I Predict a Riot

by Bateman, Colin

  The differences between the two are small, but important. Both boasted some of the worst housing and unemployment in Europe, which were a contributing factor to the Troubles. The housing has generally been sorted out, though unemployment remains high. Although the Troubles in the Province as a whole have receded, civil unrest continues. It is much greater in the Protestant Shankill, where the people feel that all of the benefits of peace have gone to their near neighbours on the Falls. A tourist with a camera will be welcomed with open arms on the Falls. They will be encouraged to spend their dollars drinking in the local bars and community centres with the locals, will feel Irish, and will toast earnest patriots. When drunk, their camera will be stolen, but it will almost feel like a friendly act and will be chalked up to experience and become a story to boast about at home. On the Shankill Road, however, a tourist with a camera will be nutted the moment they climb out of their cab, and that, frankly, is not much of a story.

  Billy Gilmore felt like a tourist. He had chosen not to take his car to the Shankill to recover Pink Harrison’s money because he didn’t want it taken off him by the rioters, so he hired a taxi instead. For the very same reason, the taxi driver refused point blank to take him within spitting distance of the Shankill, dropping him just short of it at Millfield. To blend in, Billy had once again donned his Rangers top, but had neglected to do anything about his trousers, which were nicely pressed, and his brogues, which were polished to a reflective shine. He kept his head down as he walked past a line of parked police Land Rovers and two vehicles equipped with water cannon, all awaiting the order to go in. As he turned onto the Shankill itself he forced his head up. There were about a hundred teenagers, male and female, spread out loosely across the street; several cars were on fire, broken glass sparkled on the tarmac. Some of the kids wore bandanas across their faces, a couple had on balaclavas, but most couldn’t have cared less about hiding their identities. Billy began to work his mouth, like he was chewing gum. He rolled his shoulders like a boxer approaching the ring. He made eye-contact. He gave a slight nod of his head each time, but moved through without speaking. He wasn’t challenged. When he was finally beyond them he breathed a sigh of relief. But it was temporary.

  The Supporters Club was dead ahead. There was a crowd of older men moving around the entrance. Cardboard boxes brimming with explosive devices of many different types were being passed out and loaded onto the back of a milk-float.

  Billy approached with the same studied nonchalance, but inside he was churning up. He scanned their faces, looking for someone he recognised, but they all seemed to blend together, middle-aged men for the most part, either pumped-up from exercise or too many pies, hair cropped short, arms bristling with tattoos. When there was a brief lull in the procession of explosives Billy darted through the entrance and into the bar, which was packed and drunk. Flutes were being played, a drum was being rattled, everyone was singing along to the Loyalist anthems. Billy squeezed through, then moved along the short corridor to Pink’s office. He tried the door - but it was locked. Billy cursed. He turned back down the corridor and squeezed back through the punters to the bar itself. He had to shout to make himself heard to the barman.

  ‘I need the key to Pink’s office!’

  ‘And who the f**k are you?!’

  ‘Pink sent me - I work for Pink!’

  ‘Houl’ on.’

  The barman went to the far end of the bar and spoke to a flat-headed guy there, who then walked off. The barman came back along and said, ‘Do you want a drink?’

  ‘No, no thanks. Yes, a pint.’

  Billy sipped his pint of Harp and moved his mouth in time to the songs. He knew them, of course, every kid of his generation did, but he couldn’t bring himself to actually sing them. After a couple of minutes he was tapped on the shoulder. Bull was standing beside him.

  ‘Billy, right?’

  ‘Aye. Pink sent me - he wants some papers from his office.’

  ‘He never said anything to me.’

  ‘He probably didn’t have time, he was going into the cop shop.’

  ‘Was he? So they have him.’

  ‘Aye,’ said Billy. ‘Think so.’

  Bull nodded. ‘So what does he want?’

  ‘Just some contracts, accounts; doesn’t want the peelers getting them.’

  Bull snorted. ‘They’ll have some luck, getting in here.’

  ‘Aye, I know, but when things calm down ...’

  Bull nodded. ‘Aye, I suppose. Hold on.’ He reached behind the bar, felt around the underside of it, then there was a slight ripping sound. He held up a key with a length of Sellotape attached to it. ‘There you go, mate.’

  ‘Cheers,’ said Billy, taking it quickly. He nodded at Bull, then hurried down the corridor, opened the door and slipped into the dark office. He flicked the lights on, closed the door behind him and locked it, then rested against it for a moment to catch his breath. It was cool in here, and apparently, for some doubtlessly nefarious reason, soundproofed. The singing from the bar was almost totally muted. The walls were bare, unlike the bar, which was hung with football pennants, Ulster flags and UDA banners. The air smelled of Pine Fresh. Billy sucked it in. Although it was neither pine nor fresh it was better than the rancid mix of beer and burps and BO and testosterone and petrol that enveloped the rest of the building. He hadn’t been in Pink’s office before because Pink, believing it to be bugged, had insisted on their previous meetings taking place in a stockroom; so it took him a few moments to locate the safe, sitting on the ground behind Pink’s stout desk with a trenchcoat loosely draped over it.

  Billy brushed the coat off, then bent to a small digital panel on the front of the safe and typed in the combination from memory. The door swung open. Billy peered inside. Then he stood up and said, ‘Holy f***ing shite!’

  Billy had brought an A4-sized Manila envelope with him to carry whatever cash Pink had stored in the safe. But it was going to be woefully inadequate. The safe was literally crammed with money. It wasn’t sitting in neat piles either. It had been crushed inside in crumpled fistfuls, squeezed into every corner. In fact, as soon as he opened the door, cash avalanched out. Billy stared at it. As an accountant, money was just figures to him; he rarely actually handled it. But this … there had to be at least a million quid here. What was he supposed to do with that?

  Billy sighed. He had his orders. There was nothing for it but to find some way to transport the money. He checked around the office, opening drawers and cupboards. He looked behind filing cabinets. He found a briefcase, but it was locked and besides, how incongruous would that look, walking through a riot with a briefcase in his hands? He continued his search. At the back of the office there was a small bathroom, just a toilet and sink; but sitting on top of the cistern he found a sports bag with a Nike symbol. He took out a pair of trainers and a sweat-smelling T-shirt and football shorts. Then he knelt back in front of the safe and began filling the bag with money.

  It fitted. Just about. He had to struggle with the zip. Then he heaved it up onto his shoulder. A million pounds isn’t light. Billy puffed a bit, pushed the safe door closed with his foot, then left Pink’s office. He locked the door and handed the key back in to the barman. He shoved his way back through the drinkers and stepped out of the club. The chain of explosives carriers had either retired back into the bar or proceeded down to the front line, but there were still half a dozen or so men in football tops milling around, all of them drinking cans of beer. Billy put his head down and started walking. Inside his head he began to hum the tune from Mission Impossible.

  When he was 100 yards away from the club, and approaching the lines of teenagers awaiting the police advance, he saw that they were being spoken to by Bull and two other men. He tried to move past as far away from him as he could, but Bull noticed.

  ‘Get what you want, Billy?’ he called across.

  Billy kept moving. ‘Aye, thanks. See you around.’

  ‘See ya.’

  But it
was only once he was past them that Bull saw the sports bag over Billy’s shoulder.

  ‘Hey - Billy!’ Billy looked back, but didn’t pause. ‘What’re you doing with me football gear?’

  ‘What?’ asked Billy. .

  ‘You’ve got me f***ing sports bag there, mate.’

  ‘I needed it to carry Pink’s stuff. Sorry. I’ll drop it back tomorrow.’

  Bull was moving towards him now. ‘You’ll f***ing not, I’ve footie tonight.’

  ‘I’ll drop it back later, then.’ He wanted to break into a run, but couldn’t.

  Bull came jogging up. ‘This place’ll be chaos later, Billy.’

  ‘Well, can’t you use a different bag?’

  ‘No, Billy, that’s my bag. Give it here, I’ll get one of these doughnuts to run up to the shop and get you some plastic bags.’

  ‘No, look, really, there’s too much for plastic. I’ll get it back to you later, honest.’

  Bull put his hand on the bag. ‘Billy, I’m not asking you, I’m telling you.’

  Billy moved a couple of steps back, taking the bag with him. ‘I swear to God.’

  Bull reached out for it again, this time taking a firm grip. ‘Give me the f***ing bag.’

  ‘I can’t!’ Billy suddenly yelled, and yanked it out of Bull’s hand. ‘Just let me go!’ He started walking again, faster, but Bull was on him in an instant. He yanked at the bag, pulling it down off Billy’s shoulder. One of the straps came loose and he grabbed that; Billy grabbed the other one. They each tugged at it.

  ‘Let it f***ing go, would you?’

  But Billy wouldn’t. He was scared out of his wits. Bull now actually looked like a bull, all muscle and shoulders and snarling. The gang of kids with their rocks and petrol bombs were watching intently, moving closer as well.

  ‘Billy, what the f**k is wrong with you?! Give me the f***ing bag!’

  ‘No!’

  They both went at it again with all their strength, a tug-of-war in which Billy was slowly being dragged forwards, until there was a sudden ripping sound and the base of the bag split from one end to the other. In being torn apart it caused both of them to stumble backwards and land on their arses. For several moments they sat on the glistening tarmac looking at the tens of thousands of pounds that were spilling out of the rip and blowing away in the wind.

  ‘Jesus Christ!’ shouted Bull.

  ‘Oh God,’ Billy whispered.

  Bull sprang to his feet. ‘Get it! Get it!’ he screamed as the money continued to blow. The kids didn’t need a second invitation. As they scrambled after it Billy jumped to his feet and started to walk quickly away. Bull saw him and bawled after him: ‘You were f**king ripping us off, you c**t!’

  ‘No!’ Billy shouted back, ‘I swear to God. Honestly, Pink told me to—’

  ‘F***ing get him!’

  Billy broke into a run. He was not a fit man, and ordinarily he would have been caught within a few yards. But everyone was so preoccupied with all the money floating around that the only ones who came after him were two of Bull’s comrades who’d been at the pies rather than the weights. As Billy charged down the Shankill Road the pie men, yelling abuse and threats, actually began to gain on him and might well have caught up if they hadn’t stopped suddenly. Billy glanced back, surprised, but then when he faced the front again he realised why his pursuers had halted. The police Land Rovers, flanking the water cannon, were beginning to advance along the Shankill Road directly towards him.

  105

  Checkmate

  Jimmy Marsh Mallow put the phone down, then waved Gary McBride over from where he was standing chatting to a colleague by the coffee-machine. Police HQ was abuzz with the news that Pink Harrison had walked in off the street of his own accord and was now in one of the interview rooms practising yoga, meditation or, depending on whom you spoke to, self-administered tantric sex.

  ‘Boss?’

  ‘Change of plans, Gary. Just keep him in there - don’t let anyone near him. No coffee, no lunch, no phone calls, all right?’

  ‘All right, boss. What’re you thinking?’

  ‘Just keep an eye on him.’

  Gary shrugged as Jimmy strode off towards the lifts.

  Marsh rubbed his knuckles into his brow as he rode up to the sixth. Tension headache. The doors opened and he marched along to the Chief Constable’s outer office. His secretary glanced up with the beginning of a smile, but quickly dropped it when she saw who it was.

  ‘Is he in?’ Marsh asked curtly.

  ‘Yes, sir, but he’s—’

  Jimmy stalked past her and opened the door into Tony Martin’s office. The Chief Constable was on the phone, but when he saw Marsh, and registered both the serious look on his face and the fact that he’d by-passed reception, he quickly finished his conversation. Jimmy took a seat opposite him. To one side, on a plasma-screen TV, the rioting continued.

  ‘Jim. I’m told Pink Harrison is downstairs and that he’s reading a Gideon Bible at the top of his voice.’

  ‘Yes, he is, and no, he’s not.’

  ‘What’s he doing then?’

  ‘He’s sitting there looking pleased with himself.’

  ‘Why so? Does he know we haven’t a shred of evidence yet?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Does he know George Green has disappeared?’

  ‘Has he?’

  ‘He walked out of his hotel this morning to buy a paper, and hasn’t returned.’

  ‘I don’t know if Pink knows that.’

  ‘So what is he looking so pleased with himself for? Is it because the city has ground to a halt? Because we’re stretched to the limit dealing with riots here, there and everywhere?’

  ‘That’s possibly a contributing factor.’

  ‘Well, what else then?’

  Marsh took a deep breath. ‘Because he knows I’ve been after him all these years, and just when I thought I had a chance of getting him, he’s pulled the rug out from under me.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘Well, sir, it’s like this …’

  And so he began, and as soon as he started the Chief Constable knew it had to be deadly serious because Jimmy Mallow was never one to unburden himself, to give away the smallest personal detail. Yet Marsh was telling him about his wife dying and his daughter trying to help him out by signing him up for a dating agency. He told him about the date he didn’t turn up for, the date he walked out on, and finally the date who turned out to be a prostitute. How he tried to rush her out of the house and how she fell down the stairs as a result. How he agreed to pay her and wrote her a cheque, and that now a journalist called Dan Starkey had that cheque and a big exclusive for his scandal rag.

  ‘… so I don’t think I’ve any alternative but to offer you my resignation.’

  The Chief Constable had been listening with growing disbelief. The only part of it he didn’t actually find quite incredible was Jimmy Mallow’s offer to resign. ‘Well, okay then,’ he said.

  It sat in the air for several moments.

  Then Jimmy said, ‘You’re accepting it?’

  ‘I don’t see that I’ve got any choice, if what you’re telling me is true. Obviously I regret the fact that you feel you have to resign, but given the situation you find yourself in, and in which you have now put the PSNI as a whole, I can really see no alternative.’

  Marsh blinked at him. ‘I was offering it as a common courtesy. You’re under no obligation to accept it.’

  ‘On the contrary, Superintendent, I am obliged. Jim, Jimmy, what on earth were you thinking of? Prostitutes - you must have known where it would end up.’

  ‘I didn’t do anything wrong.’

  ‘That may be, but we live in an age of spin, and you know and I know that this will be spun to make us look bad. What do you expect? A big headline saying Jimmy Mallow Comes to Aid of Lady of Night Who Falls Downstairs, Pays for Dental Work? You know as well as I do that it’s all about perception, Jimmy, and if our biggest, toughest cop,
the one we hold up as a shining example of all that’s good and incorruptible about our force steps out of line himself, then we have to come down on him like a ton of bricks.’

  ‘I didn’t do anything illegal.’

  ‘That’s neither here nor there.’

  Jimmy stared at the ground. He had planned to go on for ever. ‘There’s nothing I can do?’

  ‘I don’t think so, Jim. If the press have it, you’re pretty much dead in the water. No pun intended.’

  ‘What happens if I stay?’

  ‘You’ll be sacked, Jim. You’ll probably lose your pension.’

  ‘And if I go?’

  ‘We’ll say we understand your decision and offer our full support. You’ll keep your pension.’

  ‘What about Pink Harrison?’

  ‘Ultimately I’m responsible for authorising the raids, and seeing as how they’ve thus far achieved nothing, apart from millions of pounds’ worth of riot damage, then I imagine we’ll have to release him without charge. The powers-that-be will want someone to answer for it, and that someone will be me. So, I’ll probably see you at the unemployment exchange.’

  ‘We can’t just let him go.’

  ‘We may have no choice.’

  ‘But I know that he did this.’

  ‘Instincts don’t stand up in court, Jimmy.’

  ‘The evidence is there, Chief. Somewhere.’

  The Chief Constable sighed. ‘I’m not your Chief any more, Jimmy,’ he said. ‘If it’s there we’ll find it.’

  ‘So that’s it, then? Thirty-five years down the Swanee?’

  The Chief Constable nodded slowly. Then he stood up and offered Jimmy Mallow his hand. Jimmy looked at it, then turned and strode out of the office.