‘Well, in a way that’s good, isn’t it? He may be perfectly fine. Perhaps he’s just somewhere that doesn’t have good communications.’
‘I know. But it’s been so long. And those places can be so dangerous. All for some little yellow bird. Anyway …’ She wiped at her eyes, then held the lipstick up again. ‘Tell me about your date.’
‘Oh, what’s to tell? The usual disaster.’ Margaret told her about the downpour and the hairstyle and the bent heel and her date falling asleep and using a false name.
‘Oh, what a prick,’ said Maeve. ‘And it could only happen to you.’
‘Don’t I know it.’
They examined their reflections.
‘Do you know what we need?’ Maeve said.
‘Counselling?’ suggested Margaret.
‘A make-over.’
Margaret shook her head. “Tried that. It’s a temporary fix.’
‘No - I mean one of those extreme make-overs. You know, where they suck your guts out into a jar and pull your face so far back that every time you smile your thong vibrates.’
Margaret giggled.
‘At the very least,’ Maeve continued, ‘we should go for the Botox. And maybe the breast implants.’ She turned a little, taking a side-on look at herself. ‘I could maybe just get one boob done - be nice to give Redmond a bit of variety. What do you think?’
I think it might look a little strange.’
Maeve touched her expansive mane. ‘Hair like this, love, I’m way past worrying about looking strange.’ She winked, then turned for the door.
Margaret spent a few more minutes plastering make-up over her bruise, then headed back out onto the shopfloor.
Margaret chased a pervy man out of ladies’ underwear. She placed an epileptic who was causing havoc in the changing rooms into the recovery position. A child got her anorak stuck in the escalator. She directed. And sometimes she misdirected.
She window-shopped at lunchtime, while eating a sausage roll and half of a Twin. She would have eaten the other half, but a homeless man asked her if she would give him something for a cup of tea, and she had felt compelled to oblige. The man called her a patronising fat cow.
She deliberately tried not to think of Walter. She’d stormed home, drunk herself to sleep, and spent most of Saturday in bed with a hangover. When she had recovered sufficiently, she logged onto the Let’s Be Mates website to see if Walter had by any stretch of the imagination been in touch to apologise or explain. But nothing. Another timewaster. Cute, but still a timewaster. It was the final straw. She was never going to find a soulmate that way. So she thanked Let’s Be Mates for their efforts and cancelled the direct debit.
In late afternoon, Maeve joined her for a patrol through the Men’s Briefs, Boxers, Jockeys and Gunks Department - which, one might argue, served as a bit of a metaphor for the post-Ceasefire city itself. That is, generally quiet, but prone to sudden explosions of violence. The problem was that the Men’s Briefs, Boxers, Jockeys and Gunks Department had been erroneously listed in one of the world’s most popular gay guidebooks as the perfect place to meet a potential partner; this had led to quite a few misunderstandings, and not a few head-butts. Now the security staff, especially the men, had to travel in pairs. And avoid eye-contact.
‘I was thinking some more about the make-over,’ said Maeve.
‘Yeah, I wish,’ said Margaret. ‘But what if you could afford it?’ ‘On these wages?’ ‘Wouldn’t cost you a penny.’ ‘How’s that?’
‘Just one word. Compensation.’ ‘Compensation?’
‘Oh, Margaret - that’s just you all over. You nearly lost an eye on Friday, and you haven’t even thought about compensation? Annie McDuff stubbed her toe last year, got a whole new kitchen from MFI out of it. The very least you’d get is your wart sorted out.’
‘What wart?’ Margaret gasped.
Maeve cackled, and led her into Fluffy Slippers and safety.
6
Office 12
There was no response from within Office 12, the mysterious Department within the Department of Education. Walter knocked on the door again, this time a little louder.
Still nothing.
He glanced nervously back. His friend and colleague Mark was now standing in the doorway of their office, watching curiously.
Take the bull by the horns, he urged himself. It’s only an office. How bad can it be?
Walter knocked again, but this time he simultaneously twisted the door knob. He had half-expected it to be locked, but the door opened straight away. Almost before he saw anything, he became aware of an odd smell - like … burning candles? Incense? But with a hint of something savoury? It smelled a bit like The Body Shop, where the shop assistant had gorged herself on Tayto Cheese and Onion crisps.
There were five desks within, but only one, closest to the window, was occupied. The man behind the desk was wearing headphones and nodding his head gently; Walter could just about hear the tsk-tsk of music.
Walter cleared his throat. The man looked up, suddenly panicked, pulled the headphones off and made a dive for his desk drawer. He pulled it open and rested his hand on something inside.
‘Who are you?’ he snapped. ‘What do you want?’
‘No, no … I’m from down the corridor.’ Walter thumbed behind him.
‘You’re not Special Branch?’ Walter shook his head. The man visibly relaxed. He moved his hand from the open drawer.
‘I just wanted a hand with my computer.’
‘Wrong floor. IT’s downstairs.’
‘I know. It’s not that sort of help I wanted.’
The man’s head turned a little, more interested now. ‘I see.’
‘It’s kind of - you know, personal.’
‘You have pornography on your computer and you’re scared of it being discovered.’
‘No, it’s not that.’
‘You’ve been sending filthy emails to a colleague and now—’
‘No, it’s not that either. You see, I think I’m falling in love.’
It sat in the air for a moment. He couldn’t believe he’d said it. Or even thought it. The man clasped his hands, and raised an eyebrow.
Walter quickly explained about his disastrous night out, the dating website and his urgent need to hack into it. The man, who appeared to be in his early thirties, nodded throughout. When Walter had finished, he said, ‘So you come to me in your time of need.’
‘Well, I was told …’
‘What exactly were you told?’
‘Nothing - just that you might know something about…’
‘We know something about a lot of things, Walter.’
‘Yes. I’m sure you do.’
‘And this woman … she’s spurned you and now you want me to destroy her life?’
‘No, I—’
‘Cancel her credit cards?’
‘No, I—’
‘Have her house repossessed?’
‘No, really I—’
If she has a relative on life-support I can—’
No. I just want her phone number. Maybe her address.’
‘Oh. Right. You’re sure?’
‘Yes. Absolutely.’
‘Because we can do many things.’
‘I’m sure you can.’
‘A cup of coffee might have been nice.’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Even though I have been just down the corridor from you all this time, you have never put your head around the door and said good morning, or asked me if I wanted a cup of coffee or enquired after my wife.’
Walter cleared his throat. ‘How is your wife?’
‘My wife is dead.’
‘Oh. I’m very sorry. Would you, ahm, like a cup of coffee?’
‘I have one already. Thank you.’
Walter looked at him. He looked back.
‘Is - is there any chance you could help with my computer? If it’s a question of, you know, a couple of quid …’ Walter knew instinctively th
at it was the wrong thing to say, but it was out before he could help himself. The man’s face seemed in freeze. He had been listening attentively, but now his eyes returned to his computer screen.
‘I’m sorry,’ Walter began. ‘I didn’t mean—’
‘I am not the sort of person who thrusts his friendship on those who do not value it. But what have I ever done to make you treat me so disrespectfully?’
Walter swallowed. The man behind the desk was not large. He was wearing glasses and there was a half-eaten packet of Starburst and a coffee mug beside his computer. He appeared normal, in other words. But there was something deeply unsettling about him.
‘We, uh, maybe we could go for a pint one time?’ Walter suggested. ‘Watch a match or something.’
The man nodded slowly. His eyes flitted up again. ‘When?’
‘Uh, well. Let’s see. Ahm … Thursday?’
‘I’m busy Thursday.’
‘Ahm … what about, say, Saturday?’
‘Busy.’
‘Well … when suits you?’
‘I’ll have to check with my wife.’
‘I thought your w—’
The man cut in. ‘Who do you support?’
Walter hesitated. It suddenly struck him that it might be a loaded question. If he gave the wrong answer, he might never see Margaret again. He made a quick calculation. The man had to be talking Premiership, not the dodgy local teams. And there was probably a 75 per cent chance that he was a Man United supporter. But what if he wasn’t? What if he followed Liverpool, their mortal enemies? Or, God forbid, Leeds? Walter’s eyes fell on the coffee mug. He could just make out the very edge of a club crest.
‘Oh, I’m a Chelsea man,’ said Walter.
The vaguest hint of a smile appeared on the man’s lips. An almost imperceptible nod.
‘Give me the website address, I’ll see what I can do.’
‘Brilliant. Thanks a bunch.’ Walter gave him the address.
‘Okay, give me ten minutes.’
‘Cheers, mate.’
Walter turned for the door. But the man wasn’t finished. ‘Walter?’
Walter turned, and realised in almost the same moment that he hadn’t exchanged names with the strange man in Office 12. Yet he’d called him Walter. Twice.
‘Mmm?’
‘Some day, and that day may never come, I will call upon you to do me a service in return. Until that day, consider this a gift from me, and my dear departed wife.’
Walter nodded, then hurried out.
That evening, on the way home on the train, Walter studied Margaret’s file and tried to devise a strategy. He not only had the information she’d contributed to her webpage on Let’s Be Mates but also her home address, phone numbers and bank details. If she didn’t forgive him, he would order himself a toolkit from Argos using her credit-card information.
7
Every Cloud
Margaret was summoned to the Security Manager’s office. His name was Peter Kawolski. His family had come to Belfast from Poland during the Second World War. (This has no bearing on anything.) He sat behind an untidy desk, facing a bank of CCTV monitors which covered each Primark floor. He offered Margaret a coffee. She accepted. As he poured he said, ‘Margaret, I like to think of the security staff here as being like a family.’
‘You mean we argue all the time, then someone runs off and gets pregnant?’
‘No, I mean we’re close. There are no secrets.’ He looked her straight in the eye.
‘Secrets?’ asked Margaret. ‘Why, have you heard something? You can tell me, I’m the soul of discretion. Redundancies, is it?’
Kawolski set the coffee-pot down. ‘Not my secret, Margaret, yours.’
‘I’m not sure I follow.’
Kawolski winked at her. She winked back. Kawolski winked again.
‘Is this, like, Candid Camera or something?’
Kawolski sighed, and sat down heavily. ‘Margaret - your eye.’
‘Ah - gotcha. What about it? If it’s putting people off I can wear an eye-patch. Or a paper bag with holes cut in it.’
‘It’s all over the shopfloor you’re suing us for compensation.’
‘Well, I—’
‘You know, in my day a security guard could expect to get both arms broken in the morning and carry a ticking bomb out of the shop in the afternoon.’
Margaret blinked. ‘How exactly would—’
‘But these days all you have to do is sneeze and next thing you’re suing Mother Nature for malpractice.’
‘I really haven’t decided to—’
‘Look, there’s no point in messing around, Margaret - this is how it works. You can sue us and it’ll take eighteen months and all right, so maybe you’ll get a couple of grand out of it, but half of that will go on legal fees, and you might be dead or a living vegetable by then anyway, or I can write you a cheque now for £250 and that’s the end of it.’
‘I’ll take the cheque,’ said Margaret.
‘All right. Very businesslike. Do you want a Jammy Dodger?’ He pushed the packet towards her, then took a chequebook out of a drawer and began to fill it in.
Margaret and Maeve went for a drink after work in Morrison’s. Maeve had half a dozen leaflets for beauty salons and cosmetic surgeries. They spent twenty minutes going through them with mounting incredulity.
‘The world is your oyster, kid,’ said Maeve. ‘So what’s it to be?’ She began to read down another one of the leaflets. ‘Are you going for breast enhancement? Reduction? Uplift? Fat removal, liposuction? Tummy tuck? Face, neck or brow lift? Upper or lower eye bags? Calf implants?’
‘Calf implants? What on earth … ?’
‘God, I don’t know.’ She returned her attention to the list. ‘Laser skin resurfacing, nose reshaping, ear correction, lip implants, cheek and chin implants, cyst and mole removal, thread vein removal, semi-permanent make-up, colonic hydrotherapy, lip dissolve, skin peeling…’
‘Okay - enough! My head’s spinning. Maeve, I only have £250. Tell me what I can afford.’
Maeve scanned the leaflet. ‘Two-fifty … two-fifty … right here we are - two hundred and fifty pounds will get you … a good scrub with an old flannel. Margaret, they never put their prices on the leaflets, it’s just to lure you in.’
‘But £250 isn’t going to get me very far, is it?’
‘Well, if you were prepared to go off-menu it would go a lot further.’
‘Off-menu?’
‘Well, these places are all well and good, very flash, lovely carpets - and that’s what you’re paying for - but if you were to go off-menu, you could get a lot more for your money.’
‘You mean, like paying wholesale?’
‘Exactly. You go to someone’s house instead of some glitzy clinic, your money goes twice as far.’
‘Someone’s house? I’m not sure …’
‘It’s fine, it’s perfectly safe. Everyone round our way does it. You pop out for a cup of coffee, a bit of gossip and a spot of Botox or some collagen in your lips.’
‘And it’s safe enough? You hear these stories …’
‘Of course it’s safe. I mean, there are always a certain number of rogue beauty therapists. You only have to look at Gerry Adams.’
‘Gerry Adams?’
‘Oh God, yes. You ever wonder how he keeps that poker face when he gets accused of this or accused of that? Fact of the matter is, he can’t move his face because he got a dodgy consignment of Botox. But apparently that’s all been sorted out now. Everyone’s at it. Licence to print money.’
Margaret took a sip of her drink. ‘If it’s all the same to you, I think I’d prefer to go somewhere, you know, official. At least if something does go wrong, I’ll know who to sue.’
Maeve nodded. ‘Aye, suppose you’re right.’
Margaret didn’t like to say, and she’d nothing against Maeve or the Falls Road where she lived, but she really didn’t want to go to some back-street Botoxist. Even if it was
a good job, you heard things about that part of the world. She could never be certain that at least some of the proceeds wouldn’t find their way back into the coffers of the IRA. And how could she possibly kiss anyone with her beautiful new lips if she knew that they were partially funding terrorism?
8
The Master Plan
Walter had worked out a long and quite complicated strategy for winning Margaret back. It involved a lot of surveillance. It meant following her to and from her job. Working out who her friends were. Where she socialised. Seeing by how much the information she’d volunteered to the Let’s Be Mates website differed from the reality. He would become an expert on every single part of her life, and in knowing her so thoroughly he would be perfectly equipped to slot himself into her life. If she was interested in movies, he would invite her to the QFT or the Warner Village at the Odyssey. If she was an expert in wine, he would attend classes and try not to get drunk. If she liked mountain climbing he would wait at the bottom until she came down. It would be like Romeo and Juliet.
Except, these days, you’d call it stalking. He was aware of this, but it did not deter him.
Nevertheless, he did not undertake any of it. Because, he reasoned, at the end of the day, if she was really not interested, what was the point? And also, he had no patience at all. He never had had. It was a fact of his life that he always went for the quick solution, the easy option; if it didn’t happen there and then - now - then he lost interest. It was the same at school. He had the intelligence, his reports said, he just lacked application. And the same with his hobbies. He had overwhelming, passionate interests right up to the point where any genuine work was involved, and then he lost interest. Once he was going to be a rock star. He thought about it eighteen hours a day for months, what he would wear, the songs he would write, how to get over that difficult second album syndrome. Eventually he put his money where his dreams were and went out and bought a synthesiser. It cost him £800 and the instructions all but boasted that even a moron could learn to play it. Walter wasn’t even up to that level. He messed around with it for three days, but could only ever manage to make a sound like a car alarm. He tried to follow the first tutorial that came with it on a CD-Rom, but quickly lost his way, and then he was distracted by the football on TV.
I Predict a Riot Page 3