I Predict a Riot

by Bateman, Colin

  Margaret was still smiling to herself as she approached her front door, but it faded fast when she saw Billy sitting on the top step, looking miserable. ‘Billy,’ she said. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘That’s nice, that is. All those years together and that’s what I get: what do you want?’

  Margaret took a deep breath. She had her keys in her hand already, but she made no attempt to open the door. She didn’t want him inside. She had been feeling fantastic, but the air of deflation that came with her ex-husband was already beginning to envelop her. Her balloon had been pricked, and Billy was the prick.

  ‘Billy, what do you want?’

  ‘I haven’t done your accounts in weeks. You know what you’re like.’

  ‘Yes, Billy, I know what I’m like. And I’m quite capable of paying my own bills and writing my own cheques.’

  Billy snorted. ‘Yeah. Right.’

  Margaret sighed, then folded her arms. ‘Billy, get off the step, and move away from the door. I’ve had a hard day and I don’t need this now.’

  ‘You’ve had a hard day? What, wandering round the underpants?’ She just looked at him. He stood up. ‘I’m only trying to help.’

  ‘Well, I don’t need your help.’

  Tears suddenly welled up again in Billy’s eyes, and Margaret felt astonished. She’d never seen him cry before. Not at weddings or funerals or even at Terms of Endearment. ‘Billy? What is it?’ He came towards her and she couldn’t help but put her arms around him and pat his back. ‘What is it, love?’

  Billy sniffed up. ‘I got sacked.’

  ‘Oh God.’

  ‘Eleven years I gave them, never a single complaint.’

  ‘But why would they sack you?’

  ‘I don’t know!’

  She held him at arm’s length. ‘Well, they must have said something.’

  ‘Redundancy, but I’m the only one. Because they don’t want to make me a junior partner, because I’d be too expensive, or because I didn’t go to f***ing Campbell College or Methody or because I don’t play squash or cricket.’

  ‘Maybe you got some sums wrong.’

  ‘I don’t do f***ing sums!’

  ‘I know, Billy, I was only joking. Remember we used to joke about you doing sums?’

  ‘Do I look like I need jokes now? Jesus Christ.’

  ‘Right.’

  Margaret slipped the key in and opened the door. Billy moved up behind her.

  She turned, blocking his progress. ‘No, Billy. I’m sorry you lost your job, but it’s nothing to do with me any more.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Margaret, I didn’t mean to snap, I’m upset. I just came round because I needed to talk to someone and also because I need to sort your accounts out. It’ll only take twenty minutes.’

  ‘No, Billy.’ She moved into the hall and began to close the door behind her.

  ‘Please, Margaret.’ The tears were rolling down his cheeks again.

  Margaret sighed. ‘Twenty minutes then,’ she said.

  Forty-five minutes later, on his third cup of tea and sixth custard cream, Billy was sitting on her favourite chair, paying scant attention to the bills and cheque stubs on his lap and ranting about his abrupt dismissal from MGSC. Margaret’s initial concern had rapidly turned to frustration at being stuck with him, then migrated swiftly through annoyance to anger. She held it in check as best she could. There was a certain amount of residual sympathy, because they had been married, and, judged in the absence of such essential ingredients as love, passion, compassion, romance and friendship, that marriage could be looked upon as having had some successful elements, in that Billy had worked hard and been a good provider. Also, although they had argued interminably, he had never struck her, or she him.

  It was just a few months since their split, and only a matter of days since her ill-judged attempt to pay off her hospital bill by sleeping with him, but if anything confirmed that their relationship, on whatever level, was now over for ever and ever, amen, it was the raw, savage anger that was growing inside her at the sight of him munching his way through her favourite biscuits. Offering one was being polite; taking two was being greedy; horsing down half a dozen was brutal.

  Sitting behind him, pretending to look at her latest design, she tried to intellectualise it, telling herself it wasn’t about the biscuits, it was about the anger she felt for the wasted years, the barren years, the years of turmoil and upset. Each biscuit represented a year of their marriage and in his rapid consumption of them he was actually swallowing their relationship, feeding on it, gaining strength at her expense. She firmly believed that if she allowed him to get to the end of the packet he would resume his position of dominance in her life, and she would return to her old, pliable, weak self. So she stood up and ripped the packet out of his hands and yelled, ‘Leave me some, why don’t you?’

  She took them back into the kitchen, closed the door and placed them securely into the shortbread tin she used to stop them going stale. She pushed the tin against the back of the counter, then put three black bananas on top of it by way of camouflage.

  When Margaret went back into the lounge Billy was holding up two cheques and carefully examining them. ‘Who’s Emma Cochrane, and why is she paying you so much money?’

  ‘I design clothes, Billy, I’ve always designed clothes. And now it’s starting to take off.’

  ‘There’s a couple of grand here.’

  ‘Yes, I know.’

  ‘And more to come?’

  ‘Quite possibly.’

  ‘I’m going to have to talk to you about your tax situation.’

  ‘It’s early days yet, Billy.’

  Billy studied the cheques again. Margaret had her arms folded, and her mouth in gear ready to explode right back at him the moment he made one of his cheap cracks.

  ‘Well - fair play to you.’ He smiled, then made a note of the amounts on the small balance sheet he was working on. Half an hour later, he yawned and stretched, then began to put the books away. ‘All sorted,’ he said.

  ‘Thanks, Billy.’

  ‘Funny how things work out, isn’t it? My life’s falling apart, and yours is taking off. It’s like A Star is Born, isn’t it? Do you think one day you’ll stand on some catwalk somewhere after you’ve had this incredible show and you’ll say, “My name is Mrs Billy Gilmore”?’

  ‘I wouldn’t hold your breath, Billy.’

  He smiled. ‘Well. Perhaps not.’

  She was standing in the kitchen doorway, leaning against the doorjamb. ‘Anyway,’ she said.

  ‘I was just wondering …’ he began, and gave her the look he always gave her when he felt horny.

  ‘No, Billy.’

  ‘I lost my job today, Margaret - it would really help.’

  ‘No, Billy.’

  ‘Just for ten minutes.’

  ‘No, Billy.’

  He gave a little shrug, then stood up. ‘Just a hug, then.’

  She gave in. He held her tight. She said, ‘Everything will turn out all right, Billy, workwise.’

  He nodded against her. His left hand caressed her bottom, his right cupped her breast.

  Margaret shoved him hard in the chest. ‘Just keep your bloody hands off me!’

  Surprised, he staggered back several feet and for a moment his hands bunched up into fists. Then he smiled. ‘Relax, would you? Just checking you out. You’ve put on a bit of weight. Those biscuits are addictive, aren’t they?’

  He winked and turned. Margaret didn’t move until she heard the front door slam. Then she shivered. She went out into the hall to make sure he really was gone. She stood staring at the door, and tears sprang into her eyes. She hated him. She really hated him. She swore he would never come through that door again.

  95

  Slap Happy

  There was a familiar moment of trepidation as Redmond approached passport control at Heathrow Airport; there always was, but this time was slightly different. In the past he had used Damian’s passport quite
regularly, comfortably slipping into the priest’s outfit for just long enough to smile and bless his way through to baggage control, but he was no longer just a priest returning from holiday. His face, both faces, had been plastered all over the papers. If they recognised him they were quite likely to give him the third degree, and then the truth would out. They wouldn’t be fooled by a slightly too large priest’s outfit and a photo which showed that Damian enjoyed his food.

  Fortunately, Siobhan was immediately in front of him in the line and she kicked up so much fuss about being asked the standard questions, claiming that she was being picked upon because she was a member of Sinn Fein, that the exasperated controller just waved Redmond through in her wake with only the most cursory of glances at his passport.

  There was then a two-hour wait for their connection to Belfast, with Siobhan alternating between the glass box of a smoking section and standing reading the magazines in WH Smith. Redmond, exhausted by the flight and somewhat overwhelmed by the sheer volume of people buzzing around the airport, sought sanctuary in the small inter-faith chapel set aside for passengers who wished to communicate with God before risking their lives in the air. It was empty. Redmond sat at the front. There was a tape of organ music playing subtly in the background. He rolled a cigarette for himself, and was just licking the paper closed when the door opened and a young woman appeared. Redmond nodded back at her and she hesitated before coming down a short aisle towards the front. She surprised him then by taking the seat right next to him. He imagined she was about twenty-five. She had short blonde hair and a slightly pointed nose. She said, ‘I didn’t realise there would be a priest.’

  ‘I’m not,’ said Redmond, then quickly added, ‘I mean, I’m not on duty here. Just seeking a little peace and quiet, my child.’

  ‘I need guidance, Father. I’m going on honeymoon, but the night before last I slept with the best man.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Father Redmond.

  ‘I know. You look horrified. And I’m sorry to just come out with it like that, but my flight leaves in twenty minutes. I told him I was going for Maltesers. I go to church every week, Father; my relationship with God is very important to me, but I got drunk, and it happened, and I don’t know what to do.’

  Redmond lit his cigarette. He offered her a drag. It was what you did with a comrade, in the jungle. She looked surprised, but took it nevertheless.

  ‘Do you love him?’ Redmond asked.

  ‘Yes, I do.’

  ‘And will you sleep with the best man again?’

  ‘No, of course not.’

  ‘And will the best man get drunk at some stage in the future and tell your husband what happened?’

  ‘No, Father. He lives in America now - we may not ever see him again.’

  ‘And when you get drunk and have a row with your husband, as you will, will you shout it out in anger, that you slept with his best man?’

  ‘No, I never will, Father.’

  ‘Then let sleeping dogs lie, my child.’

  The young woman nodded. She was twisting her wedding ring around her finger.

  Redmond took another draw of the cigarette. He passed it back to her. She took another drag, but did not return it.

  She said, ‘It wasn’t the first time, with the best man. We’ve been doing it on and off for months.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Father Redmond.

  ‘The wedding, it was like a deadline, and we had to have as much sex as possible before the big day, because I wouldn’t want to betray my husband once we were married.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘And it really will be, ’cause once I make my mind up about something like that, there’s no shifting me.’

  Redmond moved his hand towards the cigarette, but she immediately took another puff, then switched it to her other hand so it was out of easy reach.

  ‘What worries me is that usually we use protection, but the other night we got a bit carried away, so what happens if I’m pregnant?’

  ‘I take it you’re having relations with your husband?’

  ‘Yes, of course. But up until now, on alternate days.’

  ‘I see. So in fact, if you were pregnant, and it was the best man’s, but you never saw the best man again, your husband might never know that his child wasn’t really his child.’

  ‘I guess.’ She took a final puff on the cigarette, then stubbed it out on the rough, carpet-tiled floor. She put a hand on Redmond’s sleeve. ‘I know I’ve been bad, Father, I know there’s no excuse, but I’m going to change my ways. I swear. And the great thing about God is, He forgives everything, doesn’t He?’

  Redmond, who had only ever been asked for advice on making bombs, was quite warming to this. He had promised to carry out God’s work to make amends for causing Damian’s death. This was his first test. God wasn’t saying the actual words to him, but it almost felt like He was. God’s intent was obvious, but He was entrusting the interpretation and delivery entirely to Redmond.

  Father Redmond, flushed with adrenaline, took her hands in his. ‘My dear, God has a word for fallen children like you. And that word is slapper.’

  ‘It’s what?’

  ‘S-l-a-double p-e-r. Slapper.’

  She tried to pull her hands away. ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘It’s quite simple.’ He held onto her hands. ‘You’re a slapper. See? It’s not nice, is it?’

  ‘Will you let go of my hands?’

  ‘You’re screwing around now. What’re you going to be like when you get back from the honeymoon? Do the guy a favour: either tell him the truth or dump him.’ Redmond finally let go.

  ‘You’re not supposed to speak to me like that,’ said the girl, tears now dripping down her face.

  ‘I know,’ said Redmond. ‘It’s a change in policy. New Pope. Calling a spade a spade, and a slapper a slapper.’

  She was crushed, but was beginning to see the truth in what the priest had to say. ‘I am a slapper. I know that. But God will forgive me, won’t He?’

  ‘If you change your ways, and do the right thing by your husband, He’ll probably have a think about it.’

  She wiped at her face. ‘You’re right, you know. I’ve been awful. Why should I expect to be forgiven? I should expect to be punished. You know something? I came in here just looking for someone to tell me I’d be okay, not to worry. I was just panicked about getting caught out, more than anything. But you’re right. I created this situation, I have to deal with it, or my life and my husband’s life is just going to be one great bloody shambles. I always thought about priests - they’ve never been married or had girlfriends, what can they know about sex or attraction or jealousy or love? But you really do know, you really have an insight.’ She took his hands. ‘You’ve changed my life, Father. I came in here looking for a temporary fix, but now I know it would just have been a sticking-plaster over a huge gash. There’s nothing I can do now but tell my husband the truth, and if I’m very lucky, he’ll forgive me. Thank you so much, Father.’

  She squeezed his hand, wiped at her face again, then hurried from the chapel.

  Redmond sighed happily. He rolled himself another cigarette, and this time took his time over it. He wondered if Damian had seen him in action. Whether he was floating around here somewhere, like Randall & Hopkirk Deceased.

  ‘What do you think, Damers?’ he asked aloud. ‘Pretty good going, no? You see, I may not know all the technical priest stuff like you do, but I can learn that. The rest - well, it’s instinct, isn’t it? Instinct and common sense and the truth. I’m going to be all right, Damian. I’m going to do good work. Your work. Do you hear me, Damian?’

  There was no response, of course, just the piped organ music and beyond it the vague hum of thousands of anxious travellers.

  96

  Hail to the Chief

  Jimmy Marsh Mallow was largely a law unto himself, but even he knew he couldn’t just sweep Pink Harrison in for questioning without getting approval from on high. So he sat patiently
outside the Chief Constable’s office while the Chief Constable met a delegation of gypsies complaining about their lot. Inside, deep inside, Marsh was as excited as he had ever been about nailing someone. Pink Harrison had evaded him for so long. There was plenty he could have picked him up on over the past few years, but he wasn’t interested in securing some minor conviction and putting him away for a few months. He wanted something major, so he could throw away the key. A crime where there could be no doubt, no allegation of collusion or corruption or an agenda, just an old-fashioned crime, like bloody, tragic murder, with the evidence there, on the table, indisputable. He had resigned himself to the fact that if he got Pink at all, it would be for his financial indiscretions, charges that depended on accountants and paper trails. But they were always a gamble. Half of those trials collapsed under their own weight, bogged down by tons of documents and confusing, often contradictory figures that served only to baffle juries and judges and often even left the obviously guilty with a bruised sense of injustice.

  No, getting Pink for murder - that would be perfect.

  As he’d sat in his office, waiting for the call to go up to see the Chief Constable, Marsh had turned the photographs of the dead boy over on his table, one after the other, as if he was playing a particularly morbid game of Patience. He kept saying, ‘Got you now, got you now, got you now

  Jimmy Marsh and the Chief Constable, Tony Martin, had a good professional relationship, but none at all outside of work. Martin was an English import, as they almost always were these days. It looked good on a CV, serving a couple of years in a trouble spot like Belfast. When he was eventually shown in, Marsh shook hands formally, took a seat when invited to and quickly apprised the short, stocky Chief Constable of the current situation. Martin sat with his hands clasped into a church steeple, with the tip of the spire against his lips. He was a listener, not a talker. It helped to mask his basic ignorance of the city. When Marsh was finished, the Chief Constable said, ‘So what do you want to do?’