I Predict a Riot

by Bateman, Colin

  After a while Redmond said, ‘Would you say he was more like Che Guevara, then?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Redmond. You know, he died taking the revolution to other countries. Just like Che.’

  Siobhan shrugged. She was looking at a set of Ray-Ban sunglasses and trying to remember what they cost at home.

  ‘Do you think?’ Redmond persisted.

  Siobhan sighed. ‘I don’t really know.’

  ‘It could get to be like a real cult thing, couldn’t it? I mean, they rioted at home when I … when I heard that he’d died.’

  ‘Father, you know what they’re like, they riot because they like rioting.’

  ‘I know, I know, but there’s something romantic about dying in South America, fighting for a cause you believe in passionately.’

  Siobhan flicked onto a page offering Toblerone and Jelly Beans. ‘Father,’ she said absently, ‘I don’t want to burst your bubble, but no one at home gives a toss about Colombia or FARC because frankly they haven’t a clue what’s going on there, and it wasn’t as if Redmond sacrificed himself in the name of some universal cause we can all get behind. He just got caught with explosives, gave himself up without a fight and then succumbed to poisoned buttocks. It’s not exactly Che Guevara, is it?’

  ‘All right. Yeah. Okay.’ Redmond mixed his drinks. ‘But I’m sure Che wasn’t all that fantastic either. I’m sure parts of his life were airbrushed to make them seem a little more heroic, don’t you think? I mean, no one could be that fab. Maybe Sinn Fein could do a number on Redmond - you know, really promote him as a fallen comrade, a bit of an icon. God knows we need our heroes, don’t we? What about a statue, eh? A statue, right in the middle of the Falls Road - what about that?’

  ‘What, Redmond O’Boyle holding his sore arse?’ Siobhan put a hand to her chest, momentarily shocked at her own sarcasm. ‘I’m sorry, Father, I didn’t mean—’

  ‘It’s all right, really.’

  ‘It’s just … Look, I understand how you feel, your loss, and yes, when Redmond died there was a kind of instinctive scrambling on our part to lay claim to him, but that soon died down. We realised that his death was more of a hindrance than a help. We’ve changed, you see: we’ve given up most of our guns and we’ve embraced democracy. So your Redmond, much as we appreciate the work he did for us in the past, it is in the past. What he did in Colombia was actually an embarrassment to us. I was only sent out on a damage-limitation exercise, and to be absolutely truthful, Father, as hurtful as this may sound, and I don’t mean it as an attack on your brother at a personal level, in some ways it’s better that he did die in such an ignoble fashion, achieving nothing, rotting away like that, because his entire reason for living was based on an outdated, outmoded concept which has already been rejected and quickly forgotten by every true Irishman. If Redmond O’Boyle is remembered at all, it’ll be as a sordid little mercenary interested only in causing misery and mayhem.’

  Redmond nodded slowly. He took a sip of his drink and ate a peanut. Siobhan returned her attention to the duty-free pages. She circled a Toblerone.

  Redmond nudged her again. She glanced impatiently up.

  ‘So, would he be more like Butch Cassidy then?’

  90

  Property Developments

  Walter was just going up the steps to Bertha’s front door when it opened suddenly and a white-bearded man in a grey suit, carrying a tan briefcase, stepped out, scowling. Walter did a quick mental calculation involving Bertha’s age and fondness for Tae kwon do and surmised that she had mortally injured herself attempting a difficult kick and was therefore in no condition to sign the papers he had with him. The man on the porch had not yet uttered a word, but already Walter foresaw that his dreams of unbounded wealth and intimate relations with scores of attractive women were about to disappear. He was a real the cup is half-empty kind of a guy.

  ‘Is everything okay?’ Walter blurted out.

  ‘You tell me,’ the man replied bluntly.

  ‘I’m sorry? Is Bertha all right?’

  ‘That’s a matter of opinion.’

  ‘Well, well what’s your opinion? Are you the doctor?’

  ‘No, I’m the nephew.’

  ‘Oh. Right.’ Not quite sure what to do, and feeling suddenly uneasy at his own presence there, Walter hesitantly extended his hand. ‘I’m Walter.’

  ‘Oh, I know who you are.’ The nephew’s lip curled up into a sneer. He ignored the hand. ‘It’s “Walter said this, Walter said that”.’ He jabbed a thick finger at him. ‘What I’m saying is, who the hell do you think you are? And what the hell do you think you’re playing at?’

  ‘Well, I’m … I’m …’

  ‘That’s my auntie in there. She’s old and she’s sick and she doesn’t need some frigging chancer hanging around trying to take advantage. Do you hear me?’

  Just as Walter took a step backwards under this unexpected onslaught, Bertha appeared suddenly in the doorway. ‘Eric, you didn’t—’ she began, but then she saw Walter, and smiled widely. ‘Walter! I didn’t know you were here. You’ve met Eric?’

  ‘I’ve met Eric,’ said Walter.

  Bertha raised her eyes accusingly to her nephew. ‘Eric, what have you been saying?’

  ‘Nothing, Aunt Bertha.’ Bertha gave him a really look. ‘Nothing I haven’t already said to you.’ He nodded at Walter. ‘You’re a conman, sir, and if I see you round here again I’ll have you arrested.’

  ‘Eric!’

  ‘It has to be said, Auntie. It’s not normal.’ He turned back to Walter again. ‘First you knock her down in your car, then you insist on taking her home, then you sweet-talk her into financing some pie-in-the-sky property deal - what would you call it?’

  ‘Eric!’ Bertha’s eyes blazed and she waved her own scolding finger. ‘For your information, nephew of mine, I have done all the running in this business relationship. At no time has Walter asked me for money. Neither has he hung around waiting for me to die, like some close relatives I could mention. He has treated me with respect, with kindness, and occasionally he has taken the piss out of me. And if anyone is the conman in this relationship, I am that conman.’

  ‘You are?’ said Walter.

  ‘I told you I was eighty-five. Actually I’m eighty-nine.’

  Walter smiled. ‘Well, you don’t look a day over eighty-eight.’

  ‘That’s exactly what I’m talking about!’ Eric exploded. ‘All this sweet-talking, and then he steals our money!’

  ‘Our money, Eric?!’

  ‘You know what I mean!’

  ‘Yes, I know exactly what you mean!’

  They glared frostily at each other. Eric broke the connection first. He waved his finger at Walter again. ‘I’m warning you!’ Then he marched down the steps and along the footpath towards his car.

  ‘Eric!’ Bertha called suddenly after him.

  The man stopped, took a deep, calming breath, then swivelled around to look at his aunt, expecting an apology and a hug.

  ‘Missing you already,’ said Bertha.

  Walter made tea, then they sat at the kitchen table.

  ‘He’s not the worst of them,’ Bertha was saying. ‘In fact, he’s probably the best, and he does care.’

  ‘It’s natural to be suspicious.’

  ‘But he has no sense of humour, and no passion. He has a weak chin. I saw him punched at a school sports day forty years ago and he cried like a baby. He was sixteen.’

  ‘It’s funny the things you remember,’ said Walter. Then: ‘I took him for a doctor - I thought there was something wrong with you.’

  ‘Eric? He could doctor your books. He’s an accountant. There’s a profession where having a weak chin doesn’t inhibit you in any way.’ Bertha nodded to herself. Then she examined her cup of tea. She stirred it. She turned the cup around in its saucer.

  Walter said, ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘Nothing really.’

  ‘Tell me,’ said Walter.

&nb
sp; ‘Eric - his heart’s in the right place, and he is concerned. He didn’t talk complete nonsense.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘I mean, I told him I was absolutely determined to proceed with this investment in property, and until that little outburst I thought he’d taken it on board, because he looked at the figures for me - a second or third or fourth opinion never hurts, does it? - and he even talked to some people he knows in the building trade. Walter, the thing is, he says that, putting aside the fact that he doesn’t trust you, he really doesn’t believe it’s a good investment. He says Belfast’s overrun with apartments right now, the prices have either stagnated or are going down, that it’s overpriced for what it is and that the people who built them, they’ve a bit of a reputation for dodgy workmanship and it could easily turn out to be more trouble than it’s worth.’ Bertha took a sip of her tea. ‘There, I said it.’

  Walter was stunned. He thought he had researched the market thoroughly. Damn it, he had researched it thoroughly. ‘But … it’s a lovely apartment. The fridge is fantastic.’

  Bertha moved her hand gently onto his. ‘I know it is. But that’s what Eric says - they tart these places up to appear spectacular, but really, if you look at them, they’re just like Divis flats with a nice paint job. Like something out of the old Communist East Germany, he says.’

  Walter tutted. ‘Now that’s not fair. They’re not.’ He put his other hand on top of hers, sandwiching it. ‘Bertha. Isn’t he laying it on a bit thick? Don’t you think it’s just that he doesn’t want you to part with any money? Whatever it is, I want you to do what you feel is right. If you’ve reconsidered the whole idea, then just say so. He is right, up to a point. You don’t know me from Adam.’

  Bertha smiled indulgently. ‘I know a good man when I meet one. I may be eighty-nine, Walter, but I’ve always been a good judge of character, and I haven’t lost it yet.’

  ‘Well

  ‘Of course he’s being negative. But that doesn’t mean he’s entirely wrong either. And yes, I have to admit I have had a few misgivings. There are thousands of apartments springing up, and the brutal fact is that they’re really not selling well at all. If we buy now, we could cost ourselves thousands.’

  ‘Right. Okay. So you’re—’

  ‘Eric says the real money’s to be made in retail. Shops, Walter - city-centre shops. That’s where we should invest.’

  Walter blinked at her. ‘Really?’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘And forget about the penthouse apartment with the nice fridge?’

  ‘Forget about it.’

  Walter nodded slowly. ‘You know something, Bertha? I think you could be right. There are thousands of apartments out there, and they’re not moving. But the city-centre shops - they’re bloody hiving, aren’t they?’ His brow furrowed suddenly. ‘S**t. I swore blind to Linda that I was taking it; she’s worked her arse off to get this through quickly.’

  ‘Walter, she’s an estate agent. People break their promises all the time. She’s used to it. Water off a duck’s back. Come on, give us a smile.’

  Walter smiled, then looked quickly at his watch. He was due to meet Linda in the master bedroom of the Towerview penthouse apartment in twenty-five minutes. Even as he sipped his tea, she was probably lighting her candles.

  91

  Brought to Account

  Eric McGympsey, of the beard and Walterish misgivings, was a senior partner in the leading Belfast accountancy firm of McGympsey, Styles & Cameron, which owned expensive offices on the Lisburn Road. Eric was pragmatic about every aspect of life and death. When it came to the design of the building, which was commissioned several years after the Ceasefire, and when the prevailing trend was towards glass-fronted edifices, Eric convinced his partners that it made much more sense to have virtually no glass at all, because the Ceasefire was bound to fail, they’d start with the bombs all over again, and then how much money was it going to cost if they had to replace blown-out windows twice a year? Like Walter, he was a glass half-empty kind of a guy, although the glass was actually a paper cup, to lessen the chances of it cracking or being knocked over accidentally and smashed.

  As a result, the MGSC building was a dark and depressing place, but on the bright side, it made a lot of money.

  Eric nearly always personally oversaw all the hiring and firing, but there were times when he was away on business trips when he simply wasn’t available, so that the other partners had to take matters into their own hands. Therefore, there were always two or three members of staff who had not been personally recruited by him, and inevitably he found these unfortunate souls to be inefficient or boorish or lacking the balls he felt were required to be true accountants. In reality, you don’t need balls at all, not even one, but senior partners in any profession tend to have an over-inflated opinion of the worth or relevance or difficulty of their chosen career. Eric saw himself as a Samurai warrior of the balance-sheet. If there was a chink in the armour, he dealt with it ruthlessly, particularly so soon after being faced down by his Auntie Bertha.

  So Eric returned to work fuming. He cancelled a contract with the sandwich delivery company, telling them that their food wasn’t up to scratch. He withdrew a display advertisement he’d reluctantly agreed to run in a programme being produced for a charity performance of The Sound of Music at the Opera House. Then he called Billy Gilmore into his office and fired him.

  ‘It’s no reflection on your work, Billy,’ said Eric. ‘It’s the economic climate.’

  ‘The economic climate? But we’re rolling in it.’

  ‘Yes, Billy, and that’s precisely the time to divest ourselves of unwanted fat.’

  ‘I’m unwanted fat?’

  ‘It’s only an expression. How long have you been with us now, Billy?’

  ‘Eleven years. It’s right there in front of you. There hasn’t been one single complaint about my work, has there?’

  ‘Not that I’m aware of.’

  Anger grown of shock was soaking through Billy. His much-loved favourite tie felt strangulatory tight; sweat glistened down the back of his cropped hair.

  ‘Not that I’m aware of,’ he repeated. ‘Why don’t you just say no? Just by saying not that I’m aware of you’re making it sound like there have been complaints - and you know that’s not true, don’t you?’

  ‘As far as I know, yes.’

  Billy had devoted himself totally to MGSC, working above and beyond the call of duty, and now they were stabbing him in the back. Eleven years. Another six months and he would confidently have expected to become a junior partner like they’d done with Alec upstairs. And that focused his thoughts.

  ‘You don’t want me to become a junior partner, that’s it.’

  ‘That’s not it, Billy.’

  ‘You don’t want to pay the extra, you don’t want me in on the profitshare, you don’t want me using the executive toilet.’

  ‘No, Billy.’

  ‘There’s nothing I can do or say to change your mind?’

  Eric shook his head.

  ‘Even if I agree to stay at this level, and not pursue a junior partnership?’

  ‘No, Billy.’

  ‘Well, what is it then!? You can’t just cut me without a reason.’

  ‘Yes, we can.’

  Billy glared at him.

  ‘There’s quite an attractive redundancy package, Billy, and I’m sure you won’t have a problem getting another position. Accountants and undertakers are always in demand.’ Eric liked that line. He’d used it a dozen times before when sacking employees. Funnily enough, they rarely smiled either. ‘Besides, you have a number of extra-curricular clients, don’t you? They should keep you busy.’

  So that was it.

  ‘Is this about Pink Harrison?’

  ‘No, Billy.’ But there was a flicker of the eyelids.

  ‘Yes, it is. Because I do his books.’

  ‘What you do outside of work is your concern.’

  ‘It was you put me on to
him, Mr McGympsey. You took me to one side and said, “It’s not good for our image to have Pink Harrison on our books, but we can hardly say no, so do us a favour and do him as a homer.” You virtually ordered me to.’

  ‘Well, I don’t quite remember it like that, but he does seem to have been taking up an increasing amount of your time lately.’

  ‘Only my own time. I meet him at lunchtimes. Or after work. At weekends. My work here doesn’t suffer, you know that.’

  ‘While we’re on the subject, there’s also the small matter of the police. They seem to be talking to you quite a lot. That’s definitely not good,’

  ‘I can’t help that. It’s what happens when you work with Pink. And you put me onto him in the first place!’

  ‘I had hoped you would be rather more discreet.’

  ‘I am! It’s not me! When I started doing his books we were dealing in tens of thousands; now there’s millions going through.’

  Eric nodded. ‘Yes, we’re aware of that. In fact, we believe that Mr Harrison’s reputation has evolved sufficiently for us to reconsider his being represented by this firm once again.’

  ‘Well, then, I’m perfectly placed to—’

  ‘Quite the opposite, actually, Billy. Your knowledge of his less salubrious business affairs would tend to preclude you from any further involvement. Much better to start with a clean balance-sheet, don’t you think?’

  ‘So you’re firing me because you want to represent Pink Harrison again?’

  ‘We’re not firing you, Billy, we’re making you redundant, and that would have happened irrespective of our desire to approach Councillor Harrison with a view to representing him.’

  Billy sighed. ‘I just don’t believe this. Eleven years - and this is it?’