I Predict a Riot

by Bateman, Colin

  ‘What?’ said Benny.

  ‘This is you,’ said Marsh.

  ‘Not here,’ said Benny, panicked.

  ‘Here,’ said Marsh.

  ‘For Christ sake.’ His eyes darted about to see if anyone was watching. It was a busy road. ‘Take me back to Castle Street, or home - don’t leave me here.’

  ‘This is it, Benny. You’ve been very helpful. We’ll be in touch.’ Marsh put his hand out. Benny just stared at it. Marsh kept it there for a moment. Then he said, ‘Who’m I kiddin’?’ and moved forward. He yanked Benny out of the vehicle onto the pavement. Then he enveloped him in a bear hug. ‘Thanks, Benny,’ he said, real loud. ‘Thanks for everything.’

  Marsh let him go, winked, then jumped back into the car. As he drove off, he reached across and pumped the horn. Benny put his hands in his pockets and started walking, quick as he could, but people noticed. They always did. It was a small city.

  78

  Bull by the Horns

  Julie Mateer had an eight o’clock appointment, and the taxi was due at any moment. But she was still in the bathroom upstairs, fixing her face. And she really was fixing it. Normally she didn’t wear a lot of make-up, but ever since that cretin had knocked her downstairs and bust up her face she’d been forced into a big cover-up. Nobody wanted to pay good money, or even average money, to bed a woman with a bruised-up noggin. It ached. Her lip was cut inside, and her nose was slightly swollen.

  Ordinarily she would have taken a few days off, but she had bills to pay. So she forced herself up out of bed. Two lines of coke helped get her in the mood. She practised her smile. There. Perfect. In a dull light, with a few drinks, she’d wing it. Beggars can’t be choosers, and it applied to both sides of the equation.

  Julie had always been a girl up for anything, and prided herself on knowing the risks and being able to skate clear of trouble. She was independent, vivacious, witty and stunning to look at. She had known she was beautiful from an early age, and also that she was bright, therefore she had presumed her life would be easy. That she could afford to float for several years before choosing a career and marrying a quality guy. She had the chance to go to London to model, but instead fell for a fella called Paddy Long, who had everything she was looking for. He was rich, handsome, a chemist with a string of pharmacies across Belfast, but also the life and soul of the party. She shared a grand house with him, enjoyed a life of leisure, and it was only when the cops bust down their door in the middle of the night that she discovered Paddy was the leading manufacturer of Ecstasy tablets in the Province. The thing was, he wasn’t in the least bashful about misleading her. He said he was just ‘filling prescriptions’ and asked her to wait for him. Eight years, to be precise. In Jimmy Marsh Mallow’s Big Book of Bad People, Paddy’s nickname was ‘Boots’.

  Without her man, Julie didn’t know where to turn. Boots’s friends, their friends, disappeared the moment he was arrested. The big house was seized by Criminal Assets, and she was lucky to hang onto her Prada handbag. She’d no job, and little cash, but she’d lived life too well to go looking for any normal kind of a job. She was beyond working the sweet counter in Woolies. And yet, standards are a curious thing.

  The way it happened was like this. Their favourite bar had always been the first-floor lounge in the Europa Hotel. A better class of clientèle went there - their kind of people. Moneyed, but not awfully-awfully. She and Boots would invariably go there on a Friday and Saturday night and drink into the early hours. Once Boots got put away, Julie still found herself drawn to the place, and, inevitably she attracted her fair share of attention, although mostly from morons. On this particular night she was being bored stupid by this car salesman, and drinking too much of his champagne - his plan was to get her drunk and sleep with her, obviously, although she’d no intention of it - but when he darted off to the toilet his place was immediately taken by a medium-sized, plain-looking man in glasses.

  He said, ‘Could I talk to you for a moment?’

  ‘Sure. But he’ll be back in a minute.’

  ‘A minute’s all I need.’

  ‘Quick worker,’ Julie laughed.

  He didn’t smile. He was nervous. ‘I’ve been watching you all night - you’re beautiful. But I know, someone like you, you’re not going to be interested in someone like me.’ She didn’t quite know what to say. He was right, after all. ‘But I know who you are, and I know what happened to Paddy, and I know things can’t be easy for you right now.’

  She didn’t much like that, him bringing up her personal life. She said, ‘What’s your point?’

  He said, ‘I’ve never done this before. I own a graphic design company, I finished a job today and the guy paid me in cash. Two grand.’ He patted his pocket.

  Julie’s eyes darted towards the toilets to see if the salesman was on his way back yet. ‘So?’

  ‘So, it’s my birthday, and I’m single, and I’ll give you the two grand if you’ll come to bed with me for thirty minutes. I have a room upstairs already.’

  She stared at him, her mouth dropped open a little. ‘You are joking, aren’t you?’

  ‘No. Swear to God, I’m absolutely serious. Don’t be offended.’ She’d been propositioned before, but never so audaciously, never with cash. ‘I know you’re shocked, and I am as well in a way, but I have the money, and why not spend it on something fantastic that I’ll remember for the rest of my life?’

  Julie half-snorted into her champagne. ‘Fantastic for you or fantastic for me?’

  ‘Well, for me, obviously. But I’ll do my best for you, if you like.’

  Julie spotted the car salesman, pushing his way through the crowd towards them. She was drunk and miserable, and the salesman was smarmy and full of himself and sure he was on to a winner; while this spunky little guy with his envelope of cash was clearly batting way out of his league. But he was a trier, and God loves a trier. So without thinking about it any more deeply than that, she grabbed his hand and said, ‘You’re on - let’s go.’

  There was a momentary look of stunned disbelief and then his face exploded in happiness. He led her away through the crowd towards the lift.

  She was back in the bar in forty-five minutes. She’d given him an extra fifteen. It wasn’t satisfying in the slightest, but he’d been nice and attentive and keen and said nice things and she didn’t feel too bad about it. She kissed him goodbye in the doorway, tongues and all, and with the envelope safe in her Prada bag, returned to the bar downstairs, intending to treat herself to one last drink. She ordered a Pimms and handed over a £20 fresh from the envelope. She was just taking her first sip when the barman came back with the note and said, ‘I’m sorry, madam - it’s a forgery.’

  ‘Oh, God … sorry.’ She fished another one out. But it was fake as well. So was a third and a fourth and she was feeling suddenly hollow and then she was physically sick, there at the bar, over the bar stools.

  When she’d recovered sufficiently she found enough change in her purse to cover the drink. Then with as much dignity as she could muster she walked out of the lounge, and took the lift back up to the graphic designer’s room. He opened the door, smiled at her, then told her to f**k off. Then he slammed the door shut.

  She felt about this high. There was nothing she could do, no one she could tell. She slunk out and cried herself to sleep.

  But it was the beginning of a shift in her approach to life. Even though she’d been stitched up, it made her really aware for the first time that she could actually exploit her good looks rather than just coast along on them. She had something to sell. So she did some research, found an agency specialising in escorts and companions and tried it out. She didn’t earn two grand a pop, but still, it was a reasonable living. But that was seven years ago. Boy bands and prostitutes don’t have a long shelf-life. She was now down to as little as two hundred a go, and skimming half of that off her bosses.

  When the doorbell rang, she shouted, ‘Be there in a minute!’ then hurried down the stairs
. She stopped to check her reflection one last time in the hall mirror, then opened the front door. But instead of seeing the taxi idling outside, she saw Bull. He didn’t say anything. Bulls rarely do. He just smacked her once in the mouth and stepped into the hall after her as she fell backwards.

  79

  The Collector

  Mark had read many political biographies, and knew the value of the experience to be gained by going from door to door, meeting the people. Everyone started that way. Churchill. Kennedy. Thatcher. Even Stalin had knocked on a few doors - in fact, he kept it up for decades, although not always personally. If it was a case of merely listening to problems or taking dog’s abuse, well, Mark accepted that that was part of the learning process. But the raw fear and desperation he encountered on each of his nightly tours of Pink Harrison’s City Council Ward shook him to the core. These were people on the lowest possible rung of society, struggling to make ends meet, yet they felt obliged to hand over money to Harrison’s collectors. Bull called them political contributions. Mark called it protection money, although not out loud, or even in a whisper. He was distraught. He didn’t know where to turn. Walter was sitting across from him in the office now, looking pretty pleased with himself, but he couldn’t ask him. Mark had talked his political career up so much he didn’t want to turn to his old friend and admit that he was floundering before he’d hardly begun.

  Walter said, ‘I’m going down to the canteen for a salad, do you want anything?’

  On cue, Mark’s stomach rumbled. ‘No, I’m fine,’ he said weakly.

  When Walter left, Mark walked down the corridor to Office 12. He had been elated to join the Party, but surprised to see that Steve, his mysterious colleague, was also a prominent member; however, the more he thought about it, the more it made sense, and the more it creeped him out. As Steve had explained it, the disinformation that issued from Office 12 was calculated to cause disruption and confusion, therefore creating a climate of dissatisfaction that might benefit the Party. At the moment the real political power in the Province was held between the twin extremes of the Sinn Fein Republicans and the Democratic Unionists; the Official Unionists were largely excluded, but reasonably happy to give the others their moment in the spotlight - as long as that spotlight proved to be faulty. When Sinn Fein and the Democrats proved that they couldn’t run a country between them, the time would be right for the re-emergence of the Official Unionists.

  Mark knocked once and waited to be asked to enter. Steve was behind his desk, but had one hand resting in the open drawer to his left. When he saw who it was he closed the drawer and smiled, waving Mark forward into a chair. Mark closed the door behind him and sloped forward. When he sat down he looked everywhere but at Steve himself, who clasped his hands before him and waited patiently. Finally Mark’s eyes met his.

  ‘I have a problem,’ said Mark.

  ‘I fix problems,’ said Steve. ‘Is it work-related? Personal?’

  ‘Political.’

  ‘Are we talking political philosophy, theology or history?’

  ‘We’re talking about Pink Harrison.’

  ‘Councillor Harrison.’

  Mark nodded. ‘Can I talk to you, you know, in confidence?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘It’s just … not what I expected.’

  ‘What did you expect?’

  ‘To work for the Party.’

  ‘And aren’t you?’

  ‘No, I seem to spend all my spare time collecting money for Pink Harrison.’

  ‘You mean political contributions?’

  ‘No, I mean protection money.’

  Steve unclasped his hands. ‘Tell me more,’ he said.

  So Mark told him about the envelopes, and how on the first night he had to contribute his own money in order to stop one family getting a beating.

  ‘That’s not good,’ said Steve.

  ‘And then I went back last night, and word must have spread, because there were eight or nine families who wouldn’t pay up, and I couldn’t let them be attacked, so I paid their contribution as well. It’s costing me a fortune.’

  ‘That’s terrible,’ said Steve.

  Mark shook his head. ‘It’s not what I signed up for. And I think the Party should know what Harrison is doing. Those people are scared stiff of him. He needs to be stopped. I was prepared to give him the benefit of the doubt, but you know what they say about leopards and spots and all that.’

  Steve was silent for several long moments. Then he sighed. ‘Mark, I know what you’re saying, but I wouldn’t be too quick to jump to conclusions. I know Pink, I know him well, and the Party took a considerable risk in allowing him to join and stand for us, but he’s worked hard, he has some bright ideas, and he is without doubt a star of the future.’

  ‘But not if he’s—’

  ‘Let me finish. And yes, he has raised more funds in his ward than probably any other councillor, but you’ve got to remember, the Party can only function if it has a lot of people working for it at grassroots level, and the problem with that is, particularly in some of the tougher areas, that you have to take what you can get. If you vetted every single person who volunteered, then you’d end up with no one. This Bull guy, and the others, they may have overstepped the mark, but that doesn’t mean that Councillor Harrison is even aware of it. Why would he jeopardise his political career like that?’

  ‘But the money goes directly to him. I saw him with it.’

  ‘Yes, and it’s all accounted for at Party HQ. It’s like Scouts on Bob-a-Job week, Mark, performing a worthwhile public service, but sometimes they get over-enthusiastic.’

  ‘They don’t threaten people with baseball bats.’

  ‘In Pink’s area, they do. It’s part of the culture.’

  Mark sighed. ‘I hear what you’re saying. And if you’re sure Pink doesn’t know about it, well, that’s a bit better. But something has to be done about Bull and his mates, they’re terrorising people.’

  ‘And something will be done, believe you me, Mark. You’re right to bring this to me. It will be sorted out.’

  ‘But you’ll - you know - keep my name out of it?’

  ‘Yes, of course I will. Not only that, I’ll make sure you get back whatever money you contributed on behalf of those poor people.’

  ‘Well, that’s not necessary. As long as it’s going to a good cause. I just couldn’t, you know, keep it up.’

  Mark felt much better. It all made sense now. Pink had turned his back on violence, but some of his followers were finding the transition to democratic means slightly more difficult. But the Party was bigger than any one, two or three individuals, and the problem would be sorted out. Steven was a man who could get things done. Moving into his office would clearly have its benefits.

  ‘I was thinking I could move on Monday,’ Mark said.

  ‘Move?’

  ‘In here.’

  ‘Yes, of course. Monday would be ideal.’ Then Steve looked down at a sheet of paper on his desk. ‘Oh no, wait a minute. Perhaps Monday’s not so hot.’

  ‘Tuesday then. I want to be in an office where things happen, you know?’

  ‘Tuesday’s much better.’ He examined the sheet again. ‘Damn - no, Tuesday doesn’t suit either. Tell you what, let me check it out and I’ll get back to you.’

  Mark nodded. He stood up and reached across to shake Steve’s hand. ‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘I really appreciate it - it’s a load off my mind.’

  ‘No problem,’ said Steve. ‘Talk to you soon, Mark. And relax, I’m onto it now.’

  Mark left the office. In the corridor outside he took out his wallet and checked how much cash he had left. A fiver. Good. He could go to the canteen now and buy himself some lunch, confident in the assumption that he wouldn’t be contributing the last of this month’s cash to Pink Harrison.

  Back in Office 12, Steven clicked a number on speed dial. It was answered straight away.

  ‘Pink,’ said Steven, ‘we have another
whiny whinger.’

  80

  Pride, in the Name of Love

  Walter wasn’t aware of the origin of the word ‘cocksure’, but he presumed it was something sexual. If it was, that was how he had felt, waking up this morning, back in his little house, having made love to a beautiful woman for much of the night in a luxurious penthouse he nearly owned, and with the full knowledge that he had another beautiful woman waiting in the wings. Walter had never had it so good. Now he sat in the Department of Education canteen, grazing on a salad, contemplating his good fortune. It was amazing how quickly your life could turn around. One moment a sexless drone, the next an entrepreneur with women falling at his feet. Power was a superb aphrodisiac. He was human Viagra. Another phrase whose origins he wasn’t familiar with was ‘pride comes before a fall’.

  Walter’s mobile rang. ‘Walter North,’ he purred.

  ‘Hi there.’

  ‘Margaret,’ said Walter.

  ‘Linda,’ said Linda.

  ‘Linda?’ said Walter.

  ‘Linda,’ said Linda, already deflated. ‘From last night, remember?’

  ‘Yes, of course. I’m sorry - just force of habit. Linda, how the hell are you?’

  ‘I’m fine. Bit of a sore head.’

  ‘Tell me about it.’

  She told him about it. At great length. He couldn’t remember her talking this much last night. Linda was aware she was overdoing it, but that happened when she was nervous. She told him about her dry throat and her throbbing head and trying to show clients around when she felt like death, and then for some unaccountable reason she told him about her hysterectomy.