66
Carrot Cake and Caresses
Maeve knew it was time to get out when a brick came whizzing through her front window. There was an angry crowd outside. She yelled through the jagged hole, ‘Why don’t youse all just f**k off!’ but they paid no heed. They were upset that she’d had their hero and her husband cremated. Great plans had been laid by certain elements within the Republican movement to stage an elaborate funeral for their new martyr. Sinn Fein and Amnesty International had each issued statements pointing out that Redmond had not been convicted of any crime and had died alone and abandoned by the British Government, who had to take full responsibility, along with naturally, the Colombians who’d thrown him into prison in the first place on the basis of disputed evidence; and while they were at it, Amnesty International had a swipe at Colombia’s history of legal corruption and its place at the head of the international league table of states up to their oxters in the drugs trade.
What all of this boiled down to was the fact that there were a lot of angry people outside Maeve’s house. They were baying for blood.
Maeve, who was no stranger to rioters baying for blood, hurried upstairs, packed a bag and hightailed it out the back way. She wore a hooded anorak. When she got down onto the Falls Road proper she stopped a black taxi and asked to be taken to the Lisburn Road. The driver eyed her in the mirror, but if he recognised her he didn’t say. But just in case, she got him to drop her well short of Irma La Deuce. She didn’t want him taking his suspicions back to West Belfast, and then have a mob rampage through Jack Finucane’s carrot cakes.
Jack himself was pleased - and surprised - to see her coming through the doors, at least until he saw her suitcase. He thought she was lovely, but wasn’t ready to have her move in on the basis of one date and a snog which had ended with her screaming her head off.
He sat her down at a table he had brought out especially for her - the cafe was crammed - and cut her a slice of coconut carrot cake and brought this over, together with a cappuccino.
She wailed, ‘What am I going to do?’
‘Things will settle down.’
‘No - you don’t understand. I can never go back.’
‘They’ll forget about it.’
‘They never forget. I had a neighbour who once criticised Gerry Adams, and he hasn’t been out of the house since, and that was 1974.’
Jack patted her hand. She looked at him with big, pleading eyes.
‘Don’t you have friends, relatives?’
‘No!’
‘What about the girl I poisoned - s**t, I mean she had an allergic reaction - can’t you stay with her?’
‘Margaret? No. I don’t know. She only has a wee place. And I hardly know her.’ Maeve dabbed at her eyes. ‘Right enough, only the other day she said if there was anything she could do to help, I should call her.’
Jack had his mobile phone out in a flash. ‘Here,’ he said.
She took it. She turned it over in her hand. ‘You don’t want me here.’
‘Of course I want you here.’
‘When I walked through that door with my suitcase, you nearly had a heart-attack.’
‘I was just surprised to see you. But it’s great that you’re here. Honestly.’
‘We kissed.’
‘Yes, we did.’
‘It was really nice.’
‘Yes, it was.’
‘But at the end of the day, it’s a first date, and now I land in on you like I expect you to let me move in.’
‘No, not at all.’
‘I’m sorry, I’m just upset …’
‘No, really
‘I just had this kind of a fantasy, with your big safe arms around me and us having sex all night.’
‘Well, there’s no harm in you staying for one night.’
‘No, it wouldn’t be right. I’ll phone Margaret.’
‘No, look, what harm can it do, a couple of nights. Here, give me the phone.’
‘No, seriously, we hardly know each other. Why take the chance of ruining something before it’s hardly started. I’ll phone her.’
‘No, come on, give me the phone. I should’ve been more—’
‘It’s all right. I understand. It’s no problem.’ She took her own mobile out of her handbag and checked Margaret’s number. Then she jabbed it into Jack’s phone and replaced her own phone. This didn’t strike her as odd. It was training. Waste not, want not. She took another bite of carrot cake while she waited for a response.
‘There’s no need, Maeve,’ said Jack.
Maeve held up a placatory hand, and mouthed, ‘Here we go.’
Jack sat back in his chair, frowning and horny.
‘Margaret - it’s me.’
‘Me?’ Her voice sounded slightly echoey.
‘Maeve. Christ, Margaret, I need your help.’
‘Why, love, what’s the matter?’
‘They went and did it, with Redmond.’
‘They … ?’
‘Cremated him.’
‘Oh God.’
‘I know, but even worse, everyone round here’s gone mental on me.’
‘Mental?’
‘They’ve smashed my windows and I had to jump out over the back fence or they would’ve strung me up.’
‘Christ, Maeve, that’s terrible.’
‘I know, but I’m stuck, Margaret. I’ve nowhere to go.’
‘…’
‘It would just be for a couple of nights until I sort something out.’
‘…’
‘Even just for tonight.’
‘Maeve, I can’t.’
‘…’
‘It’s not that I …’
‘Honestly, did you not hear what happened to me?’
‘To you?’
‘Yes, love. And where do you think I am now?’
‘I’ve no idea.’
‘Well, to cut a long story short, I’m in the cop shop. Maeve, I swear to God you wouldn’t believe it, but it’ll be on the news by now, I’m sure. I was down looking over this apartment, and guess who was there as well? Swear to God, your man Walter looking at it at the same time, and we had this row and I ended up in the river.’
‘He threw you in the river?!’
‘No, no, I slipped - but that’s not what it’s about. I was sitting on my arse in the water and I put my hand down to help me out except I thought I was putting it on a rock but it wasn’t, it was a head - a dead head. Maeve, do you hear what I’m saying? That wee lad whose body they found, well, I found his head.’
‘Christ, Margaret.’
‘So now I’m down the police station doing statements and stuff and I’ve no idea how long I’ll be here. I mean, it’s not like they think I’m involved or anything, but that’s never stopped them before, has it? Think of your poor dead husband. They’re just taking forever so I can’t let you sleep at my place. Ordinarily it wouldn’t be a problem, you know that. Do you understand?’
‘Of course I do, love. God, what are we like, the two of us, eh? Front-page news, that’s us.’
Down the line Maeve heard what sounded like a door opening and heels on tiles, then Margaret whispered urgently, ‘Have to go - I’ll give you a buzz tomorrow, all right?’ Then the line was cut.
Maeve closed the phone and handed it back to Jack. She said, somewhat sarcastically, ‘Well, it looks like it’s your lucky night.’
Jack nodded gravely, but leaped about inside.
Less than 200 yards away, Margaret strode out of the Ladies toilets in Pizza Hut, determined that she wasn’t going to let anything spoil her second date with Walter North.
67
Democracy at Work
It took Mark some considerable time to decide what to wear for his first night on the campaign trail. In fact, there was no campaign as such, as the elections weren’t long over and his man, Pink Harrison, had enjoyed a comfortable majority, but it felt like a campaign, because it was his first night ‘on the stump’, the beginning of his ow
n political career. He had to talk to the people, thank those who had voted for Pink and reassure them that good times were ahead, and try to convert those who hadn’t. But deciding what to wear was a pain.
Pink’s council ward was very definitely working class, which Mark very definitely wasn’t. He wore a designer suit to work and had half a dozen pairs of expensive shoes at home. What he needed to do was relate to the voters without condescension while still communicating the fact that because he was clearly much better off and had gone to university and had enjoyed a gap year helping Guatemalan orphans, he was in a much better position than they were to get things done. It was, of course, a predominantly Protestant, Unionist area, so he could have worn a Rangers top and added ‘mate’, in the local parlance, to try and ease things along, but he was not naive enough to believe they would fall for that any more than the blackest ghetto would fall for a white rapper. (Apart from Eminem.) But an expensive suit and tie and sharp shoes - what would that say? That was back to the days of the old Unionist Party, when it was little more than a genial social gathering for the horsey set. Better something off the rack, and not just any rack, something out of say, Primark - cheap ‘n’ cheerless. But even then, how would they know the difference - unless he left the labels on, or allowed his jacket to flap open from time to time so that they could see a 25% off sticker. No, that just wouldn’t do.
In the end, he settled on transparency: he wasn’t ashamed of his expensive suit or his sharp shoes. But no tie. An open-necked shirt. Informal. He thought about a gold chain for his neck, but rejected it. He thought about a temporary tattoo - For God and Ulster, No Surrender or I Love Me Ma, but that was too tacky, and would also have meant him having to push up the sleeves of his suit as if he was in Miami Vice, which was just not going to happen.
He set out at 7 p.m. in the company of Jinko, Marty and Bull, three chaps who worked exclusively with Pink Harrison. Jinko, tall and thin in black jeans and a hooded sweatshirt, handed out photocopies of the electoral register for the area, then gave each of them three streets ‘to work’. Mark studied his list quickly - there were about seventy houses.
‘All right,’ said Jinko, ‘I’ll see you back here in an hour.’
‘An hour?’ said Mark, surprised.
‘Well, if you’re any quicker, get us a Twix from the shop.’
Mark blinked at him. Bull, who naturally looked a bit like a bull, with the bulk and two large freckles on his forehead where horns might once have jutted out, looked Mark up and down and said, ‘Where’s the party?’
Before Mark could respond, they all chorused, ‘We’re the Party!’ then split off in their various directions. Marty and Bull were wearing tracksuit bottoms and trainers; Marty had on a Linfield shirt and Bull a grey T-shirt which had once been white.
As he approached Del Rosa Avenue, the first of his three streets, Mark made a mental calculation, entirely based on probability. He reckoned about a third of the houses would be empty - down at the pub, or in the chip shop - another third would just say ‘No, thank you for calling, we’re fine, Pink’s great, good night,’ so there’d be no delay there, which left another third who might want to stand and chat or have a problem. A third of seventy was twenty-three and a third-ish, which over an hour meant just under three minutes each. He could do that. Time management was one of his strong points. (He had once marked the A-level English papers for an entire Education Board Area in seventeen minutes.) He had thought about bringing a notebook to write down any grievances, complaints or relevant comments to take back to Pink, but in the interests of speed he decided on an iPOD, with an iTalk Dictaphone attachment. He kept it in his pocket, out of sight, switched on.
The houses here were small, ancient terraces, tightly packed. That would help with his timings. No long walks up driveways, no locked gates to struggle with.
Here I go! This is real politics! Out on the streets, helping the people!
Mark rang his first doorbell. He fixed his hair and smoothed out a crease on his trousers. The door did not open. Instead a voice called out, ‘Hello?’
‘Hi. I’m working with Councillor Harrison and—’
‘Hold on.’
Mark stepped back, expecting the door to open. Instead he heard whispered voices, and then a few moments later the letterbox opened and a crumpled envelope was pushed out. Before Mark could catch it, it fell to the ground, hitting the footpath with a definite clink of coin. Mark picked it up. ‘I’m sorry, I—’ he began, addressing the closed door, but all he could see through the glass panel was the glimpse of a TV and then an inner door closing. Mark examined the envelope. Pink was scrawled on the front.
He didn’t quite know what to think. Obviously they didn’t want to talk directly with him, choosing to write to their Councillor instead, and making a small financial donation to the Party as well. Well, fair enough.
Mark went to the next house - nobody in.
The next - nobody in, although he had the definite impression of a curtain moving as he passed.
At the fourth house the door opened and a hard-looking woman with a jam-faced child in her arms rolled her eyes when he introduced himself, then turned back into her living room. Emmerdale was blasting out of the TV, and was being watched by three other children, a grandparent and a bull terrier. The woman began shifting the children off the sofa, then looking under the cushions, straining as her fingers pressed down the sides. Eventually she came up with half a dozen coins, which she jangled in her hand while she looked around for something. Eventually she came back out into the narrow hall, lifted a red-tinged envelope off the telephone stand, ripped it open, allowed the bill to drop to the floor, then slid the coins into it. She held it out for Mark, snarling, ‘Tell him those f***ing bins aren’t sorted out yet.’
Mark nodded, took the envelope, then stood speechless as the door was slammed in his face.
In the following fifty minutes, Mark collected fifty-three envelopes. When he walked, he jangled like a porcelain piggy bank. He never once got beyond saying, ‘I work for Councillor Harrison,’ before money was thrust into his hands. Several people didn’t even bother with envelopes so that his pockets bulged with crumpled notes and coins of every denomination. When he returned to the rendezvous point the others were already there and similarly weighed down. Mark was too stunned to even ask. He had kept a check on which houses he had failed to get a response from, and Jinko compared this with a list of his own. Then he jabbed a finger at one name and said, ‘Right, that’s two months in a row.’ He turned to Bull and Marty. ‘Okay, lads - the Martins at seventy-two.’ Bull went over to the ancient Metro they’d arrived in and popped open the boot. He lifted out a baseball bat and handed it to Marty, then took one for himself.
Mark’s mouth worked, fishlike. He finally managed an elongated, ‘W.w.w.w.w.w.w.wait a minute.’
Bull and Marty had no intention of waiting anything. Mark urgently studied his list again, then looked sharply up at Jinko. ‘Did you say seventy-two?’
‘Aye.’
‘You know, I think I missed seventy-two.’
‘You missed it?’
‘Yes. Aye, I think so. The Martins, you say?’
‘The Martins. F***ing tightwads.’
‘I really think I did miss them. Just give me a moment, and I’ll check.’
Jinko shook his head, but then nodded at Marty and Bull. ‘Houl’ your horses, then.’
‘Sorry,’ Mark said as he backed away towards the street corner. ‘My fault entirely. First night.’ He waved apologetically, then hurried back into Del Rosa Avenue. The Martins - one of the curtain-twitching houses. What was he supposed to say? What was he supposed to do? My God, what had he got himself into?
Mark quickly felt his jacket pocket, then pulled out an envelope containing an invitation to a wedding disco which was several months out of date. He took out the invitation and crushed it into his trouser pocket. Then he took a handful of coins from his other trouser pocket and slipped them into the enve
lope and sealed it as best he could. He loitered there, out of sight of his Party colleagues, for another three minutes, then sauntered back around the corner, holding the envelope aloft as if he’d just discovered peace (and to a certain extent he had). Marty and Bull reluctantly returned their sporting weapons to the Metro and then all four of them drove back to the Rangers Supporters Club on the Shankill Road to count the money. Pink was nowhere to be seen.
Eventually Jinko lifted a metal cash-box, with some difficulty, and nodded at Mark. ‘You did good tonight, son,’ he said. ‘I’m gonna run this down to Pink. You want a lift?’
‘I’ve a migraine,’ said Mark.
68
Clues
Marsh knew that even people from Belfast tended to forget how small the city actually was. Granted, it punched above its weight in many respects, including in music, boxing, snooker, football and extremes of violence, but from whatever perspective you looked at it, it was undeniably compact. This was advantageous to police work. It also helped that it was a divided city, so that, particularly since the end of The Troubles, crimes which were committed in one part tended to be committed by people from that part. There was very little travelling between the two. The dead boy, although his family now lived in nice, prosperous Bangor, had been brought up in the city, in Rathcoole, which had once been described as the largest subsidised housing estate in Western Europe, as if it was a good thing. Rathcoole was 83 per cent Protestant. The other 17 per cent were Chinese, Indian or Pakistani. There are no agnostics or any atheists in Belfast.
Marsh was philosophical about many things, but was not a believer in, say, the theory that if a butterfly beat its wings in London, it might have repercussions in, perhaps, Peking. However, he was willing to concede that it could work on a smaller scale. If something, anything, happened on an estate like Rathcoole, there was always a knock-on effect. Someone would know about it. It was merely a case of pinning down the butterfly, and burning its wings with a match until it talked. Metaphorically speaking.
I Predict a Riot Page 27