I Predict a Riot

by Bateman, Colin

  ‘Nothing,’ said Mark, then added: ‘Nervous.’

  ‘Nothing to be nervous of.’ He put his hand on Mark’s leg and gave it a squeeze. Mark jumped. No one but his dad had ever squeezed his leg like that. Pink laughed and returned his eyes to the papers on his lap, but his attention remained with Mark. ‘So,’ he said, ‘how has the door-to-door been going?’

  Oh s**t, thought Mark. ‘Fine, yeah,’ he said.

  ‘No problems?’

  ‘No, great, just great.’

  ‘No one giving you any hassle?’

  ‘No - no, just the opposite. Hardly anyone answers their door. They just push their envelopes out.’

  Pink nodded. ‘Well, that’s good, isn’t it? Must be doing me job right then, eh?’

  Mark nodded. He cleared his throat. ‘I… I … it’s different from what I expected.’

  ‘Mmm-hmm?’

  ‘I mean, it’s fine, but I’m just surprised, in such a deprived area, that they’re so keen to - you know, contribute.’

  Pink looked at him again. ‘Deprived? You think they’re deprived? I’ll tell you what deprived is, Mark. Deprived is sitting in some s**t-hole in Africa with bugs crawling over you and your children starving to death. We don’t know the meaning of it here. Okay, so maybe there’s some of them got no jobs, but you take a look down those friggin’ deprived streets, Mark, and you count the number of houses that haven’t got friggin’ satellite dishes or cars sitting outside them. They’ve all got money to burn, son, and it’s only right and proper that they burn some of it in my direction. You’ve heard the expression “democracy has a price”? Well, I’ve put a friggin’ figure on it, and it’s not going to break anyone’s bank. Seven quid a month. Seven quid a month - what’s that? I’ll tell you what it is. It’s an insurance policy.’

  ‘Like third-party fire and theft,’ said Bull from the front.

  ‘Exactly. They put their trust in me and I never, ever let them down. I’m like f***ing Lloyds of London.’

  Mark nodded. ‘And do the rest of the Party see it like that?’

  ‘Absolutely,’ said Pink. He kept eye-contact with Mark, until Mark blushed and looked away.

  Bull finally pulled the car up outside City Hall. Mark moved to open his door, but before he could grasp the handle Pink brought his hand back down on his leg. This time he didn’t let go; this time the pressure was much greater. He brought his face close. His brow was furrowed, his nostrils flared, his breath smelled of mint.

  ‘People need to be led, Mark; they need reassurance and discipline. If they think they can get away with something, they will; if they think you’re weak, they will break you down, and that undermines democracy, do you know what I’m saying?’

  Mark didn’t really have a clue. He neither shook his head nor nodded. Just emitted a strange kind of grunt.

  ‘Point is, I understand what you did, Mark, filling their envelopes for them, but what if everyone did that? What if everyone thought they could just rip me off like that? There’d be anarchy. How long do you think you could keep it up anyway? What were you going to do, sell your friggin’ house?’

  Mark shrugged.

  Pink squeezed his leg one last time. ‘Your heart’s in the right place, Mark, but your brain’s up your a***hole. Try not to think too much. It never did Bull any harm - right, Bull?’

  ‘Right, boss,’ said Bull, laughing.

  ‘Okay, let’s go then.’

  Pink released Mark’s leg, then climbed out of the car. Mark wanted to get out of the other door and run away. Instead, he followed Pink meekly into City Hall.

  An hour later and Pink was in full flow. Mark thought he was quite an impressive speaker, a decent enough debater, but he got hot under the collar (and arms, clearly) quite easily, and now there were patches of deeper pink on his shirt, and his perfectly coiffured hair sat slightly dank on his head. But still, there was a certain amount of charisma, a good sense of humour; his origins were still clear but his demeanour and delivery were cultured enough and he showed both a definite grasp of detail and a true sense of the bigger picture. Mark thought Pink could make a very good politician indeed, that he was capable even of high office, so it confused him utterly as to why Pink was still clearly up to his oxters in protection money. It didn’t strike Mark that Pink was unduly careless - cavalier perhaps. Mark had been determined that this would be his last night with Pink. Steven in Office 12 had more or less promised to sort things out, and perhaps he would, but now, seeing politics actually in action, Mark felt slightly better. It was the streets where he felt uncomfortable. Perhaps what Pink was up to was no different to what any other politician did, that it was an open secret to which the law turned a blind eye.

  A vote was called, and Pink’s motion was passed to an accompanying round of applause. Pink sat back, basking in it, then glanced round at Mark and winked. Mark smiled back.

  Another councillor came over and patted Pink’s back, then bent to ask quietly if he could help out a pensioner who lived in his ward but ran a business in Pink’s. Pink nodded, then checked his pockets for something to write a telephone number on. The only thing he had was the cheque Bull had given him. He turned it over, then quickly jotted down the number and promised to get right onto it. The councillor pumped Pink’s hand and turned away. Pink examined the number for a moment, then absentmindedly turned the cheque over again. His eyes flitted across it, confirming that it was crossed for cash, that the date was on it and finally that it was properly signed. Bull was good at getting money out of people, but sometimes the little details passed him by.

  The signature was a careless scrawl, but the printed name below said: James Mallow.

  No, Pink thought, no bloody way.

  83

  I’m in Heaven

  Maeve returned to work, quite plastered, but Margaret couldn’t drag herself away. Maeve promised to smooth it with Mr Kawolski, and Margaret had no doubt that she would. New Maeve was different to old Maeve. She’d always been brash and loud, but now she oozed confidence, and even if Margaret felt funny about admitting it, sexuality. She had been transformed by a haircut, a little care and attention, the demise of her husband and her encounter with the King of Carrot Cake.

  Margaret was still bouncing with excitement by 4 p.m. One more dress was sold and another woman had promised to come back the next day with a final decision. Emma thought their first day’s business was remarkable.

  ‘And all without press or publicity - oh darling Margaret, the sky’s the limit.’ Then she glanced at her watch. ‘I nearly forgot - May Li is due.’

  ‘May Li?’

  ‘She’s making your designs up. She’s fantastic, darling. She really can make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear.’

  ‘You mean my—’

  ‘Oh darling! Don’t be so defensive! If she can make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear, think what she can do with your designs!’ Emma sashayed away across the shop singing, ‘Heaven, I’m in heaven …’

  Margaret stepped outside and phoned Walter. She felt slightly odd doing it. Maeve had experienced the thrill of the first sale with her, but it wasn’t enough. She wanted to share it with someone who wasn’t there. Like exam results or passing your driving test. She wanted to call and say, ‘I did it!’ How sad was her life that the only person she could think of was Walter, with whom she had only had two dates?

  No, that’s the wrong attitude, she decided. How splendid is my life that I have this great news and someone to share it with. Walter is special. I know he is. I jumped in a river for him.

  ‘Walter North,’ said Walter.

  ‘Hello, stranger,’ said Margaret.

  ‘Linda,’ said Walter.

  ‘Margaret,’ said Margaret.

  ‘Oh - oh hi! How are you? Sorry, I thought it was … you know - the estate agent.’

  ‘No,’ said Margaret. He’d called the estate agent Linda. She didn’t like that at all. There was no need for him to be on first-name terms with her. That suggested
intimacy. She had a radar for that. After all, she never went in to see her bank manager and called him Jimmy or Ricky or whatever the hell his name was. She felt like cutting the line, but she held on. Just. ‘I’m fine. How’s Linda?’

  ‘Linda? I’m sure she’s fine too. We’ve just been tying up the loose ends. You know, on the apartment.’

  ‘Right.’ She went quiet.

  Walter said, ‘You all right, love?’

  Love. Hah! ‘Yeah. Sure.’

  ‘Good.’ Silence again. ‘Something wrong?’

  ‘No. I just …’ She shrugged; it didn’t travel well. ‘I sold a dress.’

  ‘You did?’

  ‘Well, three actually, and one more with a deposit on it.’

  ‘That’s brilliant!’

  ‘I suppose.’

  ‘No suppose about it. It’s fantastic - well done!’

  ‘I really didn’t do anything.’

  ‘So**ocks! You did everything! Well done, you.’

  She felt better then. He was genuinely enthusiastic. In fact, once she started telling him about it she could hardly stop. She only brought it to an end when she noticed a diminutive and elderly Chinese woman standing examining one of the remaining Primark dresses in the front window.

  ‘Oh, I’m going to have to go, that must be May Li.’

  ‘May Li?’

  ‘She’s making my designs up into dresses. Apparently she has access to all sorts of wonderful materials and half the price of anywhere else, though it beats me where she gets it because I used to scour the place looking for cheap stuff.’

  ‘Well,’ said Walter, ‘it’s Chinatown.’

  ‘It’s what?’

  ‘It’s Chinatown.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘The movie, Chinatown. Jack Nicholson, anything that goes wrong or defies explanation, they say, “It’s Chinatown”.’

  ‘I don’t get it,’ said Margaret. ‘Are you saying this is all going to go wrong?’

  ‘No, of course not! I was just joking.’

  ‘Oh. All right.’

  ‘It’s just an expression that means nothing, and everything, at the same time. It’s a brill movie. And The Simpsons do a great skit on it and maybe we could rent it out if you fancied.’

  But Margaret wasn’t listening. May Li was now peering even more closely at the dress. Then she turned her head slightly, and she spat on the ground. A great big hacked-up gob. Then she entered the shop.

  ‘Oh Christ,’ said Margaret.

  ‘Margaret?’

  ‘I have to go - I’ll call you later.’ She cut the line, her heart already thumping out of her chest. Had this little Chinawoman recognised the dress? What if she made Primark dresses as well and was about to expose it as a rip-off?

  Oh please, oh please, oh please God no.

  Margaret hurried back towards the shop. As she pulled the door open, Walter’s words drifted back to her.

  ‘It’s Chinatown.’

  On the other side of the city, Linda Wray was distraught. She knew she made attachments easily and could become dependent on people she hardly knew, but there was nothing she could do about it. She was what she was. But she had to do something, or as soon as the deal for the apartment was done he’d be gone and she’d go back to feeling wasted and used. She’d already half-frightened him off by babbling about her hysterectomy. It made her sound like some old middle-aged frump. She had to show him that she could do light and frothy and sexy, prove she wasn’t a big ball of depression and insecurity. Walter was nice, and she had no idea if he was even better than that, but she needed at least the opportunity to find out, and that meant more than just a quick roll in the hay. But perhaps two rolls in the hay might help.

  Linda liked candles. Not in a pervy ‘melt that hot wax over my aching body’ kind of a way, but designer candles in artistic shapes which wafted delicious perfumes. She also had a guilty attachment to the smell of old-fashioned straight white candles, the kind you kept about the house in case the power went off. And when you like something enough, you tend to presume that other people will like it as well, given half the chance. So, when she arrived at the penthouse apartment at Towerview half an hour before their appointment - no, rendezvous - Linda set about placing eighteen hand-picked candles of different hue around the lounge and master bedroom. She placed four bottles of Asti in the fridge. Then she slipped into the bathroom and took off her work suit. She pulled on stockings, attached suspenders, removed her bra and donned a baby-doll nightdress. She put a Frank Sinatra CD into the player. She applied make-up, perfume and practised sucking in her stomach. She drank two vodka miniatures straight down and hid the empty bottles back in her handbag.

  Linda checked her watch. Three minutes until Walter was due. Perfect. She moved from candle to candle, lighting each one and then waiting a moment to see if the flame took. Just as she reached candle eighteen, the doorbell rang. Linda dimmed the lights. She felt tingly all over. She opened the door.

  ‘Walter,’ she said coyly. Then added, ‘And Bertha. How lovely to see you.’

  At that moment, the smoke alarm went off.

  84

  O Brother, Where Art Thou? (2)

  Redmond, hung-over to hell, and with a surprisingly good recollection of his drunken behaviour in the public bar the night before, ordered a room-service breakfast and an International Herald Tribune rather than venture down. Besides, he didn’t want to take the chance of his twin brother walking into the restaurant and accidentally exposing the fraud.

  It was hardly an Ulster fry - oh, how he had dreamed of one of those in the preceding months - but it was greasy enough and fatty enough to quell the dry bokes. There was no mention of either Redmond or his brother in the paper, which was a relief. Interest was fading. Damian had clearly found it more difficult to organise safe passage for him than he had hoped and had been obliged to spend the night at the Archbishop of Bogotá’s residence while all the details were ironed out. Redmond expected nothing less. His brother, although usually timid, was like a dog with a bone when he felt passionately about something. Damian was probably not only demanding safe passage, but first-class tickets as well. Redmond laughed at that.

  Then the phone rang and a querulous voice said, ‘Father Damian?’ with a thick Spanish accent.

  ‘Uhuh,’ said Redmond.

  ‘Oh, thank God you are safe!’

  ‘I’m … yes, I am, quite safe indeed. God bless. Who would this be?’

  ‘Damian - it is Ramon.’

  ‘Ramon.’

  ‘I was extremely worried. My driver was murdered last night.’

  Redmond’s eyes settled on a small book sitting on the bedside table beside the telephone. It was open to a double-page spread of photographs of ecclesiastical gentlemen. It wasn’t exactly the Penguin Book of Bishops but it wasn’t far off. There, on the right-hand page, was a circled picture with Ramon des Quelia, Archbishop of Bogotá printed beneath it.

  ‘Murdered?’

  ‘Shot dead and his car stolen. I cannot tell you how valuable that car was. Oh, this is such a relief. When the car did not return for many hours I was very concerned, and when they found the bodies at the city dump, it was natural to assume that you … well, thank God.’

  Redmond’s throat was dry enough already, but now it almost sealed over. ‘Not just your driver?’ he rasped.

  ‘No. There was another man with him, but it was impossible to identify. His head …’ The Archbishop sighed. ‘It is not an unusual occurrence, Father, in this city of ours; there are many bodies found there. Do not let it concern you. Drivers are, as the Americans say, a dime a dozen. But a car like that is very difficult to replace. However, this is a relief, you are well. And I trust that you are happy with the details of your brother’s journey?’

  Redmond’s mind was spinning. He managed a brief, ‘Of course,’ and the Archbishop chattered on, but Redmond was no longer listening. His brother was dead. Murdered for an expensive car. He slipped off th
e side of the bed onto his knees. Tears sprang. He rocked himself gently while the Archbishop of Bogotá debated shift versus automatic.

  Then there was a knock. Redmond told the Archbishop he had to go and hung up. He wiped at his face and crossed, dazed, to the door.

  Let it be Damian, let it be Damian, let it be Damian, let it be Damian …

  ‘Hiya, Father - you all set?’

  Redmond stared at her. Sinn Fein Siobhan, with her hair braided and a backpack over her shoulder.

  ‘I … I …’

  ‘Aw, come on, Father. I want to get there in time to do duty-free, you know? And I’m told the airport traffic’s usually hectic, so will you come on?’

  ‘My brother ...’

  Siobhan sighed. ‘Father, I’m sorry. I know it’s been traumatic. But the flights are non-transferable, so unless you want to dip into your own collection plate, you’ll need to get your arse in gear. The Party’s not going to shell out for new tickets.’

  Redmond nodded vaguely. ‘I’ll just …’

  ‘Be down in the lobby in ten minutes tops, all right?’ Siobhan winked, then hurried off down the corridor.

  Redmond closed the door and leaned against it. Damian was dead, there was no other explanation for his failure to return. Killed over a car, or mugged over a wallet. Dead in a dump. His head blown off, from the sounds of it.

  Murdered trying to help me. Me. And whatever plans he carried or had agreed with the Archbishop to help me - lost with him.

  Christ.

  Death was a way of life for a terrorist like Redmond O’Boyle, but this was something else. Damian was a priest, for godsake. He wouldn’t harm anyone. He was one of the few people Redmond knew who really did turn the other cheek. He was kind and meek and loyal, and the only reason he was in Bogotá at all was to bury his poor misguided brother. Whatever way he cared to look at it, Redmond knew that even though he hadn’t actually pulled the trigger, he was the one responsible for Damian’s death.