I Predict a Riot

by Bateman, Colin

  Bertha nodded slowly to herself. Then she gave his hand a gentle squeeze and said, ‘Do you have any idea how many cars I had to throw myself in front of before I found you?’

  Walter smiled. ‘Yeah, right.’

  ‘I’m serious.’

  ‘No, really.’

  ‘Really, really.’

  ‘You’ve done this before?’

  ‘I have. Half a dozen times.’

  ‘Seriously?’

  ‘Seriously.’

  ‘But why? Why would you do that?’

  Bertha shrugged. ‘I don’t really know. I suppose it’s like when rich people get caught shoplifting. It’s not what they’re stealing, it’s why. I just -I don’t know. I like to see how people react.’

  ‘But you could die.’

  ‘Well, I suppose that’s part of the attraction. It would be a better way to go, wouldn’t it, instead of going mad or wasting away? Short, sudden shock. But I haven’t been hit yet.’

  ‘God. And how do people react?’

  ‘Most of them just scream about me being a stupid old bat. One got out of his car and I thought he was going to help me up, but he stole my handbag and drove off. You’re the first one to offer me a lift home. And certainly the first to come in and fix my shower.’

  Walter shrugged. He stared at his tea. Bertha stared at him.

  After a while she said, ‘Can I tell you something?’

  Walter nodded without looking up.

  ‘You remind me of my husband.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Oh no - it’s a good thing. In fact, to tell you the truth, I’ve been finding reasons to call you.’

  Now he did look up. ‘You … ?’

  ‘There wasn’t anything wrong with the shower till I pulled up the seal.’

  ‘Seriously?’ Walter’s brow furrowed. ‘What about the tumble-dryer?’

  ‘I stuck a spoon into its inner workings.’

  ‘And the back-door lock?’

  ‘I hit it with a mallet.’

  Walter took a deep breath. ‘Why would you do that?’

  ‘Lonely, I suppose.’ She took a sip of her tea. Walter found it quite hard to look at her. ‘Walter, I like you, and you do remind me of my husband. But I don’t want to scare you. I’m not going to suddenly demand sex or anything. I’m eighty-five. Sex for me ended in 1974.’

  ‘I thought he died in seventy-three.’

  ‘He did. And I went a bit mad in seventy-four.’

  ‘So, what are you saying exactly?’

  ‘I’d like to help you.’

  ‘Help me?’

  ‘Invest in you.’

  ‘I don’t follow.’

  ‘Walter, I’ve a bit of money put away. It’ll be eaten up in death duties when I die, and this place’ll be fought over by my two thousand nieces and nephews till it’s not worth having. And there aren’t many commemorative plates left in the world for me to buy; besides, I absolutely draw the line at that damned Star Trek series. What I’m saying is that I’ve a certain amount of money to play with. If you really want to get into the property game, then I’ll put some money up. If you’d be interested.’

  Walter stared at her, beaming. ‘Is the Pope a Catholic?’ he asked.

  39

  Regrets, I’ve Had A Few

  Margaret tossed and turned all night, then gave up her efforts to sleep and lay in the grey stillness of the dawn, her face crushed into her tear-stained pillow. She was an idiot of epic proportions. If there was an Olympic event for idiots, she would be disqualified for being professional. In future dictionaries she would be the very definition of idiot. It would also say, see: slapper.

  What had she done? What had she been reduced to? Was there any justification for having sex with your ex-husband as a thank you for paying off your hospital bill? No, of course there wasn’t. Even if the sex was fantastic there could be no justification. The fact that it had been utterly cr*p made it even worse. But what made it so soul-destroying was the fact that the one man with whom she did want to have sex had caught them at it.

  So, farewell then, Walter North.

  Of course he had put the phone down on her. They had not known each other for very long, and she wasn’t overly familiar with his personal life, but he struck her as someone who had been badly hurt in a previous relationship, and now she had done it again. Little wonder he had curled himself up into a spiky hedgehog ball and was refusing to talk to her.

  I just need the chance to explain.

  Margaret allowed herself a few blissful seconds to imagine that this might just be possible, then groaned. Of course it would never happen! What she had done was unforgivable. In fact, she wouldn’t respect the man who could even contemplate forgiving a woman who had treated him the way she had. He was quite right not to want to speak to her, not last night, not today, tomorrow or ever again. She had slammed the door on their relationship with a violence that even a grinning Mormon would interpret as final.

  Margaret rolled out of bed and into the shower. She’d forgotten to set the timer, and the water was cold.

  It was her first day back at work, and she received a right royal welcome from Mr Kawolski and the rest of her colleagues. That saw her through the first thirty seconds of her day, and then it was back out onto the shopfloor and dealing with everything that one of the biggest and busiest department stores in Belfast could throw at her. Often, quite literally.

  Maeve, her usual partner on these patrols through bandit country, could see that she wasn’t happy, and probed mercilessly.

  ‘Walter mess you around again?’

  Margaret shook her head.

  ‘So when are you seeing him again?’

  ‘I’m not.’

  ‘So what happened?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Nothing happened, or something happened and you don’t want to talk about it?’

  ‘Nothing happened.’

  ‘So why the long face?’

  ‘It’s just my face.’

  ‘He dumped you.’

  ‘No, he didn’t.’

  ‘You dumped him.’

  ‘Not really, no.’

  ‘Not really? What’s that mean?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter.’

  ‘Well, it obviously does.’

  ‘No, it doesn’t.’

  ‘Look, if you don’t want to talk about it, that’s all right. Just tell me to mind my own business.’

  ‘Mind your own business, Maeve.’

  They walked on. Maeve spotted a Millie pocketing a pair of socks. She pretended she hadn’t. Margaret was much more interesting.

  ‘So you’re together, or not together?’ Maeve asked.

  ‘Not together,’ said Margaret.

  ‘Friends or enemies?’

  ‘Neither.’

  ‘Crap in bed, was he?’

  ‘Do you mind?’

  ‘Not at all. So, marks out of ten?’

  Margaret sighed. ‘Have you heard from Redmond?’

  Maeve shrugged.

  ‘You don’t want to talk about him?’

  ‘We’re finished. I’m focusing on the future. Moving on.’

  ‘Good. So am I.’

  ‘It’s really over?’

  ‘Yes, it is.’

  ‘That’s a pity. You had high hopes.’

  ‘Well, that’s life, Maeve. But tomorrow is another day.’

  ‘That’s the spirit,’ said Maeve, and gave her a mock punch on the arm. ‘We’ll move on together. Our little business enterprise.’

  ‘Our what?’

  ‘You know - the designing.’

  Margaret stopped by a display of lacy bras. ‘Oh yeah. Well, it’s like, early days yet. I mean, I know what I’m doing, but where do you see yourself in our little business enterprise?’

  Maeve shrugged. ‘Where do you see me?’

  ‘Well, you could do security.’

  Maeve gave her a sharp look. ‘You better be f**king joking.’

  Margaret sm
iled quickly. ‘Relax, would you?’ She hadn’t actually been joking. She had no idea what Maeve could do.

  Or any particular desire for her to do anything. ‘What would you like to do?’

  ‘I’m like, your enforcer.’

  ‘Enforcer? I’m not sure if a fashion ...’

  ‘Course they do! Margaret, open your eyes - the fashion world’s as cut-throat as any, even if the half of them are fruits and lezzies. You need someone who can call a spade a spade. Like this afternoon.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘This afternoon. I’ve an appointment with Jack Finucane.’

  ‘Who’s he?’

  ‘Owner of Irma La Deuce, purveyors of poisonous carrot cakes.’

  ‘Maeve, what are you up to?’

  ‘I’m going to thrash out a deal.’

  ‘What on earth are you talking about?!’

  ‘Compensation! Margaret, for Christ’s sake, he nearly killed you. And if we sue him and it gets to court, the publicity will destroy his business. So he’ll pay us off.’

  ‘Us?’

  ‘Yes. You’re on seventy-five per cent and I take the rest. It’s my fee for representing you.’

  ‘But I never asked you to.’

  ‘And that’s why you need an enforcer, darlin’. If I left it to you, you’d never get round to it. You concentrate on the designing, love, leave the business side of things to me.’

  ‘Well, I—’

  ‘Come on, would you? We’re talking thousands here, and what we do is re-invest it all in the business. Today the Malone Road, tomorrow the world.’ Maeve winked, and turned out of Lingerie.

  Margaret hurried after her. ‘But Maeve, wait, I’m not even sure I want to do that.’

  ‘Well, I am. And that’s the end of it. Besides, what if he does it again, and somebody dies next time? He needs a shock - and short of whacking his goolies off, you have to hit him where it hurts most, and that’s in his bank account.’

  Margaret sighed, but she didn’t say no. She wasn’t even sure if she was going to proceed with this designing thing and maybe some carrot-cake money might come in handy. The carrot-cake thing, and then the Billy thing, and then the Walter thing, had really knocked her for six.

  When they reached Children’s Wear Margaret’s mobile rang, and for a moment she hoped that it might be Walter, calling to forgive her, but it was a text message from her husband.

  Hi sxy, njoyed lst nite, r u up 4 more? Lve Billy xxxx.

  Margaret texted back: F**k off and die!

  40

  Nerves

  Billy was on top of the world, sauntering down the Lisburn Road towards his office, a definite spring in his step. He’d won Margaret back, hadn’t he? His wife had dumped him, she’d gone out into the world all by her lonesome and discovered what a hard, cruel place it could be. Then, when she could hardly sink any lower, she had succumbed to a poisoned carrot cake and ended up at death’s door. Who you gonna call? Your husband. Your true love. When it came down to it, she’d needed him. He was her rock. Billy whistled. I’m singin’ in the rain. Of course it was one of Belfast’s rare sunny mornings, but nevertheless, that was how he felt. A night of hot sex! He’d sent her a loving text first thing and she’d responded by telling him what he could do with himself, but that was just her raking around. He’d never quite ‘got’ her sense of humour. Billy himself had never knowingly cracked a funny in his life.

  What he really wanted to know was when she was moving back in. As he walked, he thought about sending her another text. If you’re worried about eight months worth of dishes, relax. I didn’t marry a dishwasher, I bought one! That would impress her. In fact, there were two or three other things around the house that were bound to lure her back - the widescreen plasma TV, the DVD recorder, the big …

  ‘Hey - Billy.’

  Billy turned to his right. There was a blue Jaguar idling by the kerb, against the traffic, so that the fella in the passenger seat was facing him. The fella was in his fifties, probably, wearing a shirt and a tie and a smile.

  Billy put his official face on, friendly, approachable. ‘All right? How’s it going?’ He didn’t know the man from Adam. It was probably a client. How was he supposed to keep track? He smiled and moved closer to the car.

  ‘Do you want a lift?’ the man said.

  ‘Nah - sure, I’m only round the corner.’

  ‘Let me put it another way - jump in.’

  The man wasn’t smiling now. He had his wallet out and he was showing Billy his ID. Billy stepped closer to examine it, a cold sheen of sweat already beginning to form up on his back. Friends didn’t flap their IDs at you. Potential clients didn’t introduce themselves like this. And the murky paramilitaries Billy occasionally worked for didn’t carry ID, unless it was tattooed on their arms. Billy squinted. There was a slight glare from the morning sun off the embossed plastic, which was also quite badly creased. The photo, probably quite deliberately, had red eye. The name said Superintendent James Mallow, PSNI. Beside Billy a passenger door swung open; there was a fella back there as well, stretching across.

  ‘B … but I …’

  ‘I’ll count to three.’

  Billy got in before he said one. There was something about James Mallow. What annoyed Billy was that he hadn’t recognised him straight off. He’d seen him a hundred times on the news. Jimmy Mallow. ‘Marsh’ Mallow, he was known as. It was a sarcastic nickname. Belfast had the most sarcastic police force in the world.

  The car pulled out. It was this year’s model. Everyone in Belfast seemed to be doing well these days. The driver and the guy beside Billy were both about his age. He only gave them a cursory glance. He was drawn to the back of Jimmy Mallow’s crumpled neck. Muscle or flab? Muscle, he thought. His hair was cropped short. A number two. Mallow didn’t look back. His voice was calm, confident. ‘So how’s life treating you, Billy?’

  ‘It’s all right.’ He could hear a slight quaver in his own voice. ‘What’s this about?’ He already knew the answer. How could he not?

  ‘It’s about you and Pink Harrison.’

  ‘What about me and Pink Harrison?’

  ‘About how you cook his books.’

  ‘I’ve never cooked a book in my life.’

  The driver snorted. Mallow gave the driver a look, then turned slightly in his seat. ‘Let me put it this way, Billy-boy. I know what you’ve been doing, and you know what you’ve been doing, and we’ll save ourselves a lot of trouble beating around the frigging gorse-bushes if we acknowledge that and get on with it.’

  Billy cleared his throat. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ His shirt was now completely stuck to his back. The knowledge that this day might come had always been there at the back of his mind. The moment he’d broken the Arithmetic Oath by taking Pink Harrison’s shilling was the moment he knew that one day, one day … Jimmy Mallow would come calling.

  Mallow sighed. ‘Where do you want us to start, Billy? Do you want us to take your car? The plasma? Do you want us to walk into your office and take your friggin’ Oxford brogues? Because I’m telling you, we can trace every single thing you own back to Pink Harrison if we choose to. You do know that, don’t you?’

  Billy tried holding Mallow’s glare. He managed about four seconds, then nodded.

  ‘How’s your wife?’

  ‘My wife?’

  ‘Aye, heard she was in hospital.’

  ‘She’s fine.’

  ‘You still together?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘You just maintain separate homes.’

  ‘I …’

  ‘What’s that - another tax dodge? We can take her place as well.’

  ‘It’s rented.’

  ‘Well. You would say that. Maybe it is. We can take her shoes. They rented? We can take her handbag and her groceries. We can take everything. You know that, don’t you, Billy?’

  Billy nodded again. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘What do you think we want, Billy?’r />
  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Billy.’

  ‘You want Pink.’

  ‘Of course we want Pink.’

  ‘That’s not possible.’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘He’d kill me.’

  ‘It’s a distinct possibility.’

  Billy was wide-eyed. He wanted to bolt. Only he could hardly move a muscle.

  ‘Ah, Billy son, I know how it is. Godsake, you’re an accountant. Not the most exciting, is it? Then Pink Harrison walks into the office and asks you to cook the books and you can hardly say no to that, can you? You’re scared, but you’re a bit excited too, aren’t you? He takes you out, wines you and dines you, maybe he fixes you up with a couple of Millies and some speed and—’

  ‘There was nothing like that.’

  There had been, of course. He’d strutted around for a couple of days afterwards like he was the drug-dealing UDA Chief, not Pink Harrison. Billy Gilmore, Mob Accountant. It sounded considerably more exciting than Billy Gilmore, Financial Advisor to the Ulster Farmers Union.

  ‘You don’t think we know? You don’t think we watch? Get a grip, Billy.’

  Billy shook his head.

  Mallow smiled back. ‘Relax, son,’ he said. ‘We’re only asking a little favour.’

  Billy swallowed. ‘Like what?’

  ‘We need you to get a little closer to Pinky. We need eyes and ears.’

  ‘Closer?’

  ‘Hang out with him a bit more. Socialise. He has a lot of fingers in a lot of big fat pies. You’re not the only crooked accountant he uses, you know.’

  The proper answer should have been, ‘Crooked?’ But Billy said, ‘I’m not?’

  ‘Oh no. Lessens the risk. That’s why we need you to find out more.’

  Billy sighed. ‘I’m screwed if I do, and I’m screwed if I don’t.’

  ‘That’s about the sum of it.’ Mallow glanced across at his driver. ‘Stop the car,’ he said. They were more or less back to where they had started, 100 yards down from his office, as if they’d known exactly how long the conversation would take.