‘You’re giving in on the fifty-fifty?’
‘Yes, I am.’
‘Why would you do that so easily?’
‘The truth?’
Margaret nodded.
‘Because at the moment I don’t own any of it. You could just walk away with those designs and take them somewhere else and still own one hundred per cent of them. I’m not giving you fifty per cent, Margaret, you’re giving it to me. I’m the winner here.’
‘That, or you’re just a fantastic bullshit artist.’
‘Well, that’s for you to decide, but I think we’d make a fantastic team.’ She held out her hand. ‘M & Emma, darling, what do you say?’
Margaret stared down at Emma’s fine, shapely hand and manicured fingers, then at her own, bitten to the quick.
‘Bloody hell,’ she said.
50
A Past Master
Mark could scarcely believe it. Here he was with the legendary Pink Harrison at a secluded table in Past Masters, the exclusive private members’ club, smoking a cigar and drinking Irish whiskey, swapping political theories and insider gossip as if they were firm friends. Sitting at tables all around, or staring down from portraits on the wall, were the movers and shakers of the Northern Irish business world. Every few minutes some familiar face or other would come up and say hello to Pink, shake his hand warmly - and then Pink would introduce Mark, little me, as a future star of the Party.
Mark had to admit he had harboured certain reservations - or indeed experienced sheer horror - when Pink had first been revealed as his political mentor. After all, it was Pink Harrison, Headline Harrison, paramilitary leader, gangster and deliverer of summary justice standing beaming before him. But now that he thought about it, who better to guide him? Better Pink Harrison than some faceless nonentity who was never going to rise above debating dog-fouling at the local council. And if Pink did have a shady past, so what? Hadn’t McGuinness come from an equally dubious background, and he’d ended up Education Minister. The times certainly were a-changin’, and if you had a short memory and no personal grievance, why not give them a second chance? And at least Pink Harrison had been consistent in his beliefs, not blowing this way and that like their previous leaders. Little wonder the Party had got itself into such a state. It was crying out for someone like Pink Harrison. And now, Mark Beck.
Pink offered him another cigar; Mark declined. Pink stuffed it into Mark’s breast pocket.
It was like deja vu. Like a scene from some movie. A Western. He smiled to himself. That’s what he was in, a Western. No - a Northern. The Wild North. It was finally being tamed and civilised. He was a homesteader. No, a railroad man. Which made Pink - Custer or Buffalo Bill or Sitting Bull - someone brave and fearless.
Crazy Horse. Drinking firewater.
He knew he was drunk. He wasn’t used to whiskey. He leaned forward, gave a little hand signal for Pink to move closer. ‘I gotta ask ...’
Pink raised his hand. ‘Have I really changed? Said goodbye to the bomb and the bullet? Can a man really change? Pull on a new persona the way I pulled on this nice pink jumper in the morning? Well, let me ask you this, Mark. Do I really want to change? Do I want to change the fact that I’ve fought to protect our way of life? That I’ve fought to protect our community? People deserted this Party because it didn’t represent them any more, Mark. It got fat and lazy and out of touch, but deep down, at the grassroots - that’s where I come from, that’s where my people come from - we still believe in the Party and what it stands for. That’s why I’m here, not just to reclaim past glories, but to lead it forward, do you understand what I’m saying?’
‘Sure,’ said Mark, ‘but I was only asking where the toilets were.’ He laughed out loud, and immediately regretted it. Anger shot across Pink’s face.
Oh Christ, what have I said?
Pink pointed. ‘Over there,’ he said.
Mark tried to mumble an apology, but the words wouldn’t form up right. He stumbled slightly over his chair, then hurried away. When he reached the toilets he went straight into a cubicle, locked the door, and sat down heavily.
Not smart, not smart at all. Get your act together, he told himself. Go back out there, say you’re sorry. God, it had all been going so well.
When he eventually opened the cubicle door, Pink was standing there, arms folded, leaning against the sinks, clearly waiting for him.
‘Oh,’ said Mark.
‘Aren’t you going to flush?’
For a moment Mark didn’t fully comprehend, then he nodded and turned back into the cubicle. But before he could reach the handle he was yanked suddenly backwards, then hurled forwards again; in the same movement his feet were whipped from under him and he was plunged headfirst into the toilet bowl. As he opened his mouth to scream, it filled with his own urine.
Mark heaved and fought at the same time, but he was helpless. Pink plunged him in once, twice, three times, then held him up by his hair. ‘You want to play the funny bugger with me?!’ he screamed.
‘N … n …’
Mark coughed up, then as he gasped for another breath, Pink forced his head back into the toilet bowl.
This time he flushed it.
Mark felt his whole life pass before him. It was comprised mostly of paper clips and Toffee Crisps. His hands fought for a grip on the smooth circumference of the toilet bowl, but Pink was overpowering. Again he was plunged into the maelstrom. Then out again. As the water poured out of his ears, Pink yelled: ‘You think I lived through thirty years of shit to have the piss taken out of me by a little prick like you?’
‘No … Pink … honest,’ Mark gasped.
This time Pink pulled him backwards, then hurled him against the thin metal wall of the toilet cubicle. Water sprayed around them.
‘You gonna sell me down the river to the cops?!’
‘No!’
‘You breathe a word about this, you’ll end up under the Lisburn flyover!’
‘I wouldn’t! I swear to—’
‘What year was Partition?!’
‘What?’
‘Partition between the North and South! What year?’
‘Nineteen twenty! But what’s—’
‘Name the last three leaders of the party!’
‘Last …’
Pink battered him against the cubicle wall again, then slapped him hard. ‘Last three leaders - tell me now!’
‘Empey! Trimble! Molyneaux!’
Pink grabbed him by the lapels and thrust him out of the cubicle with considerable force. Mark stumbled across to the sinks; he caught a momentary glimpse of his dank-haired self before he was spun around again. Pink stuck his face into his and spat: ‘I’m going to take my gun out now and blow your f***in’ head off if you don’t tell me about Office Twelve!’
‘Office Twelve?!’
‘Tell me about it. Tell me now, you little piece of s**t!’
Mark did not doubt for one moment that Pink had a gun, nor that he had the capacity to use it. But he had a sudden, miraculous moment of clarity.
It’s a test. It’s a god-damned test!
Pink’s reaction to his cheeky riposte had been so monstrously over the top that there had to be more to it. He can’t be that much of a psycho! This wasn’t life and death, he was merely sorting the wheat from the chaff. Seeing if he had a backbone!
But what was the correct answer? Give up the information Pink obviously knew he had, or hold back?
‘So help me!’ Pink exploded. He held Mark with one hand and began to pat his pockets with the other. ‘I will blow your eyeballs out of your bloody sockets! Now tell me, you buckin’ little midget creep!’
‘I’ve never heard of Office Twelve!’ Mark suddenly bellowed. ‘I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about!’ He slapped Pink’s hand away then shoved him in the chest. As Pink took a surprised step backwards, Mark made a charge for the door. With every step he expected to be felled - chopped or stabbed or shot. But he made it to the door and pulled it open.
But they were waiting for him. It seemed like every single member of Past Masters was standing there.
Mark stopped, dripped, and stared around at their grim faces. There were footsteps behind him. Mark glanced round as Pink approached. There wasn’t any point in running. There were too many of them.
He jumped as Pink brought his arm down forcefully on his shoulder. He tried to move, but an iron grip kept him rooted firmly to the spot.
‘Don’t you know, Mark, that in politics, no one can hear you scream?’
Mark stared into his murderous eyes. Pink glared back for an ominous few seconds, then broke off to address his audience.
‘Gentlemen,’ said Pink, ‘he has passed with flying colours!’
They burst into applause. Suddenly he was confronted with a sea of smiling faces.
Pink hugged him close. ‘I knew you had it in you,’ he beamed. ‘Didn’t doubt you for a moment.’
Mark nodded thankfully and forced himself to smile, but his legs felt weak; his heart was thumping out of control.
Another, vaguely familiar, voice came from behind. He turned and saw Steven, from Office 12, the Department of Re-Education, with his hand extended. ‘Welcome to the Party, Mark,’ he said.
51
Knowing Me, Knowing You, Ahaaa
Jack Finucane and Maeve O’Boyle actually lived quite close to each other in West Belfast, but Maeve was astute enough to know it wouldn’t look good to be spotted being picked up for a date, even by one of their own. Only a few days ago the IRA had finally announced, after more than a decade of the Ceasefire, that it was going to dump its arms. Theoretically it was all completely over, but everyone knew that wasn’t the case. There were dozens of splinter groups who would continue to rattle their collection tins. And to them Redmond O’Boyle was a star, and she was his wife and she should remain good and true. So she had to be careful. She didn’t want her windows put in or her knees cracked with hurley sticks; she didn’t want Irma La Deuce burned down. Instead, the couple arranged to meet at a restaurant Jack recommended.
Lemon Grass gave Maeve a little frisson of excitement. She hadn’t eaten in a proper restaurant in years. Jack, also, gave her a little frisson, or ‘the horn’ as she might have described it to Margaret. He sounded like he came from Belfast, but there was something in his colouring, his tousled hair, his dark eyes, that spoke of hot sun and mad passion. As if his father had been a merchant seaman, his mother a Brazilian beauty. Or, she supposed, the other way round.
As far as possible they kept off the elephant in the bedroom that was Redmond O’Boyle. Jack talked about carrot cake the way other men obsessed about Manchester United. But not just carrot cake. He had a consuming passion for all types of food, and dreamed of one day opening a restaurant of his own in the centre of Belfast. Not just a carrot-cake cafe. He wanted to create his own lines and market them internationally. He wanted to be a brand. He wanted some old woman to be pushing her trolley through Tesco one day and have her stop one of the staff to ask, ‘Where’s the Jack Finucane?’
‘I want it to become a generic term for quality food.’
Maeve smiled. ‘That would be fantastic. Although the name … I don’t know.’
‘What’s wrong with it?’
‘It’s just not very …’ She was going to say sexy, but decided against it. ‘Catchy.’
‘Is Bernard Matthews? Or Linda McCartney?’
‘But that’s all crap. This should suggest quality.’
‘What about Paul Newman - good quality and it goes to charity. And Lloyd Someone.’
‘Grossman,’ said Maeve.
‘Grossman. That’s upmarket.’
‘And George Formby.’
‘George Formby? With the ukulele?’
‘No, with the lean mean, grill machine,’ Maeve said.
‘George Foreman. The boxer.’
‘Big fat coloured fella who never grilled a thing in his life?’
‘That’s him.’
‘And Duncan, of course,’ she added.
‘Duncan?’
‘Duncan Doughnut.’
He laughed out loud. Some of the other diners looked round. Maeve smiled at one of them, a woman sitting by herself six tables away who smiled quickly back then returned her attention to slowly revolving the stem of her wine glass. Maeve leaned forward and whispered: ‘What do you think her story is?’
He studied Linda Wray. ‘Waiting for her boyfriend?’
‘It has to be more exciting than that. I think this is where she used to come with her lover, and one night he didn’t turn up and she never heard from him again, but still she turns up here every night at the same time, hoping he’ll appear. Perhaps he was killed in a tragic accident.’
‘A tragic skiing accident,’ Jack suggested. ‘Although if it was round here it would have to be that fake bloody ski-jump in - where is it?’
Maeve shook her head. ‘Never done it.’
‘Oh, it’s fantastic. I go to Switzerland twice a year.’
‘Well for some.’ She looked away. The woman was rolling up the corners of her napkin, then smoothing them out.
‘You should come.’
‘To Switzerland? We always go to Portstewart. Used to.’
Jack smiled. ‘There’s a whole big world out there, Maeve.’
Maeve nodded. He was lovely. And yet if there was a whole big world out there, and he went skiing twice a year, and had a fashionable carrot-cake cafe, what was he doing here, sitting with her? What did she have to offer? She’d told him she was really a security guard in Primark and that she’d been chancing her arm over the compensation, given up all that information without her arm being twisted at all, because she really was attracted to him. But the question was, what on earth did he see in her?
Her mobile rang. She ignored it. Their meals came. Maeve had steak. He had pasta.
‘So,’ Maeve said, ‘you’re divorced. What happened? Couldn’t she keep up on the slopes?’
‘She had an affair.’
‘Oh.’
‘On the slopes.’
‘Seriously?’
‘Well, not literally on the slopes, you’d freeze your bollocks off. But yeah, more or less.’
‘And how did you find out? I’m sorry. It’s none of my business.’
‘Yes, it is. You should know. I visit a lot of restaurants when I’m away. Research - the grand scheme. I left my wife in the ski-resort and was travelling to see a chef in Berne when I got a call from him to say he was unwell. So I turned round and went back to the cabin - and there they were. Their skis were outside, side by side.’
‘Was it the ski instructor?’
‘’Fraid so.’
‘My God, it’s like something you make up.’ There was a glint in his eye and she said, ‘You are making this up.’
He laughed. ‘Okay. So it was her driving instructor.’
‘Naw.’
‘Seriously. A Volkswagen with a giant L on top of it parked outside the house. So we got divorced. On the bright side, when she got the car, at least she knew how to drive it.’ He gave a little shrug. ‘Nah. You know. We grew apart. Didn’t get on. Acrimonious. My solicitor described her as “a pain in the hole”. And that pretty much sums her up.’
‘You must have loved her once.’
‘Well, you would think that. But I don’t think I did. We were very young. It was about sex, and I think she wanted to be the first one in her class to have a baby.’
‘You have a baby?’
Jack shook his head. ‘Didn’t work out.’
‘Didn’t work out for me either. Ironic that, isn’t it? A terrorist like Redmond? First time he’s ever shot blanks.’
Jack roared at that. He had a great laugh. And strong-looking arms. She wanted to be enveloped in them. She wanted him to lick Pooh Bear ice cream off her breasts and do
kinky things with a Cadbury’s Flake. She wanted to spend Sunday mornings making Rice Krispie buns with their children. She wanted them to go skiing, her and Jack and all four of their cute kids.
Her mobile rang again. This time she switched it off. They ate dessert. Jack ordered a slice of carrot cake.
‘Are you never off duty?’ Maeve joked.
He smiled, and gave it eight out of ten. She had Sticky Toffee Pudding.
When he excused himself to go to the Gents, she wanted to follow him and leap on him, but she restrained herself. They would probably break the toilet. Or be captured on CCTV and their antics displayed on an obscure digital channel. She wondered what it would be like to kiss him, and if he would try. Perhaps he would be too much of a gentleman. How would he react if she clamped him in a headlock and planted one on him? She wanted to invite him back to her place for coffee and sex, but there was too much danger of them being lynched. He was single, he had his own apartment. She imagined it was spotless, with a glass coffee-table and glossy magazines sitting in neat piles. There would be no football posters or Virgin Mary icon staring down from the wall. No great heap of video tapes by the telly. A white leather suite. There would be no KitKat wrappers stuffed down the back.
She glanced back down the restaurant, and saw that the single woman was gone now. Poor cow, thought Maeve. She took another sip of her wine, then lifted her handbag. She checked her lipstick and make-up and patted down her mane. When he returned, Jack had already settled the bill. ‘I hate all that standing around,’ he said, ‘trying to catch the waiter’s attention, sorting out the tip. When I open my restaurant …’
‘The international one.’
‘… You’ll pay before you eat, then you can relax and enjoy it.’
‘What if you don’t like the food? Or you poison someone?’
‘It took us all night to get back to the poison.’ But he was smiling. ‘Like you said, I’ll have a disclaimer. You take your life in your hands, but the chances are you’ll enjoy it.’
‘And you tip before the meal as well?’
‘Yes, you do. And if they don’t measure up you get to slap their faces on the way out. They’ll have to line up.’
I Predict a Riot Page 21