I Predict a Riot

by Bateman, Colin

‘And what would you say if I said no?’ Billy asked, somewhat tremulously.

  ‘I’d say, “Billy, don’t be a hero. Don’t be a fool with your life”.’ Marsh winked, and nodded his head to the side, indicating for him to get out.

  Billy stepped out. He closed the door.

  ‘We’ll be in touch,’ said Mallow.

  As they drove away, Billy let out a long and loud fart of relief.

  41

  Carrot Confidential

  Maeve stood on one side of the counter, sixteen different varieties of carrot cake between her and Jack Finucane.

  ‘I’m here about the poisonous carrot cake,’ she trumpeted.

  Finucane, a big man in his thirties with a shock of black hair, visibly flinched. Half a dozen of his customers in Irma La Deuce looked at Maeve, then Jack, then the carrot cake.

  Maeve addressed them directly. ‘It’s all right,’ she said, ‘it wasn’t all the flavours - only the one.’

  A girl in a Boots uniform said, ‘But which one?’

  ‘Ah now,’ said Maeve. ‘That would be telling.’ She raised a see-what-I-can-do eyebrow at Jack.

  Jack recovered his composure quicker than she’d hoped. He smiled at the customer. ‘When she says poisonous, she means in the French sense, from poisson, the fish. You’ve tried our salmon carrot cake? It’s very popular.’

  The Boots girl looked at Maeve, who smiled. No point in going too far. She’d shown him that she meant business. She had on a grey trouser suit and she’d moussed her expansive hair down so that it looked less like an Afro and more like a Bonsai tree in bloom.

  Jack Finucane left his counter staff to deal with the perplexed customers, then led Maeve through the small but busy kitchen at the back, along a short corridor, then left into a cramped office. There was a paper-strewn desk and two chairs. They sat.

  Maeve said, ‘You’ve spelled it wrong.’

  ‘I’ve what?’

  ‘Irma La Deuce. It should be d-o-u-c-e. Like the movie.’

  The carrot-cake chef shook his head. ‘You think I don’t know that?’

  ‘Then why don’t you fix it?’

  ‘Because it’s intentional. It’s a play on words.’

  ‘How exactly is it a play on words?’

  ‘Is that relevant? Or any of your business?’

  Maeve snorted. ‘Boy, you’re touchy. But then I suppose nearly killing someone can do that to a bloke.’

  ‘I didn’t nearly kill someone.’

  ‘Oh yeah, right, I forgot. It was the carrot cake. “Your Worship, I only made the bomb, I didn’t actually blow anyone up”.’

  Jack Finucane clasped his hands. ‘Well, you would know more about bombs than I do.’

  That caused a sharp intake of breath. Damn it - how did he know? And then: Of course he knows. Her mug had been all over the papers. Because like a fool she’d blabbed her mouth off to reporters when she’d been emotionally fragile, and they hadn’t offered her a red cent. Redmond was stuck in a Colombian prison with no hope of release. She would never see him again. He was being tortured and starved and robbed of the freedoms he had spent many years trying to destroy. But he was still Redmond. He used to bring her cups of tea in the morning and he knew how burned to make her toast and when there was an occasionally sunny day in July he used to put her sunbed out in the back garden and place the towels on it with the fleecy side up and bring her a cold drink in a foam rubber cooler with ice cubes and a striped straw.

  Maeve looked at the untidy desk. She saw receipts and a flattened crisp packet and a Daily Mirror and a John Grisham novel with a Twix wrapper in it as a bookmark, and she burst into tears. She couldn’t help herself. Her shoulders juddered and she gulped for air. She could hardly see Jack Finucane. Her eyes had instantly clogged up, thanks to the cheap mascara wand she’d purchased in a Poundstretcher. It had been like pasting damp coal-dust on a gobstopper.

  ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘…’

  ‘I didn’t mean to—’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Here.’ He was holding a tissue out to her.

  ‘It’s just …’ She took it. She dabbed.

  ‘Don’t worry about it.’

  She blew into the tissue. Wasn’t the smartest move. Jack Finucane smiled.

  ‘What’s so funny?’ Maeve moaned.

  ‘Nothing. Sorry.’

  ‘I’m falling to bits and you’re laughing your head off.’ She sniffed up.

  ‘I’ve just never sat doing business with a panda before.’

  Maeve opened her bag and took out her compact and urgently studied her face. ‘Christ,’ she said.

  Jack Finucane handed her another tissue. ‘Relax,’ he said. ‘I’ll get you a coffee. There’s a bathroom just down the hall if you want to clean up.’

  Maeve pushed her chair back. She paused by the door. ‘You’re being very nice. It doesn’t mean I’m not going to screw you into the ground.’

  He burst into laughter.

  ‘I mean financially,’ said Maeve, and hurried away.

  She studied her face in the mirror, which appeared to be slightly magnified. She could see every crevice and cranny. Every blotch and bag. She had bottled Redmond up inside her and now the pressure was beginning to crack the glass. It wouldn’t shatter yet, perhaps it never would, but little bubbles of hate and bile and disappointment and frustration were beginning to leak out. Redmond had had the best years of her life, and even the best years weren’t that good.

  Look at you, Just bloody look at you. Come in, all guns blazing, you end up firing blanks. Bloody, bloody, bloody Redmond. She gripped both sides of the sink. Sort yourself out.

  She had to think positive. Redmond getting arrested could never be a good thing, but she realised now that it was vital to look upon it as God’s way of presenting her with an opportunity. To change her life. To get her act together. But that in itself wasn’t enough. She couldn’t just start a new life like that. Her mate Margaret had presented her with another opportunity, but for either of them to realise it, they needed money. And Jack Finucane was such an obvious first step. Yet she’d already messed it up.

  And also, he was quite cute.

  She returned to his office. There was a cappuccino and a slice of carrot cake waiting for her. He was back behind his desk.

  ‘Sorry about that,’ she said.

  ‘Don’t worry about it.’

  She examined the carrot cake with a mock pathology.

  He smiled - good teeth, she noted - and said, ‘Don’t worry, I had some this morning, and I’m not dead yet.’

  ‘It might be slow-acting,’ said Maeve.

  ‘Well, only one way to find out.’

  She took a bite. It was very nice. She tried her best not to show it. She said, ‘So have you been doing this long?’

  ‘Making carrot cake?’

  Maeve nodded. ‘And this place.’

  ‘Oh, a few years. I saw a gap in the market.’

  ‘And is there?’

  ‘And is there what?’

  ‘A gap in the market.’

  ‘Well, “gap” might be a bit strong. There’s like a crevice - you have to get in and push both sides, make a little space. But we’re getting there.’

  ‘We?’ Maeve had a sudden image of a glamorous showbiz chef couple. It made her feel curiously sad.

  ‘That’s the Royal we. Just me and my lonesome.’

  ‘Aw,’ said Maeve, with slightly sincere sympathy and some little relief.

  ‘Does that mean you’re not going to try and screw me into the ground? Financially speaking, of course.’

  ‘Of course not. You nearly killed a good woman.’

  ‘It was food poisoning. It happens.’

  ‘I’m sure it does, but the fact is, she almost died. Unless you’re going to put a disclaimer up, then you leave yourself open to this kind of thing.’

  ‘What would you suggest? A big sign with There’s an outside chance of dying if you eat in this restaurant?’


  Maeve smiled indulgently. ‘Nevertheless,’ she said.

  ‘Nevertheless, you want me to write you a big f**k-off cheque.’

  ‘That would be nice.’

  ‘Well, I’m not going to do it.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Because what you’re doing is blackmail. If I gave the police a tape of this conversation, they’d have you behind bars before you could scramble eggs.’

  ‘You’re taping this?’

  ‘You’ll find out.’

  ‘It’s not blackmail anyhow. You nearly killed my friend. If it goes to court, and it gets in the papers, that crevice is going to slam shut, on your head.’

  ‘That’s a chance I’ll have to take.’

  ‘Is that your final word?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What is?’

  ‘Let me take your friend out to dinner, by way of apology.’

  ‘Absolutely not.’

  He clasped his hands again. ‘Well, let me take you out then.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Maeve.

  42

  Marsh Mallow at Rest

  Jimmy ‘Marsh’ Mallow - although you wouldn’t call him that to his face, unless you were very big, with a Black Belt, or a nut in search of a hiding - kept his wife in a wardrobe. Caroline, currently, was about twelve inches tall and weighed ounces rather than pounds. He didn’t quite know what to do with her. She’d been dead for eight months now, cremated at Roselawn. They’d given him the option of scattering her in the Garden of Remembrance up there, or, ‘If you wish, you could scatter her somewhere she loved.’ Jimmy wasn’t sure how they’d take to that in Marks & Spencer. So she remained in the wardrobe with her dresses and shoes and handbags and little trinkets and shells and Quality Street jars full of coppers (that’s small coins, not tiny policemen smelling of chocolate). She was a continued presence in his life, and although it gave him more pain than comfort, he found it difficult to part with her.

  A well-meaning colleague, aware of his predicament, had, over whiskey, tried to tell him that it probably wasn’t her ashes anyway, that all the corpses got burned together because it didn’t make financial sense to fire up the incinerator for each individual body, and that all the ashes therefore got mixed up, so that what you got at the end of the day was a crematorium version of a 10p mix. Jimmy had decked his colleague. It might have been over the ashes, it might have been over a dozen things. He tended to get violent with drink on-board, which was one reason that nowadays he drank alone.

  Like this evening, sitting in his front lounge. He loved The Beatles. He had all of their albums, on CD as well as vinyl, and since he had discovered eBay he had dozens of bootlegs as well. Not only The Beatles. The Stones, The Kinks, The Move, The Faces. He liked his rock‘n’roll. He even had an album by Oasis. He was fifty-eight years old and could have retired at any stage over the past twelve years. But he held on and on. He was the oldest in the Department by far; all of his superiors were younger. He loved his job. Always had. Even in the dreadful, harrowing times when he couldn’t have felt any lower, deep down, he still loved it. He was a good man. He had loved his wife, even though she drove him to distraction. He had been injured three times in his career. Grazed by a sniper’s bullet in the Short Strand. Hit with a brick during a peace march through Wellington Place. Blown across the road when a bomb went off in the city centre in 1978, his back peppered with shards of glass, any one of which might have killed him. He was the last of the die-hards. Most everyone of his vintage hadn’t wanted anything to do with the Police Service of Northern Ireland when it was set up. They thought the lunatics were taking over the asylum. But Jimmy hadn’t minded. The law was the law. Bad guys didn’t go away. They just changed their clothes. That’s what drove him. He was determined to get Pink Harrison. Pink with his myriad little businesses, his fat fingers in greasy pies, his sordid veneer of respectability.

  The phone rang. Jimmy set his whiskey down on the arm of the chair, used the remote to turn down the TV - a DVD of Paul McCartney Live in Red Square (it was good to hear some of the old Beatles songs played live, with decent sound; he liked to close his eyes and pretend it was the four of them, not just Paul and some talented pick-up band) - and went into the hall. He looked at the caller ID. Someone - Pink Harrison, he suspected - had posted his home phone number on a UDA website, and he got abusive calls from time to time, so he had taken to screening them before he answered, but when he saw who it was, he smiled and sighed at the same time.

  ‘Hiya, Dad.’

  ‘Daughter of mine,’ he said.

  ‘I haven’t heard from you, I was worried.’

  ‘I spoke to you on Tuesday.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘I’m a big boy - I can look after myself.’

  ‘I know. I just … are you eating?’

  ‘Yes, I am.’

  ‘And sleeping?’

  ‘Yes. Often at the same time.’

  ‘Dad. When are you coming to see us?’

  ‘When hell freezes over.’

  Lauren had gone to university in Sunderland, and hadn’t come back. She’d met a doctor over there and married. She was a midwife. She had a three-year-old son called Michael. She had held onto her accent, but there was no trace of Belfast in Michael. She’d brought him over for the funeral. It was surprising, the difference the accent made. Jimmy could hardly relate to him at all. Jimmy had been to Sunderland once, and didn’t like it. There wasn’t anything particularly wrong with it, he just didn’t like it. It wasn’t home. People laughed sometimes when he said he loved Belfast.

  ‘How are you doing, really?’

  ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘Truth?’

  ‘Yes.’

  They were on familiar ground. Lauren would find a dozen more ways to ask the same question, and he would respond minimally.

  ‘And are you getting out?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘I don’t mean to work.’

  ‘I get out.’

  They fell silent. It felt slightly uncomfortable. The distance between them was more than just geographic. He knew he’d been quite stern as a father. Caroline had been softer and was always telling him off for being hard on Lauren. He knew she was right, but couldn’t help himself. He’d blamed it on the stresses of the job - murder, mayhem, bodies, grief, shock - but she’d said it was more than that. It was his nature. Lauren loved him, without a doubt, but sometimes there was an awkwardness.

  She said, ‘Dad, don’t be angry.’

  ‘I’m not angry. What have you done?’

  ‘It’s your birthday next week.’

  ‘Uhuh.’

  ‘And it’s always a struggle to get you something.’

  ‘Record tokens are good.’

  ‘Oh, you and your bloody music.’

  ‘Lauren, you’re sounding more like your mother every day.’

  ‘Anyway - I worry about you. Being alone. You need someone to look after you.’

  ‘I’m fifty-eight, love, not a hundred and three.’

  ‘You know what I mean.’

  He sighed. ‘What have you done?’

  ‘You promise you won’t shout?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well, I was surfing. I mean, the internet …’

  ‘I know what it is.’

  ‘And I came across this website.’ Lauren took a deep breath, and then spoke twice as quickly. ‘There’s a Belfast-based dating website. I signed you up for it as your birthday present.’

  ‘What?!!’

  ‘I signed you up. I sent in your photo and filled in the form and you went live last night.’

  ‘Jesus Christ, Lauren! Are you bloody mental or what?’

  ‘Dad, you need to meet someone.’

  ‘It’s not about that! Jesus Christ - you stop it, you stop it now!’

  ‘I can’t. Daddy, it’s on there now.’

  ‘Lauren! Good God!’

  ‘You’re lonely.’

  ‘It’s not about that! I�
�m the Head of CID! If the press get hold of this they’ll tear me to pieces.’

  ‘They won’t.’

  ‘You don’t know them!’

  ‘It’s okay, Daddy, I didn’t use your real name.’

  ‘Jesus H! That’s even worse! Have you any idea how bad this will look? Not to mention how dangerous it is. Jesus, love, have you learned nothing, all those years checking under the bloody car for bombs, never going the same way to school in the morning? Didn’t you learn—’

  ‘Daddy, The Troubles are over and you need to meet someone!’

  ‘They’re not bloody over! They’re still out there!’

  ‘Yes, they are over, Daddy! You’re the only one still fighting them!’

  Jimmy slammed the phone down. He slapped his hand hard against the wall. Jesus Christ. She had no idea, no bloody idea of the damage she’d done. Physical violence was one thing - he’d lived with the threat of that for years. But he couldn’t live with ridicule. Who would take him seriously now? How could he scare the bejesus out of people if they read about him trawling for girlfriends on some dodgy website like a lonely, desperate, sad old man?

  He had to get it off. He had to get it off now. Except he didn’t know the name of the website. He called Lauren back. He would apologise, try to explain, attempt to keep his temper. But it rang and rang and rang.

  Huffing. He was quick to explode, but she was a huffer, like her mother.

  Bloody hell. Bloody, bloody hell.

  He would just have to track it down himself on the web.

  Belfast was a small city - there couldn’t be that many dating agencies.

  He logged on. When he went to check his email there was a welcome message from Let’s Be Mates. It cheerily informed him that he already had three responses to his posting.

  Bloody, bloody, bloody hell.

  43

  The Player

  Walter didn’t even bother with the pretence of doing any work. His in-tray was piled up to overflowing. Once in a while his EO1 would come past and glare at him, but there was nothing to be done. The Civil Service was a job for life. Only murderers and Catholics had previously been sacked. Instead Walter studied the Big Houses website. This week’s catchline was Don’t Even Think About It. This week’s difference was that, for the first time in his life, Walter could think about it. He had backings. A little old lady was putting up the dough. He was a player now, a man of substance. He felt six inches taller, as opposed to the six inches wider he usually felt on a Monday morning after a weekend on the beer and curries. When a girl came round taking orders for pastries, Walter declined. This was enough to make her back out of the room in genuine shock. Somewhere, shares in gravy rings began to tumble.