I Predict a Riot

by Bateman, Colin

  Walter pushed his salad to one side. He said, ‘That must have been painful.’

  ‘Oh God, yeah; couldn’t ride a horse for months.’

  ‘You have a horse?’

  ‘No, I mean, metaphorically speaking. Oh God, I’m babbling. What I’m trying to say in a roundabout way is that you don’t have to worry about … You know, last night, we didn’t use any, you know, protection. So I can’t get - you know, pregnant. I could make love to the entire cast of Tandragee Amateur Operatic Society’s production of Oklahoma and it wouldn’t make a damn’s worth of difference. I thought you should know. Put your mind at ease. And also, if you were thinking long-term, and about children and things like that, that I’ve had it done and there’s no going back and it’s not perfect, but there you go, that’s life, or not, as the case may be.’

  ‘Well,’ said Walter, ‘that’s me in the picture.’

  ‘Yes, it is. I, ah, enjoyed last night.’

  ‘So did I.’

  Silence. She was giving him the opportunity to say, ‘So what about tonight?’ Or, ‘So let’s do it again.’

  ‘Walter?’

  ‘Yes, uhuh?’

  Again she gave him the space. Then she took a deep breath. ‘What with all that happened, there’s still paperwork to sign.’

  ‘Oh, right. Well, we should do that. Do you want to send it over?’

  ‘No, I would really need to be there.’

  ‘Oh right. Okay. Fine. Do you want me to come to the office?’

  ‘Well, we could meet at the apartment.’

  ‘Okay. Yeah. That would be fine. Only I’m in work now.’

  ‘Well, after work. Say, six?’

  ‘I’ve some things to do - seven?’

  They agreed on seven. There were a few more awkward exchanges, then Walter said he had to go. He cut the line and pulled his salad back into place. What was wrong with him? She was practically offering more sex on a plate, and he was already getting cold feet. This from a man whose entire sexual history could be written on a Christmas postage stamp. But as much as he had enjoyed the previous evening, at least a part of him was going, ‘So that’s what all the fuss is about?’ His desires and lusts were sated, however temporarily, and nice as she was, he did not think she was the one. He had forgotten about Margaret in the excitement of the moment, but now that he had had his wicked way with Linda, he was thinking about her again. Only a few days before, they had promised each other a bold new era of openness and honesty, but now he had betrayed her at the first possible opportunity.

  Or evened the score. Now he’d had a fling, they were quits.

  Self-delusion can be an incredible thing.

  When Emma Cochrane phoned to say that her dresses were in the window with an £800 price tag, Margaret nearly had a stroke. £800! Margaret had barely paid £15 each for them, thanks to the staff discount at Primark.

  ‘Eight hundred?’ she repeated. ‘Are you absolutely sure?’

  ‘Oh I know, but it’s like an opening offer, just to test the water. Once they start to sell and word spreads and the publicity kicks in, we’ll increase the price substantially.’

  Margaret was on a fifty-fifty split, so she should have been dancing in the aisles - literally the aisles, as she was patrolling through the Lingerie Department, keeping an eye out for the pervs - but that wasn’t what made her stop in her tracks.

  ‘Publicity?’

  ‘Of course, darling, it’s the lifeblood of our industry. We put these dresses in the window now, they’re snapped up, word of mouth spreads - and there are simply no others available. And there truly aren’t. It’ll be a fortnight before your new designs are run up, and by then word will have filtered back to the fashion press. Then when we mount our first show…’

  ‘Show?’

  ‘They’ll be battering down the doors to get in. Margaret, it’s going to work like a dream. Margaret?’

  ‘Sorry. I just kind of thought I’d stay in the background.’

  ‘Margaret, darling, listen to me. I know you’re nervous, but the moment I put those dresses in the window, that’s the moment your life changed for ever. It’ll start small, but it’ll grow, I have every confidence. I just can’t wait to see you walk down that catwalk, milking the applause. You’re a star, darling, get used to it!’

  Ever since she’d been a little girl Margaret had lain in bed at night dreaming of catwalk shows and the press and the fame and the glamour of it all, but this was different. This was real. The limit of her true ambitions had not extended much beyond seeing one of her designs made up into something real, but now Emma was talking as if all this other stuff was really possible. Margaret didn’t feel remotely qualified for any of it. All she’d really done was make a few drawings and colour them in. A million kids had done that. Perhaps Emma was getting carried away. Emma Cochrane was a nice little boutique on one of Belfast’s more up-market shopping streets, but it was still in Belfast, hardly the fashion capital of the world. Or even Ireland. All this talk of fame and glory - it was just pie in the sky. The dresses would hang in the window and attract not one iota of attention. Or even worse - be recognised for what they were - Primark rip-offs bearing M & Emma labels. This wasn’t the start of some illustrious career, it was the beginning of a short walk down to the Magistrate’s Court. The moment some unsuspecting thin woman clapped her hands in excitement, then handed over her credit card - that was when the fraud would really begin.

  ‘Emma, maybe we should wait for the new designs to—’

  ‘Nonsense! The dresses are fantastic! They’ll sell like hot cakes.’

  Nobody buys hot cakes any more.

  ‘It’s just, they’re not really representative of my work. They’re very, er, derivative. I really think it would be better to—’

  ‘Margaret, those dresses are stunning. They are so you, they have your personality stamped all over them; no one else in this whole damn world could have made them but you. Be proud of them!’

  ‘Yes, I know, I’m just—’

  ‘It’s natural to be nervous, darling, but believe me, this is going to be fantastic. A few days from now, some beautiful young woman is going to be walking down Royal Avenue turning heads and people will say, “Hey, isn’t that an M & Emma?”.’

  Margaret felt sick to her stomach. ‘I have to go,’ she said abruptly and closed her mobile.

  Partly it was the fear of arrest and exposure, but mostly it was the sight of an elderly man standing with his hand moving rapidly in his trouser pocket while he fingered a display of women’s briefs. Seeing Margaret approach did not deter him. He just got quicker. And then began to sing ‘Jesus Loves Me for a Sunbeam’ at the top of his voice.

  81

  Stars in their Eyes

  Margaret and Maeve hightailed it to the Lisburn Road on their lunchbreak so that they could see the display at first hand. Maeve, who saw identical dresses hanging in Primark every day of her life, failed to recognise them at all. Margaret thought this was because their vantage-point was a window table in Irma La Deuce and her companion only had eyes for Jack Finucane, the Carrot Cake King.

  Jack, having been reluctant to allow Maeve to stay the night in his swish apartment, was now determined to have her move in. The sex had been that good. And his mouth had dropped open when he’d seen her new look. Before, she’d been reasonably attractive, but her expansive hair had dominated everything. It had been more of a personality thing. Which was good, in a way. But now the big hair was gone, replaced with a short blonde crop, he could really see how beautiful she was. He wanted to pick her up and take her into the kitchen and ravish her. He wanted to cover her in fresh cream and lick it off with tiny little cat darts. But as the hygiene inspectors had visited three times since he’d put Margaret in a coma, he didn’t suggest it. She’d be up for it though, he was sure. She was insatiable. She said she hadn’t had an orgasm since the first Gulf War, and had then experienced three in twenty minutes.

  ‘Or was it four?’ she said to M
argaret.

  Margaret said, ‘Four what?’ She only had eyes for Emma Cochrane.

  ‘Oh, never mind,’ said Maeve, smiling widely as Jack approached. He set another slice of carrot cake before her. ‘Bavarian Chocolate,’ he said.

  ‘You’re a feeder,’ said Maeve. ‘I’ll be the size of a house.’

  ‘Or at least a chalet bungalow,’ said Margaret.

  ‘Chocolate is like sex,’ said Jack. ‘You can never have too much of it.’

  Maeve gave him a look. ‘Yes, you can, it makes you boke.’

  ‘And gives me a migraine,’ said Margaret.

  ‘The sex or the chocolate?’ asked Maeve.

  ‘Depends whether it’s plain or dark,’ said Margaret.

  ‘The sex or the chocolate?’ Maeve asked.

  Margaret flushed; Maeve giggled; Jack shook his head. ‘You two ...’

  ‘Anyway, is that how you talk to all the girls?’ Maeve asked. ‘“Sex is like chocolate”,’ she mimicked. ‘You’ll be wise to stop all that crack if you want to get into my pants again.’

  Behind them, an elderly woman half-choked on a mouthful of carrot cake and turned round for a glare. Maeve gave her a hard look, and only broke the connection when Margaret suddenly pointed across the road.

  ‘Look!’

  Louise, Emma Cochrane’s fashion buyer - at least, that was her title, but as far as Margaret could determine she just worked behind the till - was in the window, removing one of the Primark dresses off a mannequin.

  ‘Do you think …’ Margaret began.

  ‘I do think,’ said Maeve.

  ‘It’s too soon,’ said Margaret.

  ‘Not if they’ve been on sale all morning.’

  ‘But they’re eight hundred quid!’

  ‘Some people have money to burn.’

  ‘We should go over,’ said Margaret.

  ‘No - wait here. Whatever will be, will be.’

  ‘We should definitely go over.’

  ‘You don’t want to appear too enthusiastic.’

  ‘I’m going,’ said Margaret, lifting her bag and sidling out from the table.

  ‘I’m coming with you,’ said Maeve. She stopped only to kiss Jack. Her tongue went right in. ‘See you later, lover,’ she purred.

  As they hurried out of the door, the old woman at the table behind said, ‘That’s disgusting.’

  ‘I know,’ Jack grinned, and floated back to the kitchen.

  Margaret and Maeve charged across the road like harpies, but when they actually reached Emma Cochrane they entered with the timidity of kittens. Margaret, shaking, went first. There was Louise, standing behind the desk, there was Emma herself, stocktaking. But there was no sign of the prospective purchaser of Margaret’s first designer dress (although, obviously she had not actually designed it). For a panicked moment Margaret thought she must have imagined seeing it being removed from the mannequin in the window. Then she thought it had been removed, but only because Emma had reconsidered and now thought it was rubbish, or looked like something out of Primark.

  Her heart soared when she saw Louise smile widely, then whisper urgently, ‘She’s trying it on!’ Margaret looked towards the single changing room, which was little more than a curtain stretched around a corner of the stockroom, and saw two bare feet. Across the store Emma held up her hands: all of her fingers were crossed.

  The curtain began to move back. Maeve and Margaret busied themselves searching through a rack of summer dresses; Emma studied her stock-list, while Louise came out from behind the counter and stood beside the thin young lady with braided hair as she studied her reflection in a full-length mirror.

  ‘Well, what do you think?’ Louise asked.

  ‘I think I need bigger boobs,’ said the girl.

  ‘It looks fantastic,’ said Louise. ‘It’s so you.’

  ‘I bet you say that to everyone.’

  ‘No, really. There’s just something about it - maybe it’s your eyes, but it’s just as if it was made especially for you.’

  Margaret had heard a similar spiel a million times before, even in Primark, where the staff were as likely to mug you as talk to you, yet it still sounded fresh and sincere.

  ‘You know something?’ the girl said, then paused, deciding. ‘I love it, and I’m going to have it, and I don’t even want to know the price.’

  ‘Great,’ said Louise. ‘And it’s three million pounds.’

  Margaret’s heart flipped, but the girl roared. Margaret and Maeve gave each other high fives.

  When the girl reached the counter, brandishing her credit card, she suddenly examined the label. ‘M & Emma - never heard of them.’

  Louise smiled. ‘It’s a new partnership,’ she said. Then she pointed. ‘Her over there - and her over there.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘And you’re our very first sale,’ said Emma, darting over excitedly. ‘They only went in the window this morning! Congratulations. And if you really like it, please, tell all your friends.’

  The girl shook her head. ‘No way - this secret I’m keeping to myself.’

  Margaret felt ecstatic, and guilty. It wasn’t her dress at all, but if this was a taste of things to come, when her own designs really did make it into the shop window, then her life was going to become the stuff of fantasy. When the girl turned for the door, Margaret couldn’t help but run up and give her a hug. ‘Thank you so much,’ she gushed.

  When she’d gone, all four of them danced around the shop. Emma turned up the background music, and Louise opened a bottle of champagne from the fridge. They hardly heard the shop door open again. Another young woman in expensive heels came in, and stood somewhat awkwardly. ‘I’m sorry - you are open?’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ said Emma. ‘Sorry … we’re having a bit of a celebration. Is there anything I can help you with?’

  ‘That dress in the window - it’s gorgeous. I’d love to try it on.’

  Emma moved towards the display. ‘Which one - the M & Emma?’

  ‘That one there - yeah. Isn’t it beautiful?’

  ‘Isn’t it just, darling,’ said Emma.

  Maeve turned to Margaret. ‘We’re going to need more champagne,’ she said.

  82

  Police Cheque

  Bull sometimes worked as Pink’s unofficial chauffeur - that is, when he wasn’t busy collecting money for him or beating people up on his behalf. He liked to think of himself as his right-hand man, although red-hand man might have been more appropriate. Tonight he was taking him to City Hall and the monthly meeting of the Planning Committee to which he had recently been elected. Pink took his council obligations seriously, particularly when there was a profit to be made. Of course he didn’t discuss bribery and corruption with Bull. Bull was strictly small potatoes, like beating up hookers.

  ‘But you left her face alone?’ Pink was saying, although really only half-paying attention, choosing to study instead the minutiae of the planning documents on his lap.

  ‘Course I did,’ said Bull. He sat up front. The radio was tuned to Citybeat and Rod Stewart came on.

  ‘Turn that Fenian off,’ Pink commanded.

  ‘You bet.’ Bull hit the switch.

  Pink smiled to himself. He had no idea if Rod Stewart was a Fenian or not, but the singer had antagonised Belfast’s Protestant community - or at least that part of it which gave a damn - at his last gig at the Odyssey Arena by shouting out his support for Celtic, which was a sin worse than, or sometimes equal to, death in certain parts of the city. In fact, Pink had quite a few Rod albums and wasn’t at all bashful about blasting them out in the privacy of his own swanky home, but out in the heartland, or travelling with his people, he had to play the game.

  ‘He can stick “Maggie May” up his friggin’ hole,’ Bull sneered.

  ‘He shows his face round here he’ll soon know all about “The First Cut is the Deepest”,’ added Pink.

  ‘It won’t be “The Killing of Georgie”,’ said Bull, ‘it’ll be the f***
ing killing of Rod.’

  ‘He won’t be f***ing “Sailing”, he’ll be sleeping with the fishes,’ promised Pink.

  ‘“If you want my body”, it won’t be that f***ing sexy by the time we’re finished with it,’ Bull half-sung.

  Pink decided to change the subject. ‘So what did she have to say for herself?’

  ‘Ah,’ Bull sighed. ‘The usual crap.’

  ‘She come up with the spondulicks?’

  ‘Nah, no cash on her. Ars***le paid her with a friggin’ cheque.’

  ‘You’re kidding me.’

  ‘Nah, straight up. Apparently they had some bust-up and she went arse over tit down the stairs, and he panicked and wrote her a cheque. To cash, fortunately.’ Bull delved into his jacket, and pulled out the cheque. ‘You want me to cash it?’

  Pink reached forward to take it. ‘Nah, I’ll sort it.’

  Billy was the man to deal with it. He’d be seeing him later. Bull pulled the car into the side of the road without indicating. A horn sounded from behind. Bull gave the driver the finger as he passed by, then nodded ahead: ‘There’s the yuppy w***er now.’

  They were outside Mark’s house. He was waiting at the bottom of his drive, wearing a face that suggested all the enthusiasm of a dyslexic going for an eye test.

  ‘Don’t talk about him like that,’ said Pink. ‘He’s the Great White Hope of the Unionist Party.’

  ‘Great White W***er,’ said Bull, then smiled widely and raised his hand to the sorcerer’s apprentice as he approached the car. ‘Jump in the back there, mate,’ Bull shouted.

  Mark climbed in beside Pink.

  ‘Marky-boy,’ Pink said warmly, ‘how’s it going? Coming to see the master at work?’

  ‘Not bad, not bad,’ said Mark.

  Bull pulled the car back out into traffic. There was another flurry of horns.

  ‘It’s just a planning meeting,’ said Pink, ‘no great shakes, but it’s useful to get to know the way of things, get your face known. What’s wrong, son? You don’t exactly look like the joys of spring, do you?’