I Predict a Riot

by Bateman, Colin

  ‘Afraid so. But no hard feelings, eh? I’ve always thought we were just like a big, happy family, Billy. But now it’s time to leave the nest, you know?’

  ‘I’m being thrown out of the nest, Mr McGympsey.’

  ‘Nonsense! You’re ready to fly! And I want you to know, you’ll always have friends at McGympsey, Styles and Cameron. That said, however, I’m afraid company security now becomes of paramount importance to us, so I would very much appreciate it if you would co-operate with Mr Dawson here,’ and he nodded towards the door, ‘who will escort you directly out of the building. You should not return to your office or attempt to communicate with any of your former colleagues. Your personal effects will be forwarded to you.’

  Billy turned. Jeff Dawson, their security guard, a retired cop, was standing just outside the door, which he had silently half-opened. Billy shook his head in disbelief. ‘You’re treating me like I’m some kind of criminal.’

  ‘It’s just business, Billy.’

  Eric stood and extended his hand. Billy shook it, despite himself. Eric walked him to the door. Billy’s legs felt hollow. Eric pulled the door fully open and nodded at Mr Dawson.

  ‘This way, sir,’ said Dawson.

  Dawson, with whom he’d laughed and joshed most days, walked him, eyes front, down the corridor. The doors to the other offices, most usually left open, were all closed, as if they all knew in advance, and didn’t want to witness his humiliation. Or knew, and were turning their backs on him.

  Eric shouted down the corridor after him, ‘Give my regards to your wife.’

  Billy waved back.

  Billy left his pass on the front desk. The receptionist, who was always there, wasn’t. Dawson held the front door open for him and Billy stepped out onto the footpath. The door swung back behind him and locked itself.

  Billy buttoned his jacket. He fixed his tie. He walked purposefully away from the offices of McGympsey, Styles & Cameron. But as soon as he rounded the corner, he burst into tears.

  92

  The Name

  West Bell, the Belfast boy-band which had reunited after its constituent members’ solo careers failed to taxi, let alone take off, had played a sell-out concert at the Odyssey Arena the night before to 10,000 screaming kids and their mothers.

  The car park was chocca till well into the early hours, but by 5 a.m. there were only half a dozen vehicles left. Usually the security staff ignored them, supposing that their owners had merely had a few too many drinks and would collect them in the morning. But they noticed the white Volkswagen with the peel-back lid because its lights were left on and there was a faint plume of exhaust smoke.

  Two guys in orange Puffa jackets, with Security in bright yellow letters across their backs, approached the car, one of them saying what a groovy little motor it was, the other saying it was like a toy you’d get for Christmas. They peered in the driver’s window at the guy sleeping behind the wheel. They tapped on the glass and told him he couldn’t sleep there, he was on private property, but he didn’t respond. So they tried the door and it opened. That’s when the smell of petrol hit them. It was only by the grace of God that they weren’t smoking, as they usually were, that late at night. The whole place could have gone up. They saw that the driver was dead. His name was Benny Caproni and someone had forced him to drink five litres of unleaded petrol.

  Jimmy Marsh Mallow heard the news just before 6 a.m. He was already up and showered, so drove straight to the scene. Gary McBride was waiting for him. Marsh took a brief look at the bloated, blackened corpse, then let Forensics get on with it. As he turned back to Gary he said, ‘What about cameras?’

  Gary glanced up at the CCTV cameras which covered the car park and the various entrances to the Arena. ‘On a quiet night we might have been okay, but last night there were ten thousand kids here. It’ll be like looking for a needle in a haystack.’

  Marsh raised an eyebrow. ‘But then that’s our job,’ and smiled. ‘So the possibilities are: (a) a tragic accident (b) a very, very messy, not to mention well-nigh impossible, method of committing suicide (c) murder most foul. Or indeed (d), don’t know.’

  ‘I’d go for (c),’ said Gary.

  ‘And who would do a thing like that, and why?’

  ‘Well, he was a dealer with a sideline in rent boys, so there could be hundreds of suspects.’

  ‘Could be,’ Marsh agreed.

  Although true, they both knew that wasn’t the case. Benny Caproni’s death was a little too convenient, him being the link between the dead boy Michael Caldwell and the property developer George Green.

  They went back to see George. It had only been a few hours, but he was looking twice as bad. They’d taken his shoelaces and tie; his eyes were swollen and his face hollow and shadowed with bristle. He was a man used to barking orders, being in control, but now appeared diminished and terrified. His solicitor was with him. Marsh knew all the top criminal solicitors, and Terence Black wasn’t one of them. He was a company man, specialised in contracts, didn’t know what he was doing in Castlereagh station. Hardly said a word.

  ‘My sister, you’ve spoken to my sister?’ George said when Jimmy Marsh Mallow and Gary entered the interview room.

  ‘Yeah,’ said Marsh, ‘she’s still alive. But I can tell you who’s not.’

  It seemed scarcely possible, but George’s face blanched a little further. ‘What? Who?’

  ‘Benny Caproni,’ said Gary.

  ‘You remember Benny?’ Marsh asked. ‘Nice guy.’

  ‘Oh Christ,’ said George.

  ‘Yes, indeed,’ said Marsh, ‘but no help to Benny.’

  ‘Found him a couple of hours ago,’ said Gary. ‘He drank half the contents of a BP filling station.’

  George looked from one to the other to see if they were joking.

  ‘So what we were wondering, George,’ said Marsh, ‘was if this mystery man of yours might be responsible, or whether you’ve been blinking Morse Code messages to your nice solicitor here, and he got the word out to do a number on poor Benny.’

  Marsh nodded at the solicitor, whose mouth was silently repeating the words but still failing to understand what Marsh was saying.

  ‘That’s ridiculous! What’re you talking about? He’s really dead? And my sister?’

  ‘Like I say, your sister’s fine, although I suppose, if this mystery man of yours is responsible for Benny, then he might want to take out a little extra insurance by, say, kidnapping your sister or her kids - or, you know, maybe just one of her kids. Maybe he’ll give her a choice, George - you know, like Sophie’s Choice - you ever see that? Meryl Streep’s fantastic. Did she win the Oscar for that, Gary?’

  Gary shrugged. ‘Was it not for Kramer vs. Kramer?’

  ‘Might have been,’ said Marsh. ‘Or maybe it was The Deer Hunter. Anyway, point is, you know what Sophie’s choice was, George?’

  George shook his head wearily.

  ‘Shame to spoil the film - or the book, for that matter - but Sophie’s choice was, and it was like a Nazi guy doing this, “Which one of your kids do you want to save? Pick your favourite - the other goes in the ovens.” You think you could do that, George, pick one of your nephews or nieces to save? Because it might come down to that. Right now, there’s nothing to stop whoever the f**k it is walking right up her drive and taking one of them. Do you hear me, George?’

  George swallowed. ‘I hear you.’

  ‘So what’s it to be?’ George glanced at his solicitor, but Terence Black was no help. ‘Seems pretty simple to me, George. You see, this guy, if he exists, he can threaten you all he likes and there’s not a damn thing we can do. You tell us, and we can lock him up. Sure, you might still need some extra security, but at the end of the day, you’ll still be alive. So maybe your whole building thing goes pear-shaped. I’m sure you’ve good enough accountants. They’ll have a nice big pile of cash squirrelled away somewhere, so you’ll be all right. Ball’s in your court now, George. What do you want to do?’

/>   The solicitor started to say something, but George waved him away. He clasped his hands and leaned forward. ‘I want my family taken to somewhere safe. I want my name kept out of it.’

  ‘Not sure I can do that, George.’

  ‘Take it or leave it.’ George was used to business meetings where he always had the upper hand.

  Mallow smiled. ‘Okay, we’ll leave it.’

  ‘I … I don’t mean … what I mean is, my family - you must look after them.’

  ‘We can do that.’

  ‘And the corruption charges?’

  ‘Nothing to do with us, different department.’

  ‘And what about the boy? Will it come out that I—’

  ‘We might be able to sit on that.’

  ‘Might?’

  ‘Might.’

  George’s hands went from clasped to clenched. He gave a slight shake of his head. ‘Why would he do a thing like that?’

  ‘Why would who do a thing like that?’

  ‘Pink Harrison,’ said George.

  93

  The Truth, and Nothing Like the Truth

  This time around, Linda decided to play it safe and went for just the three candles. Eighteen, in retrospect, had been a bit over the top. These candles were cubes of wax in red, white and blue. She lit them at three minutes to the hour, in the master bedroom of the penthouse apartment, then closed the door after her and sat on a bar stool in the kitchen, sipping a glass of Asti and thinking dirty thoughts. She was still wearing her business suit, but she had no underwear on underneath.

  At thirty-five minutes past the hour she finished her third glass and blew the candles out. She sat on the bed. She took out her mobile phone and checked her messages. There were three, all relating to a house she was selling on the Antrim Road. She wondered if she’d got the time wrong, but knew that she hadn’t. She stood out on the veranda and looked hopefully down at the car park, and then the roads beyond. Belfast was getting busier every year, but apart from during The Troubles, it had never yet experienced traffic jams that could delay anyone for more than twenty minutes. She didn’t want to call Walter. She wanted to hear him ring the doorbell. She so desperately didn’t want him to let her down.

  She phoned him. ‘Walter?’

  ‘Margaret?’

  ‘Linda.’

  ‘Linda. How’re you doing?’

  ‘I’m doing fine.’

  ‘Great. Good.’

  ‘We had a date.’

  ‘Yes, we did. Yes, we did.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘I’ve been delayed. I’m really sorry. I’m not going to be able to make it.’

  ‘Oh. What’s the problem?’

  ‘It’s Bertha. She’s been taken ill.’

  ‘Oh - right. I’m sorry to hear that.’

  ‘Yes. Well, I’ll tell her that.’

  ‘What’s the matter with her?’

  ‘Nothing. I mean - you know, old age, basically.’

  ‘Oh. Nothing too serious.’

  ‘No. I mean, serious enough. In that - anything at her age … She’s eighty-nine, you know.’

  ‘Oh. Right. Walter?’

  ‘Uhuh?’

  ‘I’m sitting here with no underwear on. I’ve been waiting.’

  ‘Yes, I know that. I mean, I didn’t know you’d no … but yes, I know. I just - I just can’t at the moment.’

  ‘Well, can’t you just, you know, tuck her in and come on down.’ She tried to make it light and fluffy, but there was a horrible sinking feeling in her stomach.

  ‘Well, I would, but I’ve - some other things to do as well.’

  Silence. Nearly half a minute of it.

  ‘You don’t want to come, do you?’

  ‘Yes, I do. Of course, I do.’

  ‘You don’t like me at all, do you, Walter?’

  ‘Of course I do.’

  ‘I’m sitting here naked, and you don’t find me attractive at all.’

  ‘That’s not true, Linda. I’m just tied up.’

  ‘Then tie me up!’ She blurted it out without thinking.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Tie me to the bed and beat me with a broomstick. Or don’t. Walter, if you don’t want to come and be with me, why don’t you just say it?’

  ‘I do want to.’

  ‘No, you don’t, otherwise you’d be here.’

  ‘I just can’t make it. And I don’t want to buy the apartment.’

  It was out, and not in the way he had intended, but he also had a tendency to blurt things out under pressure. He was sitting in his car outside Bertha’s house and had been staring at his mobile for forty minutes, trying to summon the courage to phone Linda. He’d slept with her twice now, and while it might sound cruel to say that the novelty had worn off, it was true.

  ‘You don’t want to buy the apartment?’

  ‘I don’t want to buy the apartment.’

  ‘Why on earth not? I mean, you’ve more or less already bought it.’

  ‘I’ve not, I’ve not paid anything yet.’

  ‘But you signed ...’

  ‘I know, but Bertha hasn’t, and she’s not going to. She says it’s not worth it, and I’m inclined to agree.’

  ‘But it’s a fabulous apartment, Walter.’

  ‘Yes, it is. It is fabulous. But Bertha says there’s too many of them. That we won’t make any money on it. She says it’s better to buy retail. There’s a glut of apartments, but there’s a shortage of shops in prime positions. So we’re going to go retail.’

  ‘But I don’t do retail.’

  ‘I know that.’

  ‘And I’m still sitting here without my pants on.’

  ‘I know that also.’

  ‘So I’m screwed on the property, but not screwed on the pants.’

  ‘That would seem to cover it.’

  ‘You’re being cold and horrible to me, Walter.’

  ‘I’m not trying to be.’

  ‘A real man would have come here and told me to my face, not made up some feeble excuse.’

  ‘She is unwell, and I do have things to do.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Look at shops.’

  ‘With your partner sick in bed?’

  ‘I can look at shops by myself.’

  ‘Walter, I don’t think you can do anything by yourself. Apart from sex, you can do that by yourself, and that’s exactly what you’ll be doing. I thought we were good together, making love and eating chips afterwards - I enjoyed that.’

  ‘So did I.’

  ‘So what’s changed?’

  ‘Nothing. I just need to go retail.’

  ‘I mean with me, Walter.’

  ‘Nothing. Honestly. I’m just tied up.’

  ‘So were you going to come later, or just leave me lying here without my underwear?’

  Walter hesitated. The underwear talk, or lack of it, was getting to him. He had been determined to end it there and then with her, but what difference would a few hours make? Wouldn’t it be nicer to leave them both with pleasant memories of their relationship? One more blissful night of love-making and chips, a tender, fond, passionate farewell? He could see her point of view completely now; he was being cold and callous. He wasn’t being a real man at all. He should be completely upfront with her, after the sex. They were just two lonely people looking for everlasting love who were resigned to settling for just a few hours of it.

  ‘Tell you what,’ Walter said, not wishing to cave in entirely, ‘if you give me half an hour to finish what I’m doing, I could be right with you.’

  ‘No, Walter, you clearly don’t want to.’

  ‘No, really - it’s not that, I really do have things to do. And I just felt really bad about not buying the apartment. But now that I hear your voice, you know, you’re quite irresistible, you do know that?’

  ‘I am not.’

  ‘Yes, you are. In fact, those things I really do have to do, I’m not even going to do them. I’m going to drive round there right now and s
how you how irresistible you are.’

  ‘You are not.’

  ‘I am so. Listen to that, that’s the sound of my car starting. I’m on my way. Are you going to be ready?’

  ‘I am going to be ready.’

  Linda made a kissing sound, then cut the line. She shivered with anticipation. She lit the candles again. She took off her business outfit and stretched out on the bed. She dribbled Asti onto her chest, deliberately.

  Across town, Walter, flushed, drove like the wind. When he was within sight of the apartment block his mobile phone rang again and his sweaty hand darted out, feeling for it on the passenger seat and pressing the button while keeping both eyes on the traffic. ‘I’m nearly there,’ he said breathlessly.

  ‘You’re nearly where?’ said Margaret.

  ‘Margaret,’ said Walter.

  ‘Walter,’ said Margaret. ‘Where are you off to?’

  ‘Going to see Bertha, she has a cold.’

  ‘You sound pretty excited about it.’

  ‘Not excited, concerned. She’s eighty-nine.’

  ‘Oh, well. That’s okay. Just I had to run last time we spoke, so I was just wondering if you’d time for a cup of coffee.’

  ‘Now?’ asked Walter.

  ‘Yeah, if it suits.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Walter.

  94

  Coffee, Tea or Me?

  Margaret’s quick cup of coffee with Walter lasted nearly two hours, sitting in a cafe in Fountain Street, talking excitedly about how her dresses were flying out of the shop and performing an impression of May Li’s deadly accurate spitting, which nearly got them thrown out. They laughed and roared, then he said he had to run so she gave him a hug which turned into a peck which turned into a kiss which turned into tongue-on-tongue action. Shoppers stopped and stared. A passing photographer snapped them, imagining he was capturing lovers in Paris or a soldier and his girl marking VE Day. When they were finished, and she was walking off, she imagined Walter standing watching her go, but she didn’t dare look back. It was a splendid fantasy, particularly as he’d ducked into a bakery for a gravy ring. Stuffing it into his face, he drove straight to the Towerview apartments.