep the bread coming.’

  Margaret put the roll down.

  ‘I mean … good service. Please, eat the roll.’

  ‘I’ve had enough.’


  ‘No, really - I didn’t mean

  ‘It’s fine.’

  Walter took a sip of his wine. It tasted like vinegar.

  Margaret wanted the floor to open up so that she could be consumed by the fires of hell. She’d eaten four bread rolls. And was tearing into a fifth when he’d made his comment.

  He thinks I’m fat.

  I’m fat and my hair’s a mess and my eye’s closed over.

  He’s not interested at all. If he was interested he would have asked about my eye by now.

  They ate the rest of the meal in relative silence.

  Walter tied his best, but he barely got more than a few sentences out of her. It was a familiar situation. He was always putting his foot in it. Most of the time he didn’t really care, but this was different. He liked Margaret. He wanted to talk to her some more. They laughed together. That didn’t happen often. Usually he made a joke and they just looked at him like he was mental.

  When they’d finished the main course, Margaret declined a dessert.

  When the bill came Walter handed over his credit card. He included an impressive gratuity, but didn’t mention it to Margaret. He was classy, that way.

  The waiter returned with the credit card. As he went to hand it over he glanced at it and said, ‘Thank you very much Mr North.’

  Walter blinked at him.

  Margaret’s eyes narrowed. ‘I thought your name was McCoy?’

  Walter gulped for air.

  4

  A Moment for Mr Trimble

  Walter North had already had his feet up on his desk for twenty minutes when his colleague came bustling into the office. Even before he had his coat off, Mark was eagerly enquiring how the big date had gone.

  ‘Well, I wouldn’t—’ Walter began.

  ‘Hold it right there.’ Mark opened his desk drawer and took out a framed photograph. He studied it for a moment, before setting it down where they both could see it.

  It was a picture of David Trimble.

  Mark had been doing this every day since the Unionist leader’s downfall. Walter had joined in willingly at first. It was just a bit of fun. But now he was rather tired of it.

  ‘A moment’s silence, please,’ said Mark, ‘for the Trimble.’

  Walter nodded.

  Mark, as usual, ignored his own request. ‘The Trimble - survivor of more coups d’etats than many a small African country.’

  ‘Praise the Lord,’ said Walter.

  ‘Won as many Nobel Peace Prizes as Nelson Mandela.’

  ‘Praise the Lord,’ said Walter.

  ‘Held hands with Bono, and it was a good thing.’

  ‘Praise the Lord.’

  ‘Held hands with Paisley, which wasn’t so smart.’

  ‘Praise the Lord.’

  Embraced an original hairstyle which was briefly more popular than the Rachel cut from Friends. Although only in Banbridge.’

  ‘Amen to that.’

  Mark replaced the photo in his desk and stood by the window. They were on the ninth floor of the Department of Education’s HQ in Bangor.

  ‘What has the world come to, ruled by Paisley and Adams?’

  ‘Well, it’s early days yet.’

  ‘Before you know it, McGuinness’ll be back in town, and how long before we’re all talking camogie then?’

  Walter wasn’t entirely sure what camogie was, but he was fairly certain it wasn’t a language. More like something you’d order in an Italian restaurant. And thinking of restaurants reminded him of Margaret, and their disastrous date. She had stormed off into the night after discovering that he was using an assumed name. He had tried to explain, but she was having none of it.

  So that was that.

  Except.

  She was nice. She was funny. She looked a bit strange, with her straggly hair and her half-closed eye. Strange, but attractive. He’d wanted to ask her about the eye, but he’d read once that lawyers were taught never to ask a question in court unless they already knew the answer to it, and as their date had in many respects been something of a trial, he had decided to allow her to explain the state of her eye in her own time. What if she was suffering from some mortifyingly embarrassing disease? Where could the conversation possibly have gone after that revelation? Or worse - what if she wasn’t even aware of her eye?

  Hump? What hump?

  No, he’d done the right thing, not asking about it. And the wrong thing, handing over the credit card like that. The waiter was only being polite, calling him by his real name.

  ‘So - how did the big date go?’ Mark was now sitting on the edge of his desk.

  ‘Fine.’

  You seeing her again?’

  Walter shrugged nonchalantly. ‘I might.’

  Mark winked. ‘That’s what I like. Playing hard to get.’

  ‘Very hard,’ agreed Walter.

  ‘Well,’ said Mark, getting up and sauntering back to his desk, ‘we’ve a country to run, might as well get started.’

  Walter switched his computer on, then logged onto Let’s Be Mates. They had emailed each other several times before the big date and the exchanges were always conducted through this dating website. Now that a weekend had passed, and she’d had time to cool down, he could apologise properly. Put it into words. He was good with words.

  Walter nervously typed in Margaret’s name and the password to her page. He had an odd feeling in the pit of his stomach. It was a strange mix of love, lust and a crushing desire for a gravy ring.

  incorrect password.

  Walter stared at it. She’s changed her password! She wants nothing more to do with me! He sighed.

  Mark looked up. ‘Ah,’ he said. ‘Young love.’

  Walter managed a smile, but inside he was in turmoil. He had been reasonably keen to make amends with this Margaret, but now, suddenly denied the opportunity, he was absolutely determined. But how to contact her? He tried to recall the information that had been on her page, but quickly realised that it had all been quite vague. And on the date itself she’d played her cards close to her quite nice-looking chest.

  He stared at the screen, incorrect password. He had to find her.

  ‘Mark?’

  ‘Mmm?’

  ‘You wouldn’t know how to hack into a computer database, would you?’

  ‘Are you joking? I can hardly switch the bloody thing on. Why, what’s the prob?’

  Walter shrugged.

  Anyway,’ said Mark, ‘even if I could, wouldn’t do it in here They caught you, you’d be out on your ear.’

  Walter nodded.

  ‘Unless, of course, you’re in Office Twelve.’

  Walter’s eyes flitted up, towards Mark, and then across to the open door and down the corridor towards Office 12. He swallowed.

  ‘If it’s that important,’ teased Mark.

  Walter had never been in Office 12. Nobody he knew had ever been in Office 12. It was a Department within a Department. Nobody knew what went on in there. All they knew was that any information that had to reach the outside world had to be channelled through Office 12. And that whatever perfectly good, clear and precise information was delivered to Office 12 somehow emerged for public consumption as confusing, contradictory and invariably misspelled. Rumour had it that Office 12 had been set up to undermine the performance of Martin McGuinness when he was briefly Education Minister, but that after he was chased out, someone had forgotten to shut it down. On the bright side, however, it was still meeting all its targets.

  Walter sat where he was for a further ten minutes. Then finally it got the better of him. He had to see her again. And if it meant approaching Office 12, then so be it.

  Walter jumped up and marched straight out of his office and down the corridor. He could feel the eyes of his colleagues following him all the way. He stopped outside Office 12, took a deep breath, and knocked on the door.

  5

  Compensation

  By Monday morning the swelling to Margaret’s eye had largely receded, leaving behin
d it a yellowy-black bruise which sat like an aging banana just above her cheekbone. Margaret sighed, then tutted as she examined her reflection in the staff toilet mirror. It wasn’t just her eye that was annoying her. It was her lips. And her eyelids. And the way her hair, which had looked so well in the hairdressers, now looked like a cracked bowl.

  What I need is a full-time hairdresser at my beck and call, she thought. Donatella Versace probably has one. Anne Robinson too.

  A new hairstyle, she decided, was rather like buying a new car. The moment you stepped out of the salon, it lost a third of its value.

  The door opened behind her and Maeve came in. Margaret and Maeve had been security guards in Primark for the past two years together. Maeve had hair like an explosion in a mattress factory.

  ‘So, how did the big date go?’ Maeve began, coming up to the mirror, lipstick in hand.

  ‘Well, I wouldn’t …’ But Margaret trailed off. The tears were already rolling down her colleague’s crumpled cheek.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ wept Maeve.

  ‘It’s all right.’

  ‘I keep trying to put a brave face on it.’

  ‘I know you do. Still no word?’

  Maeve shook her head dolefully. Margaret felt genuinely sorry for her. Although they came from very different parts of the city - Margaret off the Holywood Road, Maeve from the Falls - they got on like a house on fire, at least in work. Maeve’s husband Redmond was a builder, but his real passion was ornithology. He made regular trips abroad to study the birds. Except he had failed to return from his last expedition, six weeks ago.

  ‘And nothing from the Colombian authorities?’

  ‘They weren’t even aware he was in the country. Some of these countries are so disorganised.’