I Predict a Riot

by Bateman, Colin

  Margaret’s walkie-talkie crackled and she was summoned urgently to the Security Manager’s office. At first she was panicked that her subterfuge with the Primark dresses had somehow already been rumbled, but as she approached the office she saw that Mr Kawolski was standing in the doorway waiting for her, but also that he was keeping an eye on Maeve, who was sitting slumped in a chair opposite his desk. All Margaret could see from the back was Maeve’s expansive, voluminous hair bobbing up and down, like a bush blowing in the wind.

  ‘What’s … ?’ Margaret began.

  Mr Kawolski put a finger to his lips, and gently closed the door. ‘It’s her husband.’

  ‘Oh my God. Is he dead?’

  ‘Worse. He’s been arrested in Colombia.’

  ‘What? What on earth for?’

  ‘Training guerrillas.’

  ‘Gorillas? But it’s birds he’s interested in.’ Mr Kawolski gave her a look. And the penny dropped. ‘Guerrillas? You mean—’

  ‘Terrorists. She woke up this morning and there were reporters camped outside her house. Seems he got picked up in a restricted area.’

  ‘Oh my God. And she had no idea?’

  They both looked through the glass panel in the door at her.

  ‘What do you think?’ asked Mr Kawolski.

  ‘I don’t know. No, I do know. She was always talking about Redmond and his birds. She couldn’t have known. But all this time he’s been ...’

  ‘Well, there’s a lot of unemployed terrorists out there. They can’t all become politicians.’

  ‘But that’s presuming … I mean, it could be some kind of mistake.’

  ‘Well, according to what I heard on the news he had half a kilo of Semtex in his backpack. And that’s not something you would normally associate with ornithology.’

  Margaret took a deep breath. ‘The poor woman,’ she said.

  ‘Aye,’ said Mr Kawolski. ‘That’s why I called you up. There’s only so many there, there’s I can say. I’ll send some coffee up. take as long as you want. Although I should warn you, if the press arrive you’ll have to take her out the back way. Can’t have Primark being associated with … well, you know.’

  Margaret stood straight and tall. ‘Mr Kawolski, whatever happened to “innocent until proven guilty”?’

  Mr Kawolski raised his eyebrows. ‘Just do what you can, Margaret.’

  He beetled away along the corridor.

  ‘Do you know what my first thought was when I heard he’d been arrested?’ Maeve wiped at her eyes with one hand, and raised her coffee with the other. ‘Eggs. Birds’ eggs. Rare birds’ eggs. Not bloody Semtex. Oh, how could I have been so bloody stupid?’

  Margaret tried her best to be reassuring. ‘He’s only been arrested. It doesn’t prove—’

  ‘But it all makes sense now!’ Maeve exploded. ‘All those trips abroad. I mean to say, who could be that interested in bloody birds?’

  ‘Well, people travel to football matches.’

  ‘Not for months at a time! Not using a false passport!’

  ‘He had a—’

  ‘Well, not false. His twin brother’s. Redmond had a couple of convictions, and it sometimes made travelling awkward. So he would put the priest’s outfit on and fly through passport control.’

  ‘A priest’s outfit?’

  ‘His brother’s a priest - Father Damian. Margaret, please, it made perfect sense at the time.’

  ‘And you had no idea he was …’

  “Training guerrillas? Of course not! My God, he couldn’t train a Jack Russell.’ She let out a loud, long sigh. Then shook her head. ‘He’d bring all these hundreds of photographs of rare birds home. I wasn’t really that interested. I used to say, “They all look the same to me”. And now that I think of it, they probably were all the same. One man, a camera and a stuffed parrot. But I still love him.’

  ‘I know you do.’

  ‘But what am I going to do?’

  Margaret drummed her fingers on Mr Kawolski’s desk. She really liked Maeve, but she didn’t know her husband from Adam. And if he was training guerrillas then he deserved all he got.

  ‘Well, as I see it,’ she began, ‘you can either do a Tammy Wynette and stand by yer man, or you can sell your story to the Sunday papers and reinvest the money in a fashion design business I’m starting.’

  Maeve blinked at her, not quite believing what she was hearing.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Margaret said quickly. ‘I shouldn’t have said that.’

  Maeve wiped at her eyes again. She put her coffee cup down and stood up. She too had endured three lessons’ worth of unarmed combat training, Margaret reminded herself, and prepared to receive another bruise.

  ‘How much do you think they would pay?’ Maeve asked.

  12

  Doing Bird

  Sunday is visitors’ day at La Picota prison outside Bogotá, Colombia, but Redmond O’Boyle was not hopeful. His nearest and dearest were thousands of miles away in Belfast, and probably hated his guts. He spent the morning sitting in his single cell, which he shared with fifteen others, nearly all of them narco-traffickers. They believed he was also in the drugs business. If they knew that he was suspected of training FARC guerrillas, they would probably have stabbed him. News had not yet leaked out. But it soon would.

  The heat was stifling, and so was the conversation. Redmond knew very little Spanish. He had picked up enough to say, ‘There goes another lovely bird,’ and ‘This is a mercury tilt, very old fashioned,’ but neither phrase was going to get him very far in La Picota.

  Redmond had been in prisons at home, but this place was something else. There’d already been a number of raids by the prison guards which had recovered computers, mobile phones, an AK-47 (minus ammunition), dynamite, shovels, a billiard table, alcohol and three women. Many of the prisoners seemed free to conduct their nefarious business from within their cells, and the more they could afford to pay in bribes, the better their conditions.

  Redmond had bugger-all money with which to pay bribes. When he had sought payment from FARC for his explosives expertise, they had paid him with cocaine.

  In the early afternoon, when they were finally allowed out into the crowded exercise yard, Redmond was able to cook a little of his own rice, and barter some of the cocaine he kept in the false heel of his shoe for some chicken. But before he could actually eat any of it a squad of guards came and kicked it over, then told him he had a visitor.

  He was escorted into an administration block away from where the normal visits took place, so he knew something was up. The man waiting in the small interview room introduced himself as Martin Brown, the British Ambassador. He was a large, florid man, in a white suit. He was sweating heavily. He shook Redmond’s hand and said, ‘This is a bit of an awkward one, eh?’ and indicated that he should sit down. There was a desk between them. There were bloodstains on it. ‘Sorry it’s taken me so long to see you,’ Brown said wearily, ‘but it’s chaos out there, bombs going off here, there and everywhere. Still, I expect you know more about that than I do.’

  ‘I’m an ornithologist.’

  ‘Yes. Quite. So, how are they treating you?’

  ‘I haven’t had a proper meal in a week, I share a cell with fifteen drug dealers, I’m covered in flea bites, the place is crawling with roaches, if I don’t succumb to the disease and squalor I will undoubtedly be murdered.’

  ‘Well. Yes. The ahm good news is that your people back home - Sinn Fein - have already started a Bring Him Home campaign. The not quite so good news is that the DUP have launched a Leave Him There campaign. They’re rather crossing each other out.’

  ‘Has my wife been in touch?’

  ‘No, I’m afraid not.’

  ‘I have to speak to her. Explain. She had no idea. If I had a phone card, I could call and explain. But I don’t have a phone card.’

  It was a hint. It was ignored.

  ‘I understand that your people will be organising your legal representation. In the m
eantime I’ve brought you some bits and pieces to see you through.’ He lifted a cardboard box from the floor beside him. It was sealed with Scotch tape. The Ambassador patted the top of it. ‘There’s quite a good Agatha Christie in here. Fiendishly clever. That headmaster had me fooled.’

  Then he stood and held out his hand. ‘Well, duty done,’ he said.

  ‘What about my wife?’ Redmond asked, clasping it.

  ‘Pen and paper in there, old chap,’ said the Ambassador, nodding down at the box. ‘That’s your best bet.’

  He smiled, then strode to the door. He knocked twice, and a guard opened it. He stepped forward, then hesitated for a moment. He looked back at Redmond. ‘We will do everything in our power to help you, Redmond, but the fact is that your kind make me sick. And you give ornithologists a very bad name.’

  He nodded again, then hurried out.

  The box contained a Fray Bentos Steak & Kidney Pie, a small tin of shoe polish, the aforementioned Agatha Christie, a notebook, two pens, a lengthy London Times report of a cricket match between Sri Lanka and Bangladesh, eight tiny containers of raspberry jam most probably purloined from a hotel breakfast buffet, a Lynx deodorant, a Head & Shoulders shampoo, for frequent use, and a Gideon Bible.

  Redmond looked forlornly at the contents of the box and wondered if by any stretch of the imagination he could construct a bomb out of them. He could possibly make some kind of deadly weapon with the Fray Bentos lid, since they were notoriously difficult to get off and sharp as hell, and the deodorant probably had some explosive qualities. However, before he got much further than thinking about it, his cellmates came back in from the exercise yard and stole it all.

  Except for the notebook and pens.

  It was pointless protesting. They would chop his head off, and not even bother to make it look like a suicide.

  Redmond settled himself on the floor of his cell, with the notebook in his lap. He was concerned for the state of his marriage. He’d had no choice but to keep Maeve in the dark. What you don’t know can’t hurt you. Also, she was a bit of a blabbermouth. But he loved her, and wanted to explain. He would write her a very long and impassioned justification of his actions. He would also apologise profusely and beg her to forgive him, and swear his undying love. He was going to fill every single page; he would overpower her with the strength of his argument, the depth of his love.

  Except then someone slapped his head, stole the notebook and charged out of the open door of the cell. By the time Redmond tracked him down to a dark corner of the exercise yard he’d sold off all but one of the pages for use as cigarette papers. Even then he had to pay him with lashings of cocaine to get the single remaining page back.

  Redmond returned to his cell floor, placed the single page on the cracked tile, and lifted his pen.

  Dear Maeve, he wrote. Am up s**t creek without a paddle. Please send paddle. All my love, Redmond.

  13

  The Odd Number

  The man in Office 12 was still the only man in Office 12. The four desks which had been empty before were still empty. Walter stepped through the opening and the man in Office 12 closed the door behind him. This was quite unsettling.

  ‘Take a seat,’ said the man.

  Walter sat at one of the empty desks. The man crossed to his own desk, lifted a notebook, then ripped a sheet out. He placed the sheet face up in front of Walter. Walter looked down. There were two lines of writing in red felt tip. The top line said Psyclops and the second Malone Road.

  ‘This is … what?’ Walter asked.

  ‘Plastic surgery, beauty treatments, and the best laser eye business in the city. If I was getting my eyes done, that’s where I’d go.’

  ‘But how did you even know I was contemplating … ?’

  The man, by now back behind his desk, patted his computer monitor. ‘There’s very little goes on in this building I don’t know about.’

  ‘Oh.’

  Walter folded the sheet of paper. ‘Well,’ he said, beginning to rise from his chair, ‘I’ll certainly bear it in—’

  ‘Where are you going?’

  Walter hesitated. ‘I thought …’

  ‘No.’

  Walter sat again. Apart from the folded sheet, the desk was empty. Pristine, in fact. He scanned the room, and saw that all of the walls were bare. He was aware that the man was looking at him rather intensely. Walter’s shirt was sticking to his back.

  ‘So,’ said Walter.

  ‘So?’

  ‘I, ah, don’t even know your name.’

  The man nodded. ‘You can call me Steve.’

  ‘Steve. All right, Steve. How’s it going, Steve?’

  ‘It’s going all right, Walter. We should get out for that drink one night.’

  Walter cleared his throat. ‘Yes, that would be nice. I, ah, only ever see you in here. So, ah, why are there five desks?’

  ‘Why are your eyes blue?’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  Steve smiled. It wasn’t a very pleasant smile. His mouth went down at the corners.

  ‘So, how did the big reconciliation go?’ he asked.

  ‘It didn’t, really.’

  Steve frowned. ‘Was there a problem with the information I retrieved for you?’

  ‘No, the information was fine.’

  ‘Well, that’s good.’

  Walter nodded. Steve nodded. There was a lengthy silence. Walter desperately wanted to get back to his own desk, but couldn’t.

  ‘So, uh, what exactly is it that you do in here?’ he asked eventually.

  Steve smiled again. ‘I could tell you, but …’

  ‘Then I’d have to kill you,’ Walter finished, and smiled.

  Steve did not. He suddenly looked quite angry. And a little bit hurt.

  ‘Sorry,’ Walter said quickly. ‘Didn’t mean to cut you off.’

  Steve shrugged. ‘That’s all right. Maybe I need some new lines. Are you good at new lines, Walter?’

  ‘I’m not sure what you—’

  ‘Are you good at making things up?’

  ‘Well, I …’

  ‘I looked at your website on that dating agency. You’re quite the little fabricator, aren’t you? An elastic approach to the truth. We could do with a man like you.’

  ‘You could?’

  ‘Don’t you get tired, just ticking boxes all day?’

  ‘I don’t tick them all day. Just part of the day. And, and, like, don’t you … just tick boxes as well?’

  ‘No, Walter. That’s not what we do. You tick the boxes. We untick the boxes.’

  ‘I’m sorry, I don’t quite …’

  ‘If you say up, we say down. If you say left, we say right. If you say live, we say die.’

  It sat in the air for perhaps ten seconds. Then Walter gave a little shrug. ‘I thought we all just collated exam results and worked out school budgets.’

  ‘Yes, well, there’s many a slip between an exam result and a school budget.’

  ‘There is?’

  ‘Walter, can I be frank with you?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘And it won’t leave this room?’

  Walter shook his head.

  ‘Think about it. Last year, the Department spent eighteen million pounds on building new school playgrounds. Did you ever stop to think how anyone could possibly spend that much on a few sets of swings and a slide? It’s used for other things.’

  ‘What sort of … ?’

  ‘That’s not for you to know, Walter. Not yet. But in time, perhaps. You see, this building is the HQ of the Department of Education. But the moment you stepped through that door there, you entered the Department of Re-education.’

  ‘Re …’

  ‘Black propaganda, Walter. We’re a specialist unit. The elite. We can use a man like you, with a cavalier approach to the truth. We have a desk available - right where you are. At least until Number Three comes back.’

  Walter shifted uncomfortably. ‘Number Three. That’s like, his codena
me or something?’

  ‘No, Walter, that’s his job.’

  ‘I don’t …’

  ‘His job is to remove the number three from all official documents.’

  ‘Remove it? I don’t quite …’

  ‘He removes the three from all phone numbers issued to the public. He removes it from press releases. When the Department announces its works budget for the coming year, all financial projections are devoid of the number three. Do you get the picture, Walter?’

  ‘I … I think I do, but why would you do that?’

  ‘Because it is our job. Our role. Our contribution.’

  ‘To what?’

  ‘To the Department of Re-education.’

  ‘But you can’t just … I mean, people must notice. Don’t they phone up and complain?’

  ‘Of course they do, Walter. But they phone the wrong number.’

  Walter nodded, as if everything suddenly made sense. It didn’t, of course. He wanted out of there more than ever. But still he couldn’t move. Instead, trying to change the subject, he nodded at the next desk along.

  ‘So who, uh, sits there?’

  ‘Number Four,’ said Steve.

  14

  A Design For Life

  Margaret walked along the Lisburn Road with a spring in her step. This could be her big break. Her defining moment. She was nervous, excited and confident. She deserved this. Emma Cochrane, the upscale boutique where she hoped to make a killing, was only a further 100 yards along. Margaret glanced at her watch. She was forty-seven minutes early for her appointment.

  She had told herself in the staff changing room in Primark that it wasn’t smart to appear too keen, yet here she was already outside the shop with the best part of an hour to kill. She spotted a cafe on the opposite side of the street, and nipped across.

  The cafe was called Irma La Deuce and it served sixteen different kinds of carrot cake. Margaret tried two - one with coconut, and one with something vaguely orangey. She had an espresso as well. She liked the new Belfast, with its hundreds of cafes. They’d all sprung up since peace had broken out. In the old days you’d be lucky to get a cup of instant, a sausage roll and a thorough body search. Now there were a thousand new smells to appreciate, exotic imported coffees and chocolates, all produced by natives who weren’t quite as exploited as they previously had been.